Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3329981.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), game_of_thrones
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane
  Additional Tags:
      Snippets, Porn_with_Feelings, Angst, Fluff, Canon, non-canon, AU, Age
      Difference, First_Time, Domestic_Bliss, Werewolf_AU, Valentine's_Day
      Fluff, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, my_little_pony_-_Freeform
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-11 Updated: 2017-10-08 Chapters: 31/? Words: 40237
****** Of Birds and Beasts ******
by shadow_in_the_shade
Summary
     A collection of Sansa/Sandor ficlets of all different genres, some
     explicit, some canon, some divergence from canon, some total au,
     angst, fluff and all sorts!
***** Little Bird *****
1. 
 
The swallow hopped back and forth along the wall; a tiny little thing, no
bigger than her hand and from up here no bigger than a butterfly. There it went
again. It would hop along the stone a little and look around itself as though
checking – she wondered what it was it was looking for. Then it would peck down
at the wall by its feet, look up again as though disappointed every time and
repeat the process coming back up the other way.
There were fewer birds out every day now, she was noticing. She had heard once
that they flew to other lands for the winter, but did not remember a winter in
her lifetime. Besides, there had never been swallows in Winterfell. Maybe it
was true then; maybe winter was coming. She had not cared, not until now,
watching the swallow that had stayed behind. It had amused her at first,
almost; but now, charting the futile repetition of its movements, it was
starting to make her sad.
Fly away, little bird,she thought fiercely, willing it to half in the
expectation that by doing so she could have some effect.  Fly away while you
still can!
She had read stories about girls – princesses, they were always princesses –
who could sing to birds and call them over to the window where they waited like
she waited today, and every day, never certain what they waited for. She was
not certain either, but she was sure she would know it when it arrived. If she
were only a girl in one of those stories she could reach out a hand and the
swallow would fly up and alight on her fingertip. It would sing to her and she
would feed it and keep it alive and safe. It could be her friend, the only one
she had here. Ifshe were a girl in one of those stories, if, if, if.
The thought turned sour, turned into the thought she was having more and more
these days-that the stories had betrayed her, faithless lovers all. She did not
want to keep watching the bird, it was making her sad. But then, in light of
her uselessness, her inability to help, it seemed rude and weak to look away.
She did not look away.
She had watched so long and so hard that she felt she had come to know what it
really meant to watch hard.Until you were a stone, until you could hardly move
for it. She physically jumped when a noise from below made the bird take flight
in alarm. She heard the tiny ruffle of wings as it scurried into the air
current and disappeared into the wind.
It was a movement that had startled it. The holdfast was guarded at all times –
as though there was anything she could do – and now she peered down to see who
had frightened away her bird.
She started back, moving right away from the window, hand leaping to curl
against her chest in what she knew was an affectation but it came naturally as
though she would have done it anyway; it was The Hound – and he was looking up
at her just as she looked down at him. Her breath caught in her throat,
fluttering and beating there, like she could taste her own heart. It was silly.
She was used to that face now, why should it startle her so? It was not the
kind of familiarity to haunt dreams and bring terror; indeed his appearance in
her dreams had left her flustered and confused, convincing herself she
remembered nothing in the morning.
She leaned back against the wall inside the tower. Why did she do that? Behave
and feel like she was being hunted. He could not see her now- logically she
knew that; so why did she feel that she knew he was still looking her way? And
after all, she had been looking his way too. Her cheeks felt hot; he puzzled
her, that one. She did not suppose she would ever be able to imagine what went
on in a head like that, what someone like that could be thinking.
He frowned, looking up at her window long after she had disappeared, wondering
who taught her to colour up so prettily, clutch her breast in that maidenly
manner. He wondered if she even knew she was doing it and if so for whose
benefit? Startled the little thing,he thought, almost smirking –two birds, one
stone.
No she would never understand him, never know what went on inside another’s
head, never imagine they could have a single thought in common- she probably
did not even know her own mind, let alone anyone else’s.
Fly away, little bird,he thought fiercely, as he turned away from her window.
 Fly away while you still can!
__x__
This is my first little play with this ‘ship so please be kind! I have many
other plans and since all the sections will have completely different genres
I’ll warn any that need it individually. Also I’ve only watched up to the end
of series 2 so far so unless otherwise stated assume these are set mid series 2
‘k? :-)
***** Everything I didn't want *****
 
Season two again, set just before the encounter on the steps. Some semi –
graphic content and vaguely Sandor/ OC though I’m not sure it really counts.
Much angst, very confuse, so in denial.
 
2. 
 
It had been a mistake. The girl was all wrong. Fuck it; this whole damn thing
was wrong, fucked up from start to finish.
She wasn’t one of Chataya’s. Hell, this was not any one of the better brothels.
It had seemed to him to be foolish to run the risk of that rat Littlefinger
finding out – hell, he probably would anyway, and damn it all, what wasthere to
find out? Even a dog was entitled to a whore in King’s Landing; it was the one
commodity no threat from the outside would be able to keep out.
But she had seemed pretty to begin with, slight and young, pale and wide eyed
with that long red hair that was so close but not quite and the fluttering
little white hands – even if the fluttering wasan affectation, and of course it
was, just like the innocence she was assuming as her sales pitch – it was close
enough to what he wanted that it would do through a drunken haze. It was the
furtive guilt that made him feel like shit, not the act itself. But Baelish was
just the kind of sharp eyed git to put two and two together and jump straight
to the awkward conclusion he was himself fighting so hard and so unsuccessfully
to avoid. He could just see the man whispering a word in the King’s ear – he’d
have to spell it out to the idiot – painting in bold the comparison between his
supposedly faithful Hound’s pursuits and his own intended. He could just
picture the look on the bastard’s face as the penny dropped.
Actually, thatwas enough to make him carry on.
So here he was, fucking into this girl like it would somehow get the other out
of his head, digging fingers into her thighs to bruise – and that was wrong
too, if she had been the right one he would have hurt himself right back for
any mark he left upon her. This one was coarser, and she smelled of cheap
perfume where his little bird smelled like clouds and faintly meadowsweet.
His– he growled, and it came out loud – he should not have thought that. He was
in this shit deeper than he realised. He closed his eyes, trying to squeeze her
out, fuck her out. But if it hadn’t been working all these weeks, why the hell
would it now? The girl made too much noise, utterly unbelievable, nothing that
he wanted to hear. As if this did anything for her; bad enough that even the
whores took one look at him and charged twice.
“Stop that,” he growled and slapped her. She shut up. It was a relief. He
closed his eyes and pounded on into her. He did not want to think about Sansa.
He could not keep her out. He did not want to think about anyone else.
A flail of the girl’s arm made him grab her by the wrist and pin her hands back
over her head, rather than have her do anything out of character that would
ruin the illusion. Her wrists felt so little, so easily swamped in his rough
hands; he could feel the little bones, the fluttering pulse- and fuck,that did
it; he came into her with a long growl and a sneer and when the start of a name
slipped out in the growl he turned it quickly into a hiss.
He headed back to his kennel, tail between his legs. It had not helped. It had
expelled nothing, beyond the most basic urge of the moment. He hated her for
it, hated himself for hating her, it was not her fault, nothing could ever be
her fault and so, when she all but ran into him coming back from the Godswood,
when she gave him those big startled eyes, when she gasped, so similar to the
noises she made in his head, he could not help but hate her more than ever. How
could he keep going if he did anything but demonstrate that he hated her, at
the same time angry and drunk enough to think – I could do it. I could have her
right here and anyone else be damned, her as well, let us all be damned.The
thought flicked away from him like a hopping bug; and quick on its tails came
an urgent need to touch her, just stroke her sweet face with all the gentleness
that roared around his heart, battered it down - a gentleness that swerved
simply into seeing her safely back into her cage.
And that was worst of all, he thought afterwards, closeted away and safely
barricaded off from that sweetness he called stupidity out loud, that strange
tenderness. It was bad enough just wanting her and worse than bad, he sure as
hell did not need to love her.
__x__
***** Valentine *****
 
Valentine’s special! Total fluff – just assume they celebrate valentine’s day
in Westeros….which they probably don’t so AU I guess. :-)
 
“Oh it’s so lovely!” she squealed, looking down on the banquet hall from the
balcony above. The queen had had it decked out for the evening in a variety of
beautiful shades, flowers and banners streaming all around. For a moment,
bathing in the pink and red prettiness of it all she almost felt like a child
again. She would have to make sure and dress to match, she thought – she had
that pretty pink silk somewhere  with the white lace, never worn because she
was not sure that it went with her hair, but maybe tonight ….
“Wandering, were we, little bird?” came a rough voice behind her and she turned
quickly, neck prickling, heat creeping up her cheeks as though she had been
caught thinking something she should not.
“I just wanted to see – ” she stammered, then remembered herself – “I havethe
freedom of the castle” she added, defiantly, though there was really nothing to
be defiant about.
“The freedom – ” he echoed, shaking his head, the sentence trailing off. She
wondered what he meant by it, he sounded mean; but he always sounded mean.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, gruffly, jerking his head where she was
looking, in the hall below.
“Oh you must know, surely –”
“Must I.” It was more mockery than a question, but she took it as a question
nonetheless.
“But today is St. Valentine’s day –” she ignored the way he looked at her – it
had always been one of her favourite holiday and even he could not curb her
enthusiasm – “It’s a celebration of love! Knights give tokens – and gifts to
their ladies in signs of affection – and often in secret –”
“Onlyknights andladies?” he sneered; he always managed to make those words
sound somehow offensive – “It’s just for them then, is it?”
“Well –” she thought about it – he wanted to laugh at her, the way she cocked
her head a little to the side as she thought, like a real little bird – “No – I
suppose all folk –”
“And what about a dog?” he interrupted. Getting tired of his interruptions she
stuck her chin out stubbornly;
“Even a dog may tell a lady he loves her on a day like today. Good day my
lord.”
She walked away primly, quickly, before he even had a chance to call her out on
the my lord.
-x-
The feast wascharming, rendered almost magical in Sansa’s eyes by the bonus of
it being only ladies and not having to endure the company of Joffrey and all of
his less than true knights. Her eyes were shining from the lights of the
candles, illuminated in the rose coloured glass, and she got back to her room
feeling happier than she remembered being in a long time.
When she got to her bed she blinked down in amazement, wondering just for a
moment if fairies had been. It was like a dream; her bed was covered with
flowers, like an extra coverlet, bluebells, snowdrops, buttercups and daisies;
all the sweet flowers of the hedgerow, so many of them her favourites, clearly
gathered just for her by some gentle, loving hand. She gathered some up,
inhaled deeply, the smell of air and the wonderful world beyond King’s Landing
was a greater gift to her than the giver could possibly have known.
She pressed fingers to her lips but a giggle escaped her even as tears pricked
in her eyes. It was toolovely. Her heart soared and shivered; she imagined a
beautiful knight, someone like Ser Loras, thinking of her as he laid out the
flowers. She wondered if he had left any clue. It was her first real valentine!
There! She saw, beneath the crystal bowl of little lemon cakes, cut like
perfect hearts and left on her dresser – and oh! He must care so much to know
all of her favourites like this when she had never said!
There wasa note. A small piece of card. She sat down on the bed, would not let
herself look at it straight away, held it in trembling fingers and peeped at
it. Oh.
Even a dog may tell a Lady he loves her.
Nothing more. It silenced her giggling, childish heart, replaced with something
deeper, dark and delightful. She refused to permit herself to understand it.
-x-
Nevertheless, she was still smiling the next morning when he came to escort her
to the Great Hall. She had a bluebell pinned to her dress and another in her
hair. She could not find the courage to speak until they were almost there and
he had looked at her so strangely. Still, she touched him timidly on the arm –
“I wanted to thank you Ser for –” she began, but did not know how to end it. He
seemed to flinch almost, when she touched him, and he was looking at her with
such an utter lack of comprehension that she began to question herself. Maybe
it was a mistake; maybe someone had overhear her yesterday and liked the
phrase.
“It – doesn’t matter” she finished quickly, but she was still smiling to
herself as she turned away and never saw his twisted lips twitch almost in a
smile of their own as he watched her go.
__x__
 
***** Sing for me *****
 
This one is really just random first time pwp. Enjoy. :-)
 
4.
 
This time when he asked her to sing for him she knew he did not mean it
literally. He was buried to the hilt inside her, balls-deep in her sweet cunt,
growling and moaning as he thrust into her.
For weeks he had toyed with her, toyed with himself; pushing her into walls,
backing her into corners, growling threats that sounded to her more and more
like promises, though she only half understood most of what he said he wanted
to do to her.
The first time had not been the rape either of them anticipated. Even when he
had come barging into her room with that look that let her know exactly what
was happening here, her mind had panicked whilst the rest of her had swirled in
giddy confusion, not knowing quite what it was she was feeling. Then when he
had kissed her and she had meant with all the will in the world to fight it or
at the very least to squirm away in horror, she had done nothing of the kind.
Her stupid, treacherous body had betrayed something she did not know she felt
able to betray, by leaning in instead of away and almost but not quite kissing
back.
When he felt her yield, he had not been able to stop; still he had pushed her
onto the bed gently, made sure not to rip her clothes when he took them off her
and in spite of his painful, desperate need, he had looked down at her
nakedness almost in disbelief, with such golden, almost tearful warmth mingling
with the lust in his eyes that it had been her who reached for him before he
even dared touch her. She had stroked the thick hardness between his legs as he
bent over her and he had almost whined at the curious timidity of her touch,
taking her wrist and twisting it firmly, gently down on the pillow; whispering
gruffly –
“Stop little bird, before I spill in your pretty hand and never make it to your
cunt.”
Her eyes had widened when he touched her there, and it would have been hard to
tell which of them was more surprised by how wet she was beneath his fingers.
He looked at her as though he were in pain, and he could hardly bear the wide
eyed trust with which she gazed back. He cursed beneath his breath, unable to
believe any girl could be this wet for him,let alone her, so pretty and
perfect.
“I’m sorry –” he whispered, sliding up against her, bathing in her skin, in too
great a hurry to be as gentle as he wanted to be – “I don’t want to hurt you –”
She shook her head, knowing that if it was going to hurt she would rather it
were quick;
“It’s alright –” she whispered, though she was afraid, whatever the other
feeling was she felt it more than the fear – “It’s supposed to hurt.” She had
been told that, she remembered. She had also been told that it would be him who
wanted it so much that it would make it alright. She wondered if she was wrong
for thinking that she was the one wanting it enough to make it alright. He
looked at her a moment and then could not anymore, he thrust into her slow and
hard. She bit her lip hard, too breathless to cry out, and it didhurt, no lie,
but at the same time he looked at her like he was crying and quickly closed his
eyes so she would not see. Still, she reached a hand to his face and felt it
wet. He kissed her palm and groaned, the groan turning into a litany of words
that stroked the pain like his fingers did and made it better; gods, so good,
so tight, sweet little bird, sweet fuck, dear gods –he came into her within
minutes; at least she was sure that was what that hot rush and the shuddering
groan entailed, and she smiled even though it had ended just as it started to
feel good.
He had been so awkward as he moved away that she felt bad for him. He struggled
to meet her eye as though afraid he had done something wrong. When she reached
her hand to his face again he jerked his head away and muttered,
“Don’t” – even though he had let her before. She wondered if anyone had ever
touched that scarred skin willingly in his life. She suddenly wanted to kiss
him, to tell him he was beautiful but she imagined his barking laugh of
derision at such a statement and kept quiet, or nearly quiet –
“Please – I just –” she didn’t know what. He knew she didn’t know what and
seemed to take relief in getting angry at her for her useless chirping; still
even when he grabbed her head, twisting his fingers in her hair he did not hurt
her; half dressed again, he had taken a dagger from his belt and pressed it to
her throat.
“You just what,little bird? You thought it would be different? Well get used to
it, because I’ll be here again, tomorrow night and every night after and if you
tell anyone –”
Her heart sang, she wanted to laugh at him, knowing what he was going to say,
his fingers untangled in her hair and stoked gently through it, gently
caressing her cheek as he said it, almost affectionately –
“I’ll kill you”. He kissed her again, so softly this time, but even without
such a kiss she had no need to hear him say he did not mean it. Then he was
gone as abruptly as he appeared. She smiled to herself in the guttering
candlelight; she hadthought it would be different – she had thought it would be
ever so much worse. She had notthought it could feel good like that, never
imagined she would be needy for more, sat here dreaming about the next time it
could happen, knowing there was so much more to discover. She wondered if he
had meant the threat of his returning as the promise she had heard it as.
-x-
He did return, every night after, sometimes taking her quickly in the mornings
when he came to escort her down to the hall. She would watch the days’ events,
tolerate Joffrey’s idiocy and cruelty with a smile flickering round her heart
in the knowledge that his dog’s seed still lingered between her legs. It made
her heady to think of it, dreamy beyond what the stories could describe and
curiously aware that she got closer and closer every day to a wonderful new
discovery.
And now, she could feel it creeping up on her, with his cock buried inside her
and his fingers, hard and calloused, yet stroking more gently than anything she
could have imagined and it was killingher and he growled gently in her ear –
“Sing for me, little bird,” and she understood for the first time how he really
meant it, how he had alwaysmeant it even if he had not always been certain of
it himself and she gasped and his finger flicked gently one last cataclysmic
time across her clit before pressing down hard when he heard her start to
scream, working her, drawing those cries out of her – and they were such
littlescreams, fluttering cries as she took flight and she understood,
understood all the mysterious clichés about death and flying and she took wing
with it, reeling off into the sky and he did not look at her, just listened and
came into her in reverential silence with that glorious song ringing in his
ears.
And when he opened his eyes again, she had already started to come back down to
earth; he could not fathom seeing the way she looked at him, with a wonder in
her eyes he had surely reserved for her. He fell onto her gently, rolling over,
taking her in his arms and she would not let him look away this time, pressing
her face into his neck and then shockingly feeling her warm soft lips against
that side of his face that had never felt anyone’s lips, let alone anything so
sweet. He wanted to cry and she must have known it because she just kissed him
again and whispered –
“Don’t,” like he had done to her, only sweeter. So he didn’t; just stayed with
her all that night, ready to sleep at the foot of her bed if she would ask but
she did not.
__x__
I have this cute idea now that every time he starts a sentence with “If you
ever tell anyone ” she’s always just thinking “You’ll kill me, yeah yeah, I
know the drill” and it’s become like an affectionate thing between them now. :-
)
By the way, if anyone has any requests for one shots I could put in here, I’m
listening.
:-)
***** Everything I'd Never do *****
 
I was gonna do a nice fluffy chapter next, but …uh… this happened, is mostly
graphic angst with graphic – uh – sex I guess? – and a little bit of
heartbreak. I hate myself. And so -
Trigger warning for graphic imagined rape.
 
