Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/260517.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane, Petyr_Baelish
  Collections:
      Sandor_Clegan_and_Sansa_Stark_Stories, For_the_Love_of_SanSan
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-10-03 Chapters: 28/28 Words: 63429
****** A Red Winter ******
by Rebbawskaced
Summary
     Sansa Stark learns what happened to the Hound after she ends up in
     the Eyrie, but things aren't always as they seem. Canon divergence
     starting in the middle of book 4.
Notes
     Note: None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R.
     R. Martin.
***** Chapter 1 *****
It was her name day, and she was now six-and-ten. Alayne gave a customary smile
to her father as she watched him talking to the cook to make the final
arrangements for the celebratory feast that was to take place that night, then
turned back to helping the maids decide on which decorations would look best
around the great hall. It was, of course, not proper to have such a big feast
for a bastard girl. Her father had made sure she knew that. The feast was not
for her, but for celebrating the two year anniversary of the arming of the
Faith. She knew her father well, and Petyr Baelish had duties to attend to. Any
rising power in the kingdoms demanded his attention, even if he didn't make it
known to anyone else in his household, save her. Such things as name days were
not important, but she allowed herself to feel happy about it nonetheless.
Last year's feast had been much larger, with three times the number of brothers
and septons attending the Eyrie. Yet the long winter had come, and the paths
leading through the Vale and up to the Eyrie were nigh impossible, save for the
most persistent of visitors and even then the path was treacherous and was
advised against. Yet still they had received word that one-and-twenty of the
Faith would be attending this year. The war had been hard on the Knights of the
Faith, as some had come to call them. Only six of the party were Warriors Sons,
and ten were of the Poor Fellows. The rest were unarmed septons and septas who
led the prayers and hymns and sang of the glory of the Seven, and the success
of the Knights of the Faith.
More would be coming if the winter wasn't so harsh, and the nights weren't as
long. Making the long climb in the dark is hard enough, but adding snow and ice
to the mix will be a downright nightmare.Alayne thought to herself as she
double checked that there were enough rooms and accommodations for their
guests. She paused at one of the windows to view the sun setting behind the
mountains of the Vale. A sigh escaped her lips. Every day was shorter than the
one before it. It was almost noon, and the sun had only been up a few hours
before it slid back to the horizon. Soon the long night would be upon them all,
and there would be no sunlight for years. Dread settled in her stomach at the
thought, and she turned from the window. There were still plenty of
preparations she needed to tend to, and she was won't to let her father down on
such an important day.
                                      oOo
Everything came together nicely just as the Brothers of the Faith arrived. She
met them at the Gates, at her father's side. Both were bundled up in thick
white cloaks, and when she caught a glimpse of the Brothers her heart went out
to them. They looked half frozen, and she suspected that frostbite might take a
few fingers and toes this night. Petyr welcomed them, and Alayne ushered them
inside where it was warm, and they could finally rest.
Once the Brothers were comfortable inside, and their needs attended to, she
returned to her chambers to get herself ready for the feast. It would be
wonderful to be surrounded by people again. Too often her meals were taken with
only her father for company, and although Alayne enjoyed his company, she
longed to speak with others…people who came from a different world.
A world you were once a part of,a soft voice reminded her and she shoved the
thought away. She was no longer that person. Alayne hardly remembered that
silly little girl at all. She was a woman grown, and those thoughts had no
place here. Not in the Eyrie. Not since her frail cousin had left the world to
join his mother Lady Lysa. The world was a terribly cruel place, and with
winter here…well, only the strong survived, after all.
Alayne straightened her gown and caught a glimpse of herself in the looking
glass. Her brown hair had lost most of its luster two years ago. She still had
to dye it every so often, to combat the traitorous roots, but her hair grew
much slower these days. Was it because of the winter, or just because she was
getting older? Her eyes were still the same shade of blue, and if she was
mistaken, didn't they look older?

Stop being silly. You just wish you were older. You look the same as you did at
five-and-ten!She thought to herself and shook her head as she stepped away from
the mirror. Truth be told, she didn't feel that much different either.
A knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts and she quickly went to
the door. If it was father, it would not do to keep him waiting. It turned out
just to be one of her maids.
"Your father sends for you Alayne. He asks if you have forgotten about the
feast! The Brothers of the Faith have already gathered!" she squeaked and
Alayne felt a blush rise to her cheeks.
"I'm so sorry Rianna! I will be there at once!" Alayne replied hastily as she
closed the door to her bedchamber and hastened to the great hall to take her
customary seat at her fathers' left hand.
                                      oOo
The seven courses were filled with much talk and Alayne found herself on the
edge of her seat to hear the stories that the brothers told of the world
outside of the Vale. Tales of war and of the valor were prominent, as were
stories of the intervention of the Seven and how they swayed different outcomes
of each tale. Only a few of the brothers actually spoke, the others ate in
silence.
One of the Warrior's Sons, a man by the name of Vardis Martell, a knight from
Dorne, was the most outspoken of all the brothers. He and Petyr seemed to
become fast friends, chatting amicably between themselves, but there was
something about him that made Alayne uneasy. She was all courtesy however, and
listened intently to his tale of Maidenpool, and what they had come across on
their way to the Vale.
"It was the sorriest sight I've seen since the slaughter of Saltpans. The
streets were filled with the bodies of the fallen; men, woman and child alike.
Others we found later in their homes, brutalized and maimed in ways that would
make brave men weep. They left several alive, an old man, two young whores and
a small lad who must have been only five. All of them were tied to a stake in
the middle of Maidenpool and made to stand on hot coals until their feet turned
black and cooked as they lived. We got nothing out of them on who did this
horrible act. All four were in too much pain to do more than scream or whimper.
We gave them the mercy of a quick death after we untied them from the stake. If
I didn't know better, I would have placed my bet on the Hound doing this
travesty. Seems like something befit of that cur," Martell slammed his fist
down on the table to emphasize his point. The brothers nodded their agreement
and murmurs spread throughout the room.
"I'm sorry m'lord, but what do you mean about the Hound…that if you didn't know
better?" Alayne asked as she promptly lost her appetite and her stomach seemed
to suddenly be filled with hot lead.
"Ahh don't worry sweetling, the Hound will not terrorize the realm anymore. He
was slain by the Maid of Tarth, all of two years past. May the Father judge him
harshly. No more children slain, women raped or towns turned to ash at his
hand…are you alright child?" Martell asked with a queer look in his eye as he
gazed at her.
"I…I am alright m'lord. These tales are just…horrid to hear," Alayne managed
though she felt faint. "Pray tell ser, was there proof it was the Hound, or was
it just a tale you heard?"
"Aye it was none other, for he wore a snarling dog helm that was fearsome to
behold…but enough of that! You're white as snow. I beg your pardon, we
shouldn't be talking of such things over a meal as fine as this," he amended,
looking slightly sheepish.
Alayne didn't notice as she stood up so suddenly that her chair tipped
backwards. Petyr gave her a slight disapproving look that none of the others at
the table could see.
"Are you well, daughter?"
"I fear all this talk has my stomach in knots, father. May I have your leave to
seek the maester for something to soothe it?" she managed, feeling ill. This
was one lie she didn't have to tell.
"You have my leave, if it suits you. Return to your chambers when you are
finished with the maester, and get some rest," her father excused her and
turned back to his guests. Most were polite enough not to stare, but she felt
the eyes upon her anyway. It made her feel like a child, and she walked from
the hall with as much grace as she could muster.
                                      oOo
It wasn't to the maester's tower that she went, but straight to her bedchamber.
Her heart was in her throat, and some unknown panic had taken hold. Alayne
flung herself onto the bed and grasped the rough blanket as hard as she could,
and buried her face into the rough wool. She did not cry, but tried to catch
her breath regardless. Such a conflict of emotion she had never known and it
felt as if she were being pulled apart from the inside out.
Why did such a tale bother you? So the Hound is dead…what does it matter? Some
rational part of her mind insisted. What was the Hound to Alayne? They had
never met. He was just a cruel beast that deserved a cruel death, and to be
shamed for being slain by a woman. Just another man claimed by this horrible
war.
No, he's not just another man. Not him! Not like this! The other half of her
screamed in dismay. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. He wasn't
just a stranger, or a helmet, or a name. He had been kind to her once! The
Hound had saved her life. She sang for him…
The Hound saved Sansa Stark. Alayne insisted. That girl is long dead; she's
just another face in the sea of dead memories. He is nothing to you.
He's everything…he was everything and now he's dead. Dead like everyone else
I've ever cared about. A small moan escaped her mouth at that thought. She
gripped the blanket tighter, her knuckles going white with the strain.
Her mind warred against itself in this manner for what seemed like an age
before sleep snuck up and claimed her. She still clung to the blanket in her
sleep.
                                      oOo
It was early; too early for servants and guards to be up and about. Too early
for her father and it should have been too early for her, but she was awake.
The skies were crystal clear and the air was sharp and cold. Her breath fogged
before her, slow and steady. She didn't have to raise her head very high to see
the stars. The seemed to be just right out of reach. The moon cast pale,
lifeless light across the Vale. It seemed bigger than normal, and she found
that comforting. Perhaps it was always this way when looked at from the Moon
Door.
We gave them the mercy of a quick death.Martell's voice rang in her head.
Joffrey had once said the same thing about beheading her father.
My father was Eddard Stark, not Petyr Baelish. She thought as she tightly
grasped the doorframe and stared out at the frozen world before her. I was to
be Queen, and Joffrey my King. My brothers were Bran and Rickon, and they were
slain by Theon Greyjoy. My brother Robb was killed by the Frey's, and my lady
mother as well. My sister was Arya and she vanished into the night, and my
bastard brother Jon Snow is lost to me. He belongs to the Night's Watch.
A cold wind blew through the Moon Door and spiked right through her dress. She
drew the cloak around her shoulders more tightly with her free hand. Bringing
the edge of the cloak to her face she could still smell fire and blood. It
flooded her with sudden memories she had suppressed successfully for over three
years.
He told me to do what Joff said so that he wouldn't beat me as much. When they
tore my clothes off and hit me while I was naked, he gave me his cloak so I had
something to wear back to my room…and when they pulled me off the horse and I
thought for sure that I was going to be killed, he was the only one who rode
back. He cut off that man's arm, the one with the garlic breath.Her breath came
more rapidly as she remembered who she was. Tears pricked her eyes and blurred
the world before her.
I found him in my bed. The world was green and he was drunk. There was fear in
his eyes and he asked for a song. I sang to him, and he kissed me and called me
little bird.She hadn't thought of these things in years, but remembered them as
if they had happened mere moments before.
He said he would take me with him. That he would protect me and kill anyone who
tried to hurt me…and then he left.The tears fell freely from her eyes as her
heart broke all over again.
Why didn't I go with him? Now he's dead and gone and what's left for me here?
My family dead, my home burned and my people long gone. Why did I stay in
King's Landing? Was I such a fool? I could trust him. I knew I could but I
didn't go with him. What were the words? The ones he once said to me…
"A hound will die for you, but never lie to you."
Yes…that had been his words to her that long ago. He would have kept her
safe…but that wasn't where her thoughts led her.
"Never lie," she murmured into the cloak. That was all her life was anymore.
Alayne was a lie. A safe lie, a selfish lie. Littlefinger's daughter was a lie,
and he kissed her. Revulsion ran up her spine like a spear and she felt herself
sway on the brink of the Moon Door, as she had so long ago as her aunt Lysa had
clung to her hair and tried to push her to her death.
I lied to everyone…but most of all I lied to myself. She recalled as the last
of her memories fell into place. The Hound had never kissed her, and she didn't
sing for him. She raised a hand to her throat and could now remember the cold
steel that had pressed there as he took the song from her. Not the one she
wanted to sing for him, but a cry for mercy.
It was time to give up the lies. All of them. No one was coming to save her.
The Hound had turned feral, as much as she wanted to deny it. He was not going
to rescue her. He was no knight. He hated knights…and he was dead. She was
alone.
The wind picked up, bringing stray flurries with it from the roof of the Eyrie
as the last trace of Alayne gave up, and the girl who stood on the edge of the
world finally remembered who she was.
She let go of the safety of the doorframe and tottered on the edge of
everything. Grasping the stained cloak with both hands she brought it to her
face and closed her eyes. It still smelled of him, amongst the blood and fire.
She didn't mind. It wasn't half so bad a smell and it was honest.
"I am Sansa Stark," she whispered to the stars and made her decision. The truth
would be the last words to come from her lips. That seemed to be the most
important thing. She was afraid, but at least she was honest.
Sansa Stark leaned forward and felt her feet give way over the edge.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa finds her plans spoiled by the least likely person imaginable.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
A hand materialized out of the dark and seized her upper arm in a crushing
grip. Before her fall could even start she had been yanked back into the safety
of the Eyrie. She let out a small cry of both pain and disappointment.
"The little bird thinks she has wings, does she?" a voice rasped harshly in her
ear as she was roughly pulled backwards into the callous embrace of one of the
brothers of the Faith.
"Let me go, let me fall, let me…" she started, panic setting in as she
struggled feebly against the iron grip, but her struggles slowed, then ceased
as she came to her senses. Was she lying to herself even now, even after all
she had just figured out? He was dead. Dead men can't save anyone, least of all
her.
"Let you die, girl? Is that what you want?" the voice snarled. There was such
anger in his tone that she quailed before him. There was no answer she could
give other than yes…but that wasn't what he wanted to hear.
"You're hurting me," she whimpered instead and his grip loosened. Her arm
burned where he had been holding her and she knew it would bruise. She could
feel his rage as he held her to his chest, but it didn't matter. She had to
know.
Sansa twisted in his arms and brought her eyes to his face. There wasn't much
she could see that wasn't hidden by the scarf wrapped around his face, but she
could see the stony grey eyes that had frightened her so badly back in Kings
Landing. They were angry eyes, and they still scared her, just a little.
He let go of her arm as she reached up to undo the scarf, but otherwise he
didn't move at all. Sansa pulled and the scarf fell away from his face. The
Hound looked back at her, the ruined side of his face just as fearsome as it
had been when she was two-and-ten. A storm of emotion threatened to spill over
her small frame. She wanted to hit him, and hug him, kiss him and scream at
him.
Instead, Sansa fainted.
oOo
"Seven Hells," Sandor muttered as he caught the little bird as she fainted. He
lifted her into his arms as easily as if she weighed nothing. Sansa's head fell
softly against his shoulder. He didn't know what kind of a reaction he would
get when she showed himself to her, but it hadn't been this.
What did you expect? Her to be overjoyed and to name you her Knight whilst
throwing herself into your arms and begging you to take her away? Have you
learned nothing? He berated himself as he carried her to her chambers. It
hadn't taken him long to figure out where they were. The servants in the Eyrie
were horrible gossips, and clueless. He had followed some that were trying to
guess the contents of Alayne's name day present from her father as they brought
it to her chambers. Neither of them had sensed him following them. They might
as well have been blind.
Have things been so bad here that she had to jump from the damned Moon Door?
What was Petyr Baelish doing to her? He wondered, which didn't do anything to
help his already growing anger. Leave it to the little bird to make him feel
this angry. Sandor couldn't even recall the last time a rage this strong had
boiled up inside. The sudden urge to hit someone swelled behind his fists, but
he pushed it back.
I don't want to hit someone…I want to kill someone. He realized. It had been
almost two years since he last killed a man…
Sansa started to stir in his arms. She let out a low moan that got his blood
pumping worse than it already was. He hadn't been this close to a woman in
about the same time he had last killed a man, maybe longer…and this wasn't just
any woman, this was the little bird.
"Hush little bird, you're safe," he assured her as they got to her bed-
chambers. Thankfully no one seemed to think it important to guard the bed-
chambers of a bastard girl. Sometimes low birth had its advantages. He entered
her room and barred the door behind them with one massive hand. Then carried
her to her bed and set her down as soft as he could. Sandor found a lone chair
in the room. It was a dainty thing and he didn't trust it to hold his weight so
he fell to one knee beside her bedside.
She was awake, and was looking at him, but Sansa said nothing.
"Does my face still frighten you so much that you can't bear to look at it
without collapsing in horror?" he rumbled. His throat was sore. When was the
last time he spoke? When was the last time he had needed to speak? Talking
hurt, but her silence was making him more uncomfortable than he already was.
"No,…" she started, but seemed to be at a loss for what to call him, so she
closed her mouth. A small smile twisted his face as he let out a short snort of
amusement.
"Learned have you? No sers or m'lords for me. Not anymore. You've grown up
little bird," he mused and she turned a pretty shade of red and looked away
from him.
"They said you were dead," she started and then seemed to run out of words, but
her gaze returned to his…if only fleetingly, as if she couldn't believe he was
real.
"Do I look dead to you?" he growled, his amusement forgotten as she mentioned
death. If he had not come, she would be dead right now. The thought made the
scarred side of his face twitch and he reached out, quick as a snake and took
her arm. She gasped, and turned red again, but didn't look away.
"Have you lost your mind girl?" he asked, and when she didn't reply he grasped
her a little tighter. "Have you?"
"N-no m'lord!" she replied quickly, forgetting herself. Her eyes were wide and
her breathing was coming too quickly.
Gods be damned, you're scaring the life out of her! Sandor closed his eyes and
stopped gripping her so tightly. He felt her relax a little, and he tried
again, this time looking into her eyes, and trying to stifle the rage that
wanted so badly to lash out at everyone and anyone. It was not right to lash
out at her, especially not how he'd found her tonight.
"You will tell me what made you think that life is so worthless and horrible
that you would throw it away," he rasped, trying to read into her expression.
When she looked away, he brought his hand to her chin and lifted her face so he
could look at her. Tears brimmed in her eyes again.
Seven hells, can you do nothing right?
"Out with it little bird, and speak true to me," he tried and his voice was a
bit less harsh this time.
"I…it was…I don't know," the tears spilled over as she blinked, and she wiped
them away hastily. "I was tired of the lies, I think. Everything here…everyone,
even me…it's all a lie. I believed the lies, and I lived them, and I was tired
of lies," she bit her lower lip and looked pained. "Death is…the ultimate
truth."
She wasn't wrong. You couldn't lie in death, or be lied to….but not for someone
so young. Not her. His rage started to simmer again. This was the work of Petyr
Baelish, the no good worm. He was the one who had taken Sansa from Kings
Landing, he was sure of it. Taken her here and made her into someone she
wasn't. Someone fake…and that wasn't something Sansa Stark needed. Too long had
people lied to her and made empty promises. It had driven her to the Moon Door,
and if he hadn't been there…
His resolve hardened and he moved so his face was mere inches from hers, and
his hand kept her from pulling back. She was uncomfortable, but he didn't want
his message to be ignored.
"You will never, ever, try to take your life again. Do you hear me little bird?
Do you hear me Sansa Stark of Winterfell?" He spoke softly, but firmly. She
nodded, slowly and when he made no move to release her she responded.
"Yes, I hear you. I…I will not try to…to do that again," she stammered. He
released her chin and sighed deeply. Rubbing his eyes with one hand he got to
his feet and looked down at her. She was still beautiful with tears drying on
her cheeks.
"I offered it once, and I will offer it again. You may come with me if you'd
like. I will not let anyone hurt you again." Including myself. He added as a
silent promise to himself.
"Take me with you."
It took him a moment to realize she had spoken. She didn't hesitate…she hadn't
even let it sink in…she had just agreed.
"Are you certain?" he asked. It wouldn't do to have her change her mind halfway
out of the Vale. That would be hard to explain to everyone when they came
riding back to the Eyrie.
"If I've ever been certain of anything in my whole life, it's this. Take me
away from here. Take me…well, anywhere," she sounded both eager and resigned at
the same time. He watched as she pulled her cloak tighter around her, and it
was only then that he realized that it was the one he had left on the floor of
her bedroom.
She kept that disgusting stained cloak? Why would she do that? He wondered with
a slight scowl.
"We leave as soon as I take care of some unfinished business. Pack the warmest
garments you have, and not too many. We need to travel light," he barked as he
strode towards the door.
"You're going to kill him aren't you?" she asked. He froze with his hand on the
door and looked back over his shoulder. She was perched on the edge of the bed,
her hands bunched in his old cloak, looking more like a child then she had
since he had found her. He couldn't read her expression, so he said nothing.
Sansa nodded meekly at him, as if giving him permission.
He turned and left her alone as his rage returned tenfold. His had fell to the
scabbard of the sword he had stolen from Vardis Martell. It felt right to have
a sword again, and he knew that his days of peace were over. The Brotherhood
would do just fine without him.
He couldn't fix all of Sansa's hurts, but he knew where the fault lay for her
most recent suffering. This was Petyr's fault, and he could do something about
that at least. A smile rose to his face, and it would have scared his poor
little bird to death if she had been there to see it.
oOo
Sansa could feel her heart beating in her throat, and her stomach was filled
with an odd fluttering sensation she hadn't felt in years. It frightened her,
but it excited her too. He had come back for her. The Hound had come when she
needed him the most…and he was going to kill Littlefinger. That thought should
have made her feel something, anything, but she felt neither joy nor sorrow.
He came back. It was the only thought running through her head as she rose from
the bed to pack her things. The Eyrie was a cold place, so she had plenty of
warm garments…but she doubted that any of the dresses she brought would
suffice. He would laugh at her meager attempt. No, she needed something more
practical.
She slipped from her room and made her way to the servants' quarters. She knew
where to find the clothing she would need for their trip out of the Vale.
He came back. Sansa staggered and put a hand on the cool walls of the castle as
the thought floored her again. It wouldn't let her be, playing over and over in
her head.He came back, he came back. Her eyes slid closed for a moment as she
tried to get a grip. She was going to be free of this horrible place. The cold
walls and the false pretenses would be stripped away. No more lies, no more
false father. Freedom. Escape. He came back, and he's letting me out of this
cage. This little bird will finally be free.
The thought filled her with a cool resolve. If she was going to be free, she
needed clothes, and to stop wasting time. The sooner she was finished packing,
the sooner they could leave. Sansa pushed herself off of the wall. She walked
at as quick a pace as she dared. There were still some guards up and about
patrolling the halls at this hour and she did not want to be caught out of bed.
That would raise questions. Alayne had always been a good girl and never
wandered about at night.
What if they catch him? What if Littlefinger… the thought almost made her turn
back and run for Petyr's room. Her pulse quickened at the thought of the Hound
dying when they were so close to being rid of the Vale and the Eyrie and the
Moon Door forever. No, she needed to prepare for the long trip ahead. The Hound
was the strongest and most skilled swordsman she had ever known. Hadn't she
watched him match Ser Gregor blow for blow at her father's tourney?
Surely none of the guards here even come close to Ser Gregor, he…he will be
fine. She assured herself, though she didn't know if she was just trying to
convince herself or if she really believed it.
oOo
He didn't beg. I'll give him that much. He knew death when he saw it. Almost
wish he had begged, it would have been sweeter. Sandor thought as he cleaned
the fresh blood off of his blade on the lavish sheets upon the bed that
belonged to Petyr Baelish. The rage had all gone out of him, but there was no
regret. Had he ever felt regret for killing anyone? No. His little bird spoke
true, death was honest. More people would benefit from what he did to
Littlefinger then would be harmed by it. The thought brought a twisted smile to
his lips and he sheathed the blade.
He left the chambers just as swiftly as he had arrived, and stepped over the
two unconscious guards that lay at the foot of the door. A quick look left and
right told him that no one had noticed anything was amiss as of yet. Good, best
get this done swiftly. Dawn is a few hours away, we best be long gone from here
when it comes.
Sandor made his way into the kitchens and took provisions as he went. He paused
at the sight of several bottles of Dornish sour, and decided against taking all
of them. Three bottles made it into the sack he had emptied as he entered the
kitchens. Two he left behind.
Fuck it. Everything else made its way back, why not a little Dornish sour as
well?
The rest of the sack he filled with foods that would hopefully last them a long
time on the road. The bread would go stale, and the cheese would go hard, but
it would have to do.
It didn't take him long to reach the little bird's bedchamber, and thankfully,
somehow, he still hadn't run into anyone save Littlefinger's guards (who had
put up quite a pitiful fight…but then again, who would expect to be attacked by
one of the Faith?). He opened the door, ready to rush his little bird along.
The bag fell from lifeless fingers. She was gone. The Hound turned from the
room, heart in his throat and dread pumping through his veins.
She's back at the Moon Door, and I might be too late this time.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa and Sandor make their escape from the Eyrie, but will they make
     it out alive?
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
He rounded the corner to the great hall and almost slammed right into her. She
uttered a small yelp of surprise and he roughly covered her mouth before she
gave them away. His pulse was racing and he all but dragged her back to her
room.
"May the Others take you! Have you lost your mind? What possessed you to leave
at a time like this? Anyone could have found you walking the castle!" he hissed
as he finally let her free. She staggered, but caught herself. A large roll of
blankets and other objects was in her hands and the hurt look she gave him made
guilt wash over him in great waves. She looked as if he had just told her that
he was the one to slay her direwolf instead of her father.
"I just wanted to get some clothes…other than dresses…I didn't think you'd
approve…" she managed and clutched the clothes tight to her chest and looked at
her shoes. It was only now that he realized that she was dressed like a servant
girl. The rough spun tunic was a little too big for her, but it looked warm
enough to serve their purposes...and she was in pants. It was the most un-Sansa
like thing he had ever seen. For some reason it made him angry.
"Do NOT leave my sight unless I tell you that you can, and do NOT go wandering
off without telling me first! I thought…" he hesitated and then shook his head.
"Come, we have to go. Time is short."
He grabbed her bedroll and picked up the bag he had dropped. You're such a
fool, dog. She said she would never do that again, she told you she was tired
of lies…she wasn't going to jump. How will she ever really trust you if you
don't trust her?
That was an easy thought. She hadn't found him tottering on the edge of the
world with over six hundred feet of air between him and the snowy ground below.
Seven hells, he'd just found her again. She hadn't told him what had gone on
here in his absence, so he had no idea who she was anymore.
You have all the time in the world to figure out who she is now, after you get
out of this bloody castle. He made up his mind and paused at the edge of the
door.
"Are you sure you want to do this, little bird? Winter is here and things might
be better if you stay in the Val-"
"I'm coming with you. Go." Her voice had steel in it that previously hadn't
been there. Her gaze was unwavering, and he almost felt as if there was a hint
of defiance in her stance.
It wasn't a request, it was an order…and Sandor Clegane knew all about taking
orders.
oOo
Sansa followed after him, her boots treading softly through the Eyrie for the
last time, or so she hoped. He moved quickly, and she was struck by how quietly
he could move for such a large man. She had grown since she had last seen him,
and was taller than most ladies were, but he still made her feel small.
He still frightens me. She thought as they descended the stairs to the lowest
part of the Eyrie. Maybe that was a good thing. It would make her more careful
around him. That's silly. You're going to be alone with him for who knows how
long...and if he is dangerous than no one else can save you.
He swore he wouldn't let any harm come to you...and you know that he wouldn't
hurt you!The younger, less experienced part of her cried out. She wanted to
believe that, but her hand rose to the bruise that had already formed on her
arm in the shape of his hand. It wasn't too late to turn back...
A cry rose from behind them and Sansa whirled to get a look. Six guards were
running towards them. They had been seen. Someone had called the guard. The
Hound cursed and pulled her forward and they both ran to the gates.
"What are you doing?" she cried as he tossed their provisions into the large
cage that brought provisions (and tired passengers) to the top of the Eyrie. He
didn't answer but busied himself with the rope, making some sort of tangle with
it that she didn't understand. The guards were getting closer, and they were
running out of time...and he wasn't turning to fight them!
As the guards descended upon them, swords gleaming in the moonlight she lost
the ability to speak, for her fear was so great. It was eased a moment later as
the Hound drew his sword at last. He moved as he drew it, and grabbed her with
his free hand. A moment later she was falling into the cage on top of her
bedroll and he was hanging onto the edge of the cage.
She realized too late what he was going to do.
"NO! YOU CAN'T!" she shrieked as he used his sword to slice the rope attaching
them to the winch that would lower them safely to Sky. The cage dropped like a
stone, with both of them inside it. Her scream was swallowed by the frozen
wind.
oOo
Come on. Come ON. He would have prayed if he really believed in that nonsense.
If this didn't work, they'd both be dead. Yet if they had been caught...she'd
be caged again and he'd be dead. It was this or nothing. The freezing wind tore
at his exposed face, and his fingers went numb as they grasped the metal edge
of the massive dumbwaiter. A snarl was torn from his mouth as they kept
falling.
Seven hells, I di- his thought was cut off as there was a harsh sound, like a
hundred arrows loosing from their strings at the same time, and he was thrown
clear off his feet into the cage...and on top of his poor little bird.
The cage had stopped falling, and they hadn't hit the ground. The rope had
held.
With a groan he rolled off of the poor girl. His hands hurt from the frozen
bars, and his leg throbbed from an old wound, but other than that he was fine.
A cursory glance told him that she was okay too, although when he offered a
hand to help her up, she was shaking like a leaf in high winds.
"You alright?" he rasped after she was on her feet again.
"You're crazy," she murmured as he leaned against the back of the cage, eyes
wide and hands on her chest, as if to prevent her heart from leaping out of it.
He laughed.
"It's not funny! You could have killed us!" she stomped one foot. He couldn't
tell if her face was red from the cold, or from anger.
"Well I didn't," he assured her and took a look at the next step in their
escape from the Eyrie. It was a good twenty feet to the ground below.
"Bugger the Vale!" he snarled and tossed their bed rolls to the ground below.
He hoped the wine would survive the fall. He'd need some after this was done.
There wasn't even snow to soften their landing if they jumped, and there was no
rope to climb down with...not that she could do such a thing anyway. She was
still a lady, despite her garb, and he doubted that she'd even know how to
climb a tree, let alone descend a rope.
"How do we get down?" she asked quietly as she saw their provisions hit the
ground. Fear was apparent in her eyes, and he wondered how she had gathered the
courage to throw herself from the Moon Door but a mere twenty feet set her to
shaking. He gritted his teeth and said nothing. It wouldn't do to upset her
more than she was already.
Instead of an answer he simply jumped. He was rewarded with another of her
small screams as he fell, and might have laughed, but you didn't move your face
while jumping. He knew that from his early childhood when a boy his age had
leapt from a barn into a pile of hay, hollering and laughing and when he hit
the ground he bit his tongue clean in half.
Sandor hit the ground with a grunt, and let his momentum carry him forward into
a roll so he didn't shatter anything. It hurt, there was no way around that,
but after he struggled to his feet a mental check told him that there would be
no lasting damage but bruises.
"Are you alright?" she called down and the concern in her voice made him pause.
Does she really care, or is it just the chirpings of such a proper little bird?
he wondered.
oOo
"I'm fine. Jump little bird. I will catch you," he assured her from below and
relief flooded through her. He wasn't hurt, and she wasn't hurt and they were
safe...for now.
Sansa looked back up at the Eyrie. They had fallen so far that she couldn't
even see where they had come from. The night had swallowed the castle whole,
and the only thing she had left was to go down.
She didn't know why it intimidated her, but the drop scared her. No, it wasn't
the fall it was the landing. What if he missed? Jumping from the Moon Door
hadn't been a problem. Death was a promise if you jump from there...and from
here, it was a jump for life.
"You promise you won't drop me?" she was ashamed to hear herself asking, and
was mortified when she heard him laugh at her from below. That was all it took
her to carefully drop from the dumbwaiter into open air. She closed her eyes as
tightly as she could and waited for him to catch her.
She hit him hard, and let out a small gasp as she felt him lose his balance and
topple backwards into their provisions. He shielded her from the ground with
his own body as he fell, and let out a pained grunt as something in his bag
shattered beneath their combined weight.
A wave of relief passed through her. He hadn't dropped her. The Hound had her
around the waist and his grip was tight, but not painful. Their breath fogged
in the cold winter air and mingled before them. Both of them were breathing
hard and she suddenly found herself flushed and laughing. He wouldn't let harm
come to her. She was safe with him.
Sansa looked up at him, a smile still on her lips as she met his eyes but the
smile faded quickly. The hungry way he was looking at her made her pulse race
and a blush rise in her cheeks. That strange fluttery sensation went through
her tummy again and she was suddenly remembering the kiss they had shared the
night the Blackwater burned green.
No...he never kissed you. That was a silly lie and you are a silly girl. What
would he want with you? You're just a child to him. He said that once, that he
prefers a woman. You're not what he wants. She lowered her gaze as she thought
about how unrealistic she was being.
"Look at me, little bird," his voice was low and quiet. She brought her gaze up
to meet those hard grey eyes. The hungry look was there still, but it didn't
frighten her. The rage had gone out of them, and there was something else there
that she couldn't place. The whole world was quiet and seemed to be holding its
breath and she realized that she was now holding hers.
The Hound bridged the small gap between them and his lips covered hers so
suddenly she felt lightheaded.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     The way out of the Eyrie is long and full of danger.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
Her lips were soft and warm. It was better than he had ever imagined it could
be. In his dreams she had always pulled away in horror. She was a lady, and he
a dog. No lady wanted to be kissed by a dog, let alone his little bird...but
here they were and she wasn't protesting. As his hands tangled in her brown
hair she made a small moan in the back of her throat that made the blood rush
from one head to the other. No.
He pulled away from her as quickly as he had started kissing her. She was
breathless and her blue eyes were suddenly full of tears.
Seven hells, are you ever going to stop scaring her, dog? You're a disgusting
mongrel. It isn't enough that you found her and she's coming with you, but you
have to force yourself upon her like that?He was disgusted with himself. Sandor
growled as he pushed himself off the ground, bringing her with him and setting
her on her feet.
"They'll be on us soon enough, we...have to move," he managed, trying to
concentrate on getting them out of here instead of thinking about what had just
happened, or entertaining any thoughts of what he wanted to happen. She hurried
to pick up her bedroll and he scooped up the remainders of their belongings. He
cursed as he saw the reddish stain on the sack with the food in it. One or both
of the bottles of Dornish sour had broken. That didn't improve his mood any.
For once, his little bird remained silent.