 
He thinks about raping her; thinks about it with his cock in his fist, night
after night, wanting and hurting, wondering where the hell this is going to
end.
He could do it, he thinks every time. It would be so easy; she could not put up
any kind of fight that would stop him and her little struggles would just make
him slam into her harder, hold her down more fiercely, trap her tiny body with
his huge one and feel her flutter wildly against him as he ravaged her, taking
his pleasure over and over again.
And that pleasure – god yes the pleasure of it would be so intense, her sweet
little cunt the healing balm for his aching cock. How could he ever show her
mercy when she has made him suffer this for so long?
In his mind he has already done it; so often and so completely that sometimes
when he passes her he feels awkward in the memory of a thing that never
happened. If you knew what I was thinking, Little Bird,he thinks – if you knew
what we did just the other night, if you knew the noises you made, how you sang
for me then!
He has done it so vividly that it becomes hard to look at her, remembering how
he tore her dress apart to fall upon those perfect breasts, remembers her
blushes and then cries as he buried his face in their softness, licked and
kissed and bit at the hard sweet pink nipples. He can never quite even imagine
her liking it at first; she always cries and whimpers and pleads for him so
sweetly to stop, to not, to please have mercy good Ser.
I’m no Ser,he growls for the thousandth and final time, proving it when he
rapes her and damn him but if her cries do not make him harder. She cries every
time, and he feels like the lowest kind of bastard just including this in the
fantasy, but what girl would not? He has to make it half way believable, after
all. He doesn’t care; just carries on, takes what he wants from her night after
night, in hallways, against the wall, over tables, in her bed, in his, wherever
he should fall, fucking her and then leaving her.
Sometimes, indeed more and more frequently, he does not leave her. He carries
her back to her room and takes her again. This second time it starts to change,
somewhere deep inside her he feels her start to move back, hears her cries turn
to moans, her sobs turn to gasps and somehow, because this can happen in a
fantasy, she starts to like it, to want it and she twists and writhes not at
all like she did before but because her body is arching towards him now and not
pulling away and she is clawing and scratching and the wolf is in her eyes
again as he has seen it in truth a few times now, and could she be like that,
really? He wonders it often by night and by day he watches her eyes more than
she will ever know, just to glimpse the shadow howling in the darkness,
growling in the black of her eyes.
In truth, he knows she could never like it. Not with him. Indeed, with all
those fantasies she’s built up that will always keep the truth from her – maybe
not with anyone. By night he rapes her for it, hurts her, almost breaks her in
his fantasies over and over again; she is so easy to break. He could do it any
time. Next time, he tell himself, next day, next opportunity, next time he sees
her he will.
He never does.
When he even gets the chance to see her breasts he looks away. His heart
cringes like the beaten dog it is to see her humiliated and all thought of
wanting to be the one to tear her clothes off is gone. He hates himself for
allowing it, hates himself for not running straight to her, wills himself to
feel every blow they inflict on her, to take it in her place. But he makes
himself watch; it is the least punishment he can give himself for not stopping
it.
He catches her alone so often and every time the fantasies that are almost
memories spring up like virulent magical weeds in the brain. He cuts them down
within seconds; it’s almost automatic, and in their place is just a feeling of
such terrible helplessness that it could almost be what she feels ninety
percent of the time. That, and a huge urge to help, to make things better in
any way he can; even some kind of strange ridiculous fantasy notion of rescuing
her, because he knows herfantasies too damn well, remembers when they were his.
He remembers a boy who cannot possibly have been him, who was not so bad
looking, almost an innocent and as enthralled by being a knight as she still is
of enchanting one. And it seems to him he can remember how much that boy dreamt
of riding a charger out of a flaming city while the mob bayed and a girl of
great beauty, heartbreakingly sweet, sat up behind him, arms twisted fiercely
around him as he rode her away from harm.
Seems to be he remembers that. He cannot think from who or where or when
anymore.
So now he is left by night with his dreams of forcing her. Dreams that he would
never, given all the chance in the world, make real. And then by day she
tortures him with this half remembered dream of chivalry, even Romance.
And sometimes, just sometimes, when he is very drunk and his worlds mix up, the
wrong fantasy comes by night and he thinks of sweetness and a happy ending in
place of violence and he cannot grasp his cock for crying.
Stories,he thinks angrily – damned stories, how do I save you, Little Bird,
when they are killing me as sure as they are you?
__x__
So next time I WILL do something nice and fluffy as originally planned.
Promise. I’m also working on a couple of things people have requested, I’ve
started, it just didn’t happen today. :-)
***** The dog and the Wolf *****
Um….it ain’t nice and fluffy. Sorry peoples. :-( This is for Direwaggle42who
asked for something related to Sansa seeing The Hound mourning at Lady’s grave.
So this is set just after Lady’s death and I’m sorry. I’m really really sorry.
Have tissues.
 
 
 
The next day her father could not look her in the eye, though she watched him
hard and hating, though her own eyes never stopped stinging. The lump in her
throat was too great for her to even speak to him until the mid afternoon when
she finally bit out the words –
“Where is she?”
If her father had dared to ask who, she thought she might have punched him,
even though it was awful and even though she did not really know how. But he
did not. He told her they had sent her back to be buried in Winterfell with an
escort of four men and all the while he still did not meet her eyes. She had
never seen him afraid to look at someone before. If it had not been her she
might have felt bad for him; but not today.
“Where did you do it?” she asked in a relentless, steely voice.
“Do you have to know?”
“I have to pray for her. Where else would I go?”
Ned had never seen such a frost around his eldest daughter, nor heard such ice
on her breath.
“Outside the gatehouse,” he sighed, defeated – “By the pole where she was
tied.”
-x-
It was growing dark when she went over there. She did not want to be mocked,
did not want to meet anyone. She hated everyone today; her father and Arya
whose fault it was, the King and Queen and even Joffrey – but I can’t hate
himshe reminded herself – I can’t.She had not stopped crying long enough to
speak to anyone anyway. She had heard her elders talk about death so much, with
fear and with reverence but all she knew, when it came to it, was that Lady was
not here anymore. Someone, she was not sure who, had tried to tell her she was
in a better place and though she felt terrible for it she had cried out that
she did not want Lady in a better place, she wanted her here,with her. There
were supposed to thoughts of comfort to grasp at but all she felt was sad, a
dizzying, strange sensation of wrongness at how she would never play or walk
with her girl again, or comfort herself with the feel of thick fur beneath her
hand when she was sad.
My heart is broken,she thought. She had once dreamt of being old enough to have
such a Romantic thought. But it wasn’t Romantic or wonderful, it just hurt.
She stopped suddenly, outside the gatehouse; there was already somebody there,
knelt by the pole where she had meant to pay her respects. She stood still for
several moments wondering what to do, so still and so quiet that when the man
turned round he almost jumped, just as she did on seeing that face come up at
her out of the dark.
“Girl, what are you doing here?” The Hound growled.
“What are youdoing here?” she echoed – “This is where – where –” she did not
want to say it. But it had happened; she hadto say it – “Lady died”. Her chin
wobbled but she did not look down.
“I know it,” he said, gruffly, standing up “It should not have happened, girl,
I’m –” he made a noise just short of sorry.
“Why?” She should have thanked him for his condolences like the lady she was;
normally she would have, but just now her heart felt swollen in her chest and
with it she knew a recklessness that loosened her normally pliant tongue – “Why
would youcare? You killed my sister’s friend.” She did not, if she was honest,
wholly care about Arya’s stupid friend. But it seemed a valid point all the
same. Then again, now that she had said it she quailed a little, remembering
that she was alone in the dark with a man who wold not pause to slice a child
in two with an axe. Shewas just a child, might he not just as easily kill her
for her rudeness?
He must have seen this all cross her face because he laughed humourlessly.
“I did,” he nodded. “It’s different. Humans –” he made a noise of disgust –
“They bring it on themselves. Dogs, they stand by you, no matter what. And an
innocent –” he waved a hand, he wanted to say something about how an innocent
should not suffer for another’s crime, even she could see it. But he couldn’t
voice the sentiment; it stank of a nobility he did not equate with himself.
“I’ll go,” he rasped.
“No, I –” she regretted her rudeness already, and no longer because she thought
he might hurt her for it. After all, nobody else had even triedto tell her they
were sorry, let alone expressed an opinion – “I’m sorry. I am grateful for your
condolences, Ser.”
“Not a Ser,” he grunted – “Say your prayers, child, and I’ll see you back
inside.”
She looked at him, frowning a little as she knelt down beside the marker by the
post –
“Who put this here?”
But he was looking away, absently it seemed, pretending not to hear her. As he
watched her bow her head he could not help but want to tell her. He felt a
strange urge to just spill out all these stupid words that came to him. How he
had loved his own dogs as a child. Well they were not quite his own dogs but
sometimes he had felt that way. After his accident – or so everyone had called
it, much to his disgust – he had gone more and more often to the kennels,
spending time with his father’s charges. Theyhad not looked at him with those
dreadful mingled stares of sympathy and horror. They had treated him no
different from before and he could not have said that of any human. He
remembered one day overhearing his father ask after him, not knowing he could
hear, someone reply that he was with the dogs and his brother’s hateful voice –
“He’s not withthe dogs, he isa dog”.
That was how the name had started as well. Yet another awful thing he could
thank Gregor for.
But the dogs, they’d just been kinder, if anything than before. His favourite,
Grumkin, with the scarred up nose and tattered ear, would lick the ruined side
of his face just as well as the other, look him in both eyes and never give a
shit. He had been about Sansa’s age when Grumkin died; he remembered crying for
days, carrying the lead in his pocket until it fell apart. He would have liked
to tell her. It was stupid. He never told anyone about himself, what was it
about her that made him think he suddenly could?
Now he heard her little voice whispering to the mother and tried to be stone.
“Gentle mother take care of her,” the girl whispered – “She’s shy, don’t let
her be bullied, just talk to her and you’ll see, she’s sweet and loving if
you’re gentle to her. She’d never hurt anyone, not the smallest thing. She
doesn’t like to be led; she’ll walk on her own and be ever so good. She likes
rabbit best and warm milk. Don’t let her get cold, she’s scared of snow and
cold, it makes her sad, gentle mother take care of my Lady, she took care of me
- but she’s yours now.”
He heard how her voice remained steady and soft, right until the end when she
let go, then it wavered and when she stood up, whispering a tiny goodbye,he
could see the tears streaking her face to pieces, even in the dark. He looked
at her, afraid, utterly unsure what to do with a crying girl, but she swallowed
hard and nodded –
“I’m alright,” she lied, prettily – “I’m ready to go back now. Thank you.”
He patted her shoulder just once and with absolute awkwardness. His hand was so
large and her frame so delicate that it hurt more than he meant, but somehow,
walking back, she felt that the utter loneliness, the emptiness with which she
had walked out was lifted somewhat; that even with Lady gone she might still be
somehow protected.
Just before they got inside she looked at him, not knowing how she dared ask or
how he would know and finally got out the question that had plagued her the
most –
“Was it my fault?” she blurted, beyond blaming her father and sister, everyone,
this had gone round her head all day; if she had supported Joffrey, if she had
supported Arya – if she had done anything differently – would Lady still be
alive. He did not know any of this, could not find any answer for her except in
her own eyes that told him what to say –
“Girl, how could anything be your fault?”
It sounded like sarcasm, but they both knew he did not mean it that way at all.
__x__owHo
 
Well I made myself sad anyway! Thanks Direwaggle!! :-)
 
 
 
***** A dream of you *****
Mid season two, sort of vaguely porn. :-)
 
7. 
 
He knew it was a dream; his brain would not allow him the relief of ignorance,
even asleep. It did not mean it did not feel good, just added an undercurrent
of awareness- wrongness really – just enough to keep it from being perfect. It
was almost a relief. He was not sure what he would do with perfection.
It was the firelight that let him know it was a dream, not the girl rising
above him, pale and red and cut with shadow all at once. It was the fact of his
enjoying the warmth that felt wrong, and never her when she felt so exquisite
around him, and that should have been the clue that this was not real.
And she was different. She smiled as she rode him, confident and assured and
she pushed a strand of hair back where it tumbled over her face with a smile
that was as much a lie as it was coy. She knew– this Sansa – she knew how
beautiful she was. She was everything she might have been if Joffrey and all
his wretchedness had never happened to her; whimsical and sweet, sure of
herself almost to the point of arrogance. She seemed older too, years away from
the sweet scared child who had dropped to her knees in fear at his face,
burying her own in the fur of a wolf. No, this woman wasthe wolf. He hoped he
did not look at her with the most pathetic adoration he was sure he was
probably demonstrating. His hands moved up over her thighs to hold her round
the waist and he could see, in the dream, the marks his fingers made in her
skin, his every touch sullying her; she was like fallen snow and he trampled
all over it regardless. But he turned the soft skin into armour beneath his
fingers and she was more beautiful than ever for it.
She smiled and leant over him, fluid as a river and she kissed him with the
wolf in her eyes, grinning before it pounced. What chance did a dog ever have
against that? He woke himself up with his own growling.
He sat up in bed with the dream red and foggy around his head. It took a few
minutes to shake it too, to remember the disappointing reality. He had thought
he was long past the point of disappointment, that he was safe from that
feeling of loss in the face of reality and he had been. He hadbeen – until this
damned mess had started.
When he looked up clearly again, he thought for a moment he had fallen back to
sleep. because she had not gone from his sight. She was stood right there in
his doorway. For a moment it seemed normal because it had to be a dream. He
blinked. She was still there, standing like a ghost in white with a candle in
her hands that – fuck –set its light to glowing all over her and right through
her night gown. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a rumpled sheet like the
candle flame had continued and caught fire. He tried not to look too hard. He
found himself incapable of looking anywhere else.
“Little bird?” he mumbled – “What are you doing here?”
“I heard a noise –” she fluted, defensive and quick – “I – It sounded like
someone was in pain and the door was half open –”
“So naturally you – went towards the source instead of staying at your perch
like a sensible bird,” he shook his head in despair. Every time she did
something that made him start to think she could survive everything she was put
through, she did something like this and worried him all over again; “You
should take better care of yourself, girl.”
She came in a little and he felt almost panicked; if she got too close how
would he ever be able to let her go?
“Didyou cry out?” she asked, persistently.
He did not know how to answer that one without lying to her;
“You should go now little ghost, and take your fucking fire with you.”
She wondered, for the millionth time, why he always had to be so harsh when she
was only ever trying to be nice. She wondered for the millionth time why she
kept trying to be nice, he was the one person who really wouldn’t care if she
did not bother. But she cared. She wondered why she cared.
“I’m sorry –” she stammered, finally, forehead knotting, perplexed; she
realised she had been holding the candle up to see his face, realised she was
holding it quite close now, kicked herself inwardly and hard for not having
realised he would hate that – “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to”.
If shescared him!He always meantto scare her. He wondered how it was that she
succeeded without trying when he did not when he was. He laughed at her
roughly;
“Couldn’t scare me if you tried little bird. Now get out of here, I can see
right through your gown.”
He had not meant to say that. But he hadto make her go. She looked down at
herself, seemed to realise for the first time how little she was walking around
in and he watched the blush creep prettily up her face as she fled from the
room with his laughter ringing behind her.
He groaned, falling back into bed heavily. That had been close. She had no
idea. She could never have any idea. Stupid little bird, stupid girl, stupid,
sweet beautiful thing. There were fucking tears in his fucking eyes again.
But he thought, as he lay sleepless, what a strange little creature she was. He
remembered the first time he had seen the wolf in her eyes, fierce and snarling
after months of seeing her only as a cub. It had been on the wall, as he saw
her stare up sightlessly upon her father’s head. He wondered if she blamed him
for holding it there for her to see. He had hated his hands for following
orders. But he had seen her eyes close down, seen her stubborn resilience, and
behind it he had seen a shadow in the night, heard a howling at the moon that
chilled him on that hot day. He had seen the wolf curl and crouch and almost
spring and he wondered if he had ever done anything more terrifying than come
between the dire wolf and its prey. He had seen Joffrey as nothing more than
prey ever since.
He was almost glad when she had become a bird again and he could protect her in
safety, though he had caught that flash of yellow and teeth in her eyes many
times again since then. It was a strange thought and one he would force away by
day, but it occurred to him that that she was far safer around him than he
would ever be around her.
__x__
I started this chapter before I wrote the last two, so I’m sorry if I repeated
myself in anything. I still would love to take requests for one shots. :-)   
***** Moments *****
Happy ever after AU/ wish! Three little snippets of domestic bliss for
Heartstutter….although I have to say I wanted to write this anyway. Total
fluff.
 
He watches over her until she falls asleep. She rolls onto her side and curls
up so small he can almost feel the whole of her within one arm, the arm she
snuggles back into as though it is a cradle. She’s so smallit tugs at his
heart, so sweet he’s not quite sure what to do about it, why he is still here,
howhe is still here. But here he is, for as long as she says or until
circumstance demands.
He wants to fall asleep like this, curled around her, but he does not want her
to turn around in the morning and have his face be the first thing she sees. He
could not do that to a girl. Hell, before her he never even woke up beside one
that had not been paid to be there.
So he turns away to spare her. After how sweet she has been, after everything
she has allowed him to do, he could not bear it if she were to wake and start
screaming.
Even so, he turns in the night without meaning to, and when he first opens his
eyes in the morning she is already awake, still and serene, smiling into his
face in the fresh morning light. When he blinks his way to real awakeness her
little fingers flutter through his hair, pushing it back off his face still
further. If he had not been half awake he would never have let it happen. He
mumbles a groggy, “Huh?” as she touches his face, running her fingers over the
mess of scar tissue and shiny burn with a smile that reaches all the way to her
eyes and further. He saw the same look in her eyes that day at the tournament
when she was dazzled by the beauty of the Knight of Flowers. Of the many things
he has expected to see in her eyes when they look at him, dazzledwas not
amongst them.
He frowns beneath her persistent smiling gaze, not sure how to take it. Nobody
ever looked at himlike that before. It is unthinkable that it could be her. He
would have wondered if he had been dreaming but his dreams have never been so
kind.
Finally she frowns and he is almost relieved, convinced she has found something
in his face to upset her. He’d back away, but there is nowhere to go to, as she
reaches out a finger to touch his face with intent;
“Eyelash,” she whispers, smiling playfully – “Make a wish”.
His eyes brim; he fears if he is not careful he’ll say something regrettably
sentimental;
“No need,” he grunts and when she smiles and blows at her fingers he knows he
has failed.
-x-
These days he threatens to kill her almost hourly, affectionately, for
anything. She rolls her eyes these days and mocks him. He never thought they
could have reached this point.
“When did you stop being scared of me?” he asks her one day.
“I was never scared of you,” she replies; it is not a lie. She had thought that
she was for so long. She had been foolish, childishly unaware of her own heart.
She knows it now. She spent so long lying every day just to stay alive she does
not want to lie again, not even to herself.
“Liar,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“You never thought that I would hurt you?”
“I thought everyonewould hurt me. And everyone did. Everyone except you.”
“First time I saw you, you were so scared I could feel you shake.”
“It wasn’t you,” she shakes her head – “It was Ilyn Pane. You never gave me a
chance to say, you just assumed it was you, you alwaysdo.”
He cannot quite comprehend it;
“You were scared.Every time you looked at me I could see your eyes all wide
with fear.”
She smiles then and it undoes him;
“That wasn’t fear.”The smile flickers at her lips as she steps closer.
-x-
So many peaceful evenings spent sitting, spread out and comfortable, she on the
furs beside the fire, he in a chair just behind her. She tells him every night
he does not have to light the fire, but he can see when she is cold and will
not let her go that way for long.
In the end she gives in and never too unwillingly. And so she sits reading,
sewing, and he bends down every so often to stroke her arm or kiss her head and
she smiles and wonders why he is so easily distracted by her.
What she does not see is that when he is not actively touching her he watches
her, even in the stillness and the silence and the peace, watches her
unbelieving that this could be his life. She always assumes him to be keeping
himself busy with something and sometimes he is and sometimes not. Sometimes
just sitting with her is more than enough and more than he ever dared expect.
Sometimes she will turn and speak to him, ask him what she thinks of her sewing
perhaps, and he will grimace and scowl and ask how the hell he should know. She
will shake her head and ask him why he is always so hateful in that tone of
voice where he knows she is mocking herself for the first time she asked him
that question.
He never can get used to feeling himself smile so often and she, after so long
of his proving it to her, finally does get used to feeling safe. It is not a
dream come true, their dreams have too long been nightmares – it is a reality
come true.
__x__
 
***** 5 Times Sansa's Siblings got between her and her true love's kiss and one
time they didn't *****
This is a really dumb crack fic section: 5 times Sansa tried to kiss The Hound
but got disrupted by her siblings and one time when she didn’t. Everyone is
happy and alive, living in Winterfell and Bran can walk.
 