Sansa followed him as he started the descent through Sky. They'd need mules to
get them down to Snow, but the going would be slow and dangerous. Occasionally
he held up a hand to stop her as he checked for guards, but apparently the news
of their escape hadn't reached this far yet. The guards above couldn't raise
the dumbwaiter with the way he had destroyed the winch, and it would take them
some time to descend on foot. The road between Sky and the Eyrie was the
harshest trail of all. It's what made the Eyrie so damned impenetrable.
Upon reaching the stables he roughly shook the stableboy who was sleeping in
his chair. The boy looked up at him bleary eyed and muttered consent after a
few curses. He moved too slowly for Sandor's liking so he barked at him to
hurry up if he didn't want to lose a hand. That got the stableboy moving
quicker and soon the two mules were saddled, and their belongings secured to
their backs. It was time for the long descent to Snow.
At least it won't be as bad as our trip from the Eyrie to here, and you'll have
no reason to go putting your hands on her again. He thought with a sneer.
oOo
Sansa didn't know what to think about the Hound's reaction after he had kissed
her. He seemed to like it until she had moaned...then he had pushed her away
and seemed angry. She hadn't meant to anger him. It wasn't as if she had even
known she was going to make such an un-lady like noise. He had felt so good,
she couldn't help it. It had slipped out before she even realized what was
happening, and then it was over.
His lips were chapped, and his beard was scratchy, but it was better than
anything I've ever imagined, she sighed, wishing she hadn't ruined the moment.
It had almost been perfect. It was even better than the imagined kiss the night
of the Battle of Blackwater. This had been honest. There was no deception here.
He had kissed her, and she had liked it.
She hid her face beneath the hood of the Hound's old cloak as they entered the
stable. It wouldn't be wise to let anyone see her face. It wasn't often the
lords of the lower way towers decided to visit the Eyrie, but some might
recognize her and raise the alarm. It was well known that she wasn't supposed
to leave her father's side, and no one would mistake the Hound for Petyr
Baelish.
I wonder how he killed him, she wondered for the first time that night. She
despised what Littlefinger had done to her. His touch made her skin crawl and
his kisses were nothing like the one she had just received only moments before.
Petyr's kisses never made her tummy feel like it was full of tiny birds...but
she really didn't know if she had wanted him dead. The Hound was going to do it
with or without her permission, yet she had nodded. She had given Petyr to the
Stranger just as surely as if she had pushed him out the Moon Door herself.
Father forgive me, she thought, though she wasn't sure if she was referring to
The Holy Father, Eddard, or Petyr himself.
"Up you go little bird," the Hound picked her up around the waist and set her
atop her mule in one quick motion. His hands didn't linger any longer than
necessary, and she was almost disappointed. He mounted up on his own mule a
moment later, and she was grateful that there was a mule large enough to
accommodate his weight. The trip would be torture on them both if he had to
walk.
She wasn't a terribly good rider, but the mule seemed to know what it was
doing. It followed the larger mule out through the gates after the Hound
flipped a piece of silver to the stableboy and started on his way down the
mountain. When she passed the wide eyed boy, she wanted to thank him. Instead
she drew her cloak closer to her face. The silver piece would have to be
enough. She couldn't risk him knowing who she was, even though she was sure
she'd never met that boy in her life.
The wind picked up as they descended the small path. If it blew much harder,
she feared it might blow them right over the edge. There was much snow on the
ground, and there were tracks where the Faith had cut a path up the day before.
Their tracks had frozen and turned to ice, so the Hound maneuvered his mule to
the unbroken snow where the going wouldn't be as slippery.
She leaned over the mule a little to get a glimpse of what awaited them below
and her heart quailed at the sight. It was so far down it seemed that they
would never reach the bottom. Sansa hastily returned her eyes to the Hound's
broad back. It was a more heartening sight to look at.
You almost threw your whole life away because you thought he was dead. A nasty
little voice reminded her and she tried to push the guilty feeling away. That
wasn't all of it, but it had been the catalyst. He had been so very angry with
her. The Hound always seemed to be angry with her.
I don't know how to make him anything but angry, she thought suddenly. It made
her sad. She shouldn't be making him angry, not after all he had done and was
still doing for her. Sansa frowned a little at the thought and then her resolve
hardened.
I will be good to him. I will not make him angry, and I'll do anything he wants
me to do. I will do whatever I can to make him happy. It's the least I can do.
She decided but then realized she didn't even know where to begin. What did men
like the Hound do to be happy? She knew he liked to drink, but he never seemed
happy when he was drunk. That seemed to make him cry. A sigh escaped her lips.
It wasn't going to be as easy as she thought.
Sansa continued to think of ways to make the Hound happy as they trailed down
the mountain, and by the time they reached Snow (which seemed to be hours after
they had left) she still hadn't come up with anything she was positive would
work.
oOo
The shabby gate was barred and an ugly man wrapped in a weather stained cloak
with mismatched armor sat in the small guard house beside the gate. He looked
cold and irritated.
"Oy, what's the lot o' you doin' down here this early?" he questioned the two
travelers with a distrustful gaze turned on Sandor. He was, no doubt, eying the
scarred flesh on the side of his face. That was good. It meant he wasn't paying
attention to the pretty bird behind him. Best to look at the mutilated dog, for
dogs could bite.
"I've been ordered to take the septa down the mountain, ser. To Gulltown," he
lied. Sansa was not in a normal septa's garb, but it was terribly cold, and her
garb might suffice if the guard didn't look too hard.
"Couldn't wait till the sun's up could ya? An awful thing to be traveling in
this dark. Amazing you didn't both end up splattered on the rocks," the guard
laughed. It was an ugly sound and it set Sandor's teeth on edge. He wanted to
hit the man for no reason other than he was annoying.
"The long night will be upon us soon enough. The mules sufficed, but they are
weary from the walk. We'll need fresh mounts if we're going to make good time,"
Sandor snapped as the guard went about opening the gate for them.
"Doubt I'll find another that'll hold you're weight brother! That's the biggest
beast we have in the Vale that can make this climb," the guard laughed again.
"I'll see what I can do for the septa though. Stables are through the gate and
down the path. Can't miss it, lest you're blind brother," he motioned vaugly in
the direction they needed to go, and Sandor spurred his tired mule through it,
with Sansa close behind. As they were through he heard the gates closing behind
them.
"I'm not a septa," he heard the little bird chirp quietly when they were out of
earshot of the guard. He smiled, which made the scarred skin twist and grow
taunt. It hadn't hurt for years, but it was still an uncomfortable feeling. He
was amused at the dismay in her tone, but this was serious. As much as she
hated lies, they were needed to get them out of here and to safety.
He pulled the mule up short and she pulled hers alongside of him. She met his
gaze for a moment, and watched as the amusement slipped into something else.
"You're a septa if I say you're a septa, a whore if I say you are a whore, or a
bleeding silent sister if I say so, you hear me?" he growled. "This isn't a
game, and if you mess up I'll end up dead, and you'll end up raped and the gods
know what else. Best learn to play along girl," he finished and then spurred
his mount into the stables.
The voice behind him sounded ashamed and resigned. It made him hate himself.
"Yes, m'lord."
He dismounted his mule, and then helped her off of hers. She didn't complain of
how sore she was, even though he saw the discomfort on her face. His little
bird wasn't a seasoned rider.
At least it proves she isn't used to spreading her legs. Maybe Petyr hadn't
used her as much as you thought. The thought was disgusting, and he took little
comfort from it. He wouldn't force her to tell him what Petyr had done to
her...not yet at least. It was too soon and they had too far to go.
There was no stable boy to help them this time so he saddled another mule and
moved her provisions to the fresh mount while she carefully watered his own. He
wondered where she had learned that. Proper little ladies didn't water horses
and mules, and there were no stables so high up in the Eyrie.
The guard was right about the size of the mules in the stable. All of them
looked old and scrawny. The one he had now was the best he could hope for. If
he were pious, he'd pray that the damned beast could make it the rest of the
way to the final tower, Stone. There, at least, there were horses.
He didn't speak when he was ready, just nodded to her and helped her mount up.
As he climbed on his own mule she spoke up.
"Will your mule make it? I know we must make haste, but it would be foolish not
to take the time to rest if it makes a safer journey," she suggested.
"If we had the luxury of rest, I would have taken in. We must keep going, tired
mule be damned," he admitted. She nodded, as if she knew that would be his
answer.
Why bother asking if you know the answer? he wondered, but wouldn't ask out
loud. She had put up with enough of his biting remarks.
oOo
The air should have been colder when she was at the Eyrie, but down here it
seemed worse. Her fingers were numb beneath her gloves, and her feet ached as
well, though not as bad as her hands. The cloak kept her warm for the most
part, but she wished she had thought to bring a scarf. Her nose was red and raw
and she knew that the longer they remained outside, the worse it would feel. It
might even start to run, and that would be most un-lady like. She hoped that
they'd reach Stone soon.
It's a long way yet and he shows no sign that we'll even stop there for warmth
and a rest. The thought was disturbing. She wasn't used to being out in the
cold for so long, and it hadn't even been a full day yet.
Dawn broke on them without her realizing it. The land lightened by degrees and
it was only when the first rays of the sun slipped over the mountains and
turned the land a beautiful shade of pale gold that she noticed it at all. It
was a beautiful sight, one she didn't see often in the Eyrie. The Eyrie was so
high that it was above the cloud line, although when the sun broke over the
clouds it was a different kind of breathtaking.
How long have I been awake? she wondered. It felt like years, even though she
had slept earlier that night, it hadn't been restful. Maybe she could try to
doze now? One glance at the path below them told her that it wouldn't be a good
idea. If she slid from her saddle she'd never wake up again. It was still a
long way to the bottom.
They rode on for so long that Sansa started to doze despite herself. At first
she simply nodded off, but after a while she would wake and see that they had
made good progress. Her mule seemed to be going a little slower, but that was
because Sandor's was slowing. The poor beast had come from Sky after all, and
had been walking for hours. Her eyes slid shut again.
A sudden shout woke her from her sleep and for a moment she thought that she
was falling. The feeling stopped when she jerked upright and felt the reins
still steady in her hands, and the saddle firm between her legs even as her
heart leapt in fear. It wasn't her mule that had stumbled.
Sansa watched in wordless horror as the Hound's mule went down, and slid right
over the edge of the path.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sometimes the roles reverse and the savior becomes the saved.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
The beast had been walking irregularly for some time, but it hadn't posed a
problem. The ice wasn't nearly as treacherous here as it had been above. He
stayed alert as they made their way down the last leg of the journey down from
the mountains. Every now and then he would glance back at the little bird. She
was tired, and had started to nod off. As much as he wanted to shout at her to
make her stay awake, he wouldn't. She needed rest and her mount needed no
guidance.
He would keep an eye on her to make sure she didn't start to slide...and that
had been his biggest concern until he felt his own mule stumble.
It wasn't her I should have been worried about! He thought in vain as the
mule's leg gave way. He gave a startled shout as the mule skittered on the ice.
Like it or not they were going down.
Sandor vaugly heard Sansa gasp as he twisted in the saddle. His knife had made
it to his hand as quick as it could as he slashed the ropes holding the bedroll
to the back of the saddle. Regardless if he fell or not, they needed the
supplies. As the mule fell away from him he tried to push off of the saddle to
get onto solid ground. It didn't work as well as he wanted it to, and the snow
was slippery. He let out a sharp grunt as his torso hit solid ground. The mule
screamed below him as it fell and cut off suddenly.
Sandor's upper body clung to the edge of the path, but he was sliding and would
soon join the mule if he didn't act quick. There was nothing to hold onto.
Driving his knife into the snow, he prayed that it wouldn't catch stone. Maybe
he'd get lucky and hit dirt. He wasn't lucky. He cursed as the knife hit stone
and the blade snapped, useless. He was going to fall.
Small hands grasped his arm suddenly. Sandor met Sansa's frightened eyes.
"Let go girl, or I'll take you down with me. You're not strong enough!" he
snarled as he slid further off the ledge, grasping at the snow desperately with
one hand. It wouldn't take long now.
"No! I won't!" she cried and redoubled her efforts to pull him up. She had put
all of her weight into pulling him up but he was right, she was not strong
enough. He was too big and she was too small.
"LET GO!" he growled, determined not to take her with him. Damn her! She was
going to get herself killed.
"Never!" she said through gritted teeth and tears. He only had a moment to
register her expression, and had never seen her so frightened.
You swore to protect her, and if you fall off this ledge she will go right back
to where she was. His thoughts became panicked. He could not fall. With a grunt
he pushed his feet forward, against the edge of the wall. They scraped ice and
stone, but he found no foot holds. He slid further with a curse and she groaned
in dismay.
"Please, please don't fall," he heard her whimper as her little hands gripped
him even tighter.
His boots scraped harder against the stone and this time he was rewarded as a
chunk of ice dislodged itself and followed his mule. The place where it had
been was big enough to allow a toe hold. He had stopped sliding.
"Seven hells, listen to me little bird," he gasped, catching his breath. "Don't
interrupt me. You're going to have to trust me and let go. Get your mule and
undo the ropes that hold the bedroll on. Tie it to the saddlehorn, then give me
the rope. It's the only way to get me back on solid ground," he explained
carefully as he vied for a handhold. Somehow he managed to find a jutting rock
that he should be able to cling to as she did as he told her...as long as the
ground didn't give way.
She didn't say anything, and the look she gave him was pure misery.
"Quickly now," he pleaded and she reluctantly let go. The minute she did his
hand and toes started screaming in protest. They were cold and the pressure
burned. A low groan escaped his mouth as he clung to the side of the cliff.
Hold on dog. You just hold on.
oOo
She did as he asked as fast as she could manage with shaking hands and numb
fingers. Her bedroll fell from the saddle. She had to take her gloves off to
tie a proper knot over the saddle horn. There wasn't time to look over her
shoulder and check that he was still there, even though she wanted to look more
than anything.
Please, please, please.She begged to any of the Seven that would hear her plea.
Don't let him fall, I couldn't take it.
She took one extra moment to make sure the rope was secured properly. If the
rope didn't hold...but it would. Years of embroidery and sewing had given her
the knowledge of several knots and she had tied the strongest knot she knew of
to the saddle horn. Once it was secured she dashed back to his side. Sweat had
gathered on his brow and his teeth were clenched so hard she thought they might
break.
Quickly she wrapped the rope around his forearm several times, then left the
edge of it in his free hand. Once that was done she resumed her hold on his
other arm and met his eyes. She had seen fear there on the night the water
burned green, but it was not fear she saw now, but determination. It made her
feel better, if only a little.
"It's ready. Please, you have to try to get up," she begged and was ashamed at
the tears that froze on her cheeks. This was not the time to let her emotions
take over, but she couldn't help it. Just the thought of him falling made her
stomach twist into knots and made bile rise in the back of her throat.
"That's a good little bird. Pull when I say, and not before," he groaned.
"I will, I won't let you go, I promise," she cried suddenly, determined to pull
as hard as she ever had in her life.
"PULL!"
Sansa pulled with all of her heart.
oOo
For the second time that night both of them lay on the ground panting heavily,
though the exertion from this endeavor had been much worse. The muscles in his
arms and legs both screamed and burned. His right hand was full of pins and
needles from where the rope had cut off his circulation. Snow was soaking into
the back of his clothes but he didn't care. The freezing air he sucked into his
lungs was much too cold, but few things had felt better.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and grimaced. Nothing was more disgusting than
freezing sweat, but it didn't matter. He hadn't fallen to his death.
"Not today," he muttered. The thought amused him. Long ago he used to be a
Lannister dog. He had never liked the eunuch Varys but the man did have stories
about what went down in the castle. On occasion he'd call upon King Joffrey and
let slip some choice stories he had heard from his informers. One such story
had been about the former First Sword of the Braavos, Syrio and the little
wolf-bitch. He was teaching her how to wield a sword, amongst other things.
Joffrey found no use for the tale, but Sandor had found it interesting enough.
Sandor turned to Sansa who looked pale and exhausted. He reached out and took
one of her red raw hands in his own. "You did well, little bird."
"Thank you, but I just did as you said," she admitted, looking uncomfortable.
"I would have fallen if you hadn't been so quick to try and haul me up. You
have my thanks," he assured her.
They should keep moving. He knew it, but the thought didn't make him move just
yet. She was staring at him again and it started to make him edgy.
"What?" he asked, his eyebrows drawing together in a slight scowl.
"That's the first time you've ever been polite to me," she admitted
reluctantly, eyes going to the hand that he was still grasping. He finally
struggled to his feet and pulled her up beside him. Her beige gloves were
strewn in the snow next to their remaining mule. He scooped them up and brushed
the snow out of them, then offered them to her.
Sansa put the gloves back on, and then lightly scooped up the bag he had cut
free from his mount. Her hair fell from beneath the cloak and he had to resist
the urge to push it back behind her ear.
How does she manage to still look so damned beautiful? he wondered as she
secured the bedroll to one side of the mule as he worked on the other one. She
shivered suddenly and he knew that they had to keep moving.
"Come little bird, we are almost to the last tower. Only an hour or so and we
should be able to rest," he assured her as he lifted her onto the mule that had
helped save his life.
Sandor grabbed the reins and resumed the journey, this time on foot. Hopefully
his footing would prove more sure than his mule's had.
"Sleep if you can, I will not fall again, and I'll make sure you don't fall
either," he offered and she nodded. The poor girl had been through way too much
today. She looked exhausted.
"Thank you," she breathed. He almost missed it she was so quiet. It wasn't long
down the trail before he saw her nod off. The adrenaline had worn off at last
and her exhaustion had won out.
She doesn't deserve to sleep on the back of a damned mule, she deserves the
warmest feather bed silver can buy. He grimaced. That wouldn't happen for some
time though. It was still too dangerous for them to try and rest in Stone. No,
they had to make good time and get as far away as they could.
I'll get you a feather bed little bird, just as soon as I can. He silently
promised her.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa finds out some important truths about the Hound.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
Her back was pleasantly warm. It was pressed up against the heated walls of
Winterfell. The feeling filled her with a sense of belonging that she hadn't
felt in five years. The halls were filled with the shriek of glee as she
watched Robb dangling Rickon under one arm. He as tickling the three year old
mercifully and the small boy squirmed and shouted. Her lady mother appeared
before them and scolded Robb for teasing her youngest boy.
Sansa looked to her left and saw Jon Snow and her younger sister Arya talking
in hushed voices. It was clear that they were conspiring...and it was probably
against her. Jon tousled Arya's hair and her face scrunched up in distaste,
though Sansa knew she didn't really mind. As they past her in the hall, Arya
stuck her tongue out at her and then dashed away, ever the petulant girl that
she was.
Suddenly there were arms around her and she was a little startled. She looked
up and it was the face of her father. He smiled warmly at her and her heart
soared. Her family was with her, and she was home. Winterfell, where she
belonged.
A sudden howl split her happy thoughts and her father was gone. She caught a
glimpse of something outside the window and walked to it. It was a tower, and
something was perched atop it. Then that something fell and she knew it was
Bran.
"No!" She cried, but no sound came from her mouth. The castle gave a deep
rumble and started to rock beneath her feet. She fell back against the warmth
of the wall in a panic. The wall turned into a different kind of embrace and
she heard the contempt in the voice of the dead boy king.
"I'll tell you what. I'm going to give you a present. After I raise my armies,
and kill your traitor brother, I'll give you his head as well," he hissed in
her ear. The wall in front of her crumbled into dust and there were spikes all
lined up in a row. On top of them were the heads of each member of her family,
and each of their direwolves.
The grip changed on her again and this time it was the Imp who held her and
when he spoke it was with Littlefinger's voice and his breath smelled like a
mixture of mint and wine.
"Tell me, which do you favor, your fingers or your tongue?" he asked and a low
wail escaped her throat. It kept going long after she closed her mouth. The
rocking of the castle grew worse and she suddenly broke away from the Imp and
started running down the hall. As she turned the corner Winterfell turned into
the Eyrie. The Moon Door stood open and the Hound stood at the brink. There was
no drop at the edge of the Moon Door, just green fire that lit his disfigured
face as he half turned towards her. He looked like a corpse, and instead of
grey eyes, they were pale blue and cruel. The wailing noise grew louder and she
felt heat at her back again. When she looked behind her, the green flames were
now at her back, and burning the already singed and bloody cloak she had around
her shoulders.
Ser Ilyn Payne stepped out from the flames, her father's sword in his hand. He
raised the sword above her and she knew that her head was going to end up on a
spike too. Just like the rest of her family.
She closed her eyes tightly and waited for the blow to land.
"Little bird," the raspy voice penetrated through her fear and when she opened
her eyes she was not in Winterfell or the Eyrie. She was on horseback, a big,
black beast that could be nothing but the Hound's great destrier. The wail
continued and she realized that it was nothing but the wind howling through the
trees. The warmth that she had mistaken for the great walls of Winterfell was
the warmth of the Hound as he held her to his chest.
"I was dreaming," she confessed and was startled at how sad her voice sounded.
"That's why I woke you. It didn't seem to be a good dream," he admitted as
Stranger cantered through the forest. She heard another set of hooves behind
her and turned back to see who was following them. It turned out to be a
chestnut mare that held all of their bags. She wasn't nearly as big as
Stranger, but she looked strong.
"She's for you, when you're able to ride without falling asleep," the Hound
replied, following her gaze. Sansa found herself oddly pleased at the thought
of having her own horse. She had never been a good rider, but maybe that would
change as she got more experience.
"How did you pay for her?" she asked him and he laughed harshly.
"Thank Littlefinger for her. It may be the only decent thing he's ever given
you. It was his coin that bought her from the stables," he chuckled again. She
knew that he had stolen Petyr's coin purse, which was no doubt full. A small
smile rose to her face.
"I wish I had been awake for that. I've heard Fat...Petyr often speak of the
greed of the Stablemaster at the base of the Vale. You would have done better
giving him jewels. He loves nothing more than to sell valuables at a ridiculous
mark up to traders who happen to stop by," she informed him, remembering
several one sided conversations that Petyr had with her on the subject.
"Had I jewels and this information, I would have gladly given them," he sounded
amused.
"We'll have other opportunities to use them," she admitted and he slowed
Stranger to a walk. When she raised her head to look at him, he didn't look
pleased. A flush overtook her face.
"When did you turn into a common thief, girl?" his voice was soft and steady,
but it was almost as bad as if he had shouted at her. She could feel the
disappointment radiating from him.
I've upset him again. I thought he would be happy that I thought ahead enough
to get us some way of paying for things. The thought made her heart hurt and
the feeling of shame was all but overwhelming.
"I thought we'd need coin. I didn't know how much we would need. It couldn't
hurt to have extra," she admitted to her lap. "Plus, no one was using them
anyway. They belonged to my Aunt Lysa. I hid them from Littlefinger for little
Robert when he came of age...but he died," tears suddenly stung her eyes.
Although Robert could be very taxing, she had loved him. He was one of the few
relatives she had left...and he was now gone too. Her little Sweetrobin.
"Enough of that, little bird," the Hound remarked and wiped a tear off her
cheek so gently she wondered if it had really happened. Her tears stopped as
suddenly as they had started.
"I'm not angry, I'd just prefer you leave the thieving up to me. You needn't
burden your soul with any unneeded sins, little bird. Leave that to me. I have
so much as it is, a little more could not possibly do any more damage," he
assured her, but she didn't take comfort from his words.
Your sins should be forgiven ten times over for everything you've done for me.
She secretly thought. He would laugh at her if she told him, so she kept her
mouth shut.
"Alright, I will not steal anything else," she shivered against him as she
spoke.
"It isn't much further. I know a place we can finally rest."
His grip tightened on her slightly as he spurred Stranger on. She didn't want
to sleep, for sleep might mean dreams, but she was too tired to fight sleep.
Soon enough she was lulled back to sleep by the steady beat of hooves and the
warm feeling of him against her back.
oOo
He lifted her off of Stranger and settled into the snow with a soft crunch as
his boots broke through the small top layer of ice. It had been years since he
had last been in the Vale, but he hadn't forgotten where the cave was located.
When he was last here, he had been but a squire. The cave was well hidden at
the foot of the mountain, and wasn't far from the Bloody Gate.
He passed the tree that was split in down the middle. It had been struck by
lightening, which had split the tree clean in half, and left the bark blackened
and twisted...but the tree still grew, or had still been growing the last time
he had been here. It was spring then.
Sandor turned past the tree and found the crevice in the wall of the mountain.
When he was a boy, it hadn't been hard to fit in. Now it would be a tight
squeeze, and impossible with a girl in his arms.
"Wake up little bird," he shook her as gently as he dared, and felt horrible
for the bleary eyed look she gave him upon waking. She rubbed her eyes with the
back of her hands in such a childish gesture that he was taken aback.
She's always been young, what do you expect? She's a hell of a lot older now
than she was when you were back in King's Landing pretending that your whores
had auburn hair.He reminded himself and the feeling of disgust rose in the back
of his throat.
When he put her down she brought her cloak to her chest and shivered.
"It's cold," she muttered, her breath fogging around her.
"I know. Stay here with the horses while I check to make sure we won't be
sharing our nights with anything unpleasant," he handed her the reins of the
two horses and gave Stranger a biting look, as if telling him to behave for his
little bird.
Sandor grunted as he squeezed into the crevice. The stone scraped at his
breastplate and he was glad for the additional armor. If he hadn't been wearing
it, the skin would have been torn. Once inside he unsheathed his sword and
disappeared into the blackness.
oOo
He started the fire quicker then she thought was possible, though he sat as far
away from the flames as he could while still taking in some small portion of
warmth. She watched him as he busied himself with cleaning out the sack of
food. The wine bottle had burst, and the glass had tainted a good portion of
their provisions. He tossed two whole loaves of bread that were too littered
with shards, but had decided that the other two were worth saving, since they
had been at the top of the bag instead of the bottom.
She didn't blame him for his foul mood. Of the three he had brought, two wine
bottles had shattered. Sansa didn't really want him drinking, but she knew that
he took pleasure from it. Who was she to stop him?
"How did you find this place," she asked. It was something she had been wanting
to ask him for a while now, but with his curses and black mood it hadn't seemed
like the right moment. Now that he had finally settled down, and was nursing
the surviving bottle of Dornish sour, he seemed a little more content that she
dared ask.
It was a while before he spoke, but she didn't persist in asking questions. She
could tell he was remembering.
"I first came as a squire. My lord had business in the Vale, but we were caught
unawares by a group of seven Storm Crows. We fought as hard as we could, but
they killed my lord. Would have killed me too, but the one said I had spunk. I
was only a boy of three-and-ten, but I had killed three of the seven, and
maimed a fourth. Two remained after my lord was slain and they took me to this
cave, where they had set up camp," he gazed into the fire as he remembered.
"How did you escape from them?" she asked, although she probably knew the
answer.
"Slew them as they slept, took what I could. Found a town not too long after
that, bought a horse and returned to Casterly Rock," he shrugged.
"What was your lord's name?"
"I don't remember. Some Lannister that wasn't worth remembering. Go to sleep.
We have a long way to go tomorrow," he insisted as he pulled a blanket across
his lap, then slid to the ground. His stance told her that he was done talking.
Sansa moved closer to the fire and watched the flames flicker and dance. She
was silent for a long time, lost in thought before she finally spoke again.
"How did you kill Petyr?"
The eye on the scarred side of his face slid open. She feared he would be
annoyed, but his gaze suggested otherwise.
"I did not kill him little bird."
"But...you said that..." she started, not remembering his words. It seemed a
life time ago that he had left her to take care of her false father.
"I had business to take care of. I never said that I would kill him," his eye
slid closed again as he attempted for a second time to stop the conversation.
"What business did you take care of with him then?"
"Seven hells! You really can't wait till morning?" he snarled suddenly, both
eyes open and angry.
"No! I can't wait till morning! You...you weren't there! You didn't have kiss
him! You didn't have to endure his touches! I have every right to know what you
did to him! You let me believe that he was dead, and now that I know he isn't,
what's stopping him from finding me and taking me back?" The outburst was
unseemly but she didn't care. Her voice rose in pitch and her breathing hitched
in her throat. She had gotten to her feet and her hands were balled into fists.
The slow dread of the thought of going back to the Vale left her terrified. The
things he might do to her if she was found...
His arms were around her then and she collapsed into sobs. The Hound said
nothing, he just held her until her sobs subsided and she could breathe without
the embarrassing hitching that came when she cried too hard.
"Littlefinger will find it very hard indeed to find you without his silver
tongue to convince everyone to do his bidding for him. He'll find it harder
still to write letters concerning your disappearance to anyone without thumbs."
His voice was a soft rasp against the top of her head as he held her tightly.
"And if he happens to find you after all I've done to him, then I will finish
him off and put a sword through his heart. I haven't killed a man in two years,
but I meant what I said. I will not let anyone hurt you again, little bird."
He pulled her down onto the blanket and she snuggled against his chest. Her
fears put aside, she relaxed against him as he pulled a second blanket over
them both. It was scratchy, and the ground was hard, but no feather bed had
ever felt so nice.
He may not be a knight, but she was safer with him then she ever was with
anyone who had said the oaths. She could relax. Petyr wouldn't touch her again.
The Imp wouldn't touch her again. Joffrey wouldn't touch her again. He would
make sure of that. It was enough.
"Thank you," she breathed, eyes still shut tight as she clung to his chest.
oOo
He watched her for a long time after she had fallen asleep on his chest. He
didn't dare move, even after his arm was shot through with pins and needles,
and then went uncomfortably numb. If he moved, he might wake up her up and he
was determined to make this last as long as possible.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Summary
     The Hound allows Sansa to decide where he is going to take her.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
The cave was cold when he finally woke. His back ached in half a dozen places
and his limbs were stiff. He had to use the wall to support him as he rose to
his feet. It only took him half a minute to remember where he was, and to
notice that his little bird was not in the cave with him.
Stifling a curse he limped to the mouth of the cave. The day was overcast and
it had started to snow. The flakes were falling slowly, but were fat. It would
get heavier as the day went on, and that would make traveling difficult if it
turned into a full storm. Movement drew his eye away from the sky.
She hadn't gone far, much to his relief. Sansa stood just a few yards from
where the horses were tied. She was looking up at the falling snow, a smile on
her face so sweet it made his teeth hurt. The tears she shed the day before
were long forgotten, and her eyes were no longer rimmed red.
Have I ever seen her look so happy? He wondered, watching her but saying
nothing. His anger at her leaving the cave had vanished as swiftly as it came.
She slowly spread her arms out and spun in a circle, eyes closed and snow
gathering in her hair.
The sight made him equal parts grateful and angry. He couldn't help but feel
that this sight was not meant for him, but for some great and gentle lord that
she would one day wed and give her as many children as she could stand. She was
too good for him, and he knew it...but here they were. Petyr had been a lord,
and she had been in a castle, but she had chosen this. She had chosen him.
She didn't choose you, dog...she choose protection and a chance to escape the
ever grasping fingers of Baelish. Don't delude yourself. So what if she didn't
protest at your kiss? She probably didn't protest when the Imp kissed her
either.The thought made him feel as if someone had twisted a knife in his gut.
"When you're done prancing about we have work to do," his voice was callous and
he hated himself for it. He should have said something kind. Told her how
lovely she looked with the flakes in her hair. Told her how glad he was that
she had come with him. He should have scooped her into his arms and twirled her
around himself, then kissed her until she forgot all of her pains and worries.
She quickly stopped spinning and looked at him, her hands going to the hood
that had fallen off of her head. A lovely flush spread across her face. She
hadn't known he was watching her. He watched as she smoothed her tunic, then
walked over to him. She seemed embarrassed.
"I didn't know you were watching," she admitted, looking abashed as she reached
the entrance to the cave.
"I told you not to leave unless I tell you that you can."
"I know...but I saw the snow and I wanted to check on the horses. I wouldn't
have gone anywhere," she protested meekly. He wanted to shake her, to make her
understand, but that would have been unnecessarily cruel.
"The woods are filled with wildlings and savage mountain clans. Anyone could
have carried you off without me even realizing you were gone. How can I protect
you if you throw caution into the wind?" his tone was as soft as he could
manage, but he couldn't help the annoyance from creeping in.
She raised one small hand to the edge of her mouth and he knew that the thought
had never crossed her mind.
"Poor caged little bird," he wanted to brush the snow from he hair and draw her
close. Instead he turned around and busied himself with finding them something
to eat. It was easier to deal with that then to meet her gaze.
oOo
She had woken in his arms and had almost panicked as the disorientation set in.
Then she remembered that she was no longer in the Vale, and that the only arms
around her were those of the Hound. Sansa turned to look at him, lightly
removing his arm from around her. He looked so different as he slept. His
features were not contorted with scowls or mockery. He almost looked peaceful.
The scars were not nearly as ugly when he was so relaxed.
He stirred a little when she rose, and it gladened her heart to see that once
she was gone, he reached over in his sleep, as if to try and find her. She was
glad that she hadn't woken him. Yesterday had been so long and trying, he
needed his rest.
After tending to the fire she decided to see if the horses were alright. She
pulled her cloak tighter around her and slipped out of the cave. The horses
turned out to be fine. The chestnut mare even let her pet her nose, and seemed
to enjoy it. It was then that it started to snow.
She hadn't felt this free in years. Nothing was there to hold her back. Not
keep nor bars, or promises of unwanted marriages. The smile came unbidden to
her face and a small laugh escaped her lips. A coldness brushed against her
cheek and she realized that it had started to snow. She closed her eyes and
turned her face towards the sky. This is what freedom tasted like. It was a
feeling she had forgotten.
So lost in the moment, she hadn't seen the Hound watching her until he spoke. A
blush rose to her cheeks as she was found out. Admittedly she was acting much
like a giddy child, but he didn't have to make her feel so guilty. It was just
a small breath of fresh air...but he wasn't wrong. Bad things could happen out
in the woods, and she did need to stay close to him.
Will you ever stop disappointing him? She wondered as she followed him back
into their shelter. It was clear that he didn't need her help as he rifled
through the bag, and he didn't say anything as he tossed her a heel of bread.
It was cold, and the wine had soaked into half of it. She wouldn't complain
though. They very easily could have no food to eat.
"I'm sorry I went out without asking. I won't do it again. I'll wake you next
time," she assured him as she nibbled on the bread. He didn't reply, save for
eating his own bit of bread and washing it down with the wine leftover from
last night.