It really was the true love’s kiss she had always wanted, even if it was not
the one she had always expected. She closed her eyes in blissful anticipation.
Finally, she would feel those scarred lips against hers, not just in a dream,
not just in her imagination but for real, hereback home in Winterfell as she
had always wanted, with the knight of her choice. Well the knight part was a
technicality, she supposed. She could feel his breath on her face, hear his
heartbeat, felt the rush of blood to her ears and then –
“Sansa’s got a boyfriend! Sansa’s got a boyfriend!”
Her older brother Robb ran past yelling.
“Oh!” she cried, scandalised. Then she sighed, shook her head, glared at Robb,
slipped her hand into The Hound’s –
“Come on,” she beckoned as she led them out the gate and out into the trees.
-x-
There again, after repeated excuses for her brother’s rudeness that her
intended did not especially care to hear but bore with uncustomary patience,
they were on the brink of the kiss. The one. The one her whole young life’s
dreaming had been leading her to, when out of the woods –
“Urgh, gross!” came a voice. Once again she looked up, fire flashing in her
eyes;
“Arya!” she yelled. Her sister was stood there, just inside the trees, staring
at them with an expression of utter disgust.
“You can’t kiss him, he’s all ….all….” Arya looked as though she wanted to be
sick – “Horrible!” she finished.
“You’rehorrible!” Sansa retorted. But when she tried to chase her off, Arya
decided this was the best game ever and kept coming back to be chased off
repeatedly.
“She spoils everything!” She wailed, stamping her foot, whilst the Hound, who
had sat propped against a tree to watch, laughed gently to himself;
“I could kill her for you.”
“No….” she groaned, only half meaning it – “You can’t. She’s my sister –” a wad
of mud and leaves hit her in the arm – “Unfortunately.”
-x-
The third time it was Rickon. And Shaggydog. Sansa had been wary of an attempt
to try again and had been on the lookout for any other irritating siblings.
Sure enough within moments she felt a prickling at the back of her neck and
turned around to see her littlest brother and his wolf standing very still and
staring at her with their heads to one side in identical expressions of intent
curiosity.
“Now that’s just weird,” Sandor announced, and stared back until they went
away.
-x-
After that they sought out what they thought was the most impenetrable corner
of Winterfell and were just relaxing in the certainty that nobody could find
them here, when Bran’s face popped over the top of a wall they had all
previously assumed was not climbable- and he balanced there watching them
benignly with a smiling expression of disinterest that was more disconcerting
than any of her other siblings put together.
Sansa closed her eyes and started to count to ten. She got to five before
sighing deeply.
“I hate you all,” she announced.
-x-
The fifth time they never even reached the point of being interrupted; Sansa
started yelling at Jon before he had even had a chance to annoy her. When she
was finished he just looked at her, baffled –
“But – I was just walking past. I wasn’t going to say anything,” he protested.
Sansa opened and closed her mouth a few times.
“Oh,” she stated, slightly apologetically, when Jon had already walked on by.
-x-
In the end she bolted the bedroom door and placed a wolf on guard outside,
checked under the bed and in all possible corners before turning to Sandor and
smiling, slightly shyly. The sun was setting outside the window, and the most
beautiful rosy glow she could have asked for spilled in over the ledge and as
the lovers fell relieved into one another’s arms the beautiful sounds of
singing drifted up from below. It was truly one of the five kisses rated the
most perfect in all of the seven kingdoms, and when they broke away breathless
all she could think to say was to shout down out the window –
“You can all stop singing now! Thank you!”
And her contrite siblings hurried away from where they had gathered in the
light snow that had started to fall outside.
__x__
I am an awful person. But I mean no disrespect to any characters herein or The
Princess Bride which I maybe gently mocked there at the end – honestly how do
you ratea kiss? :-)
***** The Wolf in me *****
Er – so this is probably quite a weird au – but werewolf/ Sansa! Otherwise all
details are as normal for season two…just that one erm …minor detail! ….oh and
this one’s strictly tv series canon rather than the books, this is relevant
towards the end.
 
She awoke with a start and the bed sheets felt strange. They were wrong; they
didn’t feel good and her limbs were tangled up in them. Moonlight ghosted in
through the window and seemed to beckon her with a power it had not had before.
She yawned, and her mouth felt strange. Everythingfelt strange. She could not
make her head work the way it usually did, and somehow it did not seem to
matter. She shook off the sheets and stood up in her bed. It felt good,
right;she looked down at her paws and flexed the claws once, twice, growling
softly with satisfaction. It was as though she had always been waiting for this
to happen, she had just not known it before. This new skin prickled but she
arched her spine and her fur bristled and it felt good. The moon was singing to
her and she sang back.
-x-
The howl echoed around the castle, but everyone was asleep and thought they
dreamt it, or drunk and thought they imagined it. The Hound was in the latter
category, headed back late from a Flea Bottom tavern. His ears pricked at the
sound and, attuned as he was to danger, he shed the warm buzz of drunkenness as
though it were a skin, set his hand to the hilt of his sword and went off in
search of the sound.
-x-
She opened the latch with her nose and padded out into the corridor. She could
smell all the scents of stone and damp, smoke and wax from the candles, linen
and velvet in the rooms beyond. She had hardly noticed before that fabric even
had a smell. They were all so strong. But stronger still was the scent of the
night air. The moon had a smell, clear and silver and tangy. The air smelled
fresh and cold, beckoning her to drink it. She was thirsty, she realised,
hungry like she had never been. She could hear the stream in the Godswood,
smell the undergrowth and the wildlife within. She broke into a run, slipping
through the shadows to cross the yard.
She howled again in joy once she found herself safe within the trees. The moon
shone through the black leaves and howled back at her. She shook her herself
and ran on, followed the smell of the water and ran to the pool. She drank from
it before even looking at herself in the shiny darkness. She recognised herself
as though she was always supposed to look this way; yellow eyes, dark red fur,
shining teeth glinting in the light of water and moon.
She understood all at once; it was rooted in her new bones, as she had never
understood before. The sigil of house Stark, all the things her father had
never quite explained and her mother, as a Tully, had never known. Her father
had had just the one sister, imprisoned and killed by Rhaegar Targaryen when he
found out what she was. Why her father had treated Arya’s wildness with such
tolerance, why he had never even tried to tame her, why he spoke of his dead
sister with a reverence that was almost like fear. Arya was normal,she
realised. It was she who had always been the freak, a stranger to herself and
her own nature. But not anymore! She laughed in her heart and it came out in a
bark.
Her delicate nostrils caught the scent of blood and her ears pricked at the
sound of a little heartbeat not far off. She chased the rabbit into the trees,
salivating, the taste of blood already in her mouth.
-x-
He followed the strange animal sounds to the Godswood, not at all convinced he
was doing the right thing. He killed men, not animals, and he was not a hunter.
He had his short sword unsheathed by the time he had passed the first tree.
He saw the wolf in a clearing, the rabbit a bloody mess in its jaws. It looked
up within seconds and stared at him for a moment. What the hell was a dire wolf
doing in the centre of King’s Landing anyway? He stared back, and the wolf
began to growl. Its yellow eyes narrowed and he simply stood still, transfixed.
Its eyes glowed out of the dark and for a crazy moment they made him think of
wings. I’m going mad,he thought –that’s what it is, I’m going mad and I’m going
to dieand then nonsensically – I’m going to die thinking of birds.
And then the she – wolf sprang. He was knocked over onto his back and the sword
went skirling out of his hand. The beast pinned him, claws sinking through his
leathers and pricking into his chest. He did not know why it did not simply rip
his throat out with its teeth, but he opened his eyes cautiously after the
initial reflex of squeezing them closed in preparation for the blinding pain
and ugly death and saw the wolf staring down at him panting, eyes gleaming,
drooling softly from jaws splattered with rabbit blood. If it had not been
madness, he would have said it was regarding him almost as though in thought.
Then it sniffed him. He could have sworn it blinked.Even that it looked
confused almost- and then the pressure from its claws lessened as it shifted
slightly, easing its weight back.
-x-
The first thought had been danger.This one was strong, the wolf could tell;
predator perhaps? She was unsure. Then meat.She could smell the life’s blood of
this one, a thick salty stream beneath the skin. Suddenly rabbit seemed like
nothing- she had to get her teeth in this. She had pounced with full intent to
rip and tear and consume. It was only at the last second she had pulled back,
inhaling a strange new smell that the male creature gave off; strange and yet
familiar, something ancient and primal – mate.She sniffed, unsure, manand also
animal.More animal than the other people she could smell further off. Then
something almost wolf. She growled softly; she could not handle so many
different ideas in this brain and though removing herself from the creature –
male,her brain reminded her – was the last thing instinct told her to do,
confusion sent her drawing back and slinking off fast into the trees.
-x-
It seemed wrong to keep trying to kill it after that. But at the same time he
knew he could not just let a huge fucking wolf run rampant around the castle.
He followed at a safe distance, surprised when it finally turned and headed
back towards the keep. He watched it carefully; it was truly a splendid
creature, fur just the right shade of red to trouble him with a connection he
thought he should have been able to put his finger on but could not.
He did put his finger on it. Later. When he lost the wolf somewhere in the
tower and the door to the Stark girl’s room was the only one ajar.
If it gets anywhere near her, I won’t think twice– he thought – I’ll kill
it.But it wasn’t there. Just the girl, whimpering fitfully in her sleep. He
could not watch her for too long, but he could not really leave either. He did
not stray far from her door for the rest of that night.
-x-
When she awoke from her nightmare, she hurt and there was blood in the bed. It
was animal, but she did not remember that. Could not register anything apart
from a sense of panic, and jumping to her own conclusions, she was trying to
destroy her bed sheets when he came in.
How did he know?She thought- how was he even here?But in the confusion and fear
and disorientation it seemed the least of her worries.
“Will you tell?” she whispered, so quietly even Shae could not hear her across
the room.
“No, Little Bird, I won’t tell.”
“But you have to take me to –”
Please don’t let it be Joffrey,she thought, please don’t.
“The Queen,” he growled lowly, not wanting to do it at all – “I’ll take you to
her.” She wondered why he watched her so warily and guessed that he was simply
as awkward around such things as she had heard men usually were.
“What will you tell her?” he asked her gently, to give her a chance to practise
it.
“I’ll tell her –” she bit her lip, not really knowing herself. Finally she
nodded, coming to her conclusion and knowing that some way or the other it was
a right one – “I’ll tell her my moon blood has come.”
__x__
 
Okay so I know logically “Werewolf au” is not a sensible explanation of
anything but it’s always bugged me why and how The Hound was right there the
morning she woke up from that dream. As explanations go it’s probably the
oddest I could have come up with but I think it seems to work! :-)
 
 
***** Like the Dothraki *****
Is pwp. *shrugs* :-)
 
“I want to take you like the Dothraki fuck their women.”
“What?” Her eyes went wide so quickly, and she coloured so prettily, that he
grinned for knowing that she knew exactly what he was talking about.
“You heard me, little bird.”
“But I –” she was blushing furiously now – “How dothe Dothraki –” he laughed
softly to hear her reticence to say the word, when he’d had her singing wildly
for him every night now for the past few weeks.
“Like a dog,” he whispered, grinning, lips half brushing, half kissing the side
of her face. But the grin twitched away from his lips at the smell of her hair,
the softness of her cheek against his own rough skin and he groaned only just
audibly, kissing her hair, fingers on the soft skin of her throat as she arched
instinctively towards him.
“Get on your knees, girl.” The way he whispered it in her ear made her knees
buckle anyway and any uncertainty she had been feeling buckled with them.
Besides, he had promised her right at the start that he would never hurt her
(“Not unless you ask me to,” he had said, and even then; “Ask because you want
it,” he added, “Not because you think I do.”) She had not imagined then why she
might ask for such a thing, but she was coming more and more to feel such a
request tingle on the tip of her tongue.
“Like this, my lord?” She turned her head over her shoulder and swallowed hard
to see him look back at her with such blackness in his eyes.
“Not a lord,” he rasped, voice thick and almost choked – “Maybe I can finally
make you get that.”
He kicked her legs apart, not cruelly, and she turned away when he rubbed a
hand between her legs, glad he could not see her blush. She was always so
ashamed to find herself so wet and all the more so because he alwaysfound out
and never spared her sensitivities in the matter. She could feel her own
wetness on his hands when he ran them up her thigh, tracing the line of her
back all the way up to the shoulder. He kept that hold on her shoulder as he
pushed into her hard and slow, slightly awkward at first and then stopping for
a moment, sheathed completely inside her, filling her entirely. She bit her lip
to keep from crying out above the gasp she could not hold back - at least for a
moment. He started to thrust into her and she could hold it back no longer. But
as soon as she screamed, he clamped a hard, rough hand across her mouth;
“Not a sound little bird, do you want them to find you like this? Being fucked
like a bitch by the king’s dog?”
He felt her moan behind his hand, felt the warmth of her cheeks, and bent over
to sneer in her ear;
“I’m fucking you hard now girl, got my cock buried so deep inside you I can
feel your little cunt stretch for me and you blush like a maiden at a few
coarse words? Piss on that –”
He drove into her in harsh rough thrusts, laughing grimly to hear the little
squeak of horror that escaped her at his words; but her cunt was as hot as her
burning cheeks and he could feel her wetness sweet around his cock. She was so
tight and so wet he had to grit his teeth for pleasure – and this was his–his
sweet Sansa, the little bird moving and whimpering beneath him like an animal
herself.
“Fuck –” he snarled. “Fuck girl you’re so tight, so good- touch yourself girl,
I want to hear you scream when I fill you with my seed.”
She did. She could hardly understand herself for blushing, with such sweet
explosive sensation running through her; he covered her with his body to
whisper in her ear, crushing her and exciting her all at once and his voice
sending shivers through her, shudders overlapping shudders. She did as she was
told, laughing at herself to wonder if it made her a good girl still; she came
when he filled her and this time he was too caught up in his own ecstasy to
stop her from screaming.
She fell forward and lay there breathing hard for several long moments, feeling
the sweat cool on her skin when their limbs disentangled. When she finally
rolled over her he was looking at her with a face that seemed pained, almost as
though he might cry.
“What is it?”
“It’s –” he closed his eyes, reached for her, more needily than he meant to but
only as much as he could help, she wriggled in gladly. “I can’t –” she could
feel him frown into her shoulder – “You’re – mine,”he managed, brokenly,
disbelieving.
“Yes,” she said, and he could not believe she could say it as though it were
obvious, simple even – “I am yours, and you are mine.”
He looked at her then long enough to see that she meant what she meant by what
she said. He saw it and looked away again fast so that she would not see the
tears in his eyes.
__x__
I was a bit stuck, so I just wrote some porns….but I have two new chapters
planned after this now. :-)
 
***** You may now Cloak the Bride *****
 
Sansa/ Sandor’s Cloak. It’s a beautiful, pretty much canon pairing I feel. I’ve
taken and combined the best bits from the book and series for this one.
 
She did not know what it was kept drawing her back, but it seemed like every
evening would find her there, picking gently through her summer silks to the
cloak, neatly folded in the bottom of the trunk. She did not mean to, and she
did not know what she meant by it. But she would find herself stroking the
material, rough and not nearly as sweet to the touch as any of those silks or
any of her own cloaks, but her fingers tingled with the fabric beneath them as
they did not tingle for the softest of furs.
Each night was the same. She did not mean to take it out of the trunk but she
would. She would first caress the material then press her face against it. She
would breathe in the scent that still remained – and it was horrible –she did
not know what possessed her to do such a thing. It smelled of blood and smoke,
sweat and wine. She would breathe it in again, wrap the cloak around herself
before getting into bed. It was heavy, solid and reassuring. Often, once she
got settled beneath her covers with it wrapped around her she would wriggle out
of her nightgown so it lay against her skin. It had to be in the dark, beneath
the covers where she could not see herself or be forced to think about what she
was doing.
It was like an embrace; she felt safer with it around her, as though she was
being held gently and firmly, as though there was still someone around to keep
her safe even though he was gone. She wished he was not gone, now it was only
with her face pressed into the warm stiff wool at the collar that she could
feel protected enough to sleep.
In the morning she would find the cloak tangled up in all her limbs. She would
shake it out and fold it neatly and place it in the bottom of her chest all
over again. She would take out all her dresses and replace them neatly back on
top so that it would be too awkward to get it out again. So that she would
forget about it. She never did forget about it. She took it out again every
night.
And then some nights, when she could not sleep she would remember the first
time she had had the cloak draped around her, that horrible day that no amount
of trying would make her forget. But she remembered too how quickly he had come
to cover her and (you may now cloak the bride and bring her under your
protection) – and how, with all of those people staring at her and laughing,
only he had averted his eyes. Only he had tried to tell them to stop. She
remembered how awkward he had looked, and awkward again when he had come to her
room the next day to ask for his cloak back. How she had given it to him with
her face colouring, hoping the creases did not show from when she had slept
with it around her then too. How she had awkwardly said Thank you– tried to say
more but he had just as awkwardly shaken his head at her, replying with a
pained don’t.There had been something in his eyes she had been utterly unable
to read as he turned away from her that day. Something that made herwant to ask
himif he was alright. He looked, when she thought about it, as though he had
been stripped and beaten in front of the court himself. Something had almost
made her call out to reassure him it was not his fault, that there was nothing
he could have done. But she forced herself not to because he surely could not
care that much, and if he had he would have said otherwise.
Back then the cloak had still been white. Now it was cream and brown, streaked
with black and red and more a hero’s cloak now for all that than it was when it
shone like the sun. Sometimes she looked at it and wished she could find some
excuse to have it washed clean; then she looked again and did not want that at
all.
She was sure the smell of him lingered long after it could possibly have done
so.
And then there were the nights she awoke half way through the night from
strange dreams to find much of it pressed between her legs and herself rubbing
against it in her sleep. She could still bury her nose in the cape and breathe
it in while she wriggled against the rough fabric that stirred something
between her legs, created an exquisite and incomprehensible friction there when
she moved. She would feel her chest flutter like there was a frantic bird
inside and feel her own gasping breaths like butterflies in her throat.
Then she would remember that last night he had come to her. He had slept right
here in herbed. She wondered if he had breathed in the smell of her in the
linen as she breathed in his in the cloak. She remembered his breath on her
face and the feel of his lips when he had kissed her. She had remembered
something more; the feel of his manhood, hard beneath the layers of clothing
that separated them, remembered how afraid she was and something else (you may
now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection).
She could not have said how it was that she had felt, but she would grind hard
against the cloak, scrunched up between her legs, not knowing why or how this
worked – or what it was even that she did. She could almost feelhis hands upon
her skin, touching her everywhere that the heavy fabric lay against her. It
should have been someone else, she thought - anybody else- that she imagined
touching her like this; she tried but their image, their idea never stayed.
Little bird,he whispered in her ear, and when his hands dipped to rub her where
the cloak lay between her legs her heart would stop and she would spasm,
thrashing involuntarily, twisting about in her bed in the most delicious flood
of sensation she had ever experienced. It left her blushing though she did not
know what it was, left her wanting it again, afraid and overwhelmed by the rush
she had felt. It felt like a secret, something miraculous she had invented and
she would wrap his cloak neatly back around herself and sleep again smiling
into the wool.
You may now cloak the bride –her mind would whisper it to her like a traitorous
secret poured into her ear; one flesh– the voice would chant – one heart, one
soul, now and forever.
__x__
Just to let people know – I’m not just rudely ignoring all your awesome
requests, it’s just I have a tendency to sit down to start one and then end up
writing something completely different. Chances are I’ll try to write something
later and it’ll turn out accidentally being a request. I just suck at writing
what I’m supposed to be writing! I’m sorry! :-)
***** Brotherly Love *****
 
Snippet from a Happy ever after AU – years later, Sandor and Sansa are long
married with children, Sansa is Queen in the North, living back in Winterfell.
Kinda fluffy.
 
 
The wall was cool and soothing, and Sansa’s forehead felt hot against it as she
groaned softly and with infinite patience. She remembered, as though it were a
voice in her head, her mother telling her - children are life’s most trying of
blessings. She wondered what her mother would say if she could have seen her
now; no doubt she would have been both pleased and sympathetic to have been
proved right.
“Ned -” she sighed, so softly she knew they could not hear her above the racket
they were making – “Robb, stop that, you’re giving your mother a headache.”
“Did you two hear that?” their father added, significantly louder than she was
– “You’re giving your mother a headache. Go play in the yard if you’re going to
make that sort of noise.”
She smiled at him gratefully, pleased that the years of training seemed to have
finally taught him how to chastise the children without letting loose a string
of expletives she insisted they ought not to hear.
“The fuck’s an expletive?” he had asked when she first asked him this. She was
not sure she remembered laughing so much since she had been a child, a million
strange years ago.
She remembered how she had dreamed of children; the silly, golden-hued vision
of the future she had held on for far too long. Then she had come to think of
it as a good thing if only because they would have distracted her from the
awfulness of being married away for someone else’s amusement. She had lost
sight of the golden-hued vision or even the idea that she might marry for love.
She had put it aside with all the old childish things.
And then he had come back. She had not seen it. Had not seen himnot properly
until that day he had returned to her. She had thought he was dead. She had
been toldhe was dead. In truth The Hound wasgone forever, leaving only the man
who had always loved her and who she had always wanted, only she had been too
blind, too stupid to see it. But the veils had fallen from her eyes in the
instant of seeing him, returned to her by what seemed like magic and it had
seemed to her in that moment she had never seen anyone so beautiful.
And here they were; seven years later, The Queen in the North and her consort,
Winterfell rebuilt and the children she had always dreamed of. She had not even
had to fight him for the break in tradition in giving them her name and not
his. Since Daenerys Targaryen had taken the Iron Throne, maternal succession
had become more and more normal.
Everything was what she had given up expecting it could be – perfect.
“But it’s miiiine!”Robb wailed.
Well, close to perfect anyway.
“Ned give your brother back his –” she peered at the toy they were fighting
over, which was, quite miraculously, still in one piece – “knight,” she
finished.
“It’s nothis” Ned insisted stubbornly – “It’s mine. He didn’t even ask –”
“Enough!” their father bellowed suddenly, loud enough to make them all jump.
Sansa looked over to him and felt a worried flutter in her chest at the scowl
he was giving them. It was that old angry look that had scared her as a child
and that she saw so rarely these days. When she saw it nowadays it hurt her,
knowing as she did that it contained more pain than real rage;
“Let me tell you boys a story,” he said, devastatingly calmly.
“Sandor –” she sighed gently. He ignored her and she rolled her eyes. She had
only been young when she had heard this story herself and he told it to them
far more gently than he had to her. There was a beat of silence when he
finished as the boys stared at him wide eyed. Then Ned thrust his arm out
straight and sudden, slipping the little knight into his brother’s hand;
“You can keep it,” he almost squeaked.
“You can share,” Sandor looked at the two of them with a deep and benign smile.
“Good lad.” He patted Ned clumsily on the shoulder and beamed at them
approvingly – “You two run along now.”
The boys ran. Sansa shook her head and smiled;
“You shouldn’t –” she began. She stopped –she was not sure he should not have
at all.
“Worked, didn’t it?” He grinned, held out his arms to her, and she slipped into
the nest of his arms, wriggling herself into that familiar much loved spot –
“It’s just us now, little bird – what you going to do about it?”
She smiled warmly, kissed him lightly and yawned;
“Sleep”. She stretched, nuzzled, and nestled herself down, head on his
shoulder, dozing like a little animal in the unexpected peace and warmth of the
evening.
__x__
I was deliberately vague on how this au would have come to be because I’m
thinking of working it into a much longer story. Essentialy this is my personal
perfect ending to things, certainly I’ll be writing more with this reality! :-)
***** Babysitting *****
 
 
Yaay, I’m up to date now, watched all the seasons – so this bit is set late
season 3, while Sandor’s road–tripping with Arya. Mostly crack really. Meh,
total crack actually. :-P
I guess this should have a warning for language cause y’know – Sandor and Arya.
 
Sandor swore violently for the thousandth time that day. Arya swore back, twice
as violently. It was becoming a pattern.
“Seven fucking hells!” Sandor groaned – “You’re annoying as fuck, you know
that?”
“And what are you then?” Arya retorted.
He opened his mouth, closed it again, rode on in silence for less than a minute
before breaking out again;
“You know, I thought your sister was annoying; all that bloody chirping and
false courtesy. All those bloody manners. What happened? She take so many your
teachers have none left for you?”
“You can’t hate us both,”Arya sulked stubbornly – “Not for oppositereasons.”
Another silence, long enough for Arya to start to think he was done before –
“I didn’thate your sister. Told you. I rescuedher. Not just the once. More
times than she knew.”
He muttered the last so quietly Arya only just heard and for the first time it
made her start to believe him. After that she started watching him a bit more
closely, watching to see what was there, just like Syrio had taught her. It did
not take her long to see something in his eyes when he talked about her sister,
something that made her roll hers in return.
She managed not to say anything though, at least for half a day of travelling,
not until they had stopped that night and she was chewing on a rabbit’s leg by
the fire.
“You know you eat like a bloody animal,” he called over almost conversationally
from his safe distance under a tree – “Where’d you learn that. Your sister –
she was like a little bird. Such pretty little habits, like a dance. You –”
“Seven bloody hells!” Arya choked – just because she didn’t like him didn’t
mean she could not pick up a choice phrase or two, and at least have the
benefit of saying them around someone who wasn’t going to tell her not to –
“Will you shut up about my bloody sister?”
“I was not –”
“You were so,” she waved the rabbit leg at him threateningly – “We all get it.
You’re in love with her. You and the rest of the seven stinking kingdoms.”
“I am notin love with your sister!”
“You are so!” He wasso. Arya’s suspicion had been utterly confirmed by how
quickly and unnecessarily loudly he had yelled this at her – “You’ve done
nothing but go on about her the whole bloody day. And the last. On and on.
Sansa this, Sansa that, oh did I tell you that time when your sister did this,
blah blah blah, your sister would never do that, oh and that one time your
sister took a shit and I was there to watch like a creepy stalking freak –”
“You shutyour cunt mouth!”
“I will if you shut yours about my sister!”
“I do notgo on about –”
“You do so!”
“Do. Not!”
Arya chucked the bone at his head.
“She’d never like youanyway. She likes knightsand ladiesandall that stupid
pretty stuff, not big ugly idiots like you.”
“Oh you know her so well do you?”
“Better than youdo. Oh –” Arya clutched her chest and threw herself down in a
fake swoon –
“Do you know her heart?Do you look into her eyesand see her soul?Are you the
only person who understands her in all the wide world? Oh Sansa, will you marry
me? You can close your eyes and pretend I’m pretty….”
“That’s it –” Sandor got up and marched towards her – “I’m going to skin you
like that bloody rabbit –”
Arya was up and into a tree, quick as a snake;
“You see? This is why she’ll never love you – you don’t tell a girl you’ll
skinher.”
“You’re not a girl.You’re a bloody little beast.”
“I bet my sisteris sooo much less beastly than me!” Arya yelled down from the
branches.
“I should have kidnapped her instead of you!” he shouted back “Not like I
didn’t try,” he muttered, kicking a stone. He slouched off, skirting the fire
widely, and curled up to sleep beneath an opposite tree, his back to where Arya
was, pulling his cloak up high over his head to shut it all out. He was nearly
asleep, when he heard a thud, footsteps and then, far too closely in his ear –
“Ohhh Sansa, sweet, darling Sansa…..”
He lashed out with all limbs and a half-hearted roar, barely hitting Arya at
all, more was the pity.
“I willstill cook and skin you, girl. Go the fuck to sleep.”
He heard her walk some distance off and lie down and was just starting to
tentatively hope she had actually gone to sleep when he heard a chattering more
irritating than her bloody list.
“Oh Sansa pleaselove me, even though I’m old and ugly and smell like a rotting
turd –”
He reached for a small rock, threw it in Arya’s direction;
“Can you go back to trying to hit me with a rock, because I swear by the seven
–”
“Ohhhh Sansa!”Arya was unrelenting and merciless and Sandor got no sleep that
night until she did.
-x-
The next morning he pointedly said nothing to her, and Arya did nothing but
grin at him in a more than usually wicked way. Only when he had hauled her up
in front of him on Stranger and started off a little way did she half turn and
say –
“If I was my sister, would you have a great big –“
“Girl, if you finish that sentence I swear to the gods I will dump you off this
horse like an unwanted shit.”
She finished it. He pushed her off and trotted on in blissful peace. Half a
mile later he groaned and went back for her.
“You wouldn’t have done that if I was my sister.”
“Girl, if you were your sister, you don’t want to know –”
“Urgh – shut up!”
“You shut up.”
And on they rode.
__x__
 
So this came into my head after that bit, I think it’s season 3 episode 8,
where he says to Arya about rescuing Sansa and she doesn’t believe him. After
that I just completely head cannoned that he went on about her all the time,
not really realising he was doing it and got a very strong image of Arya being
like “Yeah god damn it we get it, you fancy my sister”. Thence came this fic. :
-)
***** There's A Prayer *****
Five times Sansa prayed for Sandor.
 
 
Mother
The first time, she remembered, it was just before the Blackwater; before
everything had become so strange and so confused. She had asked the Mother to
save him as he had saved her more than once. She did not know where it came
from, this sudden awareness that he needed so badly to be saved. Maybe it was
the fire in the sky beyond that made her think of it – we all hate this, he
must hate it most of all.Maybe it was the sound of her own heart crying it out
in a voice that she did not recognise as her own. Maybe it was the look in his
eyes when they had last spoken, that dark look so full of anger and rage that
she had wanted to cry. She had been glad he had told her to leave, otherwise
she might have vacillated forever between wanting to run and wanting to help.
She did not know how she could help and so she prayed.
She had always gone to The Mother first, just as she had gone to her own
mother; since King’s Landing she had spoken with her more than ever. Hewould
never pray to such, she was sure, he would pray to The Father, or The Warrior,
never the one who could truly help.
She had felt dreadfully then, how much he needed to be calmed, to be soothed,
how much he needed the help that she prayed for. She had flung every last ounce
of faith into her trust that she would be answered.
Yes, she had believed whole heartedly in that moment that her prayer would be
heard.
 
Warrior
She had not imagined, such a short time ago, that she would ever pray for the
Warrior again. He had never drawn her personally the way the Mother had, the
Maiden and the Crone. But she had prayed to him before, back in Winterfell, for
her father when he went to battle. She had not known really what it all
entailed but he had seemed the right choice. Her mother had always said that
what seemed right wasright – at least with prayer if with nothing else.
She was not in the right place for it now but she prayed all the same. She
wondered if the gods could hear if you were not in the Sept or other holy
place. But she found herself praying all the same, before she quite knew that
she was.
She had been sat for so long beneath his cloak that the world had narrowed down
all the way to just herself in this warm and heavy cave of cloth. At first she
had sat there, feeling hollow and strange and wrong – he did not wait for me to
answer,she thought, trying to work her head around what had happened – I should
have gone with him, I should, why did he not wait for me? Why ask me and then
just leave?It was all tied up in so many other things she did not understand,
why had she felt tears on his face when he left? Why had his voice been so very
broken? What had he meant when he said that he was lost? Shefelt lost herself
now, here in the dark with the taste of his kiss still warm upon her lips. She
felt bruised with it, unmade as though it were her maidenhead he had taken and
not just a kiss.
I’ve made the wrong decision.She thought it dully over and over again. Only
when she could no longer find strength to beat herself with this accusation did
she think I hope he gets out of the city safe – all that fighting, all that
fire, Warrior save him, don’t let him be hurt more.She had caught herself
praying before she knew she meant to. She supposed she ought to pray for
everyone, but she had prayed so tirelessly and for so much of late this was all
she could really find that her heart would stay involved in. She could almost
feel his fear and a strange animal terror, as though it was her, braving the
fire that he was so afraid of. She prayed to the Warrior to take her fear in
offering that he would take away some of his. She had never offered so much of
herself before, not when she had sat down with the intent to pray, even for her
father and brothers, never said – please, if I can take some of the pain, some
of the horror, let me, don’t let him take it all– she surprised herself by
meaning every word.
She was not sure the gods would hear beyond the clamour and noise outside but
she persisted through the night nonetheless.
 
Smith
 
She dreamed strange dreams in the Eyrie. They began with her flying away, far
away to settle in a place she felt more at home.Anywherefelt more like home –
and she had not known she could have felt more out of place than she had in
King’s Landing.
Sometimes the dreams carried over into the day and she found herself imagining,
even though she was coming to dread her own imagination and the false promises
it could bring. She would think about rebuilding a place, Winterfell at best
but on some days any place would do. She would think about strong hands
following her directions, placing bricks on top of bricks, forming walls until
all around her a home grew up in her head like a garden.
And every time she made believe there was only one person beside her in the
future she envisioned. She never meant it to be that way, but there he was. She
would see his hands first as they worked, clearing rubble, moving stone, large
hands and rough. Not like she had imagined her true knight’s hands to be; she
had imagined something soft like silk but he had shown her there was no honesty
in that. Knights were fighters, killers, it made the palms rough and the
fingers callused and that was right. It made her skin tingle to think in a way
that her earlier dreams had never done.
He was always there, her knight, her lord – though both words were insufficient
and she prayed amongst everything else for a new language, for a description
that fit. It never came, but eventually in her mind he would turn to her and
smile, all the way from mouth to eyes and she would not even see his scars for
how hard she smiled back.
It was a dream, an impossible one she was sure could never come true, she did
not even fully comprehend it. But she prayed to the Smith to make it so all the
same.
 
Maiden
 
She had all but lost sight of any hope from prayer, but sometimes late at night
swift snatches of hope sparked in her all the same. Even though she had told
herself she would never marry for love anymore, she had not accepted it. She
supposed it would be easier if she did, but her heart could not, dull though
she imagined it was these days. She felt defiant in holding on to any knowledge
of her own heart – I’m not Alayne, how would I know what she feels?She would
lie in bed repeating over and over to herself Sansa Stark Sansa Stark Sansa
Stark,building up a wall of steely armour on the inside that she constructed
from bits of herself.
But then one night in the midst of her new prayer she heard herself whisper
Sansa Clegane.She shocked herself so much with it she actually sat upright in
bed, gasping, heart pounding wondering where in all the kingdoms thathad come
from. Sansa Starkwas her prayer now, she offered it up every night, more often
than not to the Maiden to whom she prayed for help from all those with designs
upon her. She may have lost all hope of marrying for love, but she had become
more and more adamant every day that she would give up her maidenhead for love.
Every worrying look Littlefinger gave her just strengthened her resolve.
But here this new name came after so many nights of Sansa Starkhaving convinced
her that names were wishes. She felt the heat spread from her cheeks all the
way through her. Sansa Clegane?She whispered it again in her mind, not daring
to say it out loud. It was surely some madness, but then why did it sound so
sweet? She hid beneath the covers and did not pray again that night.
 
Stranger
 
She had given up on prayer, she was sure of it. She had fortified herself well
enough now nothing could touch her so much that she would need it.
Then she heard the news that Sandor Clegane was dead. She had already heard
that The Hound was doing terrible things and she had not believed it. But then
the news came in all certainty and she could do nothing, betray no interest in
front of anyone, for what was Sandor Clegane to her? Her mind could only chant,
like a dull bell all that day, he is dead, he is dead.It was meaningless. Only
when she got a moment alone that evening did she allow it to take root and the
roots twisted around her ribs until her insides started to scream.
She had wanted to scream aloud but no power on earth would have made her give
Littlefinger the excuse to come to her. She had stuffed her fist in her mouth,
bent double with silent screaming so deep and ripping at her heart she could
not even cry.
There was only one resolve she could reach that could make it better. She had
clenched her fists and pressed her lips together hard, her eyes sore from not
crying as she seized the first prayer that had come to her in forever, don’t
let it be true.
She had been afraid of the Stranger as a child, with his cloak and his darkness
and the fearful prospect of death. She knew that even brave men did not pray to
him. She did not pray. She screamed. It was anger she offered, anger and
disbelief, you cannot have him you cannot, you cannot –and without her meaning
to say it – he is not yours, he is mine!The tears had finally come then, and
she had started to think she had run dry.
For the first time in all her life a real feeling of peace had come over her.
She remembered, as though someone was showing her - how the flames beneath the
stranger had painted his face half animal in their light on the night of the
Blackwater. She remembered what Cersei had said – Littlefinger had told her at
the time with a bizarre amount of glee – She will be singing to the Stranger,
begging for his kiss.She remembered as though the same sinister hand was
showing her on a page – remembered a song and a kiss and a face that was only
half human. Of all the gods to ever answer a prayer she could have sworn it was
a voice in her head saying Girl, would I take away my own?
She was not afraid anymore. For the first time in her life she knew– without
ever being able to say how. She knew he was alive and would somehow come back
to her, though he was so far away from her at the moment she had no idea how he
would reach her.
And then – that finger was pointing her way again – she remembered the name of
his horse and began to smile.
__x__
 
I got this idea yesterday, listening to “Whistle Down the Wind”, from a line in
“Unsettled Scores”. In fact that whole song is so Sandor it made me want to
scream. Then I had a vague memory and went and listened to “Nature of the
Beast” and seriously the sansan is so intense I was in floods of tears by two
minutes in. Seriously, go listen, the sansan is strong! Woo! :-)
www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOhzVBS6ZmA
www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4DNC4Q8KwU
Seriously, go there and weep. :-)
(Actually there may be a whole long WDTW AU brewing in my head now…..ugh :-))
***** Alayne and I *****
 
Set at the end of season 4, when Sansa’s just about to appear in the dress and
Sandor’s at the gate with Arya.
 