He's changed. That bottle would have been gone last night, and two more besides
if we had been back at Kings Landing. He also would have killed Littlefinger
outright, and probably all those guards who rushed us at the top of the Eyrie.
Sansa wondered what had sparked the change in him.
They ate in silence, but it was a comfortable one, unlike some she had shared
with her false father the last few years. He finished before she did and packed
their belongings with a swiftness she knew came from years of practice.
She bundled up as tight as she could as they left the cave, saddled the horses
and set off for the day. Sansa was bitterly disappointed when she didn't get to
share a ride with the Hound. Instead, he had lifted her onto her own horse.
Today she would ride alone.
It wasn't long before the Hound reigned in Stranger and stopped. She stopped
her own horse beside his and was suddenly anxious. The path before them split.
He looked at her, almost expectantly. When she said nothing, he spoke.
"We don't have all day, girl. It's time to make a choice. Where are we going?"
he asked, voice lined with impatience. She knew where they went mattered little
to him, but it mattered a great deal to her. Once, the only place she ever
wanted to be was Kings Landing. That changed a good deal after she was made to
watch as her father was beheaded. It was Winterfell she longed for, and her
family. Both Ser Dontos and Petyr Baelish had promised to take her to
Winterfell, but Dontos was dead and Littlefinger had lied.
None of them had taken her home. But now...now she could, if she so wished. Yet
she didn't have to. The Hound would take her anywhere she wanted to go. They
could even go across the Narrow Sea if she desired, where it was rumored that
the long winter's cruel fingers could not reach. They could go to Dorne, or
Highgarden. Riverrun or The Wall. It made no matter what choice she made, he
would take her there.
"Take me home. It may be ruined and deserted, but it is still my home. I want
to go to Winterfell."
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa and Sandor meet someone else along their travels.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
It had been an easy decision to stay off of the Kingsroad. Outlaws, traitors,
sellswords and who knows what other kind of unsightly people would be using it.
Plus, corpses would be lining the roads and trees alike. Although Sansa was
almost a grown woman and had suffered more horrors than one of her age should
ever go through, he didn't want her to see such brutality. A beheading was a
horrible thing to witness, but the corpses they found would be ravaged, bloated
and ruinous things. There were many ways to kill a man. She deserved a ride
that wouldn't add fuel to her nightmares.
The snow had stopped soon after they had started their ride to Winterfell, and
for that he was grateful. Snow would make the going slow, and his little bird
was having a hard enough time as it was. She didn't openly complain too often,
but he knew that she had saddle sores. As the weather grew colder she often
would shiver violently as they road, but when he offered her his cloak, or a
blanket she usually put on a brave face and refused.
She's a lot tougher then she used to be. Sandor thought as they rode side by
side through the trees. It made him two parts sad, and three parts relieved.
Incessant complaining had an instantaneous way of making him irritable.
The girl he had known at King's Landing was more vain, and much more meek than
the almost woman that rode with him towards her shattered home. Never once did
she complain about wearing the same three outfits over and over again, though
he caught her looking at them in disdain more than once. She longed for the
beautiful gowns that befit a lady of her stature, but wouldn't complain.
Yet sometimes when a dark mood found him, she would scold him for being
impossible, or rude as befit the situation. She was getting braver at facing
his blunt retorts. It reminded him of the wolf-bitch.
You should tell her. The wolf-bitch is her only remaining sibling, save the
bastard. She has a right to know that she lives. He thought almost every day
they rode together, but he never told her, and she never talked about her
sister. Maybe one day he would tell her that Arya Stark had left him for dead
beneath a tree. Maybe he wouldn't.
oOo
Although the days still had some light left in them, they were always bitter
and cold. Sansa spent most of her day trying to ignore the pain in her thighs
and rump, and the numbness that always reached her fingers and toes after a few
hours of leaving the comfort of whatever camp they had made.
Most nights they had found some sort of shelter. The second night of their
journey found them in a run down old house with half the roof missing. It stank
of mildew, but no one had occupied it in a long time. It was better then
sleeping out in the open however, as they had done the third night. There was
little to buffer them from the freezing wind and no matter how close she sat to
the fire, and how closely the Hound held her to him, the cold still managed to
wrap it's icy fingers around her body.
The only comfort she had on those long, cold nights was the Hound himself. He
would always start off alone, away from the fire, but sooner or later she'd
coax him closer, and she'd end up in his arms. They'd take comfort from each
others arms as they slept, and the nightmares didn't bother her as long as he
had his arms across her waist. Some nights he would shift awkwardly away from
her, for reasons she didn't understand and she'd have to snuggle into his broad
back. Other nights she'd stay awake just listening to his steady breathing as
she traced light circles on his chest, too thrilled to let sleep claim her
despite he exhaustion of the days travel.
He never kissed her though. The thought made her sad, despite his warmth. It
had been so perfect, and it had really happened. There was no lies in that
kiss, only her desire to kiss him, and his to kiss her. She couldn't understand
why he wouldn't do it again. The one time she had gathered up enough courage to
try and kiss him, he had put a hand on her shoulder and held her back, a
disproving look in his eyes mingled with a dark laugh that made her skin
prickle.
It will have to be enough to sleep next to him. At least we can be close then.
She resolved, defeated. It wasn't enough for her. Not nearly, but she didn't
want to come across like a wanton whore to just fling herself at him and kiss
him until he surrendered.
It was three days of monotonous riding after the night spent without a shelter
before they found the rundown barn and the singer.
oOo
Sandor hated the singer on sight. He was young, dark of hair, light of eye and
comely. He was older than Sansa, but younger then he was. The harp he carried
with him was well tuned despite the cold and he had a sweet voice.
Sansa, of course, loved everything about him. She laughed at his jokes, sighed
at all the right moments in his songs and talked endlessly about nothing. The
singer called himself Melodious Max, which Sansa found delightful. It made
Sandor want to hit him.
The only thing the singer had going for him was several wine skins he had
gotten from an Inn only a days ride to the North, still in lands that belonged
to the Tullys. He was gracious enough to share his wine for good company...and
some coin, of course.
He nursed the bottle of wine in one corner of the barn, close enough to
throttle the singer if he needed to, but far enough away that none of the
warmth from the fire reached him. It wasn't Dornish sour, and it wasn't even
half good, but wine was wine. He doubted they'd find any more Dornish sour this
far north anyway. Watery wine would be all they had for quite some time.
The singer played. Sansa laughed, and he drank. It went on like that for an
hour or so before he felt the wine go to his head. It had been too long since
he drank any considerable amount of any liquor. He had finished off a bottle
and a half by himself. His eyelids were growing heavy and he fought sleep.
It was the silence that cut through his sleep and alerted him that something
was amiss. When he looked up, the fire had died down, and the singer had Sansa
on the ground, and was kissing her.
Sandor had lurched to his feet before his mind could properly process the scene
before him. His hand tangled in the singers pretty black hair and he yanked
back hard. The singer gave several pained shouts as Sandor pulled him backwards
a good ten feet by his hair. A black rage had settled on his features, and in
the dying glow of the coals the singer glimpsed his face, and promptly lost
control of his bladder.
The Hound unsheathed his sword in a fit of rage but before he could make use of
it small hands grasped his arms. He snarled wordlessly as he looked at his
little bird. Her cheeks had a rosy hue and she looked terrified.
oOo
"Please, please don't. He didn't mean anything by it. He's had too much wine,"
she begged in a voice that seemed to barely make it out of her throat.
"Had enough wine to make him bold enough to slip a hand up your tunic," the
Hound snarled.
The rage had taken over his features. With the light in the room it made him
almost look like a monster. She didn't back down though and pulled on his arm
more insistently. He would not hurt her, no matter how strong his anger.
"He's just drunk. It was harmless, please m'lord, don't kill him. I beg you,"
she felt tears brimming in her eyes and hated them.
"How much do you want to save him, girl? Do you love him so much that you'd get
down on your knees and beg for his pitiful life?" His words hit her like a slap
on the face, and it was then that she realized that he was half drunk himself.
"His songs were pretty, and I've had few things of beauty since I left the
Vale!" she spat back at him. The moment that they were out of her mouth she
wanted to take them back. The look on his face made shame run through her body
like a cold chill.
The Hound sheathed his sword, let go of the singer and stalked out into the
night. Sansa wanted to run after him, but she stopped herself. She'd apologize
to him in the morning when he wasn't drunk.
Instead she dropped to one knee besides Max and put a hand on his shoulder. He
shrugged her off quickly, still looking terrified and began to gather his
provisions.
"You don't have to go, please. It's too cold to go out there alone," she
pleaded, not wanting to be left alone in the barn with nothing but her thoughts
and a dying fire.
"Bugger you, I'll take my chances," the singer spat in a wavering voice and
then left by the door on the opposite side of the barn. Sansa was alone.
Her lip trembled as she busied herself with building the fire back up. Anything
to keep her mind off of what had just happened. It was a shame that it didn't
take long before the flames had sprung back to life. Her thoughts went on
churning whether she wanted them to or not.
Why did you say that to him? He didn't deserve that! Sansa chided herself, but
it was no use. She had been angry. The Hound shouldn't have threatened Max like
that. It wasn't proper and there had been no harm done.
I will never drink wine again. She promised herself. It did strange things to
her head. She had wanted to be kissed and touched, and as the night wore on the
feelings increased. If she had been with the Hound he would have just told her
to go to sleep. The singer had been charming, and she knew that he wanted to
kiss her. He was an easy boy to read. She hadn't expected him to be so bold as
to try and go up her tunic, but as she was about to protest he was pulled off
of her.
She sat by the fire for a long time. The night wore on and the Hound showed no
signs of coming back. Sansa started getting nervous after an hour, and then she
was worried sick after two.
What if something happened to him? What if he got lost? What if a band of
outlaws killed him?
When she finally couldn't take it anymore she opened the barn door to go and
look for him.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa goes looking for the Hound, but what she finds is less
     pleasant.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
The forest was dark and silent. She saw no sign of the Hound.
He really left me. The thought stirred a dread in her so deep that she feared
her legs might give way. Sansa leaned on the door frame for support and hung
her head.
It was that small motion that saved her life.
There was a sharp, sudden pain on the top of her head as something whirred
through the darkness. She let out a startled cry as her hands flew up. It was a
crossbow quarrel, and it had grazed the top of her head, taking some of her
hair with it. It had lodged into the wood of the barn. Her hands came away
sticky with her own blood.
If I hadn't moved, it would have gone right through my forehead. The thought
barely registered as she glimpsed movement in the woods before her. Four dark
forms materialized out of the darkness. Two of them had swords drawn, and one
had a crossbow. The other was the singer. Fear seized her and though she wanted
to move, she found that she couldn't. Her feet had turned to stone and she was
rooted to the spot.
They're going to kill you if you don't run!She thought through the panic, but
still her feet refused to move.
"You missed," Max snarled and the man with the crossbow landed a well placed
kick on his shin that sent the youth to one knee.
"You didn't tell us she was so pretty," the archer spat as Max struggled to
regain his feet and his composure.
"Bugger pretty! The little bitch almost got me killed by that big un'! Put a
bolt through her face, she'll be just as good a fuck dead as alive," Max
replied with a sneer as he rubbed his bruised shin with one hand.
Dread filled Sansa and her hands started to shake. She wanted to speak, but no
words would come. This is what he meant by trouble. This is why he warned me
not to go out on my own.
"Where is the other one?" one of the swordsmen inquired. His voice was deep and
mean sounding. He was taller than the rest, but she couldn't make out any
features. The thick garb they wore and the darkness took care of that.
"I don't know! He was drunk and half mad! Probably passed out in a drift
somewhere," Max replied, sounding oddly like a chastised child. How had she
ever thought he was charming? The archer aimed another kick at him but Max
danced backwards out of the way before it connected.
"Idiot! Craven! He has steel! We told you to get them good and drunk, not to
chase one off into the night…and who told you to get drunk with them! Bloody
useless! I hate singers!" the archer roared, making Max creep backwards even
further.
"We will take care of him when he comes back…if he comes back. Let's have the
girl, take their provisions and be done with it," the second swordsman spoke
for the first time. "No, leave her alive. I like when they squirm," he pushed
the archers arm down as he raised the crossbow again to finish her off.
"Sig, go take care of the horses and supplies. I have half a mind to take her
right here," the swordsman growled. The archer leered at her as he slunk into
the barn to steal their horses and belongings. The swordsman took a step
towards her.
Adrenaline flooded her system at the thought, and her legs finally obeyed her
mind. She broke to the right. It didn't matter. The bigger swordsman was quick
and he caught her by the wrist and pulled her to him with a rough yank that
made the bones in her wrist grind together painfully. Her head smacked into his
chestplate and she felt dizzy. Blood trickled down the side of her face from
the crossbow wound.
Max let out a whoop as she was caught and the swordsman pulled her with him, as
if to show her off to the remaining two.
"See? That's how it's done," he spat and sheathed his sword. His sword hand
came up to fondle her chest. She was unpleasantly reminded of Littlefinger. A
sudden scream tore from her throat at the thought. It was quickly stifled by
his hand. Sansa struggled in his grip but it just made him hold onto her
tighter.
"Quiet, bitch. No one's coming to save you now," the second swordsman laughed.
Max snickered darkly. A sudden hatred and anger seized her.
What would the Hound do? She thought suddenly, but that wouldn't help her. She
had no sword and wouldn't know how to use one if she did. Her thoughts turned
to her sister instead. Arya wouldn't let anyone get away with this.
Sansa bit down on the hand over her mouth. The swordsman swore and flung her
away from him. She stumbled and fell heavily into the snow. Her world went dark
for a moment and her head pounded.
"May the Others take you, cunt!" the swordsman swore, shaking his hand as if
that would rid him of the sudden pain. Sansa felt a sudden surge of
satisfaction as she watched him from her place on the ground. There was a sound
of a sword being drawn and she closed her eyes, knowing that he was going to
kill her.
He let out a grunt of effort and she waited for the pain. Instead she felt a
warmth upon her arm. She heard both Max and the other swordsman shout out. She
opened her eyes and was rewarded with the sight of a sword poking through his
chest. It was blood dripping down on her. The man gasped wordlessly as the
sword was drawn from his body. The Hound pushed his body aside and it fell
heavily at her feet.
oOo
He hadn't gone too far from the barn. Despite his anger he wouldn't leave the
girl unprotected. He was drunk and pissed off, but he'd never been stupid. A
fallen tree served well enough for a seat and he savagely kicked the snow off
the top of it before sitting down. A slew of curses flew from his mouth at the
cold. Better the coldness of the snow then the coldness in her voice.
His songs were pretty, and I've had few things of beauty since I left the
Vale!Had any words ever hurt so much? He'd had sword wounds that were less
painful. Unconsciously his hand rose to the burn scars on his face. She had
been able to meet his gaze since they had left the Vale, and his face hadn't
seemed to bother her as much as it used to, but her words suggested otherwise.
He had thought things were changing. That maybe…just maybe…
Let her have her pretty singer, if it makes her happy, dog.
Sandor sighed and pretended that it didn't matter to him. He let the cold
embrace him, his stubbornness the only thing keeping him out in the cold long
after his feet and hands went numb.
He heard the soft crunch of snow before he saw the people it belonged to, and
was on his feet before they got too close. There were at least two of them, but
less than six, and they were heading to the barn. He moved as softly as he
could, using their own clumsy footfalls to mask his own.
As he got a good glimpse of them, he saw that there were four. Two were armed
with drawn swords, one had a crossbow and the other was the fucking singer.
Never trust a bard. He thought with renewed fury. They were outlaws, no doubt,
and where they ended up, trouble would follow.
Trouble, but not for you, dog. He reminded himself, which got him moving again.
His gaze was kept on the barn as they approached and dread filled his gut as he
saw the door open and the little bird took a step out into the snow.
He saw the archer raise the crossbow too late and he almost gave himself away,
but thankfully the cry caught in his throat. The arrow flew and he saw her
flinch, but also saw that it had missed.
Do not charge in there like a reckless lover, you're outnumbered and drunk.
They're sober and you see the way they carry their swords. These men are
trained, and trained well. Deserters, no doubt. If you rush them, you'll kill
the both of you as surely as if you had done the deed yourself.
It was the hardest thing he had done in a long time. He had to channel every
ounce of will power to keep from rushing to her aid as they jeered and made
suggestions that made his blood run hot. He drew his sword as quietly as he
could, praying that the metal scrape would go unnoticed with all the shouting
they were doing.
He saw his chance as the archer disappeared into the barn. The three remaining
still outnumbered him, but with the archer gone he had one less thing to worry
about. Plus, the singer was unarmed and appeared drunk as well.
As Sansa was flung to the ground his resolve finally snapped and he moved in.
The big man raised his sword, but the Hound was quicker. The outlaw was taken
unawares as the sword punched through cloak, leather, bone and skin. The
strangled noise he uttered lasted only a moment as the Hound put all his
strength into pulling the sword out, and up. It cleaved through his breastbone
easy enough and the man was dead as he hit the ground.
"SIG! WE GOT TROUBLE!" the singer hollered before he took off running back into
the woods. One less to deal with, although the Hound would have loved nothing
more than to cut him down and make him eat his own fingers.
There was no more time for thought as the second swordsman stepped up to take
him on. The Hound got his sword up in time to parry the attack and then they
were hacking at each other with controlled ferocity. It had been a long time
since he had fought like this, but it was like putting on a well worn boot. It
wasn't long before his attacks became quicker and stronger. The outlaw barely
managed to fend off the blows and was growing tired quickly.
The Hound brought an overhand blow down upon the upraised sword of the outlaw
that made the man stagger. A second later the sword flew from his hand and the
man collapsed. He swung down at the fallen man with a savage sort of glee. The
blow was blocked, just barely, by a dagger in the outlaws hand.
A laugh broke forth from his throat and he placed a well aimed slash at the
wrist of the outlaw. The man howled as the dagger, and the hand still attached
to it, flew across the snow, landing at his dead comrade's side.
"Yield! I yield!" he begged suddenly as blood poured from the stump of his
wrist.
"Too late for that," the Hound snarled and drove his sword through the neck of
the fallen man. It felt like justice. It felt like coming home.
He wiped the blood from his sword on the outlaws cloak as he drowned in his own
blood, then sheathed it and went to his fallen bird. There was blood in her
pretty hair, and down the side of her face. Her skin was white and her blue
eyes wide. She said nothing, but trembled softly. With a gentleness he didn't
know he had in him, he examined the wound on her head, careful not to hurt her.
It was shallow, but was still bleeding.
"Hush now, little bird," he murmured. Sansa closed her eyes and nodded softly.
She would be alright, but he had broken his promise; she had gotten hurt.
You shouldn't have left her.
The sound of Stranger's scream shocked him into alertness again. The chestnut
mare's whinny pierced the air as well and the sound of hooves striking wood. A
smell rose in the air that left him paralyzed. The archer had set the barn on
fire. He turned towards the barn and something punched into his shoulder. If he
had been sober, he would have kept his feet.
He hit the ground with a curse as pain rippled out from his shoulder with
blinding speed. Sansa let out a small whimper as the archer stalked towards
them. Their belongings were in a sack that was tucked under one arm. He was
reloading.
Sandor reached for his sword but the archer kicked it away, then landed another
kick square in the kidneys. The Hound sucked air through his teeth as a dull
pain spread up into his stomach.
"That was my brother you killed," the archer snarled as he finished reloading
and leveled the crossbow at his head. There was no way he was going to miss
this shot, and there was nothing that Sandor could do. If he hit the archer,
his finger would twitch on the trigger, killing him as surely as if he did
nothing.
"You're brother fought like a whore," he spat, but the fire had gone out of his
eyes. This is how I am going to die. He thought as he stared up at the archer
named Sig and waited for the Stranger to take him. At least it's not fire.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa and Sandor take on outlaws. Who will come out the victor?
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
Sansa watched as the crossbow quarrel hit the Hound in the shoulder. She was
shocked as he went down, and a sick feeling rose in her stomach. The archer
advanced on him, but she seemed to be forgotten.
Do something! He's going to kill him!Her mind screamed and she backed up from
the two of them on her hands and knees. Sansa's eyes darted around the scene
before her and she saw the dagger. The hand was still attached, and the thought
of touching it made her skin crawl. She grabbed it anyway and pried the fingers
loose from the hilt as she saw the archer land a well placed kick that made the
Hound gasp in pain.
"That was my brother you killed," the archer had reloaded and was lowering his
weapon for a fatal kill. Sansa's hands were slick with blood from the dead
man's hand and she quickly wiped them off. She had one chance, and if her hands
slipped, they'd both be dead. She slowly got to her feet, still out of view of
the two men.
The Hound made a retort that made the archer stiffen in anger. It was now or
never. Sansa grasped the dagger in both hands and drove it as hard as she could
between the shoulder blades of the outlaw.
Sig shrieked suddenly in both rage and pain, and the bolt missed the Hound's
head by inches. The archer jerked backwards and tried to dislodge Sansa from
his back. He howled curses into the night, and swung his crossbow like a mace.
It took her in the shoulder and she let go of the dagger with a cry of pain.
The Hound was on his feet again, steel in his hand. Sig assessed his chances,
and decided that he didn't stand a chance. He fled the same way the singer had
before him, leaving his dead brother in the snow.
"You have some wolf in you after all," the Hound gasped, face pale and drawn.
His eyes didn't linger on her long, but went to the barn instead. The fire had
spread to the roof of the barn, and the horses were both shrieking in fear. The
grey eyes that could be so fierce were now filled with a look she had only seen
once before. The fear of fire. The fear of burning.
Despite the dull throb in her shoulder and the ache in her head Sansa ran
towards the barn. He shouted at her, but she didn't catch the words. She knew
that they needed to get the horses out. If they didn't, the horses would perish
and the trip on foot would most likely kill them both…and the way he looked at
the barn clearly suggested he wasn't going anywhere near it.
She pulled her cloak over her nose and mouth and went into the burning barn.
It wasn't hard to understand his fear of flames as she glimpsed the hell before
her. The heat was unbearable. It rose in waves in front of her and distorted
the air. The horses had gone mad in fear, but couldn't get free of the ropes
that held them. Stranger bucked and lashed out with his hooves at the wooden
wall, but it held fast despite the strength of the war horse.
Sansa dashed forward. She needed to loose the horses quickly. Every minute she
wasted was a minute that the roof could collapse. She reached the mare first.
The whites of her eyes were clearly visible and every now and then her eyes
would roll in fright. Sansa struggled with the rope, but it finally gave. The
chestnut took off past her, almost knocking her over in the process.
Sansa then went to Stranger. Unlike the mare, she couldn't even get close.
Hooves lashed out whenever she tried, and when it wasn't hooves the savage
horse tried to bite her. Despair rose in her throat and she shouted at the
horse, though her words were lost in the crackle of flames. When she breathed
in, it was all she could do to catch her breath. The smoke burned her lungs and
made her eyes water.
This must be what hell is like. She thought vainly as she tried once again to
undo the ropes that tied Stranger to the barn. He had pulled on them so tightly
that she couldn't even budge the knot.
You're going to die if you don't let me help you!The thought gave her strength,
but it wasn't enough to untie the ropes. Her head started to swim again. If she
didn't get out of here soon, she wouldn't make it out at all.
A rough hand covered hers and she jumped in fear. When she looked up the Hound
stood before her, quarrel still in his shoulder, and a grim look on his face.
He lashed out with his sword and cut the ropes that held his horse. The beast
took off without a second thought, and then she was being pulled from the barn.
As they burst through the barn door, the blast of cold air that hit them was
the best feeling she had ever had. They were both coughing by that point, and
she gasped heavily at the cold, clean air that filled her lungs. He wouldn't
let her sit, not so close to the barn. The Hound pulled her further into the
forest. When he had dubbed that they had gone far enough he finally let her go
and they both ended up on the forest floor.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. For a while it was all they could do to
clear their lungs of smoke and to breathe without coughing. Multiple times she
was forced to spit up some sort of obscene gook. She would have been horrified
if she hadn't seen the Hound doing the same thing.
When she could finally breathe, she wiped the tears from her cheeks with a
dirty hand. She had blood and soot on her fingers. It didn't seem to matter.
She crawled over to the Hound. His face had grown taut with the pain and his
eyes were shut. Blood was still oozing slowly from the wound on his shoulder.
The sight made her lightheaded again.
"You're wounded," she managed. Her voice was hoarse and hardly her own. His
eyes slid open to look at her. The fear was gone, she was relieved to see. He
was the bravest person she knew, and fear in his eyes unsettled her more than
anything.
"I've had worse," he admitted, his voice even rougher than normal. She wondered
if the burn caused by his brother had somehow caused his throat to have that
distinctive rasp. It certainly would make sense, since her voice sounded much
the same.
She moved to the side that wasn't wounded and huddled against him as the wind
picked up. He put his good arm around her shoulders. They said no more to each
other. Instead they watched the barn burn, and took what comfort they could
from each other.
oOo
He had so much that he wanted to tell her, but nothing seemed to be the right
thing to say. Should he thank her for saving him from the archer, or curse her
for leaving the barn in the first place? Were thanks in order for thinking fast
and releasing their horses, or should he shout about how stupid she had been to
run into a burning barn, horses be damned. Should he tell her that she was
brave, and that he was sorry for being so craven as to let her run into a
burning barn alone? Would it be best to apologize for stalking off in anger?
Sandor settled for silence. Sometimes you didn't need words. She knew the
consequences of what she had done, and she didn't need to be chastised for it
like a child. No child would have been as brave as she had been. One look at
her upturned face confirmed what he suspected. She knew what she was doing, and
it had probably saved both of their lives.
Her face was dirty, save for twin tracks of white where her tears had washed
away the soot. There was a good deal of dried blood that marred her hair and
her lower lip was bleeding. A deep feeling of admiration ran through him then.
Few women would have been able to handle themselves half as well as she had in
such a situation.
She's not all pretty dresses, sweet songs and courtesy. The thought would have
once disturbed him and made him angry. Now in only made him more attracted to
her than ever.
Sansa felt him looking at her and opened her eyes. She met his gaze and he
could see how tired and vulnerable she was.
I want her. Damn it all, I still want her.The thought was fierce and despite
his weariness he felt himself stir at the thought. It wasn't the right time or
place for such things. She wasn't in the right mindset for that, and neither
was he…but he found that he didn't really care.
He brought her face to his and kissed her for the second time. She tasted
faintly of ash and blood, but it didn't matter. It felt right, and it felt
damned good. She pushed herself into the kiss and opened her mouth. It startled
him, that she knew to do such things, but he was beyond caring. She hadn't
pulled away. His little bird wanted him after all, it seemed.
His breeches were suddenly too tight. He wanted out of them. He wanted her,
right there in the snow with the blood still in her hair and the tears drying
on her cheeks…and he might have had her too, but as he moved to pull her on top
of him the point of the quarrel dug into the tree behind him and jarred his
whole shoulder.
The kiss broke off and he moaned a curse, half in pain, half in disappointment.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa has to make a tough decision.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
It was a miserable situation, and he wasn't making it any easier. She knew that
the arrow needed to be removed from his shoulder, but in order to do that she
needed to snap it in half. If the arrow had been in her hand she would have had
no problem snapping it in two. It wasn't in her hand, however. It was in his
shoulder, and the sight of blood…his blood, made it hard to grasp it. Every
time he hissed in pain she withdrew her hands, and they had to start over
again.
"Damn it!" He swore again as she tried to break the arrow without moving too
much. Fresh blood pumped from the wound and the sight made bile rise in the
back of her throat.
"I can't do it!" she wailed suddenly, letting go of the arrow and folding her
hands across her chest. Her head was pounding, her throat hurt and he wasn't
making it easy. She didn't want to hurt him, but it just couldn't be helped.
"Look at me," he commanded. She didn't want to, but she did any way. His gaze
was steady, despite the sweat on the unscarred side of his brow. "I don't care
how much I yell, groan or bleed. It needs to be removed. I cannot do it myself.
It's gone clean through."
Sansa knew he was right. She was just going to have to toughen up and do it.
Arya wouldn't have balked at such a thing. She'd probably even enjoy it. The
thought was disturbing, but it resolved her inner conflict.
"You won't…be mad at me if I hurt you?" she asked hesitantly as she eyed the
quarrel mistrustfully.
"No, little bird. I will not be mad," he promised and then clenched his teeth
together, preparing for the pain.
I will not let go until it snaps. I will not let go. I will not. I will not.
She psyched herself up for the task as she gripped the back end of the arrow.
He glanced over at her and she looked into his eyes. The Hound nodded and she
knew he was ready. Her gaze returned to the task at hand and she put all her
remaining strength into snapping the wood. She was rewarded with a loud snap as
the arrow broke.
Sansa looked at his face after it was done. All the color had fled from his
face, and a new sheen of sweat had broken out on his skin, but he managed to
hold in his curses.
"It's almost done," she whispered and tossed the feathered end of the quarrel
into the snow. Now all she had to do was draw the arrow out from the back of
his shoulder.
"Would it be better if I did it quick or slow?" she asked hesitantly. The last
thing she wanted was to bother him with more questions, but she wanted to do it
right.
"My shoulder says fast, my head says slow. You don't want to tear anything by
doing it too fast," he didn't look pleased by the prospect. She wasn't pleased
by it either, but she was determined to put this behind her.
She grasped the pointy end of the arrow and began to slowly draw it through the
wound. He made an awful noise in the back of his throat but she did not stop.
When the jagged end of the arrow finally pulled through, he let out another
string of curses. She tossed the bloody arrow aside and he finally leaned back
against the tree, exhausted.
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you," she whispered as she took one of his
huge hands in both of hers. The sweat was dripping from his brow, and the blood
had started flowing freely again.
"S'ok little bird," he assured her in a pained voice, giving her hand a light
squeeze. He did not open his eyes though, and that worried her.
I need to get him to a maester…but there aren't any in a place like this. I
don't know much about healing wounds either. It's too cold to tend him here
anyway.
"I don't know what else I can do for you," she admitted as she scooped up some
snow to wash the soot, dirt and blood off of her hands; anything to keep her
from having to look at his wound.
"It needs to be wrapped," he suggested and motioned to the bedroll that lay
next to the dead body of the archer's brother. It was a lucky thing that he had
dropped it when she stabbed him, otherwise they'd have no provisions at all.
She went to the bedroll and used the Hounds dagger to cut off a long strip of
wool. It looked dirty, and she didn't want to put such a filthy rag directly on
his wound.
Sansa returned to the bedroll, searching for something. When she came back to
his side she had a silk scarf. It was embroidered beautifully. She bit her
lower lip for half a second before she moved to tie it around his wound. He
grabbed her arm before she got even halfway to his shoulder.
"You're not using that," he commented and she frowned at him.
"It's clean, and I don't want your wound to get infected," she protested. The
scarf had once belonged to her mother. It was one of the few belongings she had
that had made it all the way from Winterfell.
"Use the blanket. Don't spoil something so beautiful on a dog like me," he
snarled and pushed her away. She frowned at him for a moment, and then decided
to ignore his words. She slapped his hand away as he tried to stop her a second
time, and then he was cursing as she started tying it tightly around his
shoulder.
By the time she was done, half of the scarf was already covered in blood. She
quickly took the dirty blanket and wrapped that on top of her scarf. A double
layer seemed somehow safer.
She sat back to examine her work. It would have to do until they found another
place to camp, where she could build a fire. If they had a fire, she could boil
wine. She had seen enough wounds to know that boiled wine was supposed to help.
We have no pot to boil wine, and the wine skin will burst and burn. She thought
in dismay. How was she ever going to get the wound clean? Even if they found a
pot or something to boil the water in, could she even get a fire started
without his help?
What about the Inn? The thought struck her suddenly. That was where Max had
come from, the Inn to the north. He had told them that it was only a days
journey from here if they followed the Kingsroad. She knew they should avoid
the Kindsroad...but with things the way they were now it was their best best.
With the horses run off they had little choice. The barn was beyond saving and
she knew that neither of them wanted to go back into it anyway, if it had
somehow survived.
Can he even walk that far? She wondered suddenly. That would punch a big hole
in her plans. She didn't like the thought of it, but he would have to. They had
no other choice. It was walk, or risk the chance of bleeding to death or dying
from infection...and as tired as she was, she wasn't about to let him die on
her.
"We're going to the Inn, aren't we little bird," he asked, almost reading her
thoughts.
"Yes. It's the only choice, I fear," she replied, defeated.
"Then we best go. Help me up," he requested. She didn't tell him that he was
too heavy for her to help him up. Instead she offered him her hand and did the
best she could. The Hound still did most of the work, and somehow got to his
feet.
"You're going to have to carry the supplies. I'll need to keep my sword arm
free."
The notion was ridiculous. He wouldn't be able to do much with that wound, and
swinging a sword would be too taxing. She didn't argue with him, and picked up
the bedroll wordlessly. Complaining would make the trip no easier.
A days walk for a healthy man, and a days walk in the middle of the night with
a wounded, grumpy man in the middle of winter were two totally different
journeys. After two hours of trudging through the darkness, she was ready to
scream in frustration. There had been no other people on the road, and she had
no idea how far they had left to go.
The Hound trailed behind her, walking oddly. She could tell that he was trying
hard not to jar his wound too badly, but each step sent a jolt through him
anyway. He didn't look good, though his face was grim and set with
determination. He didn't complain, but he did swear under his breath an awful
lot.
Sansa soon lost track of time. The only mark of progress was the lack of
footprints in front of them, and the growing trail behind them. Luckily the
snow was only a dusting on the actual road. She was glad that there were no
roots to jump up and trip them, although there were occasional ditches that
came suddenly. The Hound had almost gone down several times due to such
ditches, and she herself had fallen prey to one or two herself.
Have I ever been this tired? She wondered vaguely as they trudged on. The heavy
footfalls behind her told her that the Hound was still going. I can't possibly
be as tired as he is.
They kept walking.
She heard the change in his step and turned in time to see him go to one knee.
Sansa rushed to his side, and made sure that he didn't fall further. She
doubted she'd be able to get him back up.
"We can rest, I know you're tired," she offered, but he shook his head.
"I'd rather you slit my throat. It's certain death both ways, and steel is
cleaner," he muttered as he struggled to get to his feet.
He's so determined.