I wonder –she thought, looking at herself in the mirror – what kind of a bird I
would be, exactly.She made faces at herself, trying to remember what she was
supposed to look like. It was strange how much like a different person you
could look simply on account of a different hair colour; she felt as though
even her face looked different. She scowled at Alayne in the mirror and
smoothed the feathers at her shoulders.
Not the mockingbird,she thought, never that.A voice drifted up like ash, rising
out of Sansa’s memories, a quiet unbidden phoenix – one of those pretty little
singing birds from the summer isles.She wondered why her cheeks felt hot upon
hearing that rasping voice inside her head, so close – just the way they always
did. She nodded to the girl in the mirror –that’s what I’ll be then.She turned
her back on the other girl.
I’m not her,she thought, and it felt rebellious, wicked of her to think it. It
felt good too; well let me be bad then, I’m not her whoever she is.She was not
even sure that she liked her, but then she felt bad all over again for do
disliking some poor bastard girl who had done nothing to her. I hardly know
her,she reminded herself, and really, it was easier to play a character she
disliked than one that felt a lot closer to herself. But I must remain kind,she
told herself – kind and brave like a girl in a song.
Sansa is so silly,Alayne laughed it back at her from the mirror, Alayne was
always more scornful than she was, older and more superior – a silly little
girl to still remember such stories.
But I am a dark singing bird,Sansa thought – flightless and silent now.She
sighed. It really was a beautiful dress though and she was proud of it. She
moved around the room in a slow twirl, stretching out her arms and –
The little bird thinks she has wings, does she?
She jumped as though someone had really spoken, but it was just that voice,
tickling her head again and making it tingle with all that gravel. Going
crazyshe thought – dear gods what’s wrong with me? Too many blows to the head –
She wondered when he had ever encountered those birds that he had spoken of;
she could not picture him, calm and contemplative in the summer isles, watching
them fly and listening to the bird song. Maybe someone in his family had kept
one in a cage once. Suddenly she waspicturing it; a small boy with no friends,
hiding his face in the company of animals, watching the bird, ever so gently
stroking its soft feathers, feeding it through the bars of the cage. He would
touch it so very gently, aware of its smallness and his size and strength –
like his fingers on her face the first time Meryn Trant had hit her. Her heart
cried out with a little ohof soft song, fluttering against the bars of its own
cage . She imagined him feeling too strongly about this helpless, stupid little
thing. She wished she could have been that boy’s friend. She imagined him
setting it free, sad to see it go but smiling as he watched it fly up into the
sky. It was a thought that warmed her more than anything should have been able
to warm her in this cold place up in the clouds. She scolded herself – she had
to stop thinking about him, it was ridiculous. She would probably never see him
again. She could never have said why the thought left her feeling so bereft.
But then why did he suddenly feel so near? Her chest felt hot and tight with it
– we have to ride out!She thought, sudden and fierce – we have to ride out now
and by the Bloody Gate!She had no idea where the certainty came from but it
hammered at her chest like a smith at an anvil.
One dayshe thought, One day I’ll fly, I’ll fly so far away from here nobody
would ever know there was a time I stayed to nest!But for now she would the
chain around her neck like the prisoner she was. But it felt like a lie, just
like Alayne did. She’s a lie but I’ll tell it all the same if it gets me out of
here in the end.
She went down the stairs smiling, confident in the knowledge that she had
perfected this disguise. Confident too that she was still harbouring the
fugitive Sansa beneath it all. Let Littlefinger think the smile was for him! He
was so stupid, but he thought he was so clever, just like all the rest of them.
She would neversmile for him.
A crazy jumping inside her cried out maybe if we leave now!But maybe what? She
did not know anything beyond the stupid wild feeling of unformed hope.
“Shall we go?” she smiled to hide her eagerness to leave. She could have sworn
she heard the valley shake to the sound of crazy laughter, a laugh that sounded
so similar to her own voice. It had to be the sound of her own head, she
thought, laughing at the foolishness of her heart.
-x-
Arya’s laugh startled the birds from the trees and Sandor went from staring at
her like she was crazy to watching them tumble in a flurry up into the cold
air. For himself he could feel nothing but disappointment, and he supposed that
was at least a large part of what she found so amusing.
Now there was no excuse or way to get up to The Eyrie, and it had felt to him
all this time like the place he had to get to and not just for Arya. He could
not have explained it; just that he had found himself leaning towards the place
as though it were a magnet, like it called him, but that was as stupid as
anything else. He watched the birds fly up high around the tower windows,
following them until they disappeared from view. He watched until the world
went still again.
He felt a sense of failure far greater than just not getting rid of the wolf –
bitch. He growled at her to shut up. She did not. She was still giggling softly
and maniacally to herself as they rode away.
He wished he could have found any reason to stay a little longer. Riding away
had only ever felt so wrong once before, and then the wildfire at his back had
been a good enough incentive to keep riding. He could not say why but he threw
the thought back over his shoulder as they left, like an apology, thinking it
fiercely and quickly before Arya started finding new ways to hassle him –
I will find you little bird, I swear. I will find you again.
____x_____
 
This has been knocking round my head for awhile – a sort of a what if they both
kinda knew how close the other one was at that pointthing – cause god knows I
got pangs thinking about it so why shouldn’t they? :-)
Sorry I’ve been a while updating this. Been working on One Day In An Ever
After.:-)
Also yeeah, I nearly quoted Cinderella’s“Be kind and have courage” – because if
it’s not totally Sansa I don’t know what is. :-)
***** Blackwater *****
 
Sometimes I think about writing meta, like when I’m thinking too much about the
events of the bobw. But I’m better at fanfic, so this happened. Is angst.
Enjoy. :-)
 
17
He rode out from King’s Landing in a nightmare; the crackling and screaming and
clashing ringing all around him. He could not get far enough away quickly
enough. But even though the nightmare was all in the flame and the dying, all
he could hear in his head was her song.
What had he done? Why had he gone to her? How could he have let anyone see him
like that, least of all her? He replayed the sounds of all that he had said,
all that she had said over and over in his head until it drowned out the fire
and noise. It was not a relief. It was a nightmare worse than that. How could
he? What must she have thought? The worse it seemed the less he could make it
go away. It became the case that he could cope with the memory of the wildfire,
the burning fucking arrows coming at him, men burning and screaming. He would
have given anything to be afraid of all that again rather than replay his every
stupid action after walking away.
He had fallen asleep in her bed.He only half remembered how he had been;
shaking, laughing, crying into her pillow. He could not hold onto that feeling,
thank the gods, but he could remember how he clutched her pillow, and the smell
of her in the sheets, and how it sweetened it all until he could fall
mercifully asleep.
Even that was not as bad as everything that came after. Every stupid thing he
said rocked and pounded like a drumbeat in the head screaming why why why?She
was so afraid already, lovely as ever, he did not even deserve to be near her.
He could smell the wine on her breath and had not even realised until now when
it was too late that she had barely had time to understand him, let alone
register what he had offered her. She never replied, he realised, only miles
out of town – Never gave her the chance to say no.Selfishly guarding himself
from a negative that might have broken him completely, he had run like a coward
and taken back the offer of freedom and safety. He cursed himself for an idiot,
a coward, a freak and a wretch until he was ready to scream at himself to shut
up.
If you scream I’ll kill you.
There was not a single thing he had said, a single thing he had done that had
been the right thing to do. He did not remember what she said that had woken
him; he just remembered grabbing for her as though he was drowning. It only
occurred to him now that a girl would not see it that way, alone in her room
with some cunt’s hand over her mouth. And as if he could have made it worse, he
had managed;
I only know who’s lost. Me.
He had always been lost; he had not realised it until he said it out loud. He
had been too drunk to even realise he had said it out loud. As lost and
helpless as a baby animal in the dark. Fuck. He had told her he would kill her.
He would neverhave killed her. Never even hurt her. Never let anyone hurt her.
Except he had. So many times. He managed to force thatto the back of his
wretchedness. For now.
There was plenty more to beat himself up with, after all. He had been so busy
mocking her, her to whom he should not have dared fucking speak – he had not
heard, until now in memory the sorrow and fear in her voice when he told her he
was going.
Going?She echoed, her eyes had been wide, almost making him think she would not
wish such a thing.
The little bird repeats whatever she hears.
It was harsh. Too harsh. He had never been anything but a cunt to her. He
wondered that she had spoken to him at all. Little bird –he wanted to be able
to say the words again. He should not have left her behind. If they called him
a coward they would be right; but not for the reasons they would think. He
wondered if shewould think him a coward. She should. Would have to. She was
never as stupid as he told her she was.
Finally, she had asked him why he was there, and he wondered she had not got to
that sooner, wondered that she was not more afraid. What could a man like him
want in a young girl’s room? What didhe want? He had said the only thing he
could think to say and it was a lie, perhaps. He did not know what he wanted;
just that he could not have it, whatever it was. He should have forcedher to
come with him. He wondered if he would feel better or worse right now if he
had.
Why had she had to delay so long? It had only made him think about what he
really wanted. He did not even want what he really wanted. Even she must have
seen it. He had been so angry with her, so convinced she would rather do
anything but look at him, it never for a moment occurred to him – not until
later – that she might have done it without being forced. He was not angry with
herat all. Not really. He had just kept on digging himself deeper into his pit,
pinning her on the bed like that, desperate for her, desperate not to hurt her,
telling her he would kill anyone wo tried at the same time as fearing she could
feel how hard he was for her.
He would have. No lie. He just never meant to actually tell her that. It was a
mess. He had never been such a fucking mess in his life, certainly not so that
anyone could see. He had almost kissed her – would have, if she had not closed
her eyes and he had not jumped straight to the usual conclusion. Thinking about
it now, he realised girls always closed their eyes to be kissed. By rights she
should have been staring at him in fear. In that moment, and that moment only
he wished he could have killed her, just to clear his head. He had twisted the
knife’s point right against her throat and what girl would ever think softly of
someone who did that? What the hell kind of a dog was he? Hecould not have sung
for someone under such provocation. But she was stronger than him. She always
had been. When she started to sing she had shamed him and touched him to the
core all in one devastating verse.
Because her song was the song of forgiveness, redemption. Mercy.He did not
deserve it, not any of it. He did not even know why he had been so intent on
making her sing. He wondered if he had meant something else by it all along;
something he did not even know that he meant. As soon as she started he had
almost wished she would stop. That sweetness, that care, it was worse than if
she had started screaming. He could not hurt her after that; could not look at
her, could not bear to be himself so acutely that he had all but fled from her,
not stopping to think until now that he had not given her the chance to come
with him even if she had wanted to.
But why would she want to? It was almost a relief to know that she would not.
He did not even want to be in his own company, and maybe she was right, maybe
she was safer in King’s Landing (she is not safer there,a cruel voice that was
quite his own whispered viciously in his head, she is not safe and you know
it.)
He kicked his horse harder, to drown out his own thoughts beneath the clatter
of the horse’s hooves, to put all the distance he could between himself and
those damned fires. But he could not drown out one moment of her song and
nothing could cool the fire eating him up from inside. He could not think,
could not feel, just ride, ride for his little life.
__x__
Eh, nothing new here I guess, just some angst because it wanted out. :-)
***** Petshop boy *****
 
So ages and ages ago Direwaggle42suggested a sansan pet shop AU and I couldn’t
quite work it out but here go, it’s not quite exactlyas requested but I hope I
got it roughly right! Sansa is about 16 in this and Sandor 18, it’s modern day.
 
There were a lot of things he hated about this job, he didn’t even know where
to start. The job itself perhaps – the animals in cages, the ethics of the
whole damn thing stank, he only managed to legitimise his working there by
reminding himself that if he didn’t someone else would, and they might not
treat the animals half as well as he did.
His only consolation, really, was that they didn’t take that many animals. Fish
yes and smaller creatures, but only the larger ones when they took them on as a
favour to an irresponsible breeder. He got angryabout irresponsible breeding,
but he had learned to go off into a stockroom until the urge to punch things
passed.
And to be honest, he was grateful to get the job at all; most employers took
one look at him and found a dozen reasonable reasons why they didn’t want him
working for them. But Lannister ltd owed his father a debt apparently and they
were paying it off in employing the unskilled, unlikeable and frankly hideous
younger son. It helped that this shop was one of the few in town that had dared
put a ban on his brother’s ever coming in. Gregor was not spoken kindly of
anywhere in town, but while they could deal with his brutishness in the film
and music businesses it was less tolerable around animals, making the pet shop
the only place in town Sandor could feel close to safe.
Not that Gregor neededto come and bother him anyway. He had it all; still lived
at home and was somehow breezing his way through college on the back of an
athletics scholarship. Sandor had no idea how they rigged his grades into
something even passable but the whole fact of this happening had put him off
the whole bloody business of education.
Which left him here, stupid and disfigured, cleaning out hamsters and handling
the tarantulas when nobody else dared. Tarantulas didn’t hurt you anyway, more
afraid of you than you were of them. Sandor always ended up in charge of the
insects and reptiles, he didn’t care. They were sweet creatures.
School had been enough of a nightmare for him anyway, hardly like he wanted to
face thatsort of trauma any longer than he had to. Animals never called him
names or even looked at him funny; kittens and puppies would eve lick him in
the face which could move him nearly to tears at times. Plus his superiors had
to call him by his real name, at least in front of customers, Cersei would do
anything to keep up appearances and she even made Joffrey keep his barbs to the
staff room.
Joffrey was one of the biggest problems really. Living as Sandor did, in a room
above the shop, there was no way to avoid the owner’s spoiled spiteful son, who
only worked weekends in the shop for the chance to eye up schoolgirls and try
and demonstrate a tender side he did not have as they cooed over kittens. What
they never saw was the boy kicking his way into Sandor’s room of a morning and
ordering him out of bed and down the street to fetch his lunch. They didn’t
hear the way he spoke to him or ever see what he did to those animals he could
steal from the shop. Not that thathappened anymore, after Sandor had got the
courage to report him; the only time Cersei had really put her foot down with
the boy.
To be fair though, the schoolgirls were a problem for Sandor too. He tried to
stay away, but they came in in these groups too big for the shop and had to be
kept an eye on. If they only giggled at him it was a good day, more often he
could see how quickly he was putting them off their potential lunch, see them
wrinkling their noses in disgust and backing away thengiggling. He tried not to
hear them.
There were a group in today, over by the rabbits, Sandor watched them warily
from behind the till. His heart sank as he saw Joffrey saunter over to them and
successfully get into their space whilst feigning interest. He paid no
attention to what they were saying at first, just heard the rise and fall of
their voices, one of the girls seemed delighted with Joff, he could see her
toss her hair and crinkle her nose in the most winning of expressions. Not
satisfied with this though Joffrey was trying it on with her friend as well, a
quiet red – haired girl, stiller than the rest, who smiled rather than giggled,
and nervously, Sandor thought.
“The only good rabbits are in pies” Joff was saying – “Father lets me hunt with
him sometimes –”
The first girl said something swoony that Sandor did not hear but the second
turned away from him long enough for him to see the disgusted look on her face.
“That’s horrible”she announced. Joffrey scowled.
“Here –” he said, and Sandor could hear the meanness creeping into his voice –
“Look at this instead.”
 Foolishly the girl followed where he was pointing and found herself trapped by
the angle Joffrey put himself at and forced to look into the spider cabinet. He
could see her shudder from behind and for some reason he could not quite fathom
could not stop himself calling Joffrey over on a thinly veiled pretence. To his
relief the older girl followed and, once Joffrey had dismissed the nonsense
Sandor had come up with she continued flirting with him. Before Sandor knew it
the two of them were stepping out the door with the girl calling to her friend
–
“Sansa I’m going out with Joffrey, we’ll be in Baelor’s!”
The girl looked around in surprise but by the time she even saw where her
friend had gone she had whirled out the door, taking Joffrey with her. Now with
only the two of them in the shop Sandor came out from behind the till.
“I’m sorry about Joffrey” he said, awkwardly, standing behind her.
“That’s alri- oh!” she broke off as she turned around to see him and her hand
went to her mouth before she could stop herself.
“I’m sorry – I –” she babbled. He wished she would stop. Shewished she would
stop, she knew better than to be rude to people but she had been so startled by
that mess of a face – and coming on top of that terrible boy – she knew she was
making it worse but she was trying to undo her initial shock and think of
something to say to make it better.
“I’m sorry” she said again, looking down at the floor. Sandor sighed; he wished
she could look at him, if only so that he could look back at her; she must have
had the prettiest face he had ever seen, her eyes were big and blue, they made
him think of the sky and her voice was a bird in that sky, light and
fluttering.
“Do I frighten you that much?” He could not believe he was still talking,
normally he’d have grunted and given up already – “As bad as one of them?” he
gestured the spiders.
“You’re not – you don’t – I mean –” she stammered and then nodded to where he
gestured – “They’re just so ugly –”she went bright red at that – “I mean – I –
I’m sorry –”
“You mean they’re ugly but so am I? And I wondered why no-one ever asked me
what I was doing in a place like this. Let me guess you came in for a hamster.”
“No – I – I –” she was flushed but he noticed with futher delighted surprise
that she had not actually fled yet or just yelled a goodbye. He even found
himself stepping aside so that the way out the door was clear for her if she
wanted it. She watched him but made no attempt to move any further away from
him – “A bird maybe” she finished, cursing herself in her head for being so
lame.
“Yeah” he grunted – “You would. A little singing bird, pretty as –” He coloured
up so fast he wished the floor would open up beneath him – pretty as youhe was
going to say and when he dared to look at her he saw her smile and knew that
she knew he had been going to say it.
“But I don’t think I’d like to see it caged up” she added – “So I – but then I
–” She blushed prettily – “Can I stroke one?”
“A bird?” his lips twisted into something that was almost a smile, he hoped it
did not terrify her away altogether – “They’re not the easiest – but soft –
softer than anything – here –” he opened up the smallest cage –
“This one’s got a broken wing – I was –” he looked away from her – “Taking care
of it – you can –” He let her reach in and watched how shyly, how gently she
stroked its little feathers. She in turn watched the bird hop onto his hand,
marvelling at how large his hands were and yet how gentle. It occurred to her
that she really did not want to leave as she probably ought, to find Margery –
and she refused to question herself further as to why that might be.
When she looked up she caught him smiling at her with such a warm look in his
eyes she could not even find him hard to look at anymore. When he caught her
looking he looked away.
“Well –” she said – “I – thank you – I –”
“You don’t have to be so polite all the time”
“How do you know I’m polite all the time?” she smiled, still frowning at
herself Sansa Stark are you flirting?
“Guess” he grunted.
“I should –”
“Yes”
“I’ll come back in –”
“You don’t –”
“But I will”
“Fine” Why?he cursed himself why am I almost arguing this?
“Goodbye then”
“’Bye” he grunted. She smiled at him as she went out and he felt his heart sink
and leap and knew that he was done for.
“Bye little bird” he whispered as the door closed behind her.
__x__
See, I dowrite suggestions, it just sometimes takes me a while to get to them!
I’ve literally never done a modern AU for anything before though so I hope this
worked! Also I had to work out how to write this without making pet shops look
like really awesome places! I’m actually tempted to write a follow up to this
at some point now though! :-)
***** I Wish *****
 
So - TRIGGER WARNING - this is a bit hugely tragic cause it’s set in an AU
where Sansa’s events in season 5 are actually happening, which I utterly
disbelieve and hate. It’s based on an idea I had that if she could remember a
kiss that never happened she could remember an awful lot of other lovely things
if she wanted to. But if you – like me – want to utterly ignore the misery of
season 5, don’t read this, I’ll understand. :-)
 
The little bird looked out of another window in another tower, another cage,
she looked out on the snow falling outside and she remembered.
It was easy, to remember, especially with all the time she had now to do so. It
was easy not to see things, she had been teaching herself for years, ever since
Joffrey had made her look at her father’s head on a spike. Nowadays it was as
easy as breathing. She could make herself not see, not hear, not feel. She was
getting better and better at that. And it was easy to remember what should have
happened.
She remembered the night of the Blackwater the most often. She remembered a
kiss and a song, that feeling of slight wooziness and a feeling of being
extremely alive. She remembered how she had felt the tears on his face and he
had got up and taken her hand, pulling her up with them. She remembered how she
had said yes.How he had nodded and so much of the tension with which he had
come into her room had gone out of him. She could feel the relief that flooded
him so strong it stretched to her. She knew she would be safer with him,
understood the truth of it, safer than with Ser Dontos, or Stannis or any of
them.
“Move quickly” he had told her, “Move quietly and do what I say and maybe we’ll
get out of here alive”.
She had thrown a cloak around herself and followed him out of there like a
shadow. She remembered hard, she remembered it all like it was yesterday. She
remembered reaching for the candle she had brought with her, how he had shaken
his head –
“No” he rasped – “No light, you have to be a shadow little bird, can you do
that?”
She could. She could be whatever she was told if she wanted to.
She remembered that slip through the darkness, skirting around the battle all
around them, remembered the glow of green in the sky and the smells of burning
and blood. She imagined how it must be for him and took a strange strength in
knowing she was less scared than he was. She saw too and learned, how scared
though he was he did not let a moment of it stop him.
Most of all she remembered getting up on his horse behind him. She remembered
being afraid she would hurt him with how entirely he took her weight to pull
her up and she clung to his arm as though she was climbing a tree, something
she could not hurt. She remembered that fear that she would hurt him and how
ridiculous she supposed that was, even at the time.
“Hold on to me” he said, more roughly than ever, and she had not been afraid of
that somehow. In truth she had never felt more like a girl in a story than when
she had put her arms around him, her fingers barely interlacing in the middle,
but she clung on tight and pressed her face into his back. She remembered that
most of all;
“Don’t look” he had said “Don’t look at anything” and she smiled into his back
because that was her special talent wasn’t it? Not looking, not seeing ,when
her eyes were wide open. Instead she remembered the smell of boiled leather
crushed up against her face and that intense smell of him that was foul and yet
somehow comforting. She remembered feeling patches of armour imprint into her
face and how she pressed in closer to keep the riot and roar of battle out of
her ears.
She remembered how they flew out of King’s Landing. The feel of wind around
them as they rode, cooling her burning cheeks. She felt like she had wings and
could barely hear the horses hooves against the ground. She remembered a
feeling of queer exultant happiness when she realised how much she trusted him.
She felt as safe riding out of a battle as she had at home in Winterfell.
Safe at home in Winterfell.The thought stung her and almost made her
misremember. She forgot the present, pushed it away, dived back into the memory
like a cool stream. She wondered that it could feel so sweet when at the time
everything was so hot and loud and clamouring. But it did; she was free, free
as the bird she could be, spreading her wings and leaving her cage behind. She
was a wolf too for once, rushing across the field. She remembered it so well;
she was free and safe and rejoicing and – she suspected – perhaps a little bit
in love.
Even at the time she could see the flight from King’s Landing like a picture in
her head, a painting or a tapestry; the knight rescuing the lady from the
burning city. The sounds around them were so loud she could laugh out loud to
herself and he never heard it.
She smiled as the turned away from the window and just to smile under such
circumstances felt so defiant that she smiled again. They could never take this
from her. What was it she had said once ? The truth is either terrible or
boring.She had thought she knew so much back then, when she was only halfway
right, she had not known then that was terrible could be boring as well.
People would come, she would switch herself off. It barely mattered. Until she
got away, and she wouldget away – there was so much more she could remember.
All those days spent travelling, side by side, all the conversations they had
had. All the nights spent awkwardly under trees and at roadside inns –
awkwardly and then less awkwardly. She had it all to remember still and then –
if she had to, there was a whole future to imagine – she stopped herself – to
plan.She wondered if she was crazy and did not find herself caring.
I will dwell in memoryshe thought, for now.She did not even have to wonder if
he dwelt there too because after all, he was still here with her whenever she
wanted, wherever it was that she wanted to be.
__x__
Ugh, I hate series 5, just to reassure you all I probably won’t write in that
stinky AU again, and in my head it IS and AU because Sansa’s entire plotline
makes no sense as well as being awful. I just did this for catharsis, just to
play with an idea really, I’m not sure Sansa would drown in unreality this much
really, I just like to think of her as staying hopeful and having something to
cheer herself up with – which obviously would be Sandor. :-)
***** The Tournament *****
 
So quite a few people were liking the idea of a sequel to the modern AU
chapter, so here, have that old Meeting-at-a-game-whilst-they’re-both-going-
out-with-other-people chestnut! Because, why not! – Some pure fluff is needed
after the last chapter I think!   :-)
 
 
She was torn between excitement and boredom, interest and shyness. A part of
her did not want to be here at all and another had just been waiting to attend
her first big game. Margaery had had to pester and pester her way through
Sansa’s indecisiveness and of course she had eventually won. Nevertheless it
felt good, at half time, to be able to run away from the packed - in seats for
a while, escaping Margaery’s over enthusiastic fishing for compliments on how
the cheerleading was going and the fact that Loras was blatantly ignoring her,
even after Margaery had convinced her to come as his date or somethingshe had
put it, though everyone knew that the something meant Loras still wasn’t ready
to come out about him and Renly, even though the whole school knew and had
known for ages.
Sansa sighed into her little plastic cup and wandered half-heartedly over
towards the bake sale stand, wondering if there would be lemon cakes. She was
wandering so vaguely that she went right into someone. She got as far as –
“I’m so –” and he got as far as –
“Watch where you’re –” before looking up and looking down and recognising each
other. She tried not to blush, tried to stop her hand going into her hair to
push it back nervously; he closed his eyes and wished he hadn’t been about to
shout at her.
“It’s you” she said, uselessly.
“And – you” he countered, more aggressively than he meant to
“Yes – I – I can- be – me” she floundered, I can be me!Her brain applauded
 extremely slowly and she wished she had said something else.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“I’m –” she frowned at herself, thought better of being defensive about it and
came out defensive all the same – “I can be here if I want to. What are
youdoing here?”
“Here with Joffrey” he grumbled quietly.
“Oh –” she frowned again. He looked away; he had to stop staring at the way her
forehead crinkled up so prettily, hadto.
“What’s the matter little bird, you look confused.”
“I suppose I kind of thought – you didn’t like Joffrey”.
He normally would never have gone on, but found that he could not bear the idea
that she might think otherwise and so –
“I don’t –” now he realised hewas sounding defensive – “But the boy’s a whiney
piss baby who won’t go anywhere without his bodyguard – I got dragged” he
finished quickly.
“I did too” she admitted.
“You didn’t strike me as a cheerleader” he nodded – “But I saw your friend out
there earlier. So who’d you come with?”
Sansa blushed. She could not believe how much she was wishing she was here
alone or how her cheeks burned and her gaze fell shy of meeting his eye.
“Loras Tyrell” she mumbled, grimacing. She cringed when he burst into laughter,
loudly and roughly; “I know –”she started, but it came out in half a whisper,
half a whine, and he was not about to listen anyway.
“Loras Tyrell?” he hooted – “Loras – Pansy-ass Tyrell? Little Bird you are
flying up the wrong bloody tree.”
“I know”she almost stomped her foot like some petulant medieval lady in a story
before she managed to stop herself – “Shut up about it alright? He’s only here
for Margaery and – and –”
“And because Renly’s on the team. It’s not a secret Little Bird.”
“How did you know, you don’t even come here.”
He grimaced, mumbling disgustedly;
“My brother’s also on the team.”
“Really?” He wished she could have given the polite interest a break just this
once, but she had to, didn’t she? Ruthlessly persistent as though she had a
worm caught in her little beak –
“Which one’s your brother?”
“Gregor Clegane” he sighed, it starts.Her eyes widened;
“The Mountain? Really he’s so –”
“Primeval?”
“Impressive – I mean –” she finally saw the look he was giving her and backed
down – “No-one can withstand him –” she mumbled.
“No – one can withstand him”he echoed “Little Bird, let me tell you a thing.”
-x-
She blinked when he had finished, surprised to find her eyes welling up with
tears of sympathy. She wished that she could not; she could imagine how rude
and unwanted sympathy must be.
“I take it back” she said, hoping it would be enough – “He’s not impressive at
all. He’s horrible.I’m so –” she didn’t really want to say sorry,it was so
inadequate, instead she laid a nervous hand on his arm. He froze for  a moment
almost in panic, hardly knowing what to do about this, and then a cheer rang up
from the benches; they both looked, both nodded;
“Gregor” they both announced, un-necessarily and with a joined sigh.
“So –” she looked down at the ground, knowing she should probably be getting
back, not wanting to go back – “It’s my first game” she said, for something to
say.
“How’s that working out?”
“I don’t think I like it.”
“I could – we could – I could take you away –”
“Run away with me?” She looked up then, smiling, a light in her eyes that was
almost too bright for him. It was like a story she thought, she could be the
lady and he could be her knight, as long as she didn’t look to close. Then she
realised that thatreally was flirting and coloured up again.
“No – but –” he said.
“Yeah – I should –” she mumbled.
“But maybe we could –” she tried again more boldly, clearly looking at him
expectantly in the hope that he would get the hint was getting her nowhere –
“It’s Blackwater Night on Friday” she said decisively – “We could –”
“What the hell is Blackwater Night?”
“Youknow, they throw it every year, down by the river, to celebrate a battle or
something that happened years and years ago? There’s a bonfire and they light
fireworks and…..and you hate fireworks” she ran down. It had been going to be a
question but half way through saying it she realised it really didn’t have to
be.
“Good guess” he nodded, sarcastically – “I really really do. But –” he could
see the light flicker in her eyes and was surprised how little he wanted to see
it go out – “But if you like we could notgo together.” She laughed;
“How do we notgo somewhere together?”
He scratched his head;
“Hadn’t worked that part out yet but if you don’t –”
“No, no I do! Please – I’d like to not go to the fireworks with you. I could –
come to the shop at about eight?”
“Okay” He wondered why he felt like looking around desperately for a way to
back out; he did not wantto back out, but it seemed so ridiculous that thisgirl
would ask him out that he was almost paralyzed with suspicion and overwhelmed
with bewilderment.
“Well I – better get back –” Sansa felt proud of herself and now, on the back
of that, terrified – “Margaery will be wondering where I am.”
“You do that” he nodded – “Fly off little bird.”
“It’s Sansa”She half sighed, half smiled – “See you Sandor”.
Se patted his arm, awkwardly and smiled as she flew away. He stared after her
wondering how and that she knew his name and wondering if he would ever be able
to move again without falling down, his head was spinning from the disbelief of
her. He was not sure he had ever smiled so hard as he did now at watching her
move away.
__x__
So, I need some advice! As you can see this seems to be maybe shaping up into
an actual story, because I find myself really wanting to re-write the battle of
Blackwater as a first date not quite at a fireworks display….so, do I keep
interspersing chapters of this au into these snippets or do I set it up as a
new fic? Or both? What are people’s thoughts? :-)
 
***** Ever After *****
Snippet from my longer fic "One Day in An Ever After", for anyone who just
wants the sansan sections! :-) 
 
Sansa
 
She woke with first light these days, slow and languorous, yawning like a cat
as she stretched in the sheets. It was two years into summer and the gold that
spilled over the windowsill was molten and warm. Soft liquid fire,she thought,
though she would find another way to describe it to her husband.
It was not the first morning into which she smiled as she stretched, slowly
half sitting up in preparation for the bolder move of actually sitting up. I’m
Queen of all the Northshe thought, chastising herself with a smile – waking up
should not be such a slow process.
She remembered all those years of sleeping for as long as she could, not waking
until she knew she would otherwise be called; Kings Landing, The Eyrie, all of
her various prisons. She had slept for as long as she could to pass the time
more quickly. Dreams had been better than real life back then. She had started
to lose hope that it would ever be otherwise.
And here she was. Years of this life had not made her used to it. She had never
started to take it for granted, to assume that nothing bad would happen. She
knew she should. If she could not trust in herself to keep herself safe she
should surely trust in Sandor. When they argued, half the time it was about
this – and every time it was over soon with kisses; she never had enjoyed an
argument and he, it seemed, was done with shouting at the world.
She turned her head to look at him asleep and dropped a still heavy head down
beside his on the pillow. Her fingers lightly traced his face, from nose to the
ear nearest her. He had grumbled at her just the other night that she only
slept on the side she did because she still could not really stand to look at
the other side of his face. She had almost been infuriated; after all this
timeshe thought, after everything I’ve said and donebut he had not quite meant
it and she had not quite become cross.
She would never forget that day towards the end of winter. Winterfell was still
under threat and even though they knew that they were winning she had still not
fought off the last of The Bastard’s men. They had made one last hurried
attempt to take back the castle and somehow she had found herself chased into a
corner, on her back on the floor with a group of men laughing at her claim to
the North and asking how she’d manage it without her skin.
It’s not fair,she vividly remembered thinking, childish though it was. In that
second she had wondered what she had even been trying to do, how indeed she had
ever thought that she could do this – it’s not fair, I got so far!And then a
hot spray of blood had hit her in the face and the first man crumpled like the
broken toy of a giant. One by one each man who had threatened her was neatly
broken and dropped and she had looked up, struggling back to her feet to see
who had rescued her. It was the stranger who had come and offered his services
as Winterfell’s new kennel master. They had had to get new people for
everything in the early days of re-establishing their stake on the castle and
so she had said yes without much thought. He was a Brother from the Quiet Isle,
he said, and at that time she had not been fussy enough to mind that he was so
heavily hooded at all times that she never saw his face.
Still that voice– and the size of him – something had pulled at the back of her
mind. Just a few days before she had gone to speak at him down at the kennels.
“Do I know you, ser?” He had made a noise that was almost a laugh;
“Surely the Queen in the North does not call a kennel master Ser?”It had not
helped the niggling feeling.
“You remind me of someone,” she had frowned.
He had made a half querying grunting sound, never looking at her –
“Some true knight of yours, no doubt.”
“No –” she could feel the frown lines running across her forehead – “No knight
– but true –” she sighed, remembering – “Truer than anyone I ever met”. Her
eyes went misty and when she looked back at him he looked quickly away from
her, not to show that he had been watching or listening to the faraway
dreaminess that had crept into her voice – “But he died,” she finished heavily,
wondering why it still hurt her heart to say so. She shook her head, shaking
off the dream she had never quite been able to fully form anyway – “Good day to
you.”
She had felt him watching her as she walked away and the feeling that she was
missing something had not left her.
And now he stood over her, reaching out his hand and pulling her to her feet
and if the deja vu was not enough she heard him rasp softly –
“You’re alright now, little bird.” Her eyes went wide as she stood up beside
him and she stared at him as though she had seen a ghost and it seemed to her
she might have done –
“Sandor?”she whispered – “That’s impossible.”
“Not impossible little bird,” he returned, letting her reach and slip her
fingers beneath the hood of his cloak and push it back – “Just –” he did not
know what else to say, overwhelmed at hearing her say his name like that, at
having her thisdelighted to see him. Her face broke into a smile like a burst
of sunlight on the snow and she reached to touch the burned side of his face as
if that more than anything convinced her he was real.
And she, unable to stop herself, when she had spent so long holding herself
back from everyone and everything had thrown her arms around him as much as
they would reach, standing on tiptoe to cover his face with kisses. It had been
an easier step than she could have ever imagined between that moment and
marriage.
And now, lying in bed beside him, more convinced than she had once imagined she
could be that he really would always be the one to keep her safe, she kissed
his face again. It made her smile how at this angle he looked undamaged –
beautiful even – and she never stopped wanting to trace the lines of him in
fascination. Then at some point he would always turn over and she would find
the poor scarred side of his face just as beautiful and kiss that twice as
much.
When she took a moment to blink between kisses she giggled to see that he was
squinting at her from one eye;
“Little bird –” he growled softly, and she thought he was going to say
something sweet and affectionate but all that followed was “It’s too fucking
early to have you pecking at my face.”
She kissed him lightly again, quickly, more like a peck than ever.
“The sun’s up and it’s a beautiful day!” she beamed, all the more cheerfully
because she knew it would annoy him. He closed his eyes in pain;
“Stop your bloody chirping already!” She grinned in the comfort of this early
morning routine, all the familiar words that meant love and happiness in their
language.
“It’s a beautiful day and there’s a dragon at the window!” she added. He
followed where she was looking and swore violently. The dragon had one claw
curled around the window ledge, scales glistening black and rainbow in the
early morning light. It snaked its head just a little inside when Sansa smiled
at it and she could have sworn it was smiling benignly at them.
Sandor swore violently again.
“Oh what’s wrong?” she laughed – “It’s only Bran.”
-x-
 
Sort of shamelessly publicizing my own fic really. :-)
***** Tale As Old As Time *****
I read this prompt on tumblr from Dammitsandorand had to run a little with it.
J
 
“Sandor thinking he’s alone in the theatre, building set pieces, until he hears
someone singing. He leaves the room to investigate and finds Sansa rehearsing
her part
Bonus points if Sansa’s rehearsing for the role of belle in a beauty and the
beast musical.”
 