Sansa stayed back with him this time, to allow him to lean on her if he needed
to. The going was slower, and he gasped in pain more often, but had stopped
cursing. That worried her more than the pace they setting.
When he fell, she knew there was nothing else she could do. He wasn't going to
be able to get back up. Sansa helped him to get his back against a tree. His
bandages were soaked through, and he shivered. When she put a hand to his
forehead it was uncommonly warm.
He's got a fever. The thought brought a dread so great that she had trouble
catching her breath. She needed to get him out of the cold, and she needed to
get his wound stitched and taken care of.
Sansa took one of his hands and met his gaze, which had gone slightly glassy.
He looked as if he wanted to talk, but she put a finger to his lips, which were
dry and cracked. They looked painful.
"I'm going to get help," she assured him. When he tried to protest she shook
her head. "It's the only way. I'm...I'm going to take your dagger. You'll have
your sword, even if you can't use it...but people might think twice if you're
found," she stopped. There was so much she wanted to say, to tell him, but
every moment she wasted was a moment he may never have again.
Sansa let go of his hand and opened the bed roll. She needed one blanket to
keep their supplies together, but the other two she used to cover him. Without
a second thought she left him the remaining wine skin. He could at least have
some comfort.
As she got up to leave, he grabbed her hand. There wasn't much of his strength
left, but she doubted she'd be able to shake him off without considerable
effort. Instead she knelt down by him again and kissed him.
Please be alright. I'll be back soon, I promise. I won't leave you. Don't die
alone in the cold, please. I'll bring help. She thought at him as she broke
away from the kiss. His eyes slid shut and he nodded, knowing she had to go.
Sansa gathered the small bundle and started down the Kingsroad alone. She knew
if she looked back she'd never gather the willpower to leave again.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sandor wakes up somewhere, and catches Sansa unawares.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
This has to be a dream. He thought hazily. There was a roof over his head, and
sunlight was pouring in a window, warming his bare chest in a way that was
better than any whore. He was in a bed, and the blankets around his waist were
abrasive, but warm.
I never thought I'd be warm again. Sandor thought distantly as he glimpsed a
fire roaring in the hearth. The room was small, but homely. Next to the bed
there was an empty, yellowed tub. He gazed around the room and realized that he
was alone.
Where am I? He wondered and tried to sit up. A dull ache met him with the force
of a war hammer and he was forced to be still again. Ahh, the fucking arrow.
The last thing he remembered was the feeling of falling, and the feeling of
helplessness as he watched his little bird disappear into the darkness. He
scowled as he remembered, and wondered where she had gone.
He didn't have to wonder very long. The door creaked open and he heard her
voice directing someone with urgent whispers. His eyes slid closed quickly. He
didn't want them to know he was awake just yet, though he couldn't fathom why.
It wasn't like him, but it didn't seem to matter.
From the sounds in the room he put the pieces together. There was a soft
pouring sound as the tub by the side of his bed was filled, and he heard her
soft thank you. The door creaked closed again. He heard her cross the room,
then return. A soft, wet sound signified that she was either getting into the
tub, or dipping something into it. The thought made his heart quicken, which,
in turn, made his shoulder throb.
A warm cloth was lightly pressed against his chest. It took him a moment to
realize what she was doing. She was bathing him. It was so distinctly her that
it was hard to not smile. She was incredibly gentle as she washed his chest,
pausing only when the cloth started to grow cold. He would hear the water
splash and then she was back again with the warmer water.
There was something so intimate about it that he was almost afraid to let her
know that he had woken at all. No one had ever done such a thing for him, not
even his mother. Washing usually ended up as an upended bucket over his head
more often than not.
This may never happen again, you might as well enjoy it while you can. He
thought, and decided to fake sleep a little longer.
He wasn't disappointed.
After she finished his chest, she moved to his arms. There was only the barest
hint of a hesitation as she washed his scarred arm. His first thought was that
she was disgusted, but immediately on its heels was the thought that she was
afraid that it still pained him. He didn't know which it was, so decided not to
dwell on it. The light, warm pressure was too enjoyable for such thoughts.
After his arms she moved to his face. If she had been tender with his torso,
she was little more than a whisper on his face. She dabbed lightly at the
unmarked side of his face, and he could feel nothing but the faintest warmth on
the scarred side of his face when she moved there.
He was startled as she removed the blanket from his waist and legs. It wasn't
proper for a lady to bathe a full grown man below the waist, but he wasn't
going to complain. She made faster work of his legs than the rest of him, but
had to wring the rag out more often.
He could feel her give pause. The only thing she hadn't washed were the parts
that distinguished a man from a woman (besides teats of course). The thought of
it was too much to take, and he felt himself stiffen beneath his small-clothes,
but she made no move towards him.
Sandor couldn't resist any longer and he opened one eye as carefully as he
could. She was staring right at his face, brows pulled together as she tried to
decide if he was awake or not. Sansa saw the movement of his eyes and he saw
her own fly open in surprise.
Caught! He had time to think before she slapped the wet rag as hard as she
could against his leg. It stung, but it had been worth it.
"You! How long have you been awake!" The outrage and embarrassment in her voice
was too much and he found himself laughing despite himself. It hurt his
shoulder to laugh, but he couldn't seem to stop.
"Long enough," he managed after his amusement died down. She was so
uncomfortable by this point he almost felt guilty. Almost.
"You're incorrigible!" she muttered, looking away from him. The blush that rose
to her face made it all the sweeter. He shifted and tried to take her hand, but
she wouldn't let him. Instead she stood up, and as she walked by him, he saw
tears in her eyes. She was making for the door.
"Sansa."
She stopped.
oOo
It was the first time he had ever called her by her name. It made her heart
pound. She couldn't leave now, and she knew it. Instead she turned around and
looked at him. He had lost too much weight, and a good deal of his muscle too.
His face was gaunt. It still hurt to see him this way.
She returned to his side and sat on the edge of his bed. He lifted a large,
calloused hand and stroked her hair. Her eyes slid shut at the touch.
How often have I wanted him to do this? She wondered to herself as she let him
run his fingers through her auburn hair. When his hand got closer to her head,
she pushed into it gently, relishing the feeling. Despite the weight he had
lost, she could feel strength in those hands. It was a relief.
"What's wrong little bird?" he whispered as the tears forced themselves through
her closed eyelids. Did he really not know? She finally brought herself to look
at him, then placed her own, smaller hand on top of his. She guided it to the
top of her head.
"What do you feel?" she asked. He scowled slightly at her question, as if it
was a trick of some sort.
"Hair?"
"Yes, and what don't you feel?" she managed, her voice hardly above a whisper.
He did not answer for a long time, but she did not speak again. Slowly, she saw
the realization dawn in his eyes as he remembered.
"Seven hells," he breathed and pulled her close. She leaned her head down so he
could get a better look. There wasn't even a scar where the arrow had grazed
her head. The wound had healed, and her hair had lost the lusterless brown
color that had belonged to Alayne. It had finally returned to her natural
auburn.
"How long have I been out?" his voice had such confusion in it that she felt
bad. She had anticipated that this would be hard for him.
"Not quite a full moon cycle," she admitted heavily as she finally met his gaze
again. It had been a little more than three weeks since he had arrived at the
Moat House Inn.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sandor is pissed at the current situation and Sansa thinks back on
     the last three weeks.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
How is that possible? His mind reeled at the thought. There were so many
questions that he had for her, but he was at such a loss for words that he
didn't know where to start. How had she taken care of him for that long? They
had the money he had stolen from Baelish, but that wouldn't have lasted this
long. She had told him that she had taken Lysa Arryn's jewels…perhaps she had
sold those as well.
Sandor mentally assessed his body, now that his attention was brought to it.
His shoulder still ached, but it no longer felt as if he was constantly being
prodded by a sadistic Elder Brother (and he did know that from experience). He
glanced over at the wound. It was no longer covered. The scar was an ugly
indentation, but honestly, what was one more?
He could feel the stiffness in his limbs and the weakness in his muscles.
Atrophied…great. What a good protector you turned out to be. She's been your
caregiver for almost a month and if you left today even she'd be able to beat
you into submission. He thought with disgust.
With a frown he realized that he was thirsty…and something to eat would help
him regain his strength. Sandor gave a small groan and forced himself to sit
up.
"No! You still need rest, or you'll never get stronger!" she cried in dismay,
clearly wanting him to return to his bedridden state.
"As if sitting in this bed is doing anything for my strength," he growled. She
looked at him with a disapproving stare, but he ignored it and she didn't try
to stop him again.
Even sitting up made him dizzy and tired, but the sooner he did this, the
sooner they could be on their way to Winterfell again. With his feet on the
ground he attempted to use the edge of the tub to stand. Sansa quickly moved to
help him, deciding that he was going to do this with or without her help. His
legs ached at the sudden weight he put on them. Nausea clenched at his stomach
and he willed it to back down.
Gods, am I even going to be able to walk across the room? He wondered, suddenly
angry at his unexpected weakness. She should have let him die. It would have
been easier on both of them. His legs wanted to shake and to let him fall, but
he wouldn't let them. You are a part of me, damn it. You will do what I tell
you!
"You should really wait for Tom," she suggested softly, one small hand on his
larger arm. Sansa was still helping to hold him steady, and she looked so
worried that he couldn't stay angry at the situation much longer.
"Who the hell is Tom?" he asked, ignoring the pain in his legs.
"He's the Innkeeper's son. He's almost as big as you are, and he's the one who
helped bring you here. He had a cart and a horse, and he rode with me back down
the Kingsroad. I wouldn't have been able to lift you myself, but he's strong
enough," she admitted. "He also helped me turn you, so you didn't get bed
sores."
Such a good little nursemaid. He thought bitterly. The thought of her alone
with another man irritated him, but she didn't seem bothered by it. Sandor let
it go. He was too tired for more questions. With a resigned sigh he fell, more
than sat back on the bed.
"Get the Innkeep's son then," he barked, motioning for her to get on with it,
if this was the route they were to take. Sansa smiled at him suddenly, nodded
and got up to leave the room. Apparently it was what she wanted to hear. At
least one of us seems happy.
She paused at the door and looked back at him, remembering something.
"Oh, and everyone here knows me as Lily. I figured Alayne and Sansa would bring
too much unwanted attention," she smiled again and disappeared through the
door.
Smart little bird.He thought with a strange surge of pride.
oOo
The last three weeks had been trying for her, but she knew what had to be done.
When she had finally arrived at the Inn, there were few people left in the
common room. A broad shouldered man was busy wiping down tables, and when she
stumbled into the room, she had almost fallen right onto him. He caught her
with ease.
He had sat her by the fire so she could warm up as she told him about what had
happened, and that she needed to somehow go back for the Hound. The man hadn't
said much, and he left her by the fire. Soon after he left, a tough looking
older woman appeared with a bowl of greasy soup. She protested that she could
eat after they had gone back for him, but the woman slammed a spoon in front of
her and told her she might as well eat while there was still food to be had.
Although she didn't want to, Sansa would have eaten anything at that point. The
soup wasn't appetizing, but she ate it all. It was hot, and that was all that
mattered. She was certain that her lady mother and septa would be rolling in
their graves if they had seen her manners while eating that soup…but she wanted
to be done quickly.
As she was eating the woman came back with a bowl of water and a rag, and
scrubbed the blood and dirt from the wound on her head. It was shallow enough
that it didn't need a bandage, but it stung horribly and the woman wasn't very
gentle.
The tall man returned soon after she finished and motioned for her to join him.
He had hitched up a cart to two of his horses and she sat next to him as they
began their journey down the Kingsroad. The man spoke little, but she found out
his name was Thomas, but everyone called him Tom. His father used to be the
Innkeep, but had been slain by outlaws just two moons past. His mother ran it
now, and he took care of all the heavy work.
With the cart, the trip hardly took any time at all, and before she knew it,
they had found him.
Her heart clenched at the memory. She had thought for sure that he had died
from exposure, blood loss or any number of horrible things, but when the
Innkeep lifted him up, he let out a groan. Never had she felt such a mix of
emotions at a sound before. Relief, joy, sadness, worry, and anger, amongst
others. Most of all she was relieved. The hardest part was done, or so she
thought then, but it had really just begun.
The gods had chosen to be merciful to her, or so she believed. There was a
traveling septon that had taken a room at the Moat House Inn. Tom woke him up
in the middle of the night to help tend the Hound's wounds. The septon was
grumpy at first, but as he saw the wounds he became all business.
Sansa had cried when they poured boiling wine into the wound. All she could
think of was how much the Hound hated fire, and being burned. Although the wine
wasn't fire it probably felt similar. He had cried out and tried to thrash, but
Tom held him down and kept him still. It had been horrible, and she didn't want
to watch but couldn't tear her eyes away.
The septon had been pleased by the job she had done on wrapping the wounds. He
made mention that dirty bandages were one of the biggest causes of infection,
other than sheer stupidity. Sansa had glowed in pride at that. She had done
something right, and it might have made the difference between life and death.
After his wound was covered again and the septon went back to his room, Sansa
thanked Tom profusely as he carried the Hound up to an empty room. She could
never repay him properly for helping her. When she mentioned paying him for
such a service, he simply chuckled and said that coin for the room would
suffice.
He left her at the room after stripping the Hound of the rest of his dirty
garments. Once he was gone, Sansa crawled as carefully as she could into the
bed with the Hound. His body radiated heat from his fever, and although she was
worried and wanted to keep an eye on him, she had to finally give into
exhaustion.
When she awoke, the Hound was gone. The panic that surged through her so sudden
and debilitating that she couldn't move at first. When she finally could, she
ran downstairs to find Tom, tears streaking down her face even though she
didn't remember when she had first started crying. When she found the tall man,
she found herself in his arms, pounding feebly on his chest in anger and
sorrow.
He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and slung her over one shoulder.
Sansa squirmed and protested violently to the amusement of the seven or so men
who were eating their breakfast. Tom took her up to a different room and placed
her unceremoniously down in a cushioned chair that stank of stale ale and
mildew.
The Hound had been moved to a bigger bed that fit his frame better. The septon
was already in the room, tending his wounds and applying fresh bandages. Sansa
had felt foolish, and apologized so many times that Tom got flustered and left
in a hurry. The septon, whose name she found out was Mortimer, told her that
she had to be moved into another room so he could tend to his patient in peace.
The Hound didn't wake, but he stirred and talked in his fevered sleep. Most of
the time she couldn't make out what he said, and when she could, it made no
sense to her. After a week the septon declared that the most dangerous time was
past. The fever broke the same day, but he still did not wake. Mortimer told
her several times that the Hound may not ever wake again, but she wouldn't
listen.
He will wake up. I know he will, he just needs time.
Sansa smiled at the thought.I wasn't wrong. He lived, and once he gets stronger
we can finally go home.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sandor starts the healing process, and finds out how Sansa's been
     making money!
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
"You did WHAT?" his voice rose in barely controlled anger.
"We were running low on coin, and I thought we'd need to save as much as
possible. There's still a long way to go," she admitted, "and they liked it.
They never wanted me to stop, but I had to. It was exhausting, but they paid
well," she blushed at the thought.
She watched wordlessly as the different expressions flashed across his face.
Instead of talking more about it, he stalked out of the room…or tried to as
best as he could. It was hard to stalk when you had to concentrate so hard on
simply standing up.
You had to take the song from her, but she gives it to strangers willingly. The
thought would be more infuriating if he didn't know that she was doing it so
he'd have a warm bed to recover in.
He made it all the way to the end of the hall before, and down the stairs
before he had to stop and rest. It was progress, he supposed. Sansa had
followed him out of the room and remained a few steps behind. When he stopped
she put a small hand on his arm that he wanted to shrug off, but didn't.
"Don't be angry, I…I won't do it again," she promised, suddenly all regret and
remorse. He didn't know if the thought made him angrier or not. He turned
towards her, and she shrank back from his withering look, but didn't remove her
hand from his arm. She turned her gaze to the ground. "I…I didn't know that it
would displease you so," the sadness in her voice dissipated his anger.
"Do you enjoy chirping for them, little bird?" he asked. She hesitated for a
moment, then met his gaze and nodded. "Then sing for them."
"Even if it displeases you?" she bit her lower lip and he had to sigh. She had
done so much for him, could he do nothing for her?
"It doesn't displease me," he admitted through clenched teeth. The look she
gave him clearly stated she didn't believe him.
Seven hells, does she make nothing easy?
"I'd like to listen the next time you do, is all," he spat. She had this way of
dragging things out of him that he'd rather leave unsaid. It left him oddly
drained, but the way her face lit up when he said that made it more than worth
it.
"Of course!" she piped, and then motioned him to keep walking. He'd rather have
gone back to sleep, but he needed to build up his muscles again.
He'd been working at this for three days, with the help of Tom, his horrid
mother, and his ever diligent little bird. Tom didn't do much, just helped him
up if he needed it, which he found he needed less and less as the days wore on.
Sansa was always there during the day to cheer him on and offer encouragement,
but she always vanished during dinner. One of the serving girls always brought
Sandor food, but she never met his gaze and always seemed terrified.
None of them were too bad, but he was convinced that The Crone, as he had come
to call her, liked nothing better than to demean his efforts and to humiliate
him. All she had to do was walk in the room and he was instantly irritated,
which usually turned to outright anger. He'd snap at The Crone and she'd snap
right back. Sansa found it endlessly amusing, but was too polite to laugh.
Instead she hid her smiles behind the back of one hand.
Despite his weariness, today would be a good day. One of the other guests in
the Inn, a pock marked sellsword, had offered to help him hone his sword arm
again. It would also serve to rebuild the muscle he had lost in his across his
chest. The sellsword was a smaller man, and would hardly have posed a challenge
if he had been well.
As it was, he could hardly last ten minutes, and he would have been dead three
times if it had been a real fight. The longer he practiced, the angrier he got
at how quickly his strength had fled. When he finally had enough, he was
drenched in sweat, despite the cold. His muscles ached and burned, and his
shoulder, although mostly healed, constantly pulled in an uncomfortable manner
that he hadn't yet adjusted to.
Tom had to help him upstairs to their room where Sansa had already prepared a
bath. Only ten minutes prior he had wanted cold water, but as he had been
helped up the steps, the desire for warmth overcame all else. Plus, the heat
would help soothe his sore muscles.
Sansa and Tom usually left him to The Crone to help him out of his clothes, but
today he wouldn't let her help. He'd do it himself, or he'd end up trying to
strangling her. The whole time he struggled with his clothes she cackled and
made biting remarks about how inept he was. He snapped back angrily at every
chance he could, more then happy to let his anger out at this stooped,
unreserved woman. The Crone wouldn't leave until he was submerged as much as
the small tub would allow.
She left the room and swapped out for Sansa, who was much better company. He
felt himself finally able to relax.
"You shouldn't snap at her so. She's been very helpful," Sansa remarked as she
took up a clean rag and dipped it in the water. She still insisted on helping
him bathe, and as much as he didn't want to be dependent, he couldn't find it
in himself to tell her he could handle it.
"Well if she wasn't such a nag I wouldn't have to snap at her," he scoffed,
irritably and Sansa giggled. It was a pleasant sound.
There wasn't much laughter in your life before her. He thought as she slowly
washed his hair. His eyes slid closed at the feeling. No, there hadn't been
much laughter at all.
oOo
It was Tom that had caught her singing softly to the Hound as he lay
unresponsive in the early weeks of their stay at the Moat House Inn. She had
already confessed to him that she feared they wouldn't have enough coin to stay
much longer. That very night he had pulled her away from her vigil and sat her
down in the common room. His mother was busy helping the serving girls bring
food out to the hungry patrons. When he told her to sing she had balked.
She knew the songs that the Inns normally boasted; bawdy songs that got men
singing and sloshing their ale on each other and the floor. She didn't know any
bawdy songs, and wouldn't have been comfortable singing them anyway.
"Sing something you know," he suggested when she told him of her problem.
She took his advice, and started to sing. At first only a few paid her any
mind. After her second song her voice grew stronger, more sure, and most of the
room had their eyes on her. After her third song the coin started flowing
freely. She didn't get any of it, of course. That went to Tom and his mother,
but she didn't mind. The men and women who listened to her sing were mostly
kind. She caught an occasional slanderous word, or vulgar expression, but Tom's
mother put a quick stop to that. If anyone got rowdy, or touchy, Tom would
throw them out.
Mostly however, the people here were kind to her. They were all dirty. Most
were ugly and a good deal had fresh wounds. About half had coin to spare, and
the other half had items to trade. These were the men and women of war. She
would listen to their tales some nights, of the travesties that had befallen
the kingdoms around them. They told her things that made her stay in Kings
Landing and the Vale look like a mummer's parade.
When the guards came in, however, she made sure that she did not come down and
sing for anyone. Thankfully Tom never asked questions, and after the second
time she had done it, he always warned her before hand. She was thankful he
wasn't a very talkative person.
I feel safe here; as safe as I feel with the Hound. She mused a week later,
after her throat was raw and the last few patrons had filtered up to their
beds. Sansa bid good night to Tom and made her way back to her room.
Although she had been sick with worry, her favorite part of the day was
climbing into bed beside the Hound. Sometimes she'd watch him for what seemed
like hours. She'd listen to his heart beat, her head resting softly on his
chest. It would rise and fall steadily and would lull her to sleep. Sansa
didn't have nightmares when she slept next to him.
He was the one with the nightmares,she remembered. Often he would moan in his
sleep. Most times she was sure it was his wound that pained him. As it healed,
however, she wondered if something else caused his anguish. Twice, he had woken
her up with screams that sent her flying out of sleep in such a panic that she
almost fell clear out of the bed. She soothed him as best she could during
those times, and he quieted soon enough, but tears fell from his closed eyes.
Is it your brother you dream of? Of the fire that ruined your face? She wanted
to ask him, but dared not speak it out loud. He had told her once if she ever
told anyone that he'd kill her. She knew it was an empty threat, but somehow it
seemed wrong to speak of it anyway.
Sansa was startled out of her thoughts as she saw the Hound take a seat. He
really meant it when he wanted to hear her sing. The thought made her nervous,
though she didn't know why. Her confidence at singing in front of others had
risen significantly in the past two weeks; it was odd that it should waver now.
He's heard you sing before, stop over thinking! She scolded herself as she took
her place on a tall stool in the back of the room. A few of the patrons that
had been here the night before gave her a few brief claps, which gave her the
little push she needed.
Sansa started to sing, and sang until she feared her voice would break. Most of
the people didn't stay for all of her songs, but she didn't care about anyone
but the Hound. She knew he was tired, but he stayed the whole time. His eyes
didn't waver from her face, and he looked oddly peaceful. He didn't even drink.
When she had finished, she went to him and he let her help him back up to their
room.
"You sing beautifully, little bird," he murmured after she crawled under the
blankets next to him. He held her back to his chest and brought his knees into
hers, pulling her close with his big arms. He seemed to fit perfectly there and
it caused such a good feeling to wash over her she didn't reply for a moment.
"Thank you," she replied quickly as she remembered herself. Others had told her
what a pretty voice she had, but coming from him it meant so much more. That
fluttery feeling rose in her tummy again, and she closed her eyes and snuggled
up against him. When she did so he let out a sound that was similar to a sigh
and completely different at the same time.
Sansa looked over her shoulder at him, wondering if something was the matter.
The look in his eyes sent a shiver through her whole body. She reached up with
one hand and lightly stroked the scarred side of his face. His eyes slid closed
and he whispered her name.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa learns something new, and Sandor learns the truth about her
     marriage to the Imp.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
     There is explicit content in this chapter.
He kept his gaze on her until she reached out and touched him. It wasn't just
that she had touched him, but that she had touched his scars of her own desire.
She hadn't flinched. She didn't look disgusted. Quite the opposite really…and
when she met his gaze he felt her shiver against his bare chest. If it had been
even a day ago he would have mistaken the shiver to be a shiver of cold…but the
way she had looked at him when she sang. It was as if he had been the only
person in the room.
I'm not imagining it. I don't know why, and I don't rightly care, but she's
attracted to me. The thought thrilled and scared him at the same time. He
wasn't someone that she should be with. She needed a handsome knight to sweep
her off her feet and buy her beautiful things. She deserved someone who
wouldn't get drunk or jealous…someone who wasn't so angry all the time. Someone
who's sins didn't tip the scale so heavily. Some high born lord, not an
unrefined cur.
She brought her lips to his and the kiss seared away all thoughts of who she
should be with. The little bird had chosen him, and he wantedher. Kisses
weren't enough anymore, not nearly enough. She opened her mouth to him and he
slipped his tongue inside. It was better than the last time. She tasted sweet,
and there was a need in her kiss that he hadn't expected. He matched her
intensity, and slowly moved his hand to cup one of her breasts, aching to be
inside of her, but resisting.
She's not a whore. You can't treat her like one.
"Oh," she broke away from the kiss in surprise as he massaged her breast
through the thin tunic she wore when sleeping. Her nipple was hard beneath the
fabric. Her neck was deliciously exposed and he kissed it hungrily. He was
rewarded as she made small gasps, her breath quickening. Her sounds were
driving him mad and he pressed his hips forward, giving a low gasp of his own
at the delicious pressure.
His need rose, and with it the desire to feel her skin. He gave a small chuckle
at the disappointed noise she made as he stopped touching her breast. It was
soon replaced with her throaty moan as his hand slipped between the fabric. Her
skin was incredibly soft and hot to the touch. She writhed as he gave a light
pinch to her nipples, and her cheeks had an almost alarming flush to them.
"Oh, that's...oh," she started to say something but dissolved into moans and
gasps again as he nipped at the soft skin of her neck. He wasn't planning on
leaving marks, but it was hard to keep from getting carried away. There was
nothing in the whole world he wanted more than to please her in this
moment...except perhaps to please himself at the same time.
Not yet. He pushed the thought away. She had been doing everything for him
these past three weeks. It was time he attended to her.
He moved suddenly, flipping her so she rested beneath him. It looked like she
was going to protest for a moment.
"Hush, little bird," he said, not unkindly as he quickly undressed her. She lay
naked before him, and made a feeble attempt to cover herself. The modesty she
had surprised him.
"There's no need for that," he whispered in her ear, then kissed a trail down
to her breasts. She dug her fingers into his shoulder as he lightly took one of
her nipples into his mouth. Her back arched a little and he smiled against her
breast.
He had never gotten such pleasure out of pleasing a whore before. Honestly, he
had never really tried. He didn't give them coin to make them happy. This was
something different. He wanted her, yes, but he also wanted her to want him.
He continued to kiss and suck at one breast, and he fondled the other. She was
moaning more insistently now, and when she opened her eyes to look at him he
saw the need in them. He doubted he could possibly be harder, but that
look...seven hells.
His free hand trailed down her stomach and he slowly slid it down further until
he reached the crevice between her legs. He brushed a finger against he
dampness, and she cried out. Sandor Clegane smiled.
oOo
Sansa had never wanted someone to touch her so badly before. Her breasts had
been touched and fondled before, but never had the feeling been remotely
enjoyable. This was something totally different. His hands were calloused but
they were gentle, and she wanted more of them.
The feelings of pleasure were so great she couldn't help the small gasps that
came from her mouth. She knew she should be ashamed of them, but she wasn't. It
felt too good, and it was him. He was causing these feelings, and somehow that
made all the difference.
Thisis what happens in the marriage bed, she thought but it was a hazy and
vanished the second he started to take off her clothes. She was mortified and
tried to cover herself, but his voice was soft and he reassured her that it was
alright. When his bare chest touched hers she had to resist to totally wrap
herself around him. The heat his skin gave off made her flush.
As he started to suck on her nipples she felt the groan deep at the back of her
throat. She grasped his shoulders tightly. It felt so good she never wanted him
to stop. The fluttering feeling in her tummy had increased. It wasn't just
fluttery, but it made a warmth spread through her that she didn't know what to
do with.
She looked down at him as he touched her and a warm, safe feeling came over
her. When she met his eyes, she could watch his hunger grow.
He wants me to pleasure him, she thought with a sudden thrill, but then he
slipped a hand between her legs and the world turned upside down and she
couldn't think at all. The cry that tore itself from her was horribly
unladylike, but she didn't care.
"There, please," she insisted, breathlessly. Whatever he had done, it was
indescribable. Never had she known that something could make her feel so good.
He moved his finger against her again and she rose to meet his touch. The
pressure he applied made her shudder. She bit her lower lip as he stroked back
and forth across the spot that felt so good. He picked up his pace and she
started to whimper with each breath.
Then he stopped and she thought she was going to go crazy. Whatever he had been
doing was pushing her towards something, and he had stopped.
Oh why did he stop? She wondered, but he didn't leave her to wonder for long.
He brought his mouth on top of that sensitive area and the feeling redoubled
with a ferocity that scared her. Whatever he had done with his fingers, he was
now doing with his tongue and the sensation made her buck uncontrollably
against him.
Suddenly it was too much and she had to pull back, to get away from whatever he
was doing. The feeling of pleasure and pressure was pushing her towards that
edge, but she was torn as to if she really wanted to find out what was going to
happen.
Sandor reached up with both hands and pinned her hips to the bed. He wasn't
going to let her pull away and the thought made her cry out. His tongue flicked
back and forth, alternating between moving and sucking.
"Oh!" she cried out as he quickened the pace. It was too much. Something seemed
to explode in a series of sensations that made her whole body shake. She cried
out wordlessly again and again as the feeling washed over her, all originating
from the spot between he legs.
He finally let her go as she collapsed on the bed. Sweat had risen in a fine
sheen on her skin and she still let out small whimpers as the intensity of
whatever he had done to her turned into a warm glow that spread through her
whole body.
Sandor wiped his mouth, then moved back to her side and kissed her gently. He
tasted strange, and then she realized that it wasn't him she was tasting, but
herself. The thought brought equal parts disgust and desire. When she met his
gaze again she could tell that he was hungering for something as well.
He wants you to touch him, she thought suddenly and the thought was thrilling.
oOo
"I...I want to please you," she whispered to him, but her eyes were unsure.
"You don't have to," he replied, even though every ounce of his being wanted it
to be otherwise.
"No, I want to...I just...don't know how," she admitted, a flush of shame
coming to her face. He wanted to smile, but she would take it the wrong way.
They had taught the little bird an awful lot, but there was no one to teach her
this.
No one to teach her but you. The thought made the hardness in his small-clothes
twitch. Sandor took her hand and guided her down to his still covered cock. She
gasped as she felt how hard he was through the layer of fabric. He couldn't
help the groan that escaped from him as she touched him at last.
He pulled his underclothes off with a sudden impatience. Sansa looked at him,
her eyes wide. The look was so innocent, and purely his little bird. He didn't
direct her this time, but allowed her to explore at her leisure.
She was hesitant at first, but then grew more bold with her touches and
caresses. Every so often she'd glance up at him, as if checking to see if he
was enjoying it. He'd nod in encouragement, but mostly he just groaned. He had
wanted this for far too long, and to finally have it happen was a blessing he
had never thought he would receive.
She still looked unsure, so he guided her so her full hand was wrapped around
him, then moved her hand up and down. The feeling changed and made him bite
back a growl of desire.
"Like that?" she asked.
"Aye, little bird, like that," he managed. She started slowly, but grew more
bold and moved faster as he responded to her movements. It didn't take too long
before she sent him right over the edge. He quickly stilled her hand as he
came, for the sensation could turn painful if overstimulated.
It was better then he ever imagined it could be.
He said nothing as he collapsed back down beside her, exhausted and euphoric.
His thoughts were quiet for once, and his eyes slid closed as his breathing
returned to normal. Sansa snuggled against his good shoulder and neither spoke
for quite some time. When he looked over at her he realized that she had
started to doze.
He pushed a strand of her auburn hair behind one ear and admired how beautiful
she was in the afterglow. She must have felt his gaze for she opened her eyes.
They were filled with wonder and she smiled at him. He found himself smiling
back.
"What...was that?" she whispered a moment later, and he couldn't for the life
of him think of what she was referring to. When he simply looked at her, she
elaborated.
"That feeling...what you did to me...it was...it felt so good...but what was
it?" her words came in halts and stutters as she fought against the ever
courteous side of her nature.
"You've never felt that before, little bird?" He asked, taken aback. She had
been married once, and although he didn't like to think about it, the Imp
didn't seem the type to not reciprocate...
She blushed deeply and shook her head, suddenly shy and embarrassed. It made
him frown, and then it hit him.
"Sansa, are you still a maiden?" he asked suddenly, catching one of her arms in
his hand. She wouldn't meet his gaze, but she nodded after a time, as if she
was afraid that he'd shun her for it, or be angry.
Seven hells, the Imp never had her! The thought brought dread with it. It
changed everything...
It also changed nothing. He still wanted her, wanted to be with her, and from
what had just happened, she wanted to be with him too.
Sandor quickly cleaned himself up, then put his small-clothes back on. Sansa
followed suit and returned to her sleeping garments as well. She sat on the
edge of the bed, and stared at the floor.
He pulled her to him gently and she gave a small, startled noise as he did so.
Her hair smelled clean, and distinctly of her. It made him want to kiss her, so
he turned her head and did so. Gently this time, not with the hunger of
earlier.
"It doesn't matter little bird," he assured her as he broke the kiss, then
pulled the blanket over them both. She seemed to relax at that, and then he
finally explained to her what the feeling was she had experienced.
After that there were no more words. They both lay in each others arms,
allowing the glow to lull them to sleep. For the first time in many moons,
neither of them could find it in them to entertain any ill thoughts about
anything.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sandor trains, Sansa remembers, and trouble finds them anyway.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
Sansa pulled the weatherworn cloak tighter around her shoulders as she watched
the Hound dance backwards from the blow that was aimed at him. As the sword
missed him, he took the chance and swung his own. There was a curse as the
sellsword was hit by the flat of Sandor's blade. A smile rose to her lips,
unbidden. That was his third victory in less than an hour.
Today he had donned armor again, to get used to the added weight and
resistance. He usually only wore leather armor, but Tom had some mismatched,
heavier armor in the storehouse that some drunken knight had once left behind.
It didn't fit him all that well, and most of it was poorly made. The mailed
gloves, however, were large enough to fit him. The leather grip made it easy to
hold a sword, but the tops of his hands were protected from the blade. He paid
Tom for them outright and would keep them when they left.