He heard a lot of people say that the theatre after hours was creepy. It was
not supposed to be somewhere people wanted to be. And of course, there were all
the usual stories about it being haunted too. He didn’t care. He liked the
dark, and the echoes, and most of all the lack of company. Liked having someone
chuck him the keys and ask him just to close up when he was done.
Tonight he was behind the backdrop, working on the second backdrop; the castle
was done and now he just had a village to create. It was the closest he came to
happiness, working alone like this. The theatre could be scary by day and not
because of any ghosts. Theatre people were dramatic, and he could not have been
more tired of people reacting to the sight of him with all their obvious, badly
acted attempts at respectively sympathy, muted horror, and dramatically trying
to make it look as though they were not looking at him, which was probably the
worst.
Plus this god-damned show itself- and if he had one more person ask him why he
didn’t try out for male lead he was likely to stab somebody. It was a good
thing the only swords available were prop swords. Beauty and the Beastwas the
bane of his bloody life and he would be glad when it was all over.
There was a long way to go though; rehearsals had only just started.
He was sat on the floor, glaring at a join in the wood, when he heard light
feet patter on the boards of the stage. They sounded thunderous in the echoing
quiet.
“Hello?” came a voice, wavering and unsure – “Is there anyone there?”
He was not sure why he did not come out – other than that he just hoped he
could sit tight and they would go away. Actresses were the worst, and this girl
sounded like an actress. Probably a chorus girl who was hoping she had locked
herself in the building, desperate to frighten herself later, and who had not
actually tried the door before getting herself into a lovely panic. He sat very
quietly in the hope that he would hear her retreat. He heard the thumps and a
sort of swishing sound as her feet moved across the stage, but she did not go
away. What was she doingout there? He groaned; probably dancing about the
stage, imagining herself a diva. He wished she wasthe diva; that girl Margaery
that they had cast for Belle was terrible.
The footsteps stopped. In the near dark and the quiet he could hear her
breathing. She giggled nervously, took a deep breath and started to sing.
He knew the song; he had spent too much time lurking round the theatre not to
know all the usual audition pieces and then some more. It wasn’t Beauty and the
Beastand that was something of a relief – but it was from Phantom of the
Operawhich, as far as he was concerned was just as bad, if not worse. It was
Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again –a song he had heard attempted so often and
usually so badly that there was no room in him to like it and for the first few
lines he thought this was going to be no exception. Her voice wavered
tremulously in the vast space, getting eaten up by the air and the silent
auditorium where the red velvet seats crouched waiting with eyes glinting to
swallow up her words.
He almost groaned. He hated Beauty and the Beast, Phantom, Hunchback of Notre –
fucking – Dame.All those god-damn cliché’s that made people side eye him as
though it were a joke he should be in on. It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t
cute; beautiful people romanticising ugliness, the fuck did they know? They
gushed about those stories whilst they looked at him with all the doe – eyed
romanticism normally reserved for spiders. Fuck them.
Her voice almost fell apart on shattered –he was about to stifle a groan again
before she surged into the next line and he opened his tired eyes with a sudden
jerk of surprise. Her voice took flight with the song; he could hear it rise up
like an orchestra, sailing out over the stall and up the gallery, running
around the boxes, fluting and dipping and then diving, whispering around the
wings to where he sat listening, suddenly entranced.
He knew her now, the little understudy for Belle, Sansahis mind dredged up from
somewhere, Sansa Stark– he wondered if it was real or a stage name, it sounded
so good. He could picture her now; pretty, with eyes like the sky and hair like
autumn leaves. He wondered where the poetry came from; wasn’t like him at all.
She had been swishing because she was probably wearing a long skirt that looked
like she had made it herself. He had been mildly irate when she was only made
understudy. Also she was nice; or at any rate she tried at least to smile at
him and never giggled behind his back like most of them.
He had never heard her sing like this though; her voice was like a breeze, like
birdsong, he was bad at similes – it was like, though this was silly and he did
not know where it came from – her voice was like forgiveness; as though her
singing could wash out all the crap that built up inside his head. Her singing
took his heart and squeezed it, not only the sweetness of her voice but the
emotion; he could have sworn when she got to fighting back tearsthat she really
was.
He found himself creeping to the gap in the curtains to watch her. She was like
a ghost in the strange light; a lovely, colourful ghost. Her hands trembled
nervously like little birds themselves and her voice shook again at the end,
but this time it just added to it. She blinked rapidly as though coming out of
a trance and she looked down at the stage, embarrassed. At which point,
obviously– this time he did not manage to groan quietly – he dropped the hammer
he had been glaring at when she came in.
She whipped around in terror;
“Who’s there?” she called and he could see her eyes wide in the gloom. That
small part of his brain in which resided an extremely childish sense of humour
fought to whisper out “It is I, the phantom of the opera,” but he restrained
himself and instead shuffled, cringing, out from behind the backdrop.
“Sir – you –” she stammered, colouring up red – “You should have made your
presence known.”
“Don’t sirme girl, I’m just the stage hand.”
She huffed with indignation;
“You – you – you were there! All the time – and I – oh-” she looked like she
was almost going to cry with embarrassment and, not for the first time, he felt
like the most miserable jerk on the planet.
“I –” he did not know what he was going to say to try and make it better and it
was almost to his relief that she flared quickly into anger –
“You …you creep!”she sounded, adorably, like she would have liked to swear but
that it just did not come naturally to her – “Do you do this to all the girls
–”
“Gods no! I – just – you –” He closed his eyes in horror, screwing his whole
face up in the grimace. She made a noise somewhere between ughand a screech.
“I never – you were – and I just –” he stammered out several attempts at an
explanation that made this look better, all of them failing until – “You were
really good,” he tried.
“That’s not – really?” She blinked, going from anger to curiosity in the space
of seconds.
“It was –” he could not look at her, all the more so for noticing that she was
no longer struggling to look at him – “Beautiful. Really – it sounded like –
you really felt it.”
Then she looked away and only then did he remember that the song was about a
girl losing her father and he had just told her she sang like she really felt
it and…..shit. He kicked himself internally and repeatedly with the many
kicking feet of his brain.
For a moment she looked back at him and there were tears swimming in her eyes.
She bit her lip and then, to his absolute relief did not say what she might
have said to confirm his suspicion. Instead she bit it back and nodded –
“Thank you –” she said.
“You should have got the part”.
“Do you think so?” It was lovely to see her smile. He half smiled himself,
hoping it did not just look like a twitch of the lips. He had scared her
enough.
“Well Margaery kind of….she’s your friend?”
“Yeah, but you can say sucksif you want. It’s alright, maybe she’ll get that
porridge plague she was going on about and I could stand in.”
“Porridge plague?”
She shook her head, shyly, laughed –
“It’s a joke. Anyway, I should be going home, I –”
“I could walk you – it’s – dark.” He swallowed, not quite able to believe he
had dared offer.
“We-ll –” she smiled harder – “I suppose it’s the least you could do for
creeping on me in the wings.”
He wondered if, by the time she was nearly home, he might dare to take her
hand. He looked at her smiling face and wondered if she was going to make the
comment they all made, something like – If I could play Belle maybe you could
play my lead. She did not say it, but for the first time, he found himself
wishing that she would.
__x__
Argh! Another modern AU that’s now whispering me to write more for it! Maybe
Sandor really could somehow end up playing Beast to Sansa’s Belle? In theory I
hate AU’s….why do they keep talking to me????? :-D
***** Friendship is Magic *****
Erm so I can’t believe I’m saying this but: My Little Pony AU!! Y’know those
stupid late night discussions – the kind that lead to working out what all of
the asoi&f characters would have as a cutie mark? So that happened and then –
uh – this happened. All I can do is apologise. This is literally the silliest
thing I ever wrote. :-)
 
It sometimes seemed to Sansa as though she had spent her entire adolescence
wondering what her cutie mark was going to be. She was furiouswhen Arya got
hers so young; she had been so convinced Arya would give her grief about it
that she and Jeyne had set up their Cutie Mark Crusader’s club early, picking
on Arya before she could start on them.
Arya’s mark was so coolas well, a dire wolf with its face half in shadow. All
of the Starks got dire wolves in some form or other, even her half-brother Jon
had the pure white wolf silhouette. Even Theon Greyjoyhad one – much to her
chagrin. He was always trying to hide it with his tail, painfully ashamed that
he had not got anything with the typical underwater theme of the Greyjoy
family. It was not quite a dire wolf but he still had a wolf howling at the
moon. She remembered the confused look on his face when Jon and Robb had ridden
him around the courtyard on their backs chanting “One of us! One of us!” when
his cutie mark appeared. He looked both awkwardly pleased and furious all at
once.
Her mother kept telling her not to worry, that it was not a bad thing to wait
longer for her mark to appear, but what did she know? She had a lovely silver
and red fish on her flank for house Tully. Sansa dreamed of getting something
so pretty. Above all, she knew that she would get something beautiful,
something delicate, a wolf like Lady, graceful and elegant. She was so ashamed
when the Lannisters arrived, afraid of what Joffrey would say if he saw her; if
he would sneer blank flankbehind her back like he did to his own younger
siblings. He was so proud of his snarling black lion, similar to his mother’s,
only hers was gold.
Cersei was the most beautiful pony Sansa had ever seen, her coat glistened
almost ruby red in the sun and her mane and tail were a stream of gold. She
looked so impressive next to her brother too; he was almost identical except
his lion was lying down. She was mortified when the queen asked her outright if
her cutie mark had appeared yet and she had to say no in front of everyone.
In the end when it did appear, she wished it hadn’t. The night Lady died she
had cried herself to sleep, and when she had woken up in the morning there it
was. She almost screamed when she saw it: a great, black, snarling dog’s head.
And not even a wolf, which at least would have made sense, a dog and not even
an elegant one. She had thought it was a horrible joke of Arya’s at first and
spent hours trying to scrub it off. Then she had cried until her eyes ached.
She spent the rest of the journey to Stallion’s Landing miserable and
mortified, tail held over the hideous mark.
She wondered if it was punishment for not standing up for Arya; she could only
assume that it was. Eventually Septa Mordane noticed, though Sansa refused to
let any pony else see it and she found her voice growing rough from the number
of times she had to cry at her to shut up about it. Her Septa tried to comfort
her by pointing out that it looked more like a helmet in the shape of a head
than just a disembodied head, the same – she pointed out unhelpfully – as Robb
had. It did not help; Sansa had only ever met one pony who wore a helmet like
that and there was surely no point of comparison between them – was there?
_x_
For Sandor, getting his cutie mark had been one more awful thing in a line of
awful things. He was already disfigured, he had thought when he saw it – he
didn’t need this. One more thing for Gregor to be vile about; Gregor with the
perfect black dogs of house Clegane rippling across a golden flank.
Sandor had almost dared to be hopeful about getting his – hopeful that the
inevitably fierce nature of his cutie mark would make other ponies think twice;
maybe it could even make Gregor think twice about taking him on. Maybe it would
make his family see something in him of value for once.
It was a little bird.
It was a little fucking bird.
There was not even the slightest moment of any day in which he did not keep it
hidden; either with his tail or under some old battered armour. The shining
kind was not for him.
But then that night on the stair; he had been drunk and dishevelled and he knew
that she had seen it when she crashed into him on the steps. But she had been
so flustered he had caught a glimpse of hers as well. He squinted at it before
she noticed, blushed and hid it with a twitch of her tail – it looked oddly
familiar. In truth it was the cutie mark heshould have had. Had the two of them
got each other’s? What the hell was this? Neither of them could stop blushing
as he growled at her and she chirped back at him.
Little bird,he had called her – it hit him afterwards like a bucket of ice cold
water. It all made sense, suddenly, all of it made sense. He wished it did not.
-x-
It was not until years later, when they were living together happily in
Ponyfell, that they both began to wear their cutie marks with pride. Because
love, as well as friendship, was magic and they had learnt that beauty could be
found where you least expected it and in the most unlikely of things. In them,
and in the reformation of their family, the elements of harmony were combined
once more and Equesteros was at peace.
__x__
I promise never to write anything this silly again? Normal service will be
resumed in the next chapter….probably. All I can think is I watched too much
mlp recently!! I now have far too many ideas about this – like how if the Apple
family all have apple themed cutie marks obviously families of Westeros would
all have their house theme – my favourite is the idea of the Greyjoys all
having cute little krakens ad mermaids and stuff! and how all the Tyrells get
sick of boring old roses except Lady Olenna who got a circle of thorns. I need
help. :-P
This just in: my beta is currently working on illustrating this! Oh dear lord,
yes! Sadly I can’t get anything further out of them cause they’re rolling
around on the floor yelling “EQUESTEROS!” – I’ll – uh –keep yous posted!
***** Chapter 24 *****
 
So this is set in King’s Landing times but is kinda AU-ish cause it contains
events that clearly never happened in canon. :-)
 
She lay awake in bed, listening to the rain patter off the stone outside. The
last few days had been so hot; a last frenzied burst of summer desperately
riding on the back of autumn; the last hot days everyone imagined they would
see for a long time. They had all sweated the days out in heavy lethargy, the
ladies only able to imagine how much worse it must be for the men in armour.
Sansa had had to dig out the lightest of her summer silks; the ones she had
packed away weeks ago as the weather turned its face more and more surely
towards winter.
She missed the old summer, what she supposed she thought of now as realsummer.
Warm but not awful like this. The kind of day a girl could sit out beneath a
tree, angling herself to make the prettiest picture she could. Running through
the woods with Jeyne, lacing flowers through each other’s hair. Picking
wildflowers and sorting them into neat bouquets and pretty garlands which Arya
would doubtless run through and destroy. Chasing her in an anger she recognised
now as the carefree kind, pushing her in the river more than likely until they
all ended up wet and shouting and happy. It was not like that now. She had
thought she was glad to be growing up, that this new phase of her life would be
even more sweet and exciting than the last.
But nothing was as she had imagined it, and this had been an oppressive heat,
thick and wearying, and she lay awake listening to the rain in a smiling haze
of relief. She was so tired – the last few days had been too hot to sleep well
through – but now she could not sleep from the sound of the rain and the sky
outside rapidly becoming more exciting.
When the first rumble of thunder rippled up against the castle walls she fought
back a sudden crazy instinct to laugh. The misery of the heat had suited life
in King’s Landing and the thunderstorm suggested a freedom, a wild kind of joy
she thought she had stopped believing in. It was almost like the joy of running
down that path to the stream, crushing flowers into the dust – except that it
was not. It was a darker, more troubling joy that thrilled her nonetheless. She
went to the window to look out – reached her arm out to catch the raindrops.
Lightning shook nearby, crashing the sky up into silver and blue and she pulled
her arm back in quickly as though she could have been hit.
Smiling to herself as though in a secret shared between her and the storm she
threw a robe on over her nightgown and crept out. Nobody would be about in this
weather at this hour; she still caught herself supposing sometimes that she was
the first person ever to do a thing or think a thing, young enough to be so
instinctively conceited and old enough to call herself out on it. Nobody else
had ever been poised on the brink of adulthood like she had; so torn in their
feelings and unaware of themselves. She ran up the tower steps and out onto the
roof, looking up as she neared the top to see the rain sleet down silver and
bright into her face as though some wizard had waved a wand and these were the
sparks coming down from his spell.
She turned her face into the rain like a flower towards the sun. She tilted her
head back and stretched up her arms to welcome the rain, to play with the
storm. It made her feel huge and wild with importance.
“Shouldn’t you be curled up in your bed trembling, little bird?”
She nearly jumped out of her rain soaked skin; she had been so sure she would
be alone up here she had not even really looked around. She dropped her arms
and spun round fast. She wondered why Sandor Clegane was always in the places
she went to be alone in and she wondered at herself for not being immediately
unhappy about it.
“You – you – Ser you should have –” she spluttered.
“I should have made my presence known –”he recited for her – “Sing me another
one little bird, that one’s getting old and I’m not –” he shook his head and
gave up, the expression of why do I even botheron his face so comical that
Sansa almost giggled. He shook his head at her with a sigh –
“Strangely enough, I wasn’t prepared for little birds to come up here to fly in
a thunderstorm, so if you’re looking for an apology girl, you can piss on it.”
This time he half smiled at the look of affronted disgust that passed over that
pretty face.
“I wasn’t – ugh – I – you’re so –” she stopped herself before she said vulgar,
rudeor hateful –all of the options that trembled on her lips. He was looking at
her archly with a smirk that portended rudeness; a look which changed to
something much more intent when she stuck out the tip pf her tongue to lick the
raindrops from her lip. She was soaked through now, mercifully cool and alive,
and the taste of the rain was sweet and salt and herbal on her tongue.
“You’re drenched,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and then – it came out like a riposte though she did not mean
it that way – “It’s raining.”
“Come on,” he sighed – “I’ll take you back to your room.” He took a step
towards her, took a hold of her arm, not ungently. She did not step away but
made no move to let herself be led away either.
“I don’t want to go back,” she said, stubbornly. There were so few people in
King’s Landing she would dare be like this with; strange that this man was one
of them. A spear of lightning streaked the sky, breaking it apart close over
their heads. He could feel her shiver in delight and she grinned to herself.
When she looked up she could see that he was grinning too.
“You’re not –” he stopped and all the possibilities hung there between them –
normal, like other girls, predictable –for a moment he almost told her she was
not quite the stupid little bird he had initially taken her for, that when he
looked at her he could see dark wings colour the sky before sweeping him away
into spring, that when she spoke he could hear a she – wolf howl. He could not
say these things and so he finished lamely with – “Normal”.
Maybe she had heard his thoughts though, for a moment her eyes had narrowed;
seemed almost yellow in the smoky rain soaked light, her ears pricked up to
hear his very thoughts. But she just made a little sound, almost a laugh;
“No,” she smiled, and with the madness of the storm upon her and inside her she
stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. For a moment he stopped
breathing, and stared at her for too long, wondering what the hell had just
happened.
And she, she was just flying through the rain, chasing the storm on raven
wings. She was running to the river and the flowers were crushing beneath her
feet pink and blue and yellow, petals running together, a rainbow of paint
breaking up in the autumn rain.
And she was a winged wolf, flying over the storm.
__x__
 
I’m toying with giving this a second half – aging Sansa up and going nsfw on
it? Or doing something connected but set quite a few years later since I don’t
really headcanon anything like that having happened in KL days? But I also
kinda like it as it stands – what do people think?
***** Chapter 25 *****
I did it, I did a porn chapter in a thunderstorm – many years later though when
they’re married and living in Winterfell.
 