"You're strength is almost back," she stated suddenly. It wasn't a question.
The Hound turned to look at her, startled that she had been watching, and gave
a short nod in agreement. Something in her expression gave him fair warning and
he stepped to the side as the sellsword used the distraction to try and hit him
from behind. The man cursed again as he was thrown off balance and Sandor hit
him almost lazily with the flat of his sword again. He gave a sharp, short
laugh as the man went down and landed in the muddied snow that their training
had caused.
"Bugger this; you don't need my help any more," the sellsword picked himself
out of the slush and wiped himself off the best he could. The poor man looked
so irritated that Sansa couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He took his leave
and returned to the Inn to warm up by the fire and to nurse his wounded ego
with a mug of ale.
It had been almost a full week since Sandor had finally woken, and she was
amazed at how quickly he was recovering. She had never known anyone who was as
determined as he was. It was obvious that he was disgusted at the weakness that
had crept up upon him, and that just seemed to feed fuel to the fire that kept
him going. Often she'd watch him training to the point of pain and exhaustion,
just to go another round; another ten minutes; another step.
Sometimes he'd get angry and he'd string his curses together in such a way that
made her blush from head to toe. If anyone else was around to witness it she
would hurriedly apologize on his behalf. As he grew stronger though, those
moments were left behind.
It had been slow progress at first, but as the days wore on she could see the
improvements in both his form, and his body. The gauntness left his face, and
his muscles started to fill out again. She wasn't certain if this was because
of his work with the sellswords or the amount of food he consumed on a regular
basis. Tom's mother, whose name was Lenora, would complain bitterly that the
Hound was eating her out of business. Sandor always had a biting comeback for
her, and they'd both start to simmer before she or Tom would intervene and try
to clear the air of the almost palpable hate.
Once when she was just a girl, she had seen one of her Father's swiftest horses
snag a foreleg in a rabbit hole. The horse had fallen, and although the leg
hadn't broken, the stallion could hardly put any weight on it. The stable
master had wanted to put the horse down, but her Father forbade it. To the
surprise of the stable master, the horse took slow steps on the leg, testing it
out. After a moons turn the stallion could walk with a limp, and another turn
after that could trot for short distances.
Her father brought her with him sometimes to watch the progress the young
stallion made. She would beg him to pick her up and he'd put her on his strong
shoulders.
"You see? Sometimes you just have to give people a fair chance," he had said.
"Father, it's not a person, it's a horse!" she remembered replying, though it
had been many years past.
"It applies to people too," he had smiled at her.
The feeling she had now was similar to that as she watched the Hound. After a
hard day of training, he looked a bit like the horse had the first time it had
galloped over to her to receive an apple. He looked as natural with a sword in
hand as a horse did running.
Sandor walked over to her. He looked tired, but smug.I have no apple for him
though. The thought made her smile.
"What are you smiling at little bird?" he asked as he wiped his brow with the
back of his mailed fist. She opened her mouth to reply but he pulled her in for
a kiss instead. When he let her go, she was left breathless.Oh, I suppose I'm
the apple. She thought suddenly, and smiled again, this time with only a small
hint of red on her cheeks.
"You need a bath," she remarked suddenly as she looked at the melted snow and
mud that was caked on his boots and pants, and the sweat that clung to his hair
and face. It once would have completely disgusted her, but now…well…she still
preferred him clean, but something about him all worked up like this was
attractive too.
"I see you've lost all sense of courtesy," he bit back. She bristled at his
words and almost retorted, but realized he was right. It had been rude to make
such a comment. Her lady mother would have scolded her; Septa Mordane too. Arya
would have laughed. A fresh wave of grief hit her suddenly and the smile fell
from her face. She missed her family. Even Arya, I miss her too, she thought
with dismay.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raised voices and a scuffle from
inside the Inn. They both froze at the edge of the courtyard. The sounds of
steel rang out, and there was a harsh scream of pain that cut off as suddenly
as it had started. A high voice started pleading and a moment later there were
footsteps coming their way. Sandor pushed her behind him as five heavily
armored men stepped through the door.
Their sigil was stitched on their cloaks and the shoulder of their tunics. It
was a white moon on blue, and in the center was a falcon. The Arryn sigil.
Sansa recoiled at the sight. They had been found.
No.
oOo
"That's them. I'd never forget that face," a familiar voice tittered from
behind the Arryn guards. Melodious Max pushed his way to the front of their
ranks, and the smile on his face made a fresh wave of anger wash over him. He
didn't know if Max was referring to him, or Sansa. It didn't matter; the end
result would be the same…capture and imprisonment for her, and torture and
death for him.
"Sansa Stark, you're to come with us." One of the guards spoke. Sansa made a
small, hopeless noise at the request, but Sandor snarled.
"She's staying right here," he replied as the scarred side of his face twisted
beneath his barred teeth. At least two of the guards looked uneasy. Good. That
was good. Fear did funny things to men, especially in combat. It made them more
prone to mistakes, and he had always been good at using mistakes to his
advantage.
The captain of the guard motioned for his men to move forward. "Kill him, but
take the girl. She's to be taken to King's Landing to answer for the murder of
King Joffrey Baratheon."
"Get back," he ordered Sansa, and for once she didn't argue. She moved
backwards across the muddy courtyard to the archway that led to the stables,
but stopped at the threshold. As she moved away from him he began to unbuckle
the mismatched armor and toss it to the side. It was fine for training, but he
was already tired and it would slow him down. Plus, the shoddy workmanship
would hurt him more than help him. I'm going to have to finish this quickly, or
I won't be able to finish it at all.
The four guards surrounded him, while the captain stayed at the entrance to the
Inn with the damned singer. Two of the guards had swords pointed at him, and
the other two had spears. If they all had swords he might have been in real
trouble. Only one of the men wore a helm and plate. Both spearmen wore chain
mail, and the remaining swordsman wore leather.
I may be outnumbered but I'm not drunk. He took little comfort from the thought
in the half a breath left to him before the attack began. One of the sword
bearing knights stepped into his range with a savage swing. A sidestep to the
right would put him in range of the other sword bearer, so he stepped into the
blow, blocking with his own sword as he did so. When the metal came together he
pushed forward from the shoulders, using his height and weight to his
advantage. The healing arrow wound screamed in protest, but the knight lost his
footing and fell backwards.
If it had been a one on one battle he would have finished the man off there,
but there were three more to worry about. He dashed forward, over the fallen
man and turned, his sword already raised. It was the right choice. A loud clang
rang through the courtyard as the spear glanced off of his sword. He swung his
sword again, this time as hard as he could. It chopped through the wood of the
spear, turning it into no more than a broken broom handle.
Sandor stepped towards the unarmed knight with a thrust that punched clear
through his throat and out the back. He dropped like a stone. The snow turned
red and the stink of blood filled the fridgid air.
The fallen swordsman had regained his feet, and the remaining three regrouped.
As they backed off a little, Sandor knelt down and picked up the broken
spearhead from the snow. This'll do.
None of the remaining three seemed to want to make the first move, it would
have been amusing if he hadn't been so tired.
"Three to one! I've seen braver pigeons!" he spat furiously. His taunt worked
and the swordsman in the plate mail and helm stepped up to have his turn.
Sandor met his attack with one of his own. This one was strong, and skilled
with his blade, but he was stupid. His faith in his armor, and the lack of mine
is making him careless.
The song of swords filled the air. Neither seemed to be making much headway.
Each blow was blocked by the other, neither managing to score a hit. He's going
to tire me out, I have to end this. Now.
He dropped to one knee and let his sword and the spearhead fall into the snow
before him. He slowly started to raise his hands in surrender. The man he was
fighting made a startled sound, and then started to laugh. The other two joined
in and he heard Sansa gasp in dismay from across the yard.
"He wants mercy, does he? Who is the pigeon now? You're all talk, craven," the
knight found it incredibly amusing. His comrades thought so too, and laughed
again.
The knight lowered his sword, and Sandor struck. He snatched the spearhead in
his fist, and pushed off of the ground with his foot and knee, launching
himself at the knight in plate mail. He hit hard, and fast. The man gave a
startled yell as he was taken down. His sword flew harmlessly from his hand.
His companions gave a shout, but it was too late for the mailed knight. Blood
pumped hot and fast from the hole in his chest around the spearhead that had
punctured straight through his breastplate. He let out a strangled gurgle.
The remaining swordsman charged him as he lay atop the dying knight. He rolled
to the side to avoid the overhand blow and kicked out, landing a well placed
boot on the knee of his attacker. The man's leg gave out and he went down.
Sandor was on him the moment he hit the ground. One savage twist later and his
neck was broken.
Sandor regained his feet, panting heavily. Only one spear man remained, and the
man looked terrified. He glanced at his commander, but the man did not move,
and did not give him leave to stop fighting. He had a weapon though, and Sandor
appeared unarmed.
The man gave a wild yell and charged, apparently finding his courage. He put
all his strength into a thrust. Sandor felt the air ripple near his face as the
spear flashed forward, but then the danger was past. He grabbed the handle of
the spear and gave a savage pull. It ripped easily from the hand of the spear
man and he gave out a cry of dismay.
The fist shot out quicker than he thought possible. It took him on the side of
the head, making his remaining ear ring, and his vision blur. He felt his cheek
split and blood started to flow. The movement sent them both into the snow.
At least this one knows what is at stake. The Hound smiled despite the pain as
the man tried to land more blows on him with his fists.
"Hit me, will you?" he asked with a terrible sounding laugh, then back handed
the guard. The chained glove took the man in the mouth and three teeth vanished
into the snow with a spout of blood and spit. An anguished cry rose from the
man. It sounded like a dying animal, and the thought brought another wave of
rage, although he didn't know why.
The Hound straddled the chest of the remaining guard with a snarl. He balled
his right hand into a fist and brought it down upon the upturned face. The
first blow broke his nose. The second, his cheekbone. The third took out his
left eye socket, and the eye with it. With the fourth blow he felt something
give way in the knight's head. The final blow killed him.
He got to his feet slowly. Blood from the dead man splattered his face,
mingling with his own from the cut on his cheek. His mailed fist dripped blood,
gore and a thick grey substance into the snow at his feet. He panted heavily as
the adrenaline pumped through his veins. A laugh tore itself from his throat.
It didn't sound human.
He turned his gaze to the captain of the guard. The man's face had lost all
color. There was no sign of Melodious Max. Discretion is the better part of
valor, especially for one whose only weapon is a harp. The thought made him
laugh again as he advanced on the captain of the guard.
Stumbling, the man backed away from him, sword and courage long forgotten as he
tried to flee. It wasn't the Hound that took him out, however. There was an
incredibly loud crack as splinters exploded outwards from the captain. He
dropped like a stone and lay gasping on the ground, air knocked clean out of
his lungs. Tom stood behind him with the broken remains of one of the high
backed chairs that adorned the common area. His face was flushed and angry.
The Hound tossed back his head and gave a short bark of laughter, then advanced
on the captain, ready to be done with this fight. He picked up the dropped
sword and placed it at the neck of the dazed man.
"Stop!"
He almost didn't hear her, but he felt her hands on his arm, trying to pull him
away from the fallen captain. His grey eyes met her blue ones. She was crying
again, and looked almost as scared as the man beneath his blade did.
"You think they would have shown you mercy?" he snarled at her. She opened her
mouth, but nothing came out, and she dropped her gaze. "Look at me!" he roared.
Sansa flinched at his tone, but kept her gaze on her feet.
"Enough!" Tom dropped the chair and grabbed the captain by the back of his
ornate breastplate and dragged him unceremoniously into the inn.
Silence descended on the courtyard. He stared at her, but Sansa would not look
at him. She stood in silence for a time, then followed Tom into the Inn, and
left him alone with the corpses.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sandor and Sansa find themselves quite strained as they continue on
     the road to Winterfell.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
Sansa packed as swiftly as she could. As much as she didn't want to leave the
Moat House Inn, she knew that they couldn't stay. They had found her here, and
there would be more looking once these didn't come back.
She leaned against the bed frame for a moment, struggling against being sick.
Her stomach was pitching horribly. When she closed her eyes all she saw was his
face, splattered with the blood of the man he had just killed. The man he
killed to keep you safe.
The thought that she was to blame for this sent her over the edge and she
hovered over the chamber pot, tears streaming down her face as she lost the
contents of her stomach. When she was done she wiped her mouth and then started
packing again. Regardless of what had happened, and how she felt, they still
needed to flee.
You should have known what he was. How long have you tried to kid yourself
about his nature? Joffrey liked him for a reason. Would he really have had a
body guard who couldn't match his cruelty? People were always saying how
ferocious the Hound was...but she hadn't really seen it till now.
It had been different in the forest the night the barn had burned. She was in
direct danger, and he had killed them quickly, and he had fought admirably. Not
like tonight. She was positive that he could have given them a quick, clean
death if he had wanted to. Something had changed in him as he had fought.
He enjoyed it.
The thought made her shiver, but she knew it was true. The look in his eyes,
the way he smiled as he brought his fist down again and again, that laugh that
sounded less and less human the more she thought about it.
Who is he, really?
Her thoughts returned to the night they had shared only three days ago. How
tender he had been, how gentle and kind. How loving. He had said her name. The
thought warmed her still, but only slightly. It was as if he were two different
people. Two very, very different people.
You were two people once.
The thought made her want to start crying again.
oOo
The blood lust wore off at the same time as the adrenaline did. It left him
shaken and weak. The pains he had been able to overcome in battle surfaced now.
His muscles in his back, arms and legs ached and burned. His unscarred cheek
stung from where he had been cut, and his hand throbbed beneath the mail glove.
He flexed his fingers and felt the slight grating of bone. It was
uncomfortable, but nothing had broken.
He wanted to get drunk, and he wanted to sleep, but he didn't have time for
either. Sandor entered the inn with every intention of going upstairs to gather
their supplies. Instead he found himself grabbed and shoved against the wall.
He hit it with a grunt of pain and surprise.
Tom the Innkeeper held him steadily. He was one of the few men that Sandor had
ever met that probably could. If he hadn't been exhausted from the fighting, he
could have fought back. As it was, he was too tired to move and simply looked
the Innkeeper in the face.
"I don't know what she sees in you, Hound." he growled. Sandor realized that
Tom was angry. It was the most animated that he'd ever seen the big man.
He knows who you are...will you have to kill him too? He thought suddenly, but
knew that he wouldn't. Sansa had a soft spot for him and his wretched mother.
"So you know me, then?" he replied steadily, not entirely surprised.
"Aye, and I know her too." Tom nodded.
That did surprise him, and he was angry again. "If you were the one who told
the-" he started but Tom gave him a hard shake that shut him up.
"This is Tully land, I'd know a Tully anywhere. No Tully has that look though.
She's got Stark blood in her. HUSH!" he shook him again when he tried to
respond and Sandor was surprised to find that his mouth shut tight.
"Regardless of her birth, she cares for you. I think its folly, but won't say
nothin' to her. Her choice, not mine," the man spat on the floor and continued.
"I have no doubt you can protect her from anyone who tries anything...but I'd
say you need to start protecting her from yourself. No lady needed to see what
you did to those men tonight. If you had cared to look at her you might have
seen that in her eyes." Tom suddenly dropped him and he went down to one knee,
not ready for the sudden pressure on his legs.
"She saw a monster tonight, as did I. You best hope she never sees it again.
She has enough fuel for her nightmares," his eyes were dark as he spoke. Then
he turned away.
"Her secret is safe with me. We protect our own here." With that, he was gone.
Seven hells.
oOo
Sansa hesitated only a moment before she continued down the stairs and into the
common area. The whole room was in disarray, and there were no patrons. The
captain of the Arryn guards was tied to one of the high backed chairs. He
appeared dazed, but otherwise unhurt. Lenore, the one that the Hound called The
Crone lay dead in a pool of her own blood.
A tear slid down her face. She had caused another death of someone who had only
loved her and wanted to help.
"Now's not the time for tears, my lady," Tom said as he put a big hand on her
shoulder.
"I.." she realized he called her lady, and she looked at him suddenly with wide
eyes. He shook his head.
"Your secret is safe. You have my word. There are still friends of House Stark,
if you know where to look," his smile was warm...but it wasn't his smile that
she wanted. She was thankful, however. She tossed both arms around his
shoulders and kissed his cheek. When she pulled back he was bright red and
flustered.
"Thank you Tom, for everything you've done for me. If there ever comes a time
that I can repay you for all you've done, I will return the favor ten fold,"
she promised, suddenly loathe to leave.
The Hound came up behind her. She didn't want to, but she found herself
stiffening as he drew near. He plucked their bedrolls from her and motioned
them to go. Tom led the way, and Sansa followed. The silence was uncomfortable,
and it made her sad.
When they got to the stables he let out a surprised grunt. She looked at her
feet.
"I wanted to surprise you..." she whispered, more to the floor than to him.
Stranger snorted and tossed his head as Sandor went over to him. In the next
stall was her chestnut. They had been found grazing nearby the Inn on the third
day of their stay. Somehow she had managed to coax Stranger into the stables
without him taking off a finger. The chestnut had been simple.
"Count me surprised," he replied and set about readying the horses. Tom helped
her with her own.
"There's extra food and wine in this pouch here, and I gave you some extra
blankets too. Winter will be harder the further north you go," Tom instructed
as he helped her mount up. Normally it was Sandor, but he seemed preoccupied.
"Thank you Tom, for everything," she found tears on her face again. He gave a
small bow and stood out of the way.
"You will always find friends here, Lily Wintersong," he called her by the name
she had taken when they first met, and had given her a surname to go with it.
She liked the way it sounded.
Sandor gave Stranger a kick, and her chestnut immediately followed. They rode
out into the fading daylight and winter welcomed them back into her icy embrace
with a gust of freezing wind.
oOo
She didn't speak to him the whole time they rode parallel to the kingsroad. He
had been used to silent travel for longer than he cared to admit. This silence
was different. Occasionally he would glance back at her, but she never looked
at him.
The Innkeeper was right. She shouldn't have witnessed that.It was too late to
change it now. The only thing he could do was to try and keep from doing it
again in front of her. That he would result to that sort of violence again he
was a given.
The Elder Brother seemed to think that that part of you was laid to rest...I
wish he hadn't been wrong.The thought weighed on him heavily. He hadn't killed
anyone in almost two years, and here he had killed seven in little over a
month.
They would have killed you and hurt her. What else could you have done? No, he
had done the only thing he could do. He had done his duty, no one had hurt her.
You hurt her. Not physically, but now she will not even look you in the eye.
Instead of feeling angry, he felt a deep sorrow. She had just started to trust
him. He had just started to feel like a normal person around her.
You're not normal. You never were and you never will be. The blood lust is a
part of who you are. You never intended it to be, but it is. Just as it is a
part of Gregor. It runs in your blood.
Suddenly he couldn't stand the silence anymore and he halted Stranger with an
almost savage jerk. Sansa had to scramble to slow the chestnut and when the
horse was still, she looked everywhere but at him.
"You must think I'm no better then my brother."
At least she had the grace to look shocked. She chanced a quick glance at him,
then shook her head.
"Ser Gregor was worse," she admitted to the reins in her hand.
"But not by much. Don't feed me honey. Speak your mind and have done with it,"
he growled.
Sansa looked torn. She stared at her hands for a long time, and he stared at
her face. He'd sit here until she answered him.
"He never protected anyone. All he did was hurt those he was supposed to take
care of." she met his gaze at last. "You did frighten me...with what you
did...but they would have killed you and taken me back to King's Landing...and
then they would have killed me. You never lied to me, you told me that you'd
kill anyone who tried to hurt me," her gaze turned sad and she looked up at the
sky, as if for courage.
"I just didn't really think anyone would try to hurt me with you around...and I
never thought about what it would mean and what you would have to do if it did
happen..." she trailed off, then turned to him again.
"You are not your brother, and you never will be."
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sandor tells Sansa some more about his past.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
The landscape was changing around them as they continued to Winterfell. No
longer was there dense shrubbery or dense forests filled with trees. The area
was thinning out. The trees that remained had huge roots, but few branches. A
good deal of them had simply given up standing and lay rotting on their sides.
Dead, frozen moss covered their trunks. Snow had fallen recently here, but it
hadn't completely covered everything. Tall strands of brown grass and reeds
stuck up out of the white powder at all angles. A few more heavy snows and they
would succumb to death and fall beneath the cold like everything else.
"We're entering the Neck," he told Sansa as they rode side by side.
"I didn't think it could be much uglier than the last time I saw it," she
admitted with a sigh. He had been there the last time she had been this way.
His little bird spent her whole time in her cage, cooped up with the she-lion.
Her sister had been the one to explore the murky area, covered in mud and
looking bright eyed and excited. Sansa looked less than thrilled. He found it
amusing.
"I thought you would be happier than this, little bird," he remarked as they
plodded on.
"What could possibly make me happy about such a wasteland?" she asked
incredulously with a scowl in his direction.
"We're in almost in Stark land now," was his reply. She didn't appear to take
comfort in that, which bothered him. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
"I'll be the only Stark left in the North, how could that be what I wanted?"
her voice was bitter, but when she sighed again all the venom went out of her
voice. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired and sore from all this riding."
They had been riding for hours through the dark with only the moon to guide
them. He had wanted to get as far away from the Inn as they could, but she was
right. His whole body ached from the exertion he had put it through during the
fight, but he had pushed them on for hours. He knew she was probably just as
tired.
Finding a clear place to camp wasn't an easy task. There was no shelter in
sight that would work, so they'd have to huddle beneath their blankets and sit
close to a fire so they wouldn't freeze to death. The first three spots that
looked clear turned out to be on top of sheets of ice. They were certainly on
the cusp of the wetlands.
Not very wet now are they though? The Others take the North! I'd rather be
getting the heat sickness in Sunspear than frostbite in the Barrowlands.He
thought as he cleared another area just to find more ice beneath his feet.
"There's a spot over here that might work," she called from his right. He gave
up and trudged over to her spot. It didn't have ice beneath it, though it was
gently sloped downwards. A fallen tree would serve as a place to lean against.
It would have to do.
"As good as any," he replied and began to tend to Stranger. Sansa had already
dismounted from her chestnut mare. She walked funny for a few moments from the
stiffness in her joints. He was pleased to notice that she could now tend to
her own horse.
She's grown. It was a thought he had more and more often as they traveled
together. Gone was the spoiled highborn girl who had once been so terrified to
look upon his face. Gone were the thoughts that with beauty came kindness and
righteousness, valor and mercy. She had already realized life was not a song,
but now she also really understood what that meant.
"I'd give anything for a bath," she said suddenly, and he couldn't help but
roll his eyes. So she had changed…but she was still Sansa underneath it all.
Once tinder was gathered he started a fire while she gathered sticks to fuel
it, and when it finally got going he went out with his hatchet to obtain
thicker logs while she started to cook some of the food that Tom had been kind
enough to give them. When he returned with a small stack of logs, he was
startled to find that there was a pot on the fire, with some kind of stew
simmering within.
"It's not much, but it's better than hard bread, and it'll be warm," she told
him as she warmed her hands.
"Aye, you've got that much right," he agreed, and set about building the fire
up while she used her cloak to pull the pot off of the flame. She set it down
in the snow and it hissed. The sound made him stiffen against his will as he
sat down beside her.
"They still bother you sometimes, don't they? The burns?" she asked when she
saw him stiffen. It was the first time she had willingly brought up anything
about how he had gotten his scars.
"No," he replied too quickly, but then she caught his hand. When she met his
eyes he knew that he was going to have to tell her. She wasn't going to settle
for his silence.
"No, they don't sometimes bother me, they always do."
Had he ever even admitted that to himself? It wasn't that they pained him. Most
of the nerves were long dead, burned away to nothing. It was the way that
people looked at him. Not now, of course. He had long grown used to being
stared at, or to having people who couldn't bear to look at all. It was the way
they had looked at him when he was just a child. When he had been in so much
pain. It would have been better if they had slit my throat and been done with
it.
"I'm sorry," her voice was soft and full of pity. He wanted to snap at her, to
let her know that her pity was unnecessary...but he didn't. Too often he had
barbed words for her.
"Nothing to be sorry about, little bird. You didn't push my face into the
flames," he replied and gave her hand a squeeze.
"Will you tell me about it? Your past, I mean. Not just the fire. I mean, I
hardly know anything about you," she was curious, and she asked him carefully.
"I mean...if you want to. You don't have to if...if it's painful," she amended
suddenly. Ever courteous was his little bird, but he found that he didn't mind.
It was a story he had kept to himself his whole life. Most of the people who
took part in it were long dead anyway.
He found his gaze drawn to the flames. It always came back to fire.
"There were five of us. My mother, my father, then came Gregor. After Gregor
came Ariadne. I was the last. Gregor was five years my elder, Ariadne only
two," he began, his eyes glazing over as he remembered a life he had left
behind long ago.
oOo
"He hit you again," Sandor scowled as his sister knelt praying to the Mother.
She only prayed to the Mother after Gregor did something particularly nasty.
When she turned, her left eye was blackened and swollen almost totally shut,
but she smiled at him nonetheless.
"It's not so bad," she replied, getting to her feet. She had the same dark hair
as the rest of the Clegane line, but she had their mother's blue eyes. The
small-folk often remarked on how much she was like her mother, but Sandor
thought they were mad. His mother never smiled, and was more often preoccupied
than not.
Ariadne was different. She smiled at the smallest provocation, and listened to
all his stories without letting her mind stray. When Gregor would pick on him,
she'd try and protect him, even if it meant she would become the brunt of his
rage or brutality instead.
"Won't you pray with me little brother?" she asked and he acquiesced. This time
they knelt in front of the Crone. She bowed her head and started to pray, but
he found himself looking at the statue. It was creepy...but if he mentioned it
to her she'd be displeased. Neither of their parents were very religious, but
Ariadne was as devout as one could be at nine.
"Do you think the gods really hear us?" Sandor asked her after she raised her
head.
"They must," was her only reply as they stood. They left the small, rundown
sept together. Sounds of braying met their ears as they stepped blinking into
the sunlight. The kennels were the farthest from the sept. It had been built
there on purpose, to try and give the devout some peace from the clamor of
dogs.
Sandor spied a lengthy stick on the ground and he quickly went to work
stripping it of all the extraneous branches. When he was satisfied he swung it
like a sword. Ariadne watched him with a smile as he practiced jabs and swings.
"Do you want to be a knight, little brother?"
"Of course! I'll be the best knight there ever was!" he had replied without
hesitation, a smile rising to his own lips.
"You'll be the biggest too, I have no doubt!" she had replied. He laughed at
that. She may have been two years his elder, but he already stood two hands
higher than she did. Though he was all awkward movements at this age, she had
assured him that when he finished growing, he'd be the strongest and most
powerful knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Not as big as Gregor," he replied suddenly, then tossed the stick aside in
disgust. Ariadne had laughed at that too.
"No, not as big as him, but he'll be no knight! They only let you be a knight
if you are honorable!" she reminded him, and his sulking ended as quickly as it
began. She was right. There was no way anyone would be stupid enough to let
Gregor be a knight.
"Ariadne! Sandor! You're late! Your father will be displeased! We're supposed
to meet with Ser Kevan!" their mother appeared before them and waved them into
the house. Sandor sighed. He hated dressing proper for the knights and lords
that stopped by to do business with his father. Ser Kevan was a Lannister
though, and without the Lannisters, they never would have neither land nor
titles.
He was also a knight, and Sandor loved knights. Perhaps he would hear stories.
The thought quickened his step and made his spirits rise.
oOo
Dinner had been a bitter disappointment. Ser Kevan spoke mostly business with
their lord father; business that bored him to tears and made him want to get up
from the table several times. He started to fidget, but a look from his mother
was all it took to stop that. The only good part of dinner was that Gregor
seemed to be in a good mood. He had only been kicked under the table twice, and
neither time had been hard enough to make him cry, though he had flinched both
times.
When dinner was finally over, he was relived. They would be dismissed and he
could go and play with the month old puppies if he wanted. He all but leapt
from the chair in his eagerness to be out of the room.
"One moment boy, I haven't forgotten the lot of you," Ser Kevan had spoken up
before Sandor could slip away. The man waved to his squire and the boy brought
three small packages to him. One was given to each of the Clegane children.
"Thank you so much, ser!" Sandor had exclaimed instantly and with such
enthusiasm that he saw Gregor's eyes darken. It didn't take much to make Gregor
mad, and no one could predict what would send him over the edge. He should have
been the first to speak…I will pay for this later, he thought with dismay, but
didn't let it show.
Their parents never gave them toys or playthings, so this was a rare treat.
Sandor tore the ugly paper from the gift with such enthusiasm that the knight
had laughed in amusement. Ser Kevan had gotten him a horse on wheels. It was
made of bronze and only squeaked a little when rolled. Ariadne had gotten a
small knit doll that Ser Kevan's wife had made herself. Gregor had gotten the
little wooden knight that made Sandor immediately jealous. He's too old to play
with something so neat.
oOo
"That's when you borrowed his toy?" Sansa cut in, knowing this part. Sandor
nodded.
"Yes. I had never planned on keeping it. I only wanted to play with it for a
short time," his eyes darkened at the memory, that something so small and
innocent would destroy all his chances for a normal life thereafter.
He picked up his story when his brother was busy holding his face into the
flames.
oOo
He could smell his own skin cooking as it first blistered, then burst. When he
first was pushed into the flames he could hear it sizzle as the flames licked
hungrily across his face, but only for a moment. His own screams drowned out
all other sound.
He screamed for his mother, he screamed for his father, for anyone to come and
save him from his brother's wrath. He screamed until the smoke crept into his
lungs and tore at his throat like a starving hound tore into a rabbit. The he
coughed and gasped, and screamed in a voice that no longer sounded like his
own.
His mother hadn't come, nor his father. It had been Ariadne that had come
running. It had been Ariadne that had seen what was happening and screamed for
Gregor to let him go. When she realized that Gregor would not stop, she had
jumped on his back and started hitting him as hard as she could.
Gregor had to let him go to deal with his sister, and finally he was let up
from the flames. He remembered jerking away from the fire and reaching up to
try and put out the flames on his face. When his hand made contact with the
burned flesh he stopped screaming and passed out.
oOo
Sandor didn't remember too much after that, but he was left with flashes. He
remembered being picked up by his mother, and how she had wailed at the sight
of his face. He remembered a maester, but had no idea where the man had come
from, or what his name was. He remembered his sister holding his hand, praying
aloud to the Mother for mercy, tears streaming down her face.
He remembered the pain most of all; the pain that wouldn't even vanish when the
milk of the poppy was forced down his smoke torn throat. It was always with
him. When he was awake, he screamed, even though his throat was raw and
screaming made it worse. When he slept, he had nightmares of being pushed into
flames, but no one came to pull him out of them. When the maester applied
bandages to his face, he screamed some more. It had seemed like endless days
and nights of screaming and pain and delirium.
Once he had woken up to his mother hovering over him. He had stopped screaming
at last, but he whimpered and cried out with the slightest movement or
provocation. She was stroking his arm and whispering to him. It seemed more of
a chant than actual words, and when she went silent he noticed the pillow in
her hands. When she put it over his face, he started screaming again.
oOo
The look on his little bird's face was more than he could take, so he stopped.
Her eyes were wide with horror, and she had brought both hands to her mouth, as
if that would somehow make her feel better.
A cold wind buffeted them and he wasn't surprised to feel wetness on his face.
Remembering that time always brought unwanted tears, and as much as he despised
them, he was powerless to stop them. As he had been when his brother had mashed
his face into the hot coals; as he had been when his own mother tried to
smother him.
"Shall I go on?" he asked, observing the dismay on Sansa's face. She didn't
speak, but nodded.
He continued.
oOo
It had been his father that saved him the second time. The man savagely pulled
his mother off of him, and the breath of fresh air that crept in was the second
best he had ever taken. A moment later it was followed by a fresh wave of pain
as the pillow was torn from his face. She had pushed it so hard into his face
that the burns had started to meld with the fabric. Tearing it off opened
unbroken blisters and brought another scream from his throat.
As he started to slip into unconsciousness he remembered his father shouting at
his mother, and dragging her from the room by her hair. It was the last time he
had ever seen his mother. She had been sent to live with her sister until he
healed…but she never came back and he never heard from her since.
The next thing he remembered was his sister's face as she sat next to him,
praying and singing pretty hymns to try and soothe him. He gazed at her through
a veil of pain and anguish, and she took his hand in hers when she saw he was
awake. His face had been covered by ointments and bandages by the maester, but
the pain was still there. It wasn't as white hot as it had been, but any
movement sent him right back into screams and cries, and sometimes into
unconsciousness.
It had gone on like this for almost two months; drifting in and out of
wakefulness with pain waiting on both sides of the veil. Sometimes his father
would stand over him, but he never said a word, and he didn't bother to hide
his disgust.
Ariadne was different. She mourned for him, but never looked on him with
revulsion. He loved her for that. Despite his pain, she always had a smile for
him and a song if he asked it. She was the only light that shone in that time
of torture.
The maester had pleaded with them several times to put him out of his misery,
but Ariadne had cried and protested. She was certain that he would live, and
that his wounds would heal. She had been right. Despite the odds, and the
maester's assurance that the wounds would get infected and kill him, he had
survived.
One day came where the pain didn't keep him from sitting up. He even managed to
eat something solid. Ariadne had cried with joy, but there was no joy in him
from such a feat. Most of his joy had gone, but he still had his sister. She
told him stories all day long. He had no desire to sleep anymore, despite his
discomfort, but she did her best to entertain him.
News reached their father of his awakening and the news had reached Gregor too.
So far he had been spared from a visit from his older brother. When he thought
of him a hatred rose in him so deep and dark that he feared it would consume
him from the inside out. Everyone knew that it was a sin to be a kinslayer, but
he didn't care. He wanted to kill Gregor.
When he told as much to Ariadne, she had cried, begging him not to. She didn't
want him to end up in any of the seven hells, but he knew better. He had
already been through hell, after all.
He woke from another fire dream to see his brother standing over him. Gregor
said nothing, but smirked darkly. Sandor was consumed by hatred, and frozen
from fear. Would Gregor finally kill him, just when he was starting to get
better? No. Gregor was just here to torture him more. The boy pulled out a
looking glass, and Sandor shut his eyes, not ready to see what had been done to
him.
Gregor's huge hand shot forward and dug into the newly forming skin on the side
of his face. Sandor screamed again, and knew that if he didn't look, Gregor
would make him suffer worse. He opened his eyes to behold his new face.
The sight was hideous, and it made him want to throw up. He had been a comely
lad, everyone had said so, but now he was a monster. One half of his face was a
twisted mass of dead, burned skin, yellow blisters, blood and pus. He even saw
what he thought was a hint of his jaw bone. There wasn't a hair on his head or
face. All of that had caught fire and burned when the rest of his face had. He
didn't even have eyelashes. Tears dripped down his face, only from the unburned
side.
Gregor made him stare for a good ten minutes, then tossed the looking glass
aside and left the room. He never said a word, but that smirk was seared into
Sandor's memory the same way the fire and seared into his flesh. Even all these
years later he could recall that smirk as if it had happened moments before.
Ariadne had shown up a moment later, tears in her eyes. She cried out in relief
as she saw him alive, and flung herself on him, despite his gasp of pain. He
pushed her away with all of his strength, and had turned from her.
"Sandor, why do you push me away?" she had asked, and the hurt in her voice was
like a knife in his gut, but he did not turn to look at her.
"Ladies don't hug monsters," he had replied in a rasp. It was a horrible sound,
and he hated it. The fire had taken half of his face and most of his voice. It
had taken his mother's sanity, and his fathers love…yet Ariadne was still by
his side.
When she heard his words she gently rolled him over and cupped his face with
one hand, looking him straight in the eye.
"The only monster in this family is Gregor," she had assured him, and he had
cried. She held him, and sung him songs, though he could not recall what they
were. He fell asleep in her arms.
The next morning he awoke to a distant scream. He knew the sound, though he had
only heard it a few times. It was Ariadne. Sandor didn't remember getting out
of bed for the first time, and he didn't remember leaving the tower. The only
thing he remembered was his hulking brother on the narrow causeway between the
twin towers of their keep. That same smirk was on his face, and his sister was
no where in sight.
Gregor looked down at the courtyard below them, his smirk growing, and then he
left Sandor alone. Sandor remembered his legs giving out, and crawling to the
edge of the causeway. He remembered not wanting to look down, but being unable
to stop himself.
Ariadne lay in a crumpled heap on the cobblestone, a pool of blood slowly
spreading from her head. Her dress had been blue. She stared lifelessly at the
sky. Clutched in her hand was a small wooden sword.
He learned later from the maester that when he slept at night Ariadne had
enlisted the help of one of the men that worked for his father to make him a
wooden sword. She knew that being a knight had made him happy, and wanted to
cheer him up. The morning the gift had finally been finished, she had been on
her way to his room when she met with Gregor.
oOo
"Gregor had been waiting for her. He knew that she was the only thing that made
me happy. She was the only one who could still look at me, and he knew how much
that meant…so he snatched it away."
It had been years since he had thought of Ariadne. The memory of her was too
painful, as was the guilt. He still felt as if it had been his fault she had
been killed. If she hadn't been on her way to see him…
Sansa suddenly threw her arms around him. She startled him right out of his
thoughts, and he slowly brought an arm around her. He felt her tears on his
shoulder and sighed.
"Do not shed tears for me, little bird," he stroked her hair with his free
hand. She sniffed against him and then brought her face away.
"I didn't know," she whispered softly, her face pressed into his neck.
"No one knows but you. Shortly thereafter the maester was found dead in his
room, and my father was killed in a hunting accident…although most everyone
knew it was my brother who really caused his death. No accidents happened on
Clegane land that didn't have my brother's twisted hand in it," he growled at
the thought. After he was burned he had little love for his father, and less
after the man had blamed his accident on a bed that caught fire.
People will believe what they want to believe, even though that lie was as
transparent as water. No one wants to think that a twelve year old would be
capable of doing a thing like that.
"I'm glad he's dead," Sansa stated with such ferocity in her voice that he
couldn't help but smile.
Me too little bird, me too.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Summary
     A blizzard sweeps in, and makes travel even more dangerous.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
It had taken Sansa hours to fall asleep. Sandor, however, had fallen asleep
almost the minute he had laid down. She kept thinking about what he had told
her. He was so young and had endured so many horrors that she could barely
comprehend how he had survived it all. The thought of all that suffering made
her heart ache for him. She wanted to be able to go back in time and steal him
and his sister away from their evil brother…but such power was not in her
hands. She wished it was. No one deserved such anguish, him least of all.
She watched him as he slept and couldn't help wondering if the reason he was
attracted to her was because she reminded him of Ariadne. They both had blue
eyes and were devout. They both had sung to him. The only big difference was
that she was alive, and his sister had perished. Instead of being offended she
found herself flattered. Ariadne had been the only one he could take comfort
from…maybe it meant that he'd take comfort from her too? If she could even
bring him an ounce of peace…
He shifted in his sleep and pulled her closer to him. She snuggled into his
warmth and decided that these thoughts were best left for the morning. Soon
sleep claimed her too.
oOo
When she woke, there was a slight weight upon her. At first she thought that
Sandor had put his heavy arm around her tighter, but when she opened her eyes
snow fell into them. She blinked the wetness from her eyes and realized that it
was snowing heavily. There was a decent amount of snow on top of the blankets,
and it was starting to cover them both. She shook Sandor awake.
"Seven hells, like we need anything else to slow us down," he growled in
irritation. The fire had gone out and when he moved the cold cut under the
blankets like a knife. She gasped and pulled her cloak tighter. Her teeth
chattered together as she got to her feet and jumped up and down in place to
get her blood pumping. He brushed the snow off of their bedrolls and started to
pack.
"We're going to travel in this?" she asked, surprised at the thought.
"We have no shelter and staying out in this might as well be a death wish. We
might as well keep moving. Maybe we'll find a place to hole up in till the
storm passes," he replied, brushing the snow from Stranger's back. The horse
pawed at the frozen ground and moved closer to her chestnut mare. They were
cold too.
It didn't take long to mount up and be on their way again. She chewed on some
almost frozen cheese as they rode, wondering when they would have a hot meal
again. Her soup had been runny, but hot. It was better than anything she could
remember eating, besides lemon cakes, of course.
To their dismay the storm only increased in ferocity. They could hardly see in
front of them, so the going was slow. She rode directly next to him, pulling
one of the blankets across her face, wishing she had a scarf, and a warmer pair
of gloves. Both of them were hunched over the backs of the horses, as if that
would help keep the wind out. Snow flew all around them, thick and cloying. It
clung to her clothes and to the horses. She'd distract herself by trying to
brush off as much as she could, but by the time one section was cleared off,
the one before that had filled up again.
The wind was the worst part. It cut through all the layers of blankets and
clothes. She even felt it in her feet as it sliced through the seams in her
boots. It threw snow into her face and eyes, and soon they grew red and stung
when she wiped them. Shivers wracked her body every few seconds and she
wondered if they'd ever be warm again. It had never been this bitter in the
Eyrie, and she had been born in the summer. This was going to be her first
winter, and it threatened to be a long one.
The wind picked up again, howling through the sparse trees and causing her mare
to stumble a little. She felt bad for the horses. The ground wasn't easy to
traverse. There was plenty of ice and she knew that when their hooves broke
through it, the water was so cold it caused pain. They would whinny or snort on
occasion as the water washed around their forelegs, and she knew that they were
as uncomfortable as their riders.
Despite her wishes, her eyes slid closed against the wind. It was too damned
cold to keep them open, and she was still tired from the night before. She
hadn't slept well…perhaps now would be a good time to rest until they could
find some where out of the blizzard.
When her chestnut stopped she tried to open her eyes. At first she had the
horrible thought that she was blind, but then realized that the snow had frozen
her lashes together. She rubbed them vigorously and finally managed to open
them. The storm still raged, but there was no sign of Sandor or Stranger. She
turned in the saddle, looking behind her, then to the right and left. There was
nothing but snow.
"Sandor?" she called suddenly, his name rising to her lips for the first time,
but there was no answer. She tried again, as loud as she could. The wind was
her only answer.
oOo
"Sansa!" he shouted again, cursing himself for what had to be the hundredth
time. He hadn't been paying attention. His mind was on the road in front of
them. They had been forced to take the kingsroad, and it was taking all his
skill to keep them on it. It had been covered by snow, and hardly stood out at
all against the storm, but so far he had been successful in keeping them on
it…until he realized that she was no longer beside him.
How long had he been going on alone? Had she fallen off of the horse? Had she
simply fallen behind and he just needed to turn around and go back for her?
What if something else had happened? Had she fallen prey to wolves or something
else? There were endless possibilities, each one more disturbing than the last.
He felt the panic start to take over common sense, and pushed it back. It
wouldn't help either of them if he lost his mind with worry.
He called her name again and again, until his voice was lost to the wind and he
could manage no more than a whisper. Each time he was met with the same
response, silence.
I never thought I'd have to keep her from being harmed from a fucking blizzard!
He thought savagely, teeth clenched together in an angry grimace. Damn it Sansa
Stark! Where are you!
oOo
There were no answers to her calls. She knew it was useless to cry, but she did
so anyway. She was alone without any idea of where she was, or how to get to
somewhere she knew. The marshlands had seemed endless the last time she had
been this way, and the weather had been fair back then. If she followed the
kingsroad, she should be able to find somewhere safe…but as she looked around
her she realized that nothing looked like a road.
If I could only see farther…but the thought was useless. Until the storm
stopped, she wasn't gong to be able to tell where she was. Part of her knew she
should stay where she was, but another told her that she needed to keep moving.
Maybe she'd be able to find some place to sit the storm out, even if Sandor
wasn't with her.
Why did I close my eyes? She was suddenly angry at herself. It was such a
childish, foolish thing to do. If she had paid attention and not drifted off,
she would still be with Sandor.
He has to be ahead of me, he just has to be! She gave a light kick to the
chestnut, and the mare started forward again.
Hours passed and there was still no sign of Sandor or Stranger…or anything that
might resemble shelter. She huddled in her blanket and cloak, trying not to
cry. Every now and then she'd call out, hoping in vain for an answer, but
received nothing. If anything, the wind answered her with more harsh gusts and
cruel, snow filled laughter.
I'm going to die out here. The thought wasn't as disturbing as it might once
have been. If she died, at least she wouldn't be so cold. She found herself
remembering the Moat House Inn, and the things that he had made her feel. It
still brought butterflies into her tummy, but even they weren't enough to warm
her sufficiently.
Her eyes threatened to close again, and she forced them open. The last time had
been a disaster, and she wasn't going to repeat it again if she could help it.
At least, that's what she thought before weariness overcame her again and
forced them shut against her will. She didn't want to sleep…but maybe it would
be easier.
She was spared from sleeping again as the chestnut surged forward, then down.
Sansa gasped as cold water plunged over her ankles, then knees, and almost up
to her thighs. It was as if someone was stabbing her with ten thousand knives.
She couldn't catch her breath, and her chest was tight. The mare struggled
forward through the ice, and Sansa couldn't believe it when they ended up back
on dry land.
The mare was spent, however, and went down on her knees. Sansa was forced to
dismount. The poor beast was breathing heavily, and icicles had formed beneath
her large nostrils. Sansa pushed herself against the horse, as if to give any
warmth, and take any, that she could. She felt the massive creature shivering
and took a little comfort from that. They were both freezing.
The adrenaline from hitting the ice water wore of faster than she thought
possible. It left her shaken, and exhausted. Closing her eyes now would be to
welcome the Stranger to take her away, but she was so cold and tired.
"Sandor," she whispered, wishing he was with her. Her eyes closed and she
surrendered to the darkness.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa wakes up and meets someone unexpected. Sandor suffers in the
     cold without his little bird.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
She could feel her hands and feet. They burned in the familiar way they did
when coming in from the cold. It wasn't pleasant, but would wear off soon
enough. Hot compresses were pressed to her ankles, wrists and forehead. Several
fur lined blankets were piled on top of her, and a fire burned brightly beside
her. The wind howled and groaned, but it was far away and didn't touch her.
When she opened her eyes, she was in a small hut. It was sparse, and had no
furniture in it. The ground had plenty of cushions to sit upon. One of those
was used to prop up her head. The fire was small, but the heat it produced
warmed her better than any other she had ever sat by. She attempted to sit up,
but her head felt fuzzy, and ten stone heavier then normal. Her body sunk back
to the floor in defeat. Sansa was too tired to care.
It took her a moment to realize that she was naked beneath the blankets. The
thought made her uncomfortable, but when she examined the room she found she
was alone.
Where in Westeros am I? She thought in dismay and sniffed. Her nose was clogged
horribly, which made it hard to breathe. The headache that sat behind her eyes
made her want to curl up in a small ball and go back to sleep. Her throat was
sore, but that was probably from yelling for Sandor. The thought jolted her
back into wakefulness.
Sandor, where are you? She wondered, her breath hitching suddenly. Had he
brought her here? No. If he had, he would have been here when she woke up, she
was sure of it. Tears sprung into her eyes as she remembered falling asleep in
the snow. If he was still out there, then she wasn't so sure she'd ever see him
again.
He's stronger and smarter than you are. He'll find shelter, and he'll wait out
the storm. He has to!Her fevered mind insisted, but the tears fell anyway. She
didn't know where she was, where he was or if she'd ever see him again.
She was snapped out of her thoughts by movement. A thick hide was moved aside
and two people stepped into the room. Her heart began to pound as she watched
them shake the snow off of their heavy cloaks. Neither of them were tall enough
to be Sandor, and the thought tugged at her heart again.
The taller one unwrapped a thick woolen scarf from his face. He was an older
man, with a thick beard and thinning hair. His face was sharp and pointed, but
his green eyes were kind. He squatted down next to her with the ease of a man
much younger.
"You're awake," he observed. It took her a moment to process what he had said.
His accent was foreign to her. She nodded slowly and opened her mouth to talk
but a cough took her suddenly and wouldn't relent for an embarrassing length of
time. Her cheeks were flushed when she could catch her breath and she shivered
beneath the blankets.
The man exchanged glances with the other and it was then that Sansa realized
who these people were.
"You're crannogmen," she managed weakly. The man nodded and put the back of one
cold hand to her cheek. She shivered again.
"You look like your mother," he replied with a soft smile. Fear struck her
again and he must have noticed, for he chuckled.
"Rest young Stark, you've got friends amongst the Reeds. Your father was a dear
friend of mine," the man patted her forehead gently. Sansa searched her memory
and actually found a name.
"You're Howland Reed?" she asked with a small frown. He nodded in agreement and
looked pleased until her eyes filled up with tears again.
"What's the matter little Stark?"
"I was traveling with someone…my bodyguard. He's very tall…and he is badly
scarred…please…have you seen him?" she pleaded, praying to the Mother that they
had seen him. Both men exchanged glances again and her heart broke when he met
her gaze and shook his head.
"Nay lady, we've seen no one but you in this weather. Traveling in a blizzard
isn't recommended. It was a lucky thing that Areen found you while hunting. It
was also lucky you were so close, or the ice would have claimed you." He
sounded concerned and she bit her lower lip.
"Please…if you could look for him?" she suggested hesitantly. Howland scowled.
He didn't look pleased at that aspect.
"I don't send my men out to die for me, but I'll let them know to keep a
lookout for this tall, scarred guard of yours," he promised, then motioned for
Areen, the other man, to carry out his order.
She opened her mouth to thank him, and started coughing again instead. It made
her dizzy and she started shaking again. Howland Reed made a sound in the back
of his throat.
"You've caught a sickness, lady. You'll need rest," he advised. "We'll tend to
your needs. Areen's wife, Nannai will see that you are as comfortable as can be
when she returns from her own hunt. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask
her. You're a guest here at Greywater Watch, and unlike some nasty rumors we've
heard, no harm will befoul you here. Rest," he suggested and then took his
leave.
I don't want anything but Sandor, she thought miserably. It wasn't long before
sleep claimed her again.
oOo
For the better part of three days he had searched when he could, but never did
he find even a clue as to where Sansa had gone. The blizzard raged with no sign
of stopping. The first time he stopped was the hardest.
The longer it takes you to find her, the worse her chances are! Get out there
and sniff her out, you useless cur! His thoughts had turned as brutal as the
wind that whipped at him. Yet no amount of scolding himself would take the
weariness from his bones or warm the numbness from his body.
He had managed to find a decent place to huddle down and build a meager flame.
It kept most of the wind off of him, but not the snow. He stayed there long
enough for the weariness to abate, and he ate some of the bread that the
Innkeeper had given them. When his hands and feet had thawed out sufficiently
he mounted back up on Stranger, who didn't seem pleased by the prospect of
walking again.
His search went on and on, and never was there a sight of his little bird. His
hopes dwindled the first day, and by the second time he made camp, they had all
but been extinguished. He was never going to find her in this mess. Hopefully
she had found some shelter…or something.
I should never have let her out of my sight, not for a second. His eyes slid
closed and despite his hatred of fire, he scooted closer to it. He may hate it,
but it would keep him alive.
When he woke in the morning the storm was still thwarting his efforts. He knew
it was futile to search for her, but each time he'd start thinking of her cold
and dead in the snow, he couldn't help but press onward. The second day was
just as bad as the first, and by the time he finally collapsed, he had pretty
much given up on finding Sansa.
She's gone; lost to the snow. You took her out of the hands of men, and
delivered her into the arms of winter. Must you kill everything you come to
love?He shivered and pulled his soaked cloak tighter to him, as if it would
offer some warmth. The guilt washed over him in waves, but he couldn't bring
himself to go on without rest. Grief weight on his heart, and sleep gave him no
peace of mind.
The third day the storm seemed a little less cruel, a little less ferocious,
but he hated it even more than before. When he tried to mount up, Stranger had
bit him. The horse was tired, and wouldn't let him on, so he made due with
leading him by the reins. They trudged on, although he didn't know where on
lead. In his race to try and find Sansa, he had lost the kingsroad…and probably
all hope of getting out of this alive.
At least we'd be together. Maybe I'll just sit down and go to sleep. I won't
wake up the next time I do. Not if I don't build a fire, and I'm too damned
cold to try and start one now.
The thought was only slightly comforting, but instead of sitting down and
closing his eyes, he pressed onward.
When he saw movement ahead, he thought it was just his imagination. A few
seconds later he saw movement again, and realized it was dark movement. Not the
movement of snow flying in the wind or trees bending against the weight of ice.
Three dark figures materialized out of the snow. They were all quite small, and
looked almost like children.
One of them came up to him, and took the reins from his hand. Surprisingly
Stranger didn't try to bite his hand off, and came along willingly enough.
Sandor followed, wordlessly. Where there were people, there had to be
shelter…but he had given up hope that these people might have seen Sansa. His
luck wasn't that good.
The three small men lead him for another hour before dark houses rose out from
the storm. There were all small, and looked as if the wind would blow them
clear over…yet once he was inside he realized that they were well made and
weren't going anywhere.
Two of the men left in a hurry, but the one who had led his horse stayed
behind.
"It was a stupid thing to travel in such conditions," the small man spat.
Sandor glared at him, but the man wasn't impressed. Neither of them spoke as
Sandor warmed himself by the fire, rubbing his fingers to bring life back into
them. It was a wonder they hadn't turned black with frostbite. He didn't know
if his toes would be so lucky.
A taller man then the other three entered the room. If Sandor wasn't on the
floor, he was sure the man would probably only make it to his chest. As it was,
he had to look up at him.
"Pull the wrapping from your face, ser." The old man requested, and Sandor was
too tired to argue. He removed the tattered blanket from his face, to show his
scars. The man looked suddenly pleased, and a huge smile spread across his
face. It was, perhaps, the strangest reaction he had ever gotten. Joy usually
wasn't inspired by burned flesh.
"Ned, I can do you one last favor!" the man had a deep rumbling laugh for one
so short. "Come with me, ser!"
"I'd rather get warm first," he snapped, tired and wanting nothing but to be
left alone to his thoughts. The man huffed suddenly, a scowl on his face.
"It wasn't a request," the old crannogmen threatened. Sandor didn't want to be
pushed around by such a small man, but he found himself standing anyway.
The last thing he had been expecting when they started walking was a small keep
to rise up out of the snow. It had been said that Greywater Watch was the
moving seat of House Reed…but he hadn't really given thought to such nonsense.
Now he saw it was true. The keep was actually a series of wooden walkways that
led to and from different offshoots. These offshoots had several small huts,
and everything was on top of wooden slats. Those led down into frozen water,
but below the surface he could sometimes make out thick wooden ovals. It almost
looked like tiny boats, or small shoes.
When the ice isn't here, this whole thing floats on top of the marshes. Nothing
is attached to the ground. It was disquieting, and for once he was glad for the
ice.
They led him along the walkways until they came to a bigger hut on an offshoot
that didn't have quite so many houses along it. He followed the old crannogmen
inside the hut.
If he had been hit with a war hammer he wouldn't have been more shocked. As it
was, he fell to his knees in sudden relief and gratitude. If he had believed in
the gods, he would have sent up thanks to all of them.
His little bird lay beneath a thick bundle of blankets and hides. Her breathing
was labored, but she was alive.
I have not lost her.
***** Chapter 21 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa dreams, and Sandor worries.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
"What's wrong with her, damn it!" he cried for the third time, wishing that the
crannog-woman would say something. Her name was Nannai, and she was the one
that was tending to Sansa. This was her hut, and he was grateful for them
taking care of her, but the woman infuriated him. She never spoke, and refused
to tell him what was wrong with Sansa.
It was obvious that she was sick. Areen, Nannai's husband was slightly more
forthcoming and had told him that they found Sansa next to a dying horse, both
of them had broken through the ice and were slowly freezing to death. They
managed to bring Sansa back, but could not get her mare to move. The horse had
perished…and that's what Sandor suspected was being roasted over the fire
before them. He couldn't complain. Meat was meat, and hot meat was going to be
a scarcity the further they traveled.
"They call it the greywater fever," Areen informed him suddenly, answering when
his wife did not.
"What the hell is that?" Sandor scowled. It wasn't something he had ever heard
of before. Areen motioned towards Sansa. Obviously she had it, whatever it was.
Suddenly he felt his throat clench.
"Is it…fatal?" he managed, his grey eyes watching Areen carefully. The man just
shrugged. Their indifference was maddening. It made him want to strangle
something. Instead he turned back to watch Nannai place a cool cloth on Sansa's
head.
When he had first arrived her body temperature was still dangerously low, and
they had brought it up with hot compresses. Now that she had stabilized, it was
a fever that raged through her slight frame. She coughed a lot, and violently.
When she was done, she always shivered for a few minutes.
The most disturbing was the staring though. Often her eyes would open, and his
heart would leap, thinking she was awake…but it had yet to be so. She gazed at
the ceiling, her eyes glazed, and he knew that she was seeing something far
beyond the reality of the small hut. Sometimes she would reach out, as if
grasping for something. When Nannai pushed her hand back down, she'd whimper,
as if she had just lost something dear to her.
Don't let it be fatal. Not when I just got her back. He found himself sending a
silent prayer to the Mother for mercy. Even when he had been with the Elder
Brother he hadn't joined their prayers. He hadn't prayed since Ariadne had
died. No gods would let her die when Gregor thrived and profited. You took my
sister; don't take my little bird too.
oOo
There was a young girl, and she was beautiful...even prettier than Queen
Cersei. She had violet eyes, and the blondest hair that Sansa had ever seen.
She stood naked in a sea of faceless men, but none would touch her. There was
blood around mouth, on her hands, and between her legs. Sansa tried to get
closer to her, and she knew that the girl needed help. Yet when she finally got
close the blonde girl burst into flames and Sansa fell backwards away from
them. Three spires of flame rose up from her body and the heat was incredible.
One was black, one was white, and the last was green.
Sansa had to close her eyes for fear that she would be consumed. When she
opened them again and the flames had changed. It was a deep red flame, and a
woman was gazing into it as if the balance of the world depended on it. Her
eyes were as red as the flame, as red as her hair and light suddenly blazed
around her.
She blinked against the sudden light and the scene changed again. She was
standing on top of the Wall. There was no mistaking it.
I am dreaming.
These weren't normal dreams though. Something about them was different.
Something about them was unnatural, and she was frightened.
Wake up, please let me wake up.
An army was attacking the Wall. There were massive creatures with huge tusks
and shaggy brown hair and some had giants perched on their backs. It seemed
like there were ten thousand men attacking, and when she turned around there
were only several of the Night's Watch to defend such a large section of the
Wall. When she looked back at the army, a red streak screamed through the sky.
It was an eagle on fire.
Sansa shut her eyes, wanting it to be over. She had never had problems waking
from her dreams before, but this time when she opened her eyes she hadn't
woken, and the scene before her changed again.
Three people struggled through deeply packed snow. Two were young, and small.
The third was large and appeared to have some sort of odd bundle. She realized
a moment later that the bundle moved, and a small, windburned face peered
straight through her. It was her brother Bran, but he had a strange black mark
on his head. It was only when it blinked that she realized it was an eye. It
should have scared her, but she was just happy to see her brother.
Sansa reached out a hand to him, but something pushed her back, and the dream
faded.
No, wait! Bran!
She tried to call out but no sound was made.
She was in the darkness now. Someone whimpered next to her and she reached out
but could not find anything or anyone. Sansa knew she wasn't alone, but she was
frightened anyway.
"More," a small voice requested, and another person replied, but in a language
that Sansa did not understand. Her vision wavered and two eyes shimmered before
her. It was an animal's eyes, and they were large and hungry.
Please, enough...please.
Her pleads were left unanswered and she seemed to flicker between different
dreams, each one more confusing than the last. Soon she had forgotten all but
glimpses of these dreams. The ocean, a noose, a dark cave, a bag filled with
bones, two crying babes, a half eaten corpse, a one eyed wolf, a dragonglass
candle, a wildling woman with ratty hair, a dark cell, a man being held under
the water, a brilliant red/black sword, a seven pointed star, a blond haired
figure covered in blood, a broken knife, an angry looking savage, a host of men
raising swords in the air, and hundreds more.
I just want to wake up.
"Then open your eyes," a voice instructed. It was the voice of a small girl,
and she appeared before Sansa. It didn't seem as if she saw what Sansa did, or
if she did, it didn't bother her.
They are open!
"Don't lie, all you have to do is open your eyes and you will finally wake.
Just don't take too long, or you'll never wake up," the tiny girl gave a sad
sigh, and looked off into the distance.
I've been trying, but nothing seems to work.Sansa felt helpless, as the images
bombarded her, one after the other. Some were horrible, some were not, but all
of them filled her with dread.
"You're too scared, but it's worse if you don't," the girl started to sing a
nonsense song. Sansa wanted to scream, but didn't. She sank to the ground and
pulled her knees to her chest.
I want to go home.
"You'll never go home if you don't wake up," the girl stopped and looked over
her shoulder.
I told you, I tried. I just can't.
"Then you'll die," the girl gave a small shrug and Sansa felt more helpless
then ever.
oOo
It had been two days since they had found Sandor, and five since they found
Sansa. Howland Reed came to visit Sansa every day, but he could offer no answer
to when, or even if she would wake. He did, however have answers that neither
Areen and Nannai would answer. The two always vacated the house when Howland
visited, and Sandor wished they'd stay away longer.
"The greywater sickness is different for everyone. I am sad that it struck
Ned's daughter. My own son got it when he was very young, and he was never the
same since. Few in Greywater get the sickness. The ones who wake from it are
always changed. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst. I cannot
give you the happy answer you want to hear. The ones that die, are the ones
that do not wake," he looked sad at the thought.
Sandor cursed quietly. Sansa would take no food, but she would take water if
offered. That she would drink hungrily, and if they gave her too much she'd
start to choke and cough. Sandor instead gave her small slivers of ice that he
gathered from outside.
She will not last much longer with no food. What will you do if she dies?It
wasn't something he was ready to think about.
"Can we have our own room? I'm tired of listening to the silence of the two
you've put us with," he said suddenly. Maybe if he got Sansa away from these
people...it was a stupid thought, but he would try anything if it meant she
would wake again.
"Nay, you're with them for a reason. These two have dealt with the greywater
fever before," Howland replied.
"Which one of them had it?"
"Their five year old daughter."
"I didn't know they had a daughter," Sandor scowled. There were no signs that
anyone lived in this hut other than Nannai and Areen. Howland looked at him
steadily, then stood up to took his leave. As he reached the door he paused,
then looked back at Sandor.
"She did not wake."
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa dreams, and Sandor tries to make his peace with her.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
The next day Sansa refused the snow she had been getting down till this point.
Her jaw was clenched tight and nothing he could do would coax her to open it
and drink. Sandor said nothing, but Nannai and Areen understood. Nannai even
put a hand on his shoulder, briefly, then she and her husband bundled up and
left him alone with her.
They left me to make my peace with her. They think she's going to die, and they
want me to have my final moments with her alone. There is nothing else they can
do.
He took one of her small hands in his own. They looked too thin, too fragile.
Sandor wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid if he did, that when he
opened them again she wouldn't be alive. He wanted to spend every moment he
could looking at her as she still lived. As the blood still flowed through her
veins. As her small heart still beat beneath her perfect chest.
I never told her how much she meant to me. The thought made him angry. He had
been such a fool. So often he had met her words with harsh remarks and snide
comments. Too often had he growled and snarled.
I should have showered her in kindness and laughter.Despair rose in him like
the high tide. It was too late. He hadn't kept her safe, and now she was going
to die. In his mind there was always more time. Plenty of time to figure out
just what it was that he felt for her, to decide if he was going to stay with
her after they reached Winterfell...and now there was no time left.
I should have told her.The thought made him feel seven years old again, at the
edge of the causeway staring helplessly as death claimed his sister. He should
have told Ariadne too.
Suddenly he needed to hold her, despite her condition. He wrapped the blankets
around her small body and pulled her into his lap as gently as he could. She
didn't even stir, and her gaze was fixed far away. She'd blink on occasion, but
other then that, she made no movements. Even the coughing had stopped.
She was naked beneath the blanket, but he didn't stir at the thought. There was
to much sadness in him to think of such things. The only desire he had now was
the desire for her to look at him again, to smile and curl up against him.
I didn't treasure her nearly enough. Gods, is there a bigger fool in all of
Westeros?
His tears came, sudden and hot as he held her to him and waited for her to die.
oOo
Sansa felt weak, even in her dream. The weariness settled on her like a heavy
blanket that she was forced to carry with her wherever she went. Her visions
continued, an endless slew of information that was slowly driving her crazy.
She felt the madness creeping up on her.
The little girl felt it too, and would look back at her with sorrow in her
large green eyes. On occasion the girl would come and walk beside her, but she
never touched her. Sansa wished she would have. Any contact would be welcome at
this point.
I miss Sandor. I wonder if he made it through the storm, or if he died in it.
"You won't know until you wake," the girl replied. Sansa never spoke aloud, but
the girl seemed to be able to read her thoughts.
I told you, I've been trying.
"I suppose you'll just have to try harder. You're still frightened, and if you
show fear, you'll never be able to wake."
I don't even know what that means. You don't make sense!
She had been getting good at ignoring the visions that came to her but this one
got her attention. It was the Hound. He was sitting beneath a tree, a terrible
looking wound on his thigh. It appeared to be festering. He looked exhausted
and in pain. Her heart quickened and she tried to go to him, but couldn't move.
A shadow rose over him and she gasped when she saw that it was Arya, and that
Arya had a rock.
She's going to kill him! No! Arya, stop! her cries were silent. Thankfully
Sandor woke up. He said horrible things to Arya. He urged her to kill him,
called her a coward. Sansa closed her eyes when he spoke about killing the
butchers boy. Then she was started to hear him talk about her, how he stood and
watched them beat her. He spoke of the song that he took, and admitted that he
had thought about taking her. How he regretted not doing it, and how he should
have killed her. Then he begged for death.
"You don't deserve the gift of mercy," Arya walked away and the vision shifted
away again.
Sansa started to cry again. She didn't want to see these things, but something
in her twisted. These things that she saw were not things that were going to
happen, these were things that already had. Sansa was suddenly angry.
Why won't you help me? All you do is tell me what I already know! Why don't you
tell me HOW to wake up instead of going on and on about how I SHOULD wake up!
The girl's eyes opened wider, but she didn't seem afraid. Instead she laughed.
"All you had to do was ask me. I couldn't help you until you asked," the girl
offered one hand to Sansa. She hesitated only a moment and then took the girls
hand in her own.
A heaviness weight down on her suddenly and she felt as if she was drowning.
The world around her shimmered, rippled and then shook violently. She felt
herself screaming, and held the girls hand as tight as she dared, eyes closed
tight in fear.
"Now, open your eyes!" the girl instructed.
Sansa suddenly broke through the surface of the heavy feeling around her and
opened her eyes. Not the ones in her head, but a different pair of eyes.
Everything she saw was green.
"Wake up Sansa Stark," the girl whispered and let go of her hand.
oOo
Sandor lightly stroked her hair as she shivered and moaned. Her eyes were wide
open, and tears fell from them in a steady stream. She was in pain, and he
hated it. He wanted to end her suffering, but knew he wasn't brave enough to.
It wasn't in him to kill her. Not her.
Her breath caught in her throat suddenly and he quickly met her eyes. They were
still staring, glazed and almost lifeless. She did not inhale or exhale, and
when her eyes slid shut he knew it was over. His shoulders slumped forward and
a sharp pain went through his chest that left him shuddering and gasping for
breath. Sandor closed his eyes as fresh tears gathered, then slipped through
anyway. He had lost the only thing that mattered.
She shuddered in his arms and he gazed down at her, snapped from his pain by
the sudden, unexpected movement. Sansa's jaw had unclenched and she was taking
shuddering, deep breaths, as if she had been under water for some time.
"Sansa?" he breathed, not daring to believe...until her eyes flickered open.
This time her gaze was on his face, and when she realized it was him, a tired
smile rose to her lips.
His mouth came down on hers much harder than he had intended, and he pulled her
into him in a tight embrace. She kissed him back in small, quick kisses, still
trying to catch her breath. Then she simply buried her face in his neck.
"Gods Sansa, I thought you were dead," he breathed, hardly believing that she
wasn't. Had the Mother heard him and actually given her back? He wasn't sure,
but he silently thanked her nonetheless. He'd thank her every day for the rest
of his life.
He pressed his forehead to hers and looked into her eyes, so incredibly
thankful that he could still do so. It was then that he noticed the difference
in them. They were still her eyes, the distinct blue that had haunted his
dreams for so long, but every now and then there were little dark green spikes
apparent in her irises. They were thin, but there was no mistaking that they
were new.
Sansa pulled back a little so she could look at him, then she reached up and
wiped his tears away with a small smile. She then put her head on his shoulder.
"Sandor," she breathed his name like a promise.
***** Chapter 23 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa has her first greendream since waking up from the fever, and
     doesn't know what to make of it.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
"I must say that I'm pleased that you've woken little Stark," Howland Reed
beamed at her as they shared the first meal since she woke. "Few enough of my
own people wake from the fever, and I've never known anyone from outside our
lands to rise again. I've never been happier to have been proved wrong."
Sansa didn't know what to say to that so she just gave a tentative smile.
Sandor didn't look pleased at the conversation, but he didn't say anything
rude. It wasn't like him, and she found herself wondering if maybe he was
coming down with something too.
"The dreams were the worst," Sansa admitted to her bowl of stew.
"Aye, so I've been told. Things that were, things that are, and things that may
yet be. All can be said to appear in the greendreams," Howland nodded his
agreement.
"Did you have them, my lord?" Sansa asked eagerly.
"Nay little Stark, I do not have the greendreams. My son Jojen is another
story. Never have we had someone so young dream the greendreams so powerfully
and accurately. It is a shame that he is not here, it would do you well to talk
to him about what you have seen," Howland looked a little disheartened.
"Where is your son my lord?" Sansa inquired.
"He's been gone for a long while now. I sent him and my daughter to Winterfell
to swear fealty to the King in the North. When Winterfell was turned to rubble,
I do not know what became of my children, but I know they still live," Howland
seemed so sure of his statement that Sansa couldn't help but believe him. She
wished she could be as certain about her own family.
You saw Arya. You saw her with Sandor...but was that something that already
happened, or something that has yet to happen? The thought of her sister hadn't
crossed her mind since she had woken up only a day ago. Mostly her thoughts
were on Sandor and how happy she was that he didn't perish in the storm as she
almost did. It was a very deep stroke of luck that had brought them back
together.
Maybe it isn't luck at all. Maybe it's something much more powerful. She didn't
know what to make of that thought, but was spared from it as Howland Reed
started talking again.
"Some would say that the only way to truly understand the power of the
greendreams is to go to the Isle of Faces near Harrenhal, but such a trip is a
long way from here, and in the opposite direction from your goal of Winterfell.
It is also not a trip that I would advise with such discord in the realm, and
in the midst of winter. Best to heed your family words little Stark," he
advised as he finished off the stew in his own bowl.
"Maybe one day, but not for a very long time," Sansa agreed, and was pleased to
see the relief on Sandor's face. It was obvious that he didn't want to make
anymore trips back into Tully lands, and neither of them wanted to think about
going anywhere near Harrenhal. He hadn't killed Petyr, and maimed as he was,
Harrenhal still belonged to him. The only place worse than going there would be
to go back to King's Landing.
"Aye, your way is North. Back to your homeland, though it will not be an easy
journey and I fear that what awaits you there is not the home you remember."
"I know. I've heard what has become of Winterfell...and my brothers," she
looked down at her hands and sighed. It was not going to be an easy homecoming.
"Be that as it may, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Good things
will come again I feel, once you reach it," Howland smiled at her and she felt
comforted. Good things had been few and far between for most of her life. It
would be a relief to have some waiting for her in the near future.
"I hope you're right, my lord," she replied with a slight incline of her head,
which made him smile. He stood and motioned for them to follow him.
"Come then, you will need much rest to recover your strength. Now that you've
woke, you will not need Areen and Nannai to take care of you anymore. We have a
place for you both to bed down in for as long as you'll need. The storm is
dying down at last, but the going will still be dangerous for the next few
days. You are welcome to stay here as long as you wish, do not worry about
being a burden on me or my people. We have more stores of food and wares then
most of the realm. Greywater Watch has its advantages in times of war," he
spoke as he led them out into the cold, then down into an empty hut.
There was already a fire going that one of the crannogmen had set up for them,
and there were plenty of warm furs and blankets to wrap themselves in. There
were several bundles of clothes as well.
"Here, we've provided you with some warmer clothing. Your old things have been
put to the flame, I'm sorry to say. They would have done you little good in
this cold anyway. I'm surprised you both made it this far with life and all of
your fingers and toes. These shall keep the cold and wet away from your body,
and you'll find no warmer clothes to wear lest you make it to the Wall. I
daresay the Night's Watch knows how to keep warm," he chuckled and Sansa smiled
at his words.
"I can never thank you enough for all that you've done for us," she gave a
small curtsey and he laughed again.
"Nay, you need not show me such unnecessary courtesies Lady Stark, it is I that
should be bowing before you. Since your brother's death, and the disappearance
of his wife, I do believe you are the Queen in the North," his smile was deep
as he bowed, then took his leave.
When he left, Sandor started to laugh. Sansa frowned a little as she looked at
him, wondering what was so funny.
"Queen in the North indeed. It seems that the little bird will finally get her
wish," he laughed again.
"It's not funny. I don't want to be a queen of anything," she admitted as she
wrapped one of the furs around her shoulders, then sank to the floor in front
of the fire.
"It seems that you might not have a choice in the matter," Sandor replied as he
sat down beside her, his knees popping as he did so. His words made her sad.
She never had a choice in the matter. Would she ever be in control of her own
fate, or was she bound to be dragged along kicking and screaming despite her
will?
"I just want to go home and for things to be normal," she was disgusted as the
tears filled in her eyes. When they slipped down her cheeks, a rough, calloused
hand wiped them away with a tenderness that didn't befit someone of his size or
stature.
Sansa met his gaze slowly. When she saw the emotions there she knew that
nothing in her life would ever be normal. Not as long as he was in it. She
brought her face up to his and kissed him. Warmth spread through her body and
she wrapped her arms around his neck as he kissed her back.
I wouldn't trade it for anything.
oOo
The dream was green. She could still tell the colors of everything around her,
but at the edge of everything was the same green tinge. The snow was falling in
blinding sheets. It was another blizzard, she saw with dismay. Sandor was
behind her as they rode, his strong arms around her. Her sense of dread
vanished. She was safe with him.
Before her two paths split before them, appearing out of the snow so suddenly
that Sandor had to reign in Stranger. There was a choice for them to make.
Sansa looked down the left path, and she saw Winterfell. It was in ruins, worse
than she had ever imagined. Atop the gate were two small skulls that she knew
were the skulls of her brothers. She saw herself walking through the rubble,
and someone rose to meet her. He was comely, and offered her a hand. On top of
his blonde head was an iron crown that she knew had once belonged to her
brother. Beside him stood Sandor, but he looked angry. When he met her gaze,
all he did was nod.
She turned her head from that path and toward the other. At first all she saw
was more snow, but then she saw a small boy ahead. When she reached him, he
turned to look at her. There was no doubt in her mind that the boy was a Stark.
He wore the same iron crown that she had seen in the other path, but he didn't
offer it to her. Instead he turned and walked forward. The ground before him
turned red, as did the sky above him. As he walked, he left behind seven
footprints of flame. Sandor was walking at her side then, but said nothing to
her. His gaze was on the crowned boy in front of her.
Sansa closed her eyes in fear. Neither of the paths that lay before her were
the ones she wanted to tread. Perhaps if she turned back...
Sansa turned in the saddle, trying to look behind her, but she was distracted
by the change that came over the body that held her. When she looked up at
Sandor, all she saw was a half burned skull. The man it belonged to was long
dead. She screamed.
oOo
"Sansa!" he shook her gently as she whimpered. He could feel her heart pounding
in her small chest and he wondered what it was that she saw in her dreams. When
she woke, she shuddered and turned towards him, burying her face in his chest.
He stroked her hair until she calmed down.
"Bad dreams, little bird?" he whispered gently, wishing he could chase her
dreams away.
"Greendreams," she replied and the dread in her voice made him frown. He didn't
like staying in Greywater Watch, and he had often wished that they had veered
further from it. She never spoke of what she saw in the dreams when she was
still in the throes of the fever, and it didn't seem as if she would talk about
the one she just had.
"Dreams are just dreams...green or blue or yellow. Go back to sleep Sansa," he
kissed her forehead. It was a simple thing to do, but he still felt awkward
doing it. He had never been affectionate to anyone, but after the scare of
almost losing her, it seemed wrong to keep treating her the way he had. She
needed that affection, now more than ever.
"I guess you're right," she replied in a tired voice, but she did not close her
eyes. Sleep did not claim her again that night. She would not let it.
***** Chapter 24 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sandor hasn't been totally forthcoming with Sansa, and she finds out.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
     This chapter contains some explicit content.
He woke with her lips on his. It was the nicest way he had ever woken up in his
life. Sandor pulled her on top of him suddenly and was rewarded when she gave a
little squeak of surprise. He smiled against her kiss and wrapped his arms
around her waist. When she pulled back, she was breathless and a flush had
risen on her cheeks.
A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat as he brought her to his lips again. She
opened before him and he deepened the kiss, and when she straddled his hips he
gave a small groan. He wanted her, maidenhead be damned.
Both hands found her breasts and she gasped as he gave them a small squeeze,
then started kneading them lightly. Every now and then he gave a small pinch to
one of her nipples that brought a delicious moan from her and made the blush
darken on her cheeks. Every one of her moans brought a twitch of desire from
his cock.
As if sensing his need, she pulled back from him and lightly pressed her hips
against the bulge in his pants. He felt his eyes roll into the back of his head
as she gently rose back and forth, grinning at the noises she was pulling from
his throat. The weight of her eyes was heavy on his face and he opened his own
again to meet her gaze. He was startled, and deeply pleased to see his own need
mirrored in her blue-green eyes.
They both started to undress each other at the same time. Sansa fumbled with
his pants as he slid his hands beneath her tunic and somehow their mouths met
again in the process. He moved down her neck, kissing the tender skin and
feeling the fast pace of her heart beneath his lips. She moaned and pressed
against him, his name on her lips.
She had his pants down around his thighs when she stilled suddenly and broke
away from him with a jerk. At first he thought he had somehow done something to
hurt her. As he pulled back to get a look at her he had no time to register
what was happening. Her small hand came out of nowhere and hit his face with
such a crack that his teeth clacked together. The fact that she had to do it
hurt more than the hit itself.
She rose her hand to hit him again, and he caught her wrist this time, holding
her tight.
"What in the seven hells is wrong with you?" he cried in sudden anger as he
tried to ignore the lust that was still upon him.
Sandor expected a lot of things to come out of her mouth, but he never expected
her to pull his pants the rest of the way off.
oOo
"This! Where did you get this?" she jabbed at the scar on his thigh. Anger
washed through her again and again as she thought about it's implication. If
the dreams she had were correct...then he had gotten this scar when he was with
her sister. Since the scar was on his leg now...and was healed...then it meant
that this had happened in the past. It meant that he knew her sister was alive.
It means that he hasn't been honest with you.
"I was stabbed...Sansa, what is wrong with you?" Sandor asked as she jerked her
hand from his and rose. She quickly pulled her clothes back on and wrapped a
blanket around her. She was determined to not spend another minute in the same
room with him, but as she made to walk out into the cold (and sorely unprepared
at that) he grabbed her by the upper arm again, his grip like steel. He had
pulled his pants back on, and the scar was hidden again.
She yanked against him, pulled and lashed out with foot and hand. She knew she
was acting like both a child, and a savage but she didn't care, she just wanted
to get away from him, from his dishonesty...the only person in her life that
she knew to tell the truth had not told her about her sister being alive.
"Let me go!" she wailed in sudden despair and he pulled her into a rough
embrace. The gesture took her by surprise and made her burst into tears as her
legs gave out against him. He scooped her up like she was made of paper and set
her down lightly on the pile of blankets as she sobbed, hating him and helpless
before him. He covered her with a thick fur, and lay down beside her. She saw
the scowl on his face through the tears, but didn't speak for a long time.
Mostly she was trying to get a hold of herself, to quell the tears that had
sprung forth with a will of their own. Part of her was still furious, however,
and that part finally won out as she spoke to him at last.
oOo
"You knew Arya lived," it wasn't a question, and it was filled with contempt.
Seven hells, the wolf-bitch causes trouble even when she isn't here! He was
amazed at how guilty he suddenly felt.
"Aye, I knew," he admitted slowly. It was best to just let her know what had
happened. Covering for it now wouldn't fix anything. Not with how angry she
was.Not like a little bird now, is she?
"How could you let me believe she was dead? How could you after everything?"
her voice rose an octave that set his teeth on edge.
"You never seemed to care that much for her, and it never came up," it sounded
flimsy, even to his ears.
"I don't care if I never seemed to like her, she's still my sister! She's the
only family I have left!" her face crumbled again into a fresh wave of tears.
She hit him again in the chest with a small fist and then buried her head into
his chest. He hesitantly raised a hand to stroke her hair and when she didn't
bat it away he left it there.
He sighed deeply.I will never understand women.
"I should have told you. We didn't leave on the best terms. Your sister left me
for dead," he admitted. The thought was old, but still held a remarkable amount
of bitterness for him.
"I know," Sansa sniffed, "I saw it. She said you didn't deserve mercy and left
you to die beneath a tree."
"If you knew, then why were you so angry?" he asked, not understanding how she
knew and could still be so angry.
"I didn't know it had happened...I thought...maybe...that it could
happen...later...but your scar is old and I know it's the same one. You still
should have told me!" she cried angrily, her face red and puffy. Only she could
still be beautiful with such a look on her face.
"I should have. I'm sorry," he managed. Apologizing wasn't one of his strong
points, but he owed it to her. He didn't want to lose her because of her thrice
damned sister, and his own stubbornness. She had almost been lost to him
several times, and he was determined that there would be no more.
She looked as if she was going to continue yelling at him, but she stopped,
realizing what he said. Her lower lip quivered for a moment then she slumped
against him, her arms snaking around his neck.
"I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to slap you, it just happened...I was just so
mad!" she sniffed against his neck again and he felt her start crying again.
"There's nothing to be sorry about, little bird," he assured her in a soft
voice as he lightly pushed a strand of her hair behind one ear. He had been the
one to make the mistake, there was nothing for her to apologize about. The
stinging on the good side of his face was a reminder that he needed to be more
open with her. He was dimly grateful that he had never come across any of her
other family members on his travels.
"How did it happen?" she asked after a time, her voice so soft that he almost
didn't hear her.
"A fight. I was drunk and unprepared for an attack. It was sloppy fighting and
I paid for it. You would think I would have learned," he trailed off as he
remembered the fight.
"How was she? Did she look alright?" Sansa asked about her sibling. Sandor
thought back to the fight with a small scowl.
Is there gold hidden in the village? Is there silver, gems? Is there food?
Where is Lord Beric? Where did he go? How many men were with him? How many
knights, how many bowmen? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how
many? IS THERE GOLD IN THE VILLAGE?
There had been few times in his life where he had seen such rage in a woman,
but the rage he had seen come forth from Arya Stark, who was just a mere girl
was like none other he had seen before. Even Gregor, who was a monster in his
own right, never had that depth of emotion and anger to his brutality.
"She'll be just fine, little bird. Your sister is tough, and knows how to wield
a sword better then some men I know. She made it a good two years on her own,
and as far as I could tell looked no worse for the wear," he admitted at last.
Sansa didn't need to know about the death of the Tickler at her sisters hand.
"Arya? When did she have time to learn the sword?" Sansa looked disgusted, but
not surprised. It brought a small smile to his face.
"Not all girls can be as proper as you are," he chuckled when she smacked his
chest lightly. Her mood seemed to have improved a little.
"You don't know where she was headed, do you? After she left?"
"No. She wasn't the talkative type," he could remember full days where neither
of them had said anything. Those were the only good days of their travel
together. Once she opened her mouth, he had to fight every urge to punch her
teeth clean out of her head.
"I never really liked Arya. She drove me crazy...but she's still my sister,"
Sansa sounded so sad that he pulled her closer.
"We haven't seen the last of her, don't worry." Sandor knew it was the truth.
People like Arya had the worst way of turning up when you didn't want them
around.
***** Chapter 25 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa realizes the foolishness of her earlier request.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
While Sansa recovered her strength, she was relieved to find that she did not
have the greendreams every night. Some nights she didn't even dream at all.
Others, she dreamed but they were normal dreams.
The hut that Howland had provided them only had one room, and she wondered
about the implications of that. She was unsure if it was because all the
crannogmen lived in close quarters to one another, unlike the rest of the
realm, or if it was because Howland knew something more about their situation
than he let on. When she asked Sandor about it, he only shrugged.
As she put on the weight she had lost, Howland would visit as much as he could,
and when he could not, Areen came in his stead. She liked both men, but Howland
was a better story teller. He seemed to know hundreds of stories, none of which
she had ever heard before. The crannogmen were a totally different type of
people and their stories were based deep in lore of nature and the old gods.
Sandor didn't seem to enjoy the stories as much as she did, and often he would
end up honing his blade while Howland spoke, but he seemed more interested when
Areen visited. The small man would tell them about what was going on in the
realm. Most news was uninteresting, but every now and then he'd let on to
something that would peak her interest, or make Sandor swear.
Mostly however, it was news of how dire the situation was in the North. Winter
had indeed come, officially announced by the arrival of white wings from the
Citadel. The war had not been kind to the people of Westeros, the northerners
especially. The last autumn harvests that were supposed to get them through the
long winter had been burned, ravaged, or stolen. Storehousees everywhere were
running thin, and a few were already bare. The northern clansmen had ranged far
and wide, overstepping their own lands and straying into others to try and find
game. Clan fought clan, and more men were slain...not for a kingdom or a
king...but for simple food and survival.
Sansa had been so distraught by the news that Sandor gave Areen such a stern
look that the small man quickly remembered something he had forgotten to do at
home, and took his leave of them.
Much to her dismay, things between her and Sandor had become a little strained.
After the fight they had over Arya, he seemed more distant than normal. He
never went out of his way to kiss or touch her, and if she wanted to kiss or
touch him, then it was always her who needed to initiate it. He would respond
back, though was distant about even that. Finally she gave up trying. When he
was in a foul mood the only thing to do was to wait it out.
It had been almost a week since her last greendream, and she was beginning to
think that maybe she wasn't going to have anymore. As she sunk into sleep that
night, Sandor beside her, although too far away for her liking, she felt at
ease with the thought of going to sleep for the first time since her fever.
oOo
Sandor woke to a quiet sob. He listened for a moment as Sansa tried to cry as
silently as possible, but she was too distraught by whatever it was that made
her upset, and her breath started to hitch in such a way that made Sandor give
a small cringe.
"What's the matter, little bird?" he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder and
looking at the back of her head, since she was turned away from him. She jumped
when he touched her, not realizing that he was awake. Sansa turned to him, and
the haunted look in her eyes suggested another greendream. It tugged at his
heart and he pulled her close. She clung to him as if she'd never recieve human
contact again and cried on his shoulder.
"What did you see?" he asked at length, stroking her hair lightly. She opened
her mouth, as if to tell him, then dissolved into a fresh wave of distress.
Seven hells he hated when she cried. The words he wanted to say never came out
right and he felt a fool more than half the time. Sandor never felt as if he
was making her feel any better. Most times he made it worse, like now. He
gritted his teeth and waited for her to calm down enough to talk.
May the Others take the crannogmen and their damned greendreams!
Finally Sansa stopped crying, but she lay exhausted upon his chest, breathing
shallowly.
"I'm such a fool," she managed weakly, "such a stupid fool." Sandor wanted to
say something to that, but he didn't want to make it worse so he let her take
her time to think out what she was saying.
"How many times have I heard my family words? Winter is coming. Father would
say it all the time...and I never grasped the meaning. I never thought about
it. I've never seen winter. I've never known what it could do. Mother have
mercy," she trailed off, shaking her head. Sansa pulled him even closer, and
stared into the embers of the fire that lay next to her.
"Areen was wrong. It's worse than anything he said. There is no food. The
stores are all gone, and people are dying. There are no babies, no elderly.
They've already perished. Children beg their parents for food but there is none
to be had. They're boiling snow with pine bark and acorn paste already. It
hasn't even been a year...and we're supposed to get ten," she turned to him,
her eyes wide and hauntingly dead.
"They're eating each other," she gave a shudder and he held her a little
tighter. He had no doubt that she had seen these things and more when she
slept, and she had no doubt that they were true. He had seen terrible things in
his time, but he had never been forced to eat a man. Food was always plentiful
in King's Landing. Kings never went hungry.
"I am such a fool. I asked you to take me to Winterfell but I didn't know what
that meant. To me it has always been home. Strong, warm walls. People to tend
the land and servants to tend to our every need. A roof above my head and halls
filled with life and laughter...but that was in summer...and that was before
Winterfell was destroyed. Nothing waits for me in Winterfell. The walls are
broken, the people fled, and the winter stores are gone. Even the glass houses
were destroyed, and all that grew within them..." she trailed off and shut her
eyes with a grimace of pain and dismay so great that all he wanted to do was
make her forget the things that she had seen. He pulled her to him and kissed
her. Not with need, or with lust, but with simply caring.
She pulled back and looked at him, eyes red and tired, but still beautiful. He
brought her back and kissed her again. Once on the mouth, than once on each
eyelid. She gave a small shiver that had nothing to do with his touch, or the
temperature of the room.
"If we go to Winterfell winter will claim us both," she whispered into his
chest and her words sounded as if they came from a much older woman.
"Then we best not go to Winterfell," he suggested. It made sense to him. All he
knew was that he would follow her to the Wall and back if that's what she
wanted, winter be damned.
She looked up at him with a slight frown, as if she didn't understand.
"No one said you had to go back to Winterfell, little bird. You can go wherever
you want. No one will dictate where you end up now." Not even me.
oOo
"Mother said there must always be a Stark in Winterfell..." she started, then
trailed off. Mother was dead, so was Father and Robb. Her honor bound her to
Winterfell, but what had honor ever gotten her? It had gotten her father a
sword through the neck. It had made her mother and brother careless enough to
risk letting their guard down amongst the Frey's. Honor had gotten boiling oil
poured over Ser Loras.
If she went to Winterfell, honor would kill her as surely as if she had jumped
from the Moon Door that night only several moons ago. Honor would starve her,
take her fingers and toes, and leave her to the long, cold sleep.
I don't want to die cold and hungry. I don't want Sandor to die cold and hungry
either. I don't want to wonder where my next meal will come from. Even if I had
all that in Winterfell, we wouldn't hold the land long. Too few remain to hold
it, if any. The Boltons own the north now. Honor would say that they shouldn't
have it...but I'm just one girl. I cannot hold the North on my own. I'll need
bannermen and weapons and an army willing to fight for me.
"Winterfell has no Stark now. I don't think it will matter if it waits till
spring," Sandor suggested when she didn't resume talking.
"We've come so far...and suffered so much to get there...to quit now just seems
horribly craven," she muttered, but knew he was right. He didn't even need to
tell her that for her to know that she had already made up her mind. The
greendream had shown her that much. She was just grateful that the dream hadn't
been about her. It had been someone she didn't know in a small northern town
that she had never seen before. The town had been intact and suffered more than
she could ever imagine. It made the famine in King's Landing look like a feast.
Sandor gave an annoyed snort. "Better craven than dead."
"Where will we go?"
"South."
oOo
It took them several more days of resting in Greywater Watch before Sansa
decided she was strong enough to leave. Howland seemed sad that they were
leaving, but was understanding. Like Tom before him, Howland set them off with
a lot more than they came with. The clothing was especially generous.
Leather gloves had been made to fit each of them in turn, and they were lined
with the softest fur she had ever felt. They were ten times warmer then the
cloth ones she had taken from the Vale. The boots had been custom made as well,
and were also lined with fur, although this fur was course and a lot thicker.
Her tunic was too large for her, but would suffice. It kept her warm and
Howland assured her that it would also keep her dry, and keep the moisture away
from her skin.
Nannai had taken her cloak, the same one that Sandor had left her from King's
Landing, and she had added fur to the inner liner. Sansa was relieved when it
was returned to her, even though she wasn't sure why. It was still an ugly
thing, even though the blood had been scrubbed away as best it could be. It was
now little more than a pink stain. The smell of fire was also gone, and the
singe marks had been cut away and restitched.
"I can never thank you enough for all that you've done for me, my lord," Sansa
told Howland Reed as he hugged her in a tight embrace.
"Anything I can do for any kin of Ned's is a pleasure," Howland replied and
gave her an almost fatherly pat on the head. He then turned to Sandor and
embraced him as well. Sansa had to stifle her smile behind the back of one hand
as it happened. Sandor towered above Lord Reed, and looked awkward and highly
uncomfortable.
"Take care of her lad, she needs herself a good man to protect her from all the
ills that could befall a maiden in these dark times," Howland gave him a
knowing look, then stepped back next to Areen and Nannai. They were the only
three that had made themselves known during their stay with the crannogmen.
Sansa turned to Nannai and Areen and gave them a curtsey.
"Thank you both for all that you've done. I wouldn't have made it without
either of you...and...I'm sorry about your daughter...but she's happy. I
wouldn't have made it without her either," she informed her two caretakers. A
tear trailed down Areen's face but Nannai made no remark. She led her husband
back into their hut without a word.
Sandor held out a hand to help Sansa up onto Stranger's back. Howland put a
hand on Stranger's vast neck and Sansa was shocked when the horse didn't try to
bite or kick. He seemed perfectly at ease.
"You've made a wise choice to return to the South. The North is not so friendly
in the winter, but when Spring comes again I hope to see Winterfell returned to
your hands Lady Sansa," he replied with a twinkle in his eyes, then he gave a
light smack to the rump of their horse, and they were on their way.
Sansa twisted in the saddle and waved goodbye, startled at the sudden tears in
her eyes. She knew that they were leaving one of the few places in the North
that still remained loyal to her family. Howland had been incredibly kind and
generous to her in her time of need, and she hoped that one day she could
return the favor.
It felt good to be traveling again, away from the curious eyes of others when
they spied her with Sandor. It was something she would have to come to terms
with eventually, but she was unable to yet. They didn't see him the way that
she did, and she doubted anyone would ever really know him the way she did.
Would they always be looked upon with scorn? There hadn't been too many
crannogmen other than Areen and Nannai that had interacted with them, but if
they ever left the hut together, either to sup with Howland, or to just get
fresh air, she noticed the passing looks that they got.
They were too polite to say anything, but it didn't stop them from thinking it.
The anger of how unfair it was hit her suddenly, and dissipated slowly. She
remembered a time when she would have thought the same thing.
I was stupid and vain. I knew nothing of the way the world worked. I wish
others could see him the way I did. He's not just the scars on his face or the
sword at his hip. Sansa turned to get a look at Sandor. He met her eyes and
gave a half smile that warmed her better than any fire. She settled in the
saddle, pressed against his chest and enjoyed the feeling of being secured
between his arms.
They descended into silence, and not even nature around them seemed fit to pick
up the slack. She suddenly missed the summer. Nothing was silent about summer.
The air was filled with songbirds and the low rasp of insects in the grasses.
Even the trees whispered as the wind gently danced between the leaves. It was
nothing like the silence of winter when the only sound was the soft crunch of
snow beneath Stranger's hooves and the occasional groan of bark rubbing on bark
as the wind moved the now leafless branches against one another.
I wonder how long this winter will last. The last summer lasted for ten years,
and we're now barely a year into winter as it is. Will it really be like this
for ten years, or more? The thought made her sad. The long night would take
another year to engulf them at the rate it was going now, and few knew how long
that would last. Old Nan had told them that the long night would last a full
twelve years, but that seemed unlikely...or so she hoped. Maybe she was just
trying to scare Bran. He always liked the scary stories.
And I always liked the tales of knights and princesses. Valor and beauty, skill
and finesse.There were no stories now, save the one she lived in. A small,
nostalgic smile rose to her lips as she thought of how much Bran would have
enjoyed the story of her journeys since she left King's Landing.
Her thought turned to the dream she had about her brother and the third eye on
his head. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if it was just a
dream or if it was like the one she had about Arya and Sandor. Howland had
warned her that the dreams might not be clear. She wished that he knew more
about them. Maybe if she knew more, they wouldn't scare her as much.
Everyone who heard about the destruction of Winterfell told of how Theon
Greyjoy...no, Theon Turncloak, had slain her two helpless brothers, one only
four years old, the other a cripple. He had placed their heads on spikes, just
like her fathers. Her heart fell at the thought. We trusted him...he was like
another brother to me, and he was more of one to Robb. How could he have
betrayed us so terribly?
Sansa couldn't help but think about the ironborn. If they had continued North,
they would have passed Moat Cailin. The ironborn had held it for a time, but it
was soon overtaken by Roose Bolton and his bastard. She didn't want to come
across either of them. The flayed man on the sigil of house Bolton had always
sent a shiver down her spine. Anyone who would pick such a horrible image to
signify their name couldn't be considered a friend.
That, and there was a disturbing rumor that the bastard Bolton had wed her
sister. Petyr had let her in on that little secret. Arya Stark did still live,
but the woman that Ramsay Bolton had married was not her. The false Stark would
allow the Bolton's to feel safe in their claim as Wardens of the North. As it
was, the Bolton's were now in charge of Winterfell, though they still remained
in the Dreadfort.
Let them have the North, and may winter claim them all.
***** Chapter 26 *****
Chapter Summary
     The travel south begins, but where will they end up?
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
Neither Sansa nor Sandor had a destination in mind as they traveled south, but
it didn't seem to matter. They had a good deal of time to figure out where they
wanted to go. Sansa smiled at the thought. Her whole life had been a series of
planned journeys; it was a freeing feeling to not have a destination. They
could stop where they wanted; leave if it seemed dangerous or if they didn't
like it. If they wanted to stay at one place longer than somewhere else, they
were welcomed to.
After the mayhem of the blizzard, Sandor decided to stick to the Kingsroad. As
long as they both kept their hoods up, and wrapped a scarf around their necks
and lower faces, few would recognize their identities. They met very few people
along the road. The ones that they did meet were traveling south as well, and
were laden with few possessions. Most looked half starved, and all of them
looked cold. The first person they passed Sansa had said hello to. The man
opened his mouth to show broken teeth and a missing tongue. Sansa kept her
mouth shut after that.
A few times they had passed hedge knights, and once they passed a group of
knights from the Vale, but much to her relief, they only got a passing glance.
Mostly they were left alone, and sometimes that made her sad. She missed
talking with other people. Sandor was good company, if he was in a good mood,
but sometimes she longed to speak of trivial things. The trivial things she
spoke of to him seemed to bring nothing but annoyance and clipped remarks, even
though he apologized afterwards. So she learned quickly to keep them to
herself.
Often they were lucky enough to find some sort of shelter to keep out of the
biting wind and bitter nights. Twice they had stayed at small Inns. Once they
had found an abandoned, run down house. Another time a kindly woman let them
stay in her stables for a few coppers, and she shared her food with them too.
Several nights after their last inn they came across a campsite with a fire
still blazing. It appeared that there had been a fight, and there were two dead
wolves, both with multiple slashes across their hides. The meat was fairly
fresh and Sandor had cooked some up. Sansa had refused it, but he seemed happy
enough for a warm meal. They had camped in the tents that had been pitched. The
men who had left them had not returned. Sansa knew that at least some of the
wolves had gone to sleep with a full belly. She was highly uncomfortable that
night, and hardly slept at all.
When she finally did sleep, she had another greendream. When she woke from it
she was so shaken that she could barely look at Sandor, and didn't talk to him
the whole next day. He had frowned at her, and asked her what was wrong but she
couldn't even reply, so he left her to her silence. She would not speak of what
she had seen to him. He didn't need to know everything she dreamed about, and
this one would follow her to the grave if she had anything to say about it.
It took less time then she'd ever have imagined to reach the Crossroads Inn.
She had never been there, but she could tell that Sandor had. He didn't have to
say anything, she could tell by the sudden stiffness in his posture and by the
angry rasp in his tone when he spoke. Something bad had happened here, but she
didn't have the courage to ask. Perhaps it was better left unsaid.
oOo
The small town was in shambles. War had hit it hard, and it showed. There were
more orphans than he cared to count, all with bellies bloated from hunger and
dirty faces that no mother was around to clean. Sansa watched all of them as he
led Stranger to the stables of the Inn. A tall, tough looking boy who looked
vaguely familiar allowed them to share a room once he saw the color of their
coin. It was a poor establishment, and there was no food to be had. The Inn
offered only a roof over their heads, and surprisingly ale. The boy remarked
that there wasn't much, and it was way too overpriced, but Sandor paid it
anyway. Maybe it would help get some food into this place, though he doubted
it.
His gaze went to the corner of the Inn and he frowned. He hadn't wanted to come
into the common room, but Sansa insisted. She wanted to sit by the fire and
enjoy the warmth and different company. He shook his head as she started to
tell stories to two of the small children that were huddled near the flames.
Soon two more joined, though they hung back a little further.
Sandor wasn't sure when it happened but suddenly it seemed as if every orphan
in the town had sensed something going on and the room quickly filled with
small, unwashed bodies. The smell was enough to put him off his ale, but Sansa
didn't seem to mind. She seemed delighted to tell stories to them all night
long.
When she exhausted her supply of stories that she had learned in Winterfell and
at King's Landing she started to recount the tales that she had learned from
Howland Reed and Areen. Even the tall boy that had taken their coin was
listening to her tell stories. He pretended to busy himself as he wiped down
the tables with a rag that did naught but spread the filth around, but would
respond in small ways to her tales. Sometimes with a faint smile, more often
with a small scoff or frown.
She's good with children. He thought aimlessly as he watched her spin her
tales. A small girl was perched on her lap, and another held onto one leg, but
Sansa didn't seem to mind. She used her free hand to motion at the proper
moments. When she told a particularly silly story, the children laughed
hesitantly at first, but as they grew used to it, the Inn filled with the sound
of amusement. Every now and then she would glance over at him and give him such
a poignant smile that it made him feel instantly wretched.
He wasn't worthy of someone as kind as she was. It was a feeling he kept
getting over and over again since they had left the marshes behind. Nothing in
particular had triggered it, but it was a nasty feeling and polluted his mood
at every opportunity.
You almost took her that night, knowing that she's never laid with a man. You
know what her maidenhood is worth, and you almost took it anyway. She trusts
you to keep her safe, and not just physically, but emotionally. She'll do no
good as Queen in the North if you despoil her with your filth. You'll ruin her
as sure as if you ran the sword through her stomach yourself. He tossed back
another gulp of lukewarm ale and tried to drown his thoughts. When it was done,
he wanted another.
You know what happened the last time you got drunk…and you remember the time
before that too.
He glanced behind him and frowned.
Is there gold hidden in the village? Is there silver, gems? Is there food?
Where is Lord Beric? Where did he go? How many men were with him? How many
knights, how many bowmen? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how
many? IS THERE GOLD IN THE VILLAGE?
There was certainly no gold in this village, nor silver, gems or food. Lord
Beric was rumored dead, by a hundred different sources in a hundred different
ways. The Tickler's questions had died on the lips of his killer, and he would
not be asking them again. Sandor fingered the cloth above the scar on his thigh
and decided that he wasn't going to have another mug of ale, and that he was
going to turn in. He left Sansa with the small army of children and holed
himself up in their room.
oOo
Sansa yawned as she made her way up the stairs. She had finally managed to
disentangle herself from the children and was glad of it. They had greatly
improved her mood, but she was tired and needed rest. Sandor had long gone up
himself and she wanted to join him.
She opened the door as quietly as she could, and then barred it behind her.
Sansa slipped out of her day clothes and made her way to the bed. A smile crept
onto her face as she watched Sandor snore. The bed was much too small for him.
His feet stuck out well past the edge, and he had placed a small bench there to
prop his feet up. It didn't look very comfortable, but he had still managed to
fall asleep.
He was also taking up most of the bed. He was spread in such a way that she'd
either have to crawl over him, or sleep on the floor.
I've had enough of sleeping on the floor. Who knows when we'll have a bed
again?She assessed the path she would take for a moment and then attempted to
crawl over him without waking him up. The edge of the bench would serve as a
foothold. Things would have gone according to her plan, but the bench wasn't
nearly as heavy as it looked and when she leaned on it, it shifted and sent her
toppling into the bed with a startled cry.
Fortunately she had the good sense to not land on Sandor directly, but she did
land on his outstretched arm. He woke with a rough snarl at the same time her
head smacked into the wall. It hurt, but she'd had worse. Still, she cradled
her head in both hands; eyes squished shut till the pain faded. The whole time
she apologized endlessly for waking him up.
"You could have just pushed me over," he growled at her and she felt stupid.
She should have just asked him to move over, he would have growled, but it
would have saved them both some pain.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! I real-" she was silenced by his mouth as he
pulled her on top of him. The pain in her head was forgotten as she sunk into
his embrace. One arm was slung around her waist, the other had already made its
way under her clothes and to the naked breast beneath. Her stomach fluttered as
he pushed into her, already hard. He wanted her…and she wanted him. Her hips
seemed to move of their own accord as she pressed herself into the muscular
body beneath her, and the moan he gave her sent a spike of heat between her
legs.
As if knowing, his hand slit from her breast and started towards the spot
between her legs.
"No!" she cried suddenly, breaking away from the kiss and almost leaping off of
him in her haste to get away.
"Seven hells woman!" he cried half from anger, half from need.
"I can't…I can't," she whimpered, eyes suddenly brimming with tears and her
cheeks burning with shame. "I…I have my moon blood," she admitted to her feet,
unable to meet his eyes when she said it.
Sansa expected a lot of things, but his laughter was not one of them. He
laughed loud and long, and her cheeks reddened even more. Why was he laughing
at her? One of the tears spilled over and she wiped it away angrily. Sandor got
a hold of himself after a time, then looked at her in such a way that she
flushed all over again.
"If I can walk through mud, I can fuck through blood," he growled with a
positively lecherous grin on his face. His words were not rewarded with a
flush, but a total lack of color as the blood drained from her face. Anger rose
swiftly to replace her shock.
"I'm not some…some wanton…whore! I'm not losing my maidenhead during….during…"
she flushed at her inability to be as crude as he was, then she turned away
from him, gathering her things as she went.
"Where are you going?" he asked and she turned when she reached the door.
"I'm going to sleep in another room, alone!" she spat, and slammed the door
behind her.
***** Chapter 27 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa dreams again and knows they must flee, but what path will she
     choose?
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
"Sansa," he followed her out into the hallway, hissing her name. She kept
walking, and made him chase her down. He grabbed her arm and she tried to
wrench free. He wasn't in the mood for her tantrums so he picked her up and
unceremoniously threw her over one shoulder, and hauled her back into the room.
"Put me down!" she slammed a fist into his back, but there wasn't much strength
in it. He did as she asked and tossed her back onto the bed, where she landed
with a satisfying squeal. Sandor was on her the minute that she landed, his
fingers on her chin, forcing her to look at him. There was another time he had
done the same thing, but that was far from his memory.
She suddenly looked scared, and he loosened his hold on face, but he didn't
stop looking at her.
"You may be older, and you may be smarter, but you're still the worst liar I've
ever met," he accused and she closed her eyes, knowing that she had been
caught.
It hadn't been hard to tell that she was lying. She always looked at her feet
before she lied to him, and usually he let her get away with it. Tonight was a
different story. She had lied to his face about something no woman should have
to lie about. He never would have said such things to her if she was telling
the truth. Lies pissed him off...especially lies from her.
"If you didn't want me touching you, fucking tell me to my face," he let go of
her, disgusted, though he was unsure if it was more with himself or with her.
Her lower lip trembled, but she did not cry. She brought her knees up to her
chest and hugged them as she turned her gaze to the corner of the room.
"It's not that," she started but didn't seem to be able to finish her
statement.
"Then what is it? You seemed fine till I started heading between your legs," he
snarled, and resisted the urge to hit something.
"You...you haven't..." she closed her eyes, and closed her mouth. Sansa took a
deep breath to settle her nerves.
"Out with it!" he hissed, irritated and tired of waiting for whatever stupid
excuse she would have. She flinched at his tone, then got angry.
"You haven't seen what I've seen! I know what happens if we end up...you know.
I've seen it, and there's blood everywhere. Nothing but red! Nothing!" the
haunted, disgraced look came into her eyes again and not for the first time he
cursed the crannogmen and their fever. The dream she had not told him about was
a dream about him fucking her.
That means it happens then. The dreams always come true. A wave of conflicted
emotions hit him with the force of a heavy stone. He was going to get his wish,
but at what cost?
oOo
"I'm sorry little bird, I didn't know," he apologized and she nodded, then
curled up on the far side of the bed. She wanted to sleep, and she never wanted
to sleep again.
"Shall I sleep on the floor then? Would that make you feel better, me being
where I belong?" he asked.
"Stop it. You're not a dog, you don't have to sleep on the floor," she replied
softly. The truth of the matter was that she didn't want him to leave. She
hadn't wanted him to stop touching her either, but the dream she had was so
vivid and frightening that she didn't know what to make of it. The whole ground
had been stained red with blood, and although her mind insisted that it
couldn't possibly be like that, she was certain that it would be.
"I could get another room, if it pleases you?" he sounded irritated again.
"No. Sleep here. You can't protect me from another room," she scooted closer to
the wall to make room for him. After a time he slipped between the blankets,
but he kept his back to her, and she kept hers to him. Neither of them spoke,
or slept, for quite some time.
oOo
"Get up, we have to go!" she cried suddenly, waking him from fitful sleep for
the second time that night. He rubbed his eyes as she tugged at his arm.
"Where's the fire?" he asked as she crawled over him to get dressed.
"I dreamed again...we have to go," was all she said, and the panic in her
stance was almost palpable.
Following suit, he quickly started to dress, and then helped her pack. Whatever
it was that she had seen was obviously not a good thing. When ready he followed
her from the room and back downstairs to pack up Stranger and leave the Inn.
When he opened the door to go out into the stable he stopped.
"We cannot travel in this!" he rasped in irritation. It had started snowing
sometime in the early hours of the morning and it came down in heavy layers.
The air was heavy with the smell of crisp, clean snow...and it had the same
smell as the blizzard had that they had almost lost each other in.
"We must, please Sandor, we have to go!" Her plea was so insistent and full of
fear that he muttered a curse and went to saddle Stranger.
"Well what did you see?" he asked as he helped her mount up. This was stupid.
Going out in another blizzard was apt to get them killed, but she seemed to
think that freezing to death was preferable to what would happen if the stayed
at the Inn.
"The wrong sort of people know we're here. I saw...the Inn boy. He was talking
with someone and they're calling forth their forces to find us. We cannot let
them find us. I don't know what they'll do but...they didn't look friendly,"
she shifted forward as he mounted up behind her.
"Did you see any sigil you recognized?" he asked as he gave his destrier a kick
to get him going.
"No, there was nothing. None of them wore any kind of sigil, or any
recognizable colors," she admitted, and that troubled her more than anything
else.
"Crows?"
"No, these were not men from the Night's Watch," she had no proof that they
weren't, but she didn't get that feeling from them. These were outlaws, and
they were on their way to find them.
"Then we best make good time. Any idea what way they're coming from?"
"North, thankfully. We'll keep going south. Hopefully the storm will keep them
from finding us," she sounded so worried and distraught at the thought of being
caught that he almost wished these outlaws did find them, if only so he could
cut them down himself.
oOo
They didn't ride for long before they came to a fork in the path, and dread
made her stomach start to hurt as she realized she had seen it before.
One way leads to a man with a crown, the other to a boy running through a red
and white haze...and behind...
Sansa looked back at Sandor, but there was no burned skull looking down at her,
just his normal, scarred face. He looked impatiently at her, wanting to know
which way she wanted to go.
None of these seem like the best way to go...she thought suddenly and wished
there had been another choice. As it was, she had to make one. Finally she
pointed to the right fork and without further hesitation Sandor gave Stranger a
kick and they were off again, this time, towards the boy running through a
world of red and white.
He wore a crown too. Am I destined to deal with kings my whole life?
Sandor rode Stranger as hard as he dared. The wind and snow slashed at her face
like cold knives. Even drawing her hood closer to her did no good. Winter was
not as harsh as it had been when they were further north, but it was still a
cruel mistress. Soon her lips were chapped and her nose was numb. The fur-lined
cloak kept her warm, however, and though she knew there was plenty of layers
between her and Sandor, she fancied that she could feel his warmth as well.
I've been unfair to him. He's been so kind lately, and all I've done is reject
him and yell, and hit him. Some lady I've turned out to be. It's no wonder he
yelled at me last night, and started again with his cruel remarks. These dreams
shouldn't make me hate him. It isn't his fault that I get them. I shouldn't
take it out on him.
Sansa resolved to apologize again for lying to him. If only he could have seen
what she had though...it still made her want to cry. There had been so much
blood...
"Stranger's liable to end up lame after this. The snow's going to make him turn
a leg for sure," Sandor grumbled as the snow and wind picked up. Their
visibility was hindered even more by the onslaught. Sansa wondered for the
first time if this was really preferable to being captured. Sandor was an
amazing fighter...he could have protected them...right?
Did you really want to see him fight again? Her mind returned to the man he had
beaten to death with his fists, and that solidified her resolve. No, this was
the only choice she could have made. This just had to be the right direction.
oOo
They rode for what could have been hours, or days. Sansa had lost track of all
time in the storm. Sandor had gone quiet, and so had she. Neither of them had
much to say, since there wasn't much to see or do. Her eyes slid shut, but she
remembered to rub them on occasion to keep the snow and ice from gluing them
shut.
At least there is no chance to get lost from each other this time. The thought
brought a small smile to her face. Regardless of the fights they had, or how
angry they both got at each other, there was still no one she'd rather be out
here with. He was still her protector.
He's more than that, and you know it.
Yes, she knew it, and maybe she had always known it. Yet the more she was with
him, the more attached she got. Sure, he drove her crazy sometimes, and hurt
her feelings, but he was still brutally honest. She thought back to the way he
had reacted when she had woken up from her fever. The look in his eyes...she
hadn't seen it since, but there was no mistaking it.
The ground beneath them suddenly gave a creaking noise and Stranger shied to
the right, spooked. Sandor pulled him back and cursed. Sansa clung to the
saddle-horn.
"We're on ice," Sandor cursed. She could see nothing but snow, but Stranger
seemed to know and didn't much like it.
"We have to go back," Sandor remarked and tried to pull Stranger around.
"NO!" Sansa cried and grabbed the reins from him suddenly. He cursed at her,
but she drove her heels into Strangers side before he could stop her and the
horse took off across the ice. The ice creaked and groaned beneath all the
weight, but did not break. The snow gave the horse enough traction so he
wouldn't slip. At least the storm had been good for something.
"Are you trying to get us killed?" Sandor snarled in her ear, but she knew more
than he did. To go back...well, the image of the burned skull was seared into
her memory well enough. That was all the encouragement she needed to keep them
going forward. That was one vision she never wanted to come true.
Eventually Stranger slowed, his breath puffing in great bursts. The ground
beneath them had stopped creaking, and for that she was grateful. It was a
dangerous sound...and she hadn't forgotten the pain of falling into such cold
water.
Something changed in the air, although at first she wasn't sure what it was.
Sandor figured it out first.
"The snow is stopping," he muttered with a frown. Blizzards didn't blow
themselves out like that, and the sky was still white and appeared to still
threaten snow. The immediate area seemed to be nothing but soft flurries. Even
the wind had died down to nothing more than a whisper.
"Seven hells..." Sandor breathed, his voice softer than she had heard it in a
long time. She glanced before her to see what made him speak and she felt her
heart stop in her chest.
***** Chapter 28 *****
Chapter Summary
     The only winter here is a red one.
Chapter Notes
     None of these characters belong to me. All belong to George R. R.
     Martin.
     This chapter contains explicit content.
"Gods," Sansa breathed and it wasn't a curse, but an exclamation. Before them
stood a forest of weirwoods. Those were the only trees that grew here, and they
were larger and more magnificent then any she had ever seen before. They
reached up to the heavens, their red leaves a stark contrast to a sky of white.
Faces had been carved into every single one. Some smiled, some screamed, some
looked angry or sad, but all had the same distinctive blood red eyes. The faces
here made the one back in Winterfell look like a newborn babe. These carvings
had been done ages before the one in Winterfell had. She found it oddly
beautiful.
Sandor dismounted, then helped her down. She hardly noticed the frown on his
face. Her eyes were drawn into the forest of heart trees, and they didn't want
to let her go. Sansa stepped forward into the shade of the nearest tree, and
she couldn't help but feel powerless and small as she was watched by the eyes
of a hundred and more of the old gods. Sandor followed behind her, saying
nothing.
How could I ever have worshiped the southern gods, when this exists? She
wondered as she passed beneath the thick boughs, weaving her way between the
trees. It didn't take her long to realize how quiet it was. The wind had
stopped blowing, and the snow had stopped as well. It was as if some force was
keeping the ill weather from touching this sacred place. Their steps were
hushed upon the ground that was covered in red leaves. Red above, and red below
with a myriad of red and white in between.
"Even I could start to believe in the gods in a place like this," Sansa heard
Sandor mutter from behind. He had never been a pious man, laughing in the face
of all faiths equally, but even he could feel that this place was different.
She had never felt the way she did now while entering other godswoods or the
septs of the south.
As they passed deeper into the forest Sansa noticed the lack of snow beneath
their feet. Just red leaves and the grass beneath it. Even the air had warmed
and she was forced to take off her gloves and unfasten her cloak. Sandor did
the same a moment later.
"They will not find us here," Sansa assured him after a time. The feeling of
security and peace was almost overwhelming. She hadn't felt so at ease since
she lived in Winterfell. Even traveling with Sandor hadn't offered such
overwhelming tranquility.
"I wouldn't be so certain of that little bird," he remarked in skepticism. She
didn't start arguing with him, but she knew she was right. How she knew it,
however, was beyond her reasoning.
The forest seemed to go on for miles, and the deeper they went, the older the
carvings on the weirwoods looked. Faces of the elderly, wrinkled, gnarled and
lined passed them on both sides, forward and behind. Sansa had a feeling that
no spot in this forest didn't have at least one pair of eyes upon it. As they
progressed through the forest, the weirwoods also seemed to get thicker in
girth, and taller in height. She had never seen a weirwood grow so tall or fat
before, and occasionally a glimpse at one will still take her breath away.
"It's so beautiful," she murmured, passing beneath one of the huge boughs and
gazing up through the branches at the white sky above.
"You're not wrong. I wonder how many septs would lose their seven fearing
septons and septas if they were brought here? The old gods might have more of a
following if more people saw this." Sandor mused. Sansa smiled at the thought.
She could make a good guess.
"Oh! Look!" she exclaimed suddenly as they came to a clearing in the forest.
Before them stood the most magnificent weirwood yet. The face carved in this
was massive. If Sandor had stood at the nose, the top of his head might have
just reached to the bottom edge of the eyes. As for the mouth, it was wide
open, gaping and pressed down into the earth. The hole bore straight into the
heart of the tree and she knew that if they stepped through it, neither of them
would have to duck.
It's bigger than the crannogs we stayed in in the marshlands!
Sansa crept closer and poked her head into the mouth to get a better look at
what lay inside. Even inside the weirwood the floor was covered in the splayed,
five fingered leaves. In the dark of the tree the ground was turned to crimson.
Sansa gazed up and felt the breath rush from her lungs again.
"Sandor, look at this!" she whispered and pointed to the top of the tree.
Sandor joined her as she stepped into the middle of the tree. He gazed up and
gave a small grunt that meant he was impressed, or didn't like what he saw.
"How does it still live if it's hollow?" he asked, and she knew then that he
didn't much like what he saw. She had no answer for him. From the ground up,
the tree was hollow, as if someone had come in with a giant knife and had
whittled the tree from the inside out, leaving just a white shell behind.
It had been done a long time ago, she knew. No sap flowed down the walls,
although the inside of the tree was still stained red. When she reached out to
touch the side of the tree, she was startled to find how warm it was to the
touch.
"This place...it's not natural," Sandor rasped, but he didn't look
uncomfortable this time. Even he seemed more at ease here, despite his words.
"No, it certainly isn't," she looked up at him and smiled. "Maester Luwin
taught us about the old gods, and he taught us about a place called the Isle of
Faces, that was located in the middle of a lake called the God's Eye. A pact
was signed here, from the Children of the Forest and the First Men. It was for
peace...and to symbolize that peace, the Children carved faces into all the
trees on the island."
"Well, we did cross water, and there are faces on every tree. I suppose we've
found your isle," Sandor exclaimed as he continued to stare up into the hollow
trunk of the tree.
"This place was supposed to be protected by the Green Men...but I haven't seen
anyone. Do you think they're out there?" Sansa wondered. She hoped that if they
were, that they would be friendly.
"I haven't seen any signs of life but us and the trees."
Sansa wasn't wrong about the majesty of the Isle of Faces. Something about so
many trees carved with such detail and all in the name of peace was
illuminating.
So few would make such an arrangement these days. No one makes pacts of peace,
but everyone will start a war without a second thought. No wonder the little
bird can't stop smiling. This is probably one of the few places in Westeros
that hasn't been ravaged and spoiled by war. Sandor couldn't help but watch
Sansa as she walked beneath the white trees. She seemed at ease here, and he
didn't blame her. Here there were no sides. No lions, eagles, stags, flayed
men, or even wolves. No wars had been fought here, and no widows had been made.
It was a neutral place, and apparently the only ones here were a dog and a
little bird.
Ariadne would have liked it here, despite her devotion to the seven. His brow
creased at the thought and he pushed his mind towards safer thoughts. Thinking
of his sister usually made him mad, or sad, and he had had enough of those two
emotions to last two lifetimes.
The only thing that bothered him about the place was the mysterious rise in
temperature. They didn't even need gloves or their heavy cloaks, though the air
was still crisp. It was as if late autumn, or very early spring had come to
this place and simply frozen that way in time. It may be that the trees
themselves gave off the heat. When Sansa had gone into the biggest tree and
touched the walls, she had told him of the warmth. Hadn't he felt it for
himself?
There's nothing normal about a tree that gives off heat. Tree's should remain
cold, and still. Nothing without a beating heart should be that warm.The
thought was enough to break through the calm that had settled on him since
their arrival. Even so, it was only a faint discord and it faded almost as
quickly as it had come upon him.
Sansa seemed taken with the hollow tree. She walked inside it, around the
outside, and if it had been ladylike, he was certain she may even have tried to
climb it. He was not as swayed by wonder as she was. He was more interested in
watching her. The weariness seemed to have drained from her, as if the forest
was breathing life back into her body. Her hair seemed more lustrous, and her
skin didn't look as ashy as it had when she was sick. Even her eyes were
brighter and more alert.
"Can we stay? Just for a little while?" Sansa asked suddenly, whirling on him
with wide, hopeful eyes. Her hands were clasped together beneath her chin, as
if praying. Could he really deny her? He didn't want to stay, it would be
better if they moved on. No, they needed to keep moving.
"Yes, we can stay," he surprised himself by agreeing with her. The delight on
her face was reward enough, and a warm sensation spread through his chest at
her smile. I hope I made the right choice. I have a feeling if we brought
violence here, this would not be such a friendly place.
Sandor set up camp inside the hollow tree. It would keep them from view, and it
didn't seem as if they would need a fire tonight. As it was, she wouldn't have
felt right burning anything from this forest, and Sandor seemed to sense the
same thing. They would eat stale bread and hard cheese, but she didn't mind. At
least they would have shelter and safety beneath the old tree.
After they ate a meager meal she lay on the forest floor with her hands behind
her head, gazing up at the hollowed out shell of the tree. Sandor sit beside
her, staring off into nothingness. Neither of them spoke, but it was a
comfortable silence. She didn't mind at all. Something about this place brought
a stillness to her thoughts.
She closed her eyes for a time, just enjoying the feeling of not having to hide
or worry that they might be found out. The warmth of the hollow tree radiated
around her and was invigorating after the long journey through the cold. It
almost felt like spring, and that was a comforting thought. Spring meant life,
and after all the death that winter wrought, it would be a wonder to dwell in
the newness of life again.
She felt eyes on her and turned her head to look at Sandor. He was watching
her, but she didn't mind. Instead of speaking, she simply looked at him,
allowing herself to truly take in his features. It had been a long time since
she had done so. Probably back when he was still recovering from the arrow
wound.
His face would never be handsome and his scars would always be ugly, but they
were no longer frightening. The grey eyes that once held unyielding rage had
quieted, though she knew they were still capable of the emotion. His brow was
heavy, and his jaw square. It was a masculine face, strong and hard.
A small smile came to her lips unbidden. One of his thick eyebrows rose as he
saw her grin.
"What are you smiling at, little bird?"
"You."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Because I'm in love with you," the words spilled from her mouth before she
even realized she was going to say them. Her stomach seemed to drop clear out
of her body, and her heart started to pound as heat rose to her cheeks, but she
did not look away from him. She hadn't meant to say it. It had been years since
she had even considered being in love, and she thought she was beyond such a
girlish thing...but here she was, the words hanging in the air before them,
without her consent.
She watched a range of emotions flicker through his eyes, though she had no
idea what any of them were. Sandor kept his grey eyes locked with hers, and his
gaze was so intense she was afraid if she blinked, or looked away that she'd
lose him forever.
Instead of words he reached out and pulled her on top of him, rolling so his
back was in the weirwood leaves. She kept looking into his eyes as he brought
his face to hers, and only closed them when she felt his kiss. It was not a
demanding kiss, nor was it hard or hot with need. He didn't try to deepen the
kiss either. All he did was kiss her, and run one of his large hands through
her hair. When he pulled back from the kiss, letting his head rest on the floor
all he did was shake his head. Sansa put her head on his wide chest and
listened to the heavy thump of his heart.
"You're a stupid little bird. You could have any man in the Seven Kingdoms, and
probably most of them across the Narrow Sea, and you have the audacity to fall
for a dog like me?" he chuckled deep in the back of his throat. She gazed up at
him, feeling sad.
"You're not a dog, and I'm no bird...you're just a man, and I'm just a woman,"
she replied heavily. It was too much to ask him to feel the same as her,
regardless of all they had been through and the tenderness he occasionally
showed. Sansa clenched her teeth, determined not to cry or to be upset.
"You're upset," he stroked her hair again. She wished he couldn't read her so
well.
"You expected me not to be? When a lady professes her love, and gets no
reply..." she trailed off. Why bother finishing, the result would be the same.
He put a hand under her chin and lightly brought her gaze back up to his.
"I take it my kiss wasn't proof enough?" he asked, all traces of his earlier
amusement gone. Her heart skipped a beat, but she still shook her head. She
needed to hear him say it, although she didn't know why.
"Little bird...Sansa. I have loved you from the moment you first met my gaze,
horrible as it is. I have fought it, cursed it, and denied it...all for naught.
The feeling remains my constant tormenter, and the only thing that kept me warm
during the long winter nights in your absence. I don't deserve you, I shouldn't
be with you, and I sure as hell should never have told you any of this...but I
told you once that I wouldn't lie to you, and I'm not lying now. I love you,
and may the Others take me for it," he confessed.
Sansa saw the conflict in him, and didn't care. It didn't matter to her if he
was lowborn, or that he wasn't what others would consider worthy. It didn't
matter that he himself didn't think he was worthy. She knew he was worthy of
her, and when the words past his lips she couldn't help the smile on her face
or the sudden tears in her eyes. For once, they were not tears of sadness, but
of joy.
He kissed the tears away as they fell, and when she brought her mouth down on
his again she felt his smile against her lips. He didn't smile often, only when
making some lewd remark, or a harsh joke, but she knew this was was out of
happiness. It warmed her suddenly and fiercely. The fluttering in her tummy
increased and she wondered if one could die of happiness.
When she pulled back to look at him, he gave another one of those sighs that
wasn't really a sigh. It was a sound that she heard often, and had come to
understand even though they hardly ever acted on it. It was a sigh of longing,
a sigh of desire.
The sound stirred something in her and she thought back to the night he had
taken her with his mouth. She hadn't known any sensation that felt like that
before, and they hadn't done it since. The last time they might have, she had
ruined it after finding the scar on his leg...and the time after that she had
lied to him and ruined it again.
The thought of all that blood pooled beneath her should have made her cautious.
It should have made her frightened, and hesitant as it had before...but she
felt none of that now. All she felt beneath the hollow tree was warmth, safety
and love.
Sandor gazed at her, but made no motion to touch her, save the hand in her
hair. It stroked lightly and felt better than any brush. She could tell that he
wanted to touch her, but he remembered the night before...gods, was it only the
night before?
She brought her hand to the one he had tangled in her hair, and moved it down
to one breast. It was a bold move, one she probably never would have done
before tonight...and it made the fluttering in her tummy increase. Sandor,
however, frowned.
"Sansa," he began, in a tone that meant that she should stop. He hadn't
forgotten the night before, and the fear she had shown.
"I'm not afraid anymore," she whispered, and although her voice was soft, he
could see no lie in her eyes. The fear from the night before had vanished,
although she did not know what had chased it away. Regardless she was grateful.
"I shouldn't...we shouldn't..." he started but the look on her face made the
words die on his lips. Instead of resuming where he left off, he brought her
head down and kissed her again, hard. The hand still on her breast gave a
squeeze and she couldn't help the gasp that escaped from her throat.
He fumbled with the laces of her tunic as she opened her mouth to his kiss. He
tasted like nothing she had ever had before. It was a distinct taste, a Sandor
taste, and thick with desire that made her breathless. Her nipple hardened
beneath his touch and she pushed herself into him, longing for the pressure she
knew he was holding back. He rewarded her with a pinch that sent a jolt from
breast to groin.
Before she knew it her tunic was discarded to one side and he resumed squeezing
and lightly pinching her breasts. The feeling of his bare, calloused hands on
her own bare breasts was incredible...but she wanted more. She moved to start
undressing him as well, but he was too big and she couldn't manage while still
on top of him.
He rolled her onto her back so suddenly she forgot to breathe. With one deft
motion he removed his shirt, then pulled her into him in a sitting position.
Her legs could barely wrap around his large waist, and the way he was
positioned had it so she was sitting directly on the hardness between his legs.
His strong arms held her up, against his bare chest as he let out a low grumble
of pleasure as she pressed down into the hardness that rose up to meet her.
She only had the small-clothes on for her lower body, but he still had his
breeches on. Sansa wanted to remove them, but the feeling of him grinding into
that sweet spot between her legs kept her from going anywhere. It didn't feel
as amazing as his tongue had, but it still had her gasping and wanting more.
"Please," he soon had her begging, "please, I..." she didn't even know how to
phrase what she wanted him to do. Luckily he seemed to know what she wanted by
instinct. He tumbled her down onto the soft bed of leaves and quickly did away
with her remaining clothes. A small part of her was still embarrassed to be
laid bare before him...but the bigger part of her just wanted more of him, in
whatever manner he was willing to give to her.
He started with his hand, rubbing the hood over that spot she ached for him to
touch with one, rough thumb. Her hips bucked occasionally, which seemed to
please him as much as it embarrassed her. She felt a wetness between her legs,
a heat that she couldn't explain and didn't have time to. He removed his hands
and went to work with his mouth again.
Her legs twitched with a will of their own as he silently worked her. She cried
out several times when the pleasure threatened to drive her crazy, but every
time she got close he'd pull back. Sansa knew he was teasing her, and she
didn't know why but she couldn't complain. Everything he did to her felt
amazing. She never wanted him to stop.
He slid one finger across he slit and she gasped at the sudden pressure there.
When he brought it back, glistening with wetness she felt heat rise to her
cheeks again. Sandor seemed pleased by what he saw however, for he brought his
face down again and started with renewed vigor. He pinned her hips down as he
had done so long ago, to keep her from squirming away. This time he allowed the
orgasm to take her, and she cried out loud and long as it tore through her,
arching her back as much as his arms would allow. When it finally subsided she
collapsed onto the ground, panting and shuddering.
Sansa watched him as he removed his pants, and stood naked before her. He was
hard, and standing straight out. She had little to compare him to, but didn't
have any doubt that just like the rest of him, the cock before her was larger
than most.
He sat next to her, watching as she recovered from his ministrations. Sandor
did not idle long, however, and he pulled her into his arms, and rolled her so
she was on top of him. His hardness pressed lightly against her entrance, and
he met her gaze.
"I need you, but if you are not ready...I will not force myself on you," his
voice was deep, rough and full of longing that sent another stirring through
her. She wasn't sure that she could take any more pleasure after what he had
done, but at his words, she knew that she could, and would. This time she would
not balk.
"I want you to...but...be gentle, if you can," she asked, hating the small
waver in her voice. Sansa knew this was an important event, but she also knew
that there was no one else she'd rather be doing it with. She was frightened,
and she wouldn't try to hide it, but neither would she let fear stop her this
time.
I will not be a slave to my dreams.
He didn't let her change her mind. Sandor pushed forward with his hips and
claimed Sansa's maidenhood. She cried out in pain, and he had sense enough to
stop moving. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her eyes were closed tight, and
her fingernails would leave bloody marks behind on his arms, but she did not
cry. It took every ounce of will power to stay still within her. He had never
felt someone so tight, or wet before. No whore even came close. She felt better
than all the dreams he had ever had of this moment.
Even with all of his will power, his cock had a mind of its own. It would
twitch inside of her and she'd whimper. It would take a little time to get her
used to his girth, but if she didn't get used to it soon he was going to loose
his control, and that would be bad for both of them.
He reached between them and lightly stroked between her legs. She gasped at the
touch, but he knew that it was a good gasp, not a pained one. He found himself
wishing that it didn't hurt her, and hoping that it wouldn't hurt much longer.
Finally, when she eased her death grip on his arm, and relaxed a little against
the ground he spoke.
"Do you want me to stop?" he didn't want to, and he didn't know if he even
could, now that they had gotten this far, but she shook her head and spared him
the thought.
"No, please don't," she managed, her large blue eyes meeting his for the first
time since he entered her. He could not remain still any longer and he pulled
out slowly. She winced a little, but rewarded him with a light moan as he
pushed back into her.
He continued to work her with his hand as he did the same with his cock. Her
moans came more rapidly and although he wanted to make it last a lot longer, he
knew that it wasn't going to take much to send him over the edge. Wanting
something for so long, and going without for almost as long had taken its toll.
Sandor picked up his pace, driving into her as hard as he dared...which wasn't
nearly as hard as he wanted to. Her cries echoed throughout the hollow tree,
and grew more insistent as he brought her close to her peak again. When she
came, she tightened around him so suddenly that it brought him over the edge as
well. He groaned deep in the back of his throat as he spilled inside of her,
and there was no other sensation in the world but his little bird wrapped
around him, crying out his name.
She lay naked in his arms as they both basked in the afterglow. The lingering
sensation of her orgasm left her feeling wonderfully lightheaded. She was still
aware of the sharp ache between her legs, however, and when she moved it would
give an awful twinge. Still, it hadn't been as bad as she had been expecting it
to be, and there hadn't been much blood at all.
The dream was wrong. I never laid in blood. She thought with a small frown as
she looked over at the spot where she had lost her maidenhead. There was
nothing but leaves. Leaves.
Sansa started to laugh. It came out as a giggle at first, but then took hold of
her and she was soon gasping for air as she laughed, her voice traveling up
through the tree and echoing out into the night.
"And what, pray tell, is so funny?" Sandor asked after a moment. One eyebrow
was raised, the other was furrowed.
"I thought...I thought it was a pool of blood I was laying in. It was
just...just leaves! Red, weirwood leaves!" she managed to let him in on it,
then dissolved into giggles again at the expression on his face. He gave a
small chuckle, and rolled his eyes as he kissed the top of her head.
She regained her composure and snuggled into his chest. Her gaze fell to the
world outside the hollow tree. The red leaves on both the ground and in the
sky. She then closed her eyes, a smile on her face and content spreading
through every bone in her body.
"The only winter they have here is a red one," she murmured against his chest,
feeling drowsy.
"I'll take a red winter, as long as we can share it."
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