Spring brings with it all the sweetness and promise of summer – and storms. He
finds her on the battlements where the lightning split the sky. She has her
face turned into the rain, arms outstretched as though she is conducting the
thunder. Or she is flying through it. He remembers that.
So much has happened since then, but in the storm, up high with the smell of
rain and stone and the cindery scent of thunder he remembers as though it was
yesterday.
He had gone up the tower to feel the thunder; to bask in the storm, and yes, to
be alone. That part at least was ruined when she appeared. He supposed he
should have alerted her to his presence straight away – like she told him he
should have done – but for some reason he had heard her foot on the stair – and
yes, the largest part of him had known that it was her – and he had backed away
into a shadow as though she frightened him. He had felt like such an idiot – he
still felt like an idiot about it in retrospect – but she hadfrightened him.
There was an urge to be himself around her – and a version of himself he
thought had died – and a tendency to start telling her all the things he told
no-one, a symptom of the sickness it often felt that she was causing him.
He understands it now; he knows that he had loved her, but he supposed that
even if he had been able to go back and let himself know that it would not have
made him feel better, not the person that he was back then. The Hound. The
Hound had always been a bit of a lie; she had told him since that in truth he
was always Sandor in her head, told him how the thought of his name made her
blush to herself even as the child she had been then.
She is no child now and, more than that, now she is – he did not like to say
his,though he knows she would not have objected, and it was a good thing to
know.
She does not jump when he appears behind her now. She does not even seem
surprised; she always seems to know when he is on his way to her. She turns to
him and her smile is wild and wide and there is lightning crackling in her eyes
and before he even really has time to be in awe of her she stands up on tiptoe
and kisses him.
Not like she had kissed him before; he remembered that sweet little kiss and
tortured himself for weeks and more with wondering what it meant. Indeed he was
not sure he had ever lost the feel of her lips against his face. This is not
like that; this is the kiss he had dreamed about later, full of all the
wildness in her eyes, the passion in her being. She kisses him now like a wolf,
where before she had kissed like a bird. She is warm and drenched, slippery and
cold too with rain on her skin and her hands are pulling him to her, clasping
at his shirt and winding in his hair and he wants her almost more than he can
bear and she wants it that way and he knows that, too.
He had wanted her back then as well, though it shamed him to admit it. Even
after he had told her and she had nodded and told him, realising that it was
true for the first time only as she told him, that she had wanted him as well,
young though she had been and unsure exactly what it was that she was wanting.
But the uncertainty has long fled her now and only the wanting remains and her
hand is on his cock in perfect certainty; her little fingers working his laces
with a skill that he wonders at, never sure, every time she does this, where
she had picked it up. In truth she is not sure herself.
He is rock hard beneath her hands, it is impossible not to be, and she presses
herself back against the wall so that he can hold her to it and push into her
with no further ado. She is impatient and needy, eyes alternately wide and
closed as her head rolls and leans and nuzzles at his shoulder and he kisses
her wet hair as he thrusts into her, ramming her into the wall like she wants,
like he wants. It had not even been his intention in coming to find her in the
storm, but he was more than ready and she whimpers as though she has been
waiting a lifetime.
She is so overpowering to all his senses it is almost hard to breathe; he can
hear the cries that she does not try to keep down hurling out against the
sounds of rain and storm, hear the ragged little breaths in between that undo
him almost as much if not more. He can feel every curve of her beneath the thin
shift she had clearly put on just to get soaked in. She is soaked in every
possible way and her body shakes and shudders to each rumble of the thunder.
She is nothing like he had ever imagined her, and he must have imagined her
about a thousand times at least – but the reality of her is a wonderful world
away from what even his strangest dreams would allow.
Towards the end she tenses, quietening all of her ecstasy down into a fierce
whispering yesyesyeyeyyes –her fingernails dig into his shoulder and she comes
shrieking into a silvery crash of lightning. The sky dances with her and the
violence and delight of it surprises him into coming with her, voiceless with
pleasure when she has stolen all the sound.
Seconds later, with the storm receding, she smiles at him with sleepy eyes, so
innocent and sweet it is hard to put all the sides of her together into one
coherent picture that works. But she is all that she is, whether he can fully
believe it or not.
-x-
The next morning at breakfast sees Arya positively egging the children on as
they moan about the storm and the rain. It had just been starting to get nice,
the sun was coming out, it was springfor fuck’s sake, what was the weather up
to. Arya is the loudest complainer of course and Sandor is just on the verge of
shouting at her under the guise of educating her in how weather works, when
Sansa very quietly smiles and says –
“Oh I don’t know, I quite like the storms.”
And she turns to him ever so slightly and smiles and it is all that it takes
for him to choke on his breakfast as the glint in her eye kills him all over
again.
__x__
I’ve realised since starting these ficlets that I 100% don’t ship these two as
having any kind of sex until after she’s grown up and he’s got his head sorted
out – and even then I find them so sweet that writing it now makes me blush a
little! I hope this chapter didn’t suffer too much on this account! :-)
***** Chapter 26 *****
 
 
Somebody on tumblr was talking about Sansa giving Sandor his cloak back after
the first time he gave her it. I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are to thank you
for the idea but thank you! This happened, sort of a companion piece to the one
with Sansa and Sandor’s cloak. A wee bit nsfw.
 
She was reluctant to give it back. In the end it was only three days later that
she got up the courage to do so. She wondered why he did not come pestering her
for it. Surely a white cloak was more important to a member of the Kings guard
than – just about anything. She could not see that it was anything other than a
badge of great honour. She had seen how Ser Meryn and Ser Boros guarded theirs
so jealously. But Sandor Clegane was not like other men – he had given her his
cloak in a heartbeat, not caring that she would probably get blood on it. And
he was not – as he kept reminding her – even a knight like they were. It was a
puzzle she never could get her head around.
And she had to admit she had clung to the cloak over those short days, taking
more comfort from its warmth and softness than she supposed had ever been
intended in the offering. She hoped beyond hope that he would not guess from
its crumpled state how she had taken it to bed with her like a baby with a
blanket.
And then she did not know what she should say. Did she simply hand it over with
a Thank you?Thank you was not enough, in her heart, for what she felt. A thank
you for covering her, for taking away her shame – but there was more too – a
thank you that he alone had cared enough, the knowledge that he had not hit her
when Joffrey had asked. She had seen him, pretending not to hear, and she had
heard when he tried to tell them to stop. She knew too that he had looked away
when everyone else stared at her nakedness. She was more grateful than thank
youcould express but she knew she could not say it. She knew too that behind
the thank youwas the knowledge –you saw me beaten and crying and naked, how you
must despise me!She did not want to meet anyone’s eye let alone someone who had
had the decency to look away.
She realised she had wrapped up all her sense of having been saved in Sandor
and that this was horribly unfair to Tyrion. She knew it but could not change
it.
She shook the cloak out for hours, pressed out the wrinkles as much as she
could, tried to wash out the blood. She was, she realised, intensely inept at
washing anything out of clothing. The dress Arya had destroyed with her orange
had been unwearable after; she was sure it should not have been so difficult.
In the end she was at least saved the difficulty of finding him; she bumped
into him coming out of her room with the cloak folded neatly across her arm.
“I was –” she began.
“Are you done with that?” he nodded, slightly rudely, at the cloak.
“I was just coming to find you – to say –” all that thinking and she had not
worked out what she was going to say.
“About bloody time,” he grunted and took the cloak from her fingers that had
suddenly become so limp and useless.
And that was it; that was the whole of the conversation.
If Sansa went away from the exchange unsatisfied, Sandor figured she got off
lightly considering the way he was cursing himself. As usual he had meant to do
that better; he had not meant to be rude to her. He had also spent the last two
days wondering whether he should wait for her to find him or go to her to ask
for it back. He had not even thought of this tangle of awkwardness when he gave
her it. He had been moving to take it off before Tyrion even spoke. Now, as
usual, he wished he had done this differently.
It was not until later, when he went, reluctantly to put the cloak on again,
that he realised it smelled different. He wanted to wear it even less than
before anyway, could not stop reminding himself of what he had let them do to
her. He didn’t deserve this fucking cloak, didn’t deserve a damn thing. And now
he could smell her trapped within the fabric and the way that confused him made
him feel even worse.
He never imagined that she had slept with it, or how close she had snuggled in,
but it was impossible to forget that it had been against her naked skin.
Impossible as it was to forget the gentle perfumed smell of her he felt sick,
fingers trembling to think of her so closely.
Later he could not stop himself burying his face into the fabric, drinking her
in, wild flowers and sweat and the crisp winter lemon smell of her hair. The
fact that it should notdid not stop it hardening his cock, did not stop him
thinking of her as he took it in his hand. Burying his face in her hair,
cooling his lust with her skin against his. She was so soft, so sweet, so
beautiful; he came close to tears from wanting her, knowing he should not, that
it was impossible. Little bird would be horrified to know what he thought, let
alone what he was doing with the thought.
He could have made it easier, he supposed. He could have just had the cloak
washed. And washed again until all hint of her scent was gone from it. Even
then he knew he would have smelled her there even if she was not. He was a dog
after all and it was the best he could hope for that she would even see him as
that and not the monster he knew she saw. He could not blame her; he saw it
too, well enough. She would never come with his name on her lips as he did
whispering hers, face buried in the smell of her. It was stupid to even imagine
it. He imagined it plenty all the same.
He did not have the cloak washed.
__x__
I need to write more Sansan – throw ideas at me people! :-)
***** Tabula Rasa *****
Okay, this one is based on a beautiful idea from SassyEggs(thank you so much
for the fun I had with this!) – to do a one shot based on the Buffy episode
“Tabula Rasa”. For those of you that don’t know the premise was that a magic
spell for forgetting  backfired and a group of friends woke up from a
mysterious passing out in a  room together not knowing who any of them were.
I’ve set this just after my earlier one shot in which Sansa was mourning Lady
and Sandor was awkwardly in the same place doing the same. So –this is set in
the Inn on the King’s Road just after Season 1 Episode 2!
 
27
 
“Girl.” Sansa turned, almost startled, to see Sandor still behind her; she did
not realise he had followed her back into the inn – “You cold? You’re
shivering”.
In truth, she was still crying over Lady, but she had been crying so long and
so solidly that she had grown silent with it. She made a non – committal noise
and felt him sigh behind her;
“Here”. Before she knew it, his cloak was around her shoulders, and it said a
great deal for how sad she was still feeling that she did not object
immediately to the horrible thing, and instead took comfort from the gesture
and pulled it round herself. Still not speaking to Arya or her father, still
hating Joffrey and Cersei, it was the closest she could come to a hug.
They were all there, when she went in; Sandor Clegane ducking under the
doorframe behind her, Arya sat with their father in one corner, Cersei and
Jaime in another with Joffrey nearby, nobody else still around at this hour,
King Robert having long since been taken off to bed drunk and furtive. He went
straight to Joffrey’s side and she went and sat by the fire away from them all.
She poked disconsolately at the hearth while they all sat around in a silence
that no amount of warmth could chill. It smelled nice, Sansa thought, like
someone had been burning flowers here; she felt like she should recognise the
flower but it hung just off the tip of her mind, forgotten. She yawned, she
felt so sleepy, so strange all of a sudden.
-x-
She woke up groggily, the fire spitting at her. The lights had burned low and
she could hardly see; she threw another log on the fire to revive it and give
them more light, and looked around her, wondering where she was. It was an inn
of some sorts, and as she wondered how she had come to be there, it occurred to
her with a horrible sinking lurch that she had no idea who she even was. She
reached for her name and found nothing. As the flame flickered back into life
in the hearth she looked around her and saw that there were other people here,
yawning, stretching and frowning. She started to hear mumbles of – hey!and
what?and how in the seven hells?A girl with dark hair was the first to spot her
over by the fire and called out –
“Hey – who are you?”
“I –” they’d think she was crazy but it was all she could say – “I know this
sounds strange but –”
“You don’t know, do you?” a blonde boy said accusingly – “What have you done?”
“I didn’t do anything – I – why –” she started to get afraid – “Who are all of
you?”
“I don’t know either,” the other girl admitted.
“Nor I,” the man next to her said.
“None of us know,” said a lady, coming over from another table with a man
beside her who looked so like her they could only be related.
“The fuck is this horse shit?” grumbled another man lifting his head up from
the table. She gasped to see his face; it was terrifying in the firelight, one
half completely burned and scarred.
“The fuck you looking at?” he growled at her.
“Oh!” she gasped, she realised she did not even know what she looked like and
felt bad for looking at him the way she must have done. One by one they all
started looking at themselves, the scarred man staring at himself in horror,
even as she had stared. Everyone was talking at once, arguing screaming, the
blonde boy finally yelling over them all –
“I demand to be told what is going on!”
“Now let’s all calm down,” said the first man who had spoken – “Do any of us
know who we are?”
They established that they didn’t.
“I know who you are though,” the blonde man said – “Look – you’re wearing the
badge of warden of the north – you’re Ned Stark”.
Ned frowned, but accepted this, the blonde lady harrumphedgenteelly –
“I wondered who’d died and put you in charge.”
“I think –” the girl said slowly, looking at the necklace she was wearing – “I
think I’m a Lannister – look”. They peered in to see the lion head engraved on
her pendant – “Oh, you have one the same!”
The lady looked and saw that she was right –
“You must be my mother!” she smiled, glad to have sorted something out.
“Then I must be your father!” The other man joined in.
“Oh please!” The scarred man added – “Look at you two – you’re clearly brother
and sister and unless something fucking awful is going on –”
“That’s disgusting,” the Lady said, though the girl noticed that her brother
just shrugged.
“Well anyway, we need names!” The dark haired girl complained – “I thought I
might be Cat.”
She and the other girl stared at each other realising they had both said this
last part together.
“I said it first!”
“No you didn’t, I did!”
“Did not,”
“I’m Cat!”
“No I’mCat!”
“I feel like a Cat – you’re just – you’re smelly!”
“Fine!” the older girl sulked – “You be Cat, it’s a stupid name anyway, I’ll be
– Alayne.”
“Pfft” Cat snorted – “That’sstupid.”
“You’re stupid!”
They looked at each other for a long moment –
“Do you think –” Alayne bean – “We could be –”
“Sisters?” Cat finished – “I still don’t like you.”
“You two are sisters alright,” Ned sighed – “And from the feeling of some
gently familiar irritation I’m thinking I’m your father.”
“Urgh!” The Lady said – “That means we’re – no! No we are not! I don’t like you
– and – and I think I’m kinda gay.”
“It makes sense,” Ned shrugged – “I’m a Stark, you’re clearly a Lannister and
look – I have a wedding ring and so do you – and nobody else does in this
room.”
“What’s my name then?” She folded her arms and stared at him challengingly.
“I don’t know – what do you –”
“Joan,” she said firmly – “I feel like a Joan”.
Her brother snorted –
“Joan,”he said, implying all the insult he could in tone alone.
“Well what’s your name then?”
“Maybe you should pick me one, sister dear”.
“Fine – you can be – Pod.”
“Pod?”
“You look like a Pod – Podrick Lannister.”
“I must have a name!” The boy announced, looking peeved that nobody was paying
him attention – “Something mighty – epic – like me.”
“You have lions on your cloak,” Joan looked at him thoughtfully – “And you
certainly feel like my son – you should have a fine upstanding Lannister name
–”
“Jaime!” He announced proudly – “Jaime Lannister – that sounds good!”
“Gods damn it!” Pod complained – “Iwant to be Jaime Lannister!”
“What about you?” Alayne asked the man in the corner, aware that he was being
left out. He just shrugged.
“I dunno – I feel maybe it’s – Gregor. And I maybe hate it. But –” he shrugged
– “Gregor”.
“Well that’s something” Ned nodded – “We all have names now –”
“What happened to your face?” Cat butted in, staring at Gregor right up close.
“That’s rude!”Alayne cried. Gregor just shrugged and grinned a little –
“Guess I’m a fighter, girl. Reckon I got this doing something heroic. I’m
probably a knight, saving a girl from a burning building perhaps? Could have
been anything.”
Cat snorted. Alayne looked a little impressed.
“Wait!” Jaime wailed  “They can’t be my sisters! I don’t wantthem for sisters!
Look!” he showed them all his arm – “Something bit me! It was probably her!” he
pointed at Cat who snorted –
“I couldbite your arm.”
“Yeah,” Pod rolled his eyes – “They’re definitelyyour sisters. Be nice and – uh
– don’t sleep with them. Sleeping with your sisters is bad.”
Joan looked at him oddly in the awkward silence that followed this
announcement.
“Does anyone know whose cloak I’m wearing?” Alayne said eventually – “I mean
it’s clearly not mine – it’s – a man’s –”
“Gregor doesn’t have his,” Ned observed. Alayne took the cloak off and gave it
to him, it fit perfectly, which, given the man’s size made it obvious to her –
“I think we’re engaged!” she announced, she went over to Gregor, instantly
cuddling in and putting her head on his shoulder. She felt safe there, happy;
it just affirmed their engagement in her mind.
“You’re my fiancé!” she announced. He smiled and nodded – it felt right, more
right than anything else this day.
“Fiance!” Cat yelled – “Gross! And he’s old enough to be your father!”
“Now – uh – Cat –” Ned broke in – “I’m sure Gregor here is an excellent match
for my daughter. I would not have allowed it otherwise – don’t roll your eyes
at me, woman!” he snapped at Joan.
“Don’t be so horrible, Cat!” Alayne whined – “I love him!” it felt so good to
announce it. He smiled at her adoringly –
“You don’t mind –” he gestured – “This?”
It was obvious to Alayne that she had already nobly gone above that and seen
the beauty within or she would not be engaged to him; that was how stories
worked.
“Of course not!” she kissed his burned face and he beamed happily. Cat made
gagging noises.
 “Now –” Ned looked out the front door, ignoring them all – “This is the King’s
Road – We’re from Winterfell – clearly my dear – um – wife’s family have come
to visit and now – we’re all headed to King’s Landing for my daughter’s wedding
to this worthy knight.”
“Pull that out of your arse did you?” Pod arched an eyebrow.
“It sounds right,” Alayne agreed. Nobody else did. Suddenly a terrible howl
echoed outside.
“Wolves!” Jaime’s eyes went wide, he went and stood as close to Joan as he
could without standing behind her.
“I think –” Cat said slowly – “I like wolves.”
Alayne was not as afraid as she felt she should be, but she pressed closer into
Gregor for the excuse it gave her. He kissed her head and stroked her hair –
“It’s alright Little Bird, you’re safe with me” He smiled down at her
confidently, reassuring. Ned smiled to see them and nodded to himself; yes,
this man was right for his daughter, brave and gentle and strong and his love
for her was not doubtable or hers for him.
“Close that damn door!” Joan snapped. Ned was slow on the uptake, smiling at
the lovers as he was. She marched across the room muttering that she would do
it herself, Jaime scuttling after. She whirled around with the door firmly
slammed behind her and as she did so something fell out of her pocket. Alayne
just had time to see Jaime step on it before a feeling hit her like a blow to
the head and she blinked rapidly and repeatedly several times. Looking around
she saw everyone do it and as it all came flooding back she leapt from Sandor’s
side, cheeks bright red and muttering a hasty goodnight that everyone emulated
as they scurried to their rooms.
Only Cersei lingered in the Inn’s main room long enough to brush the black
crystal fragments into the fire and regret that her plan to make them all
forget the unfortunate incident with Sansa’s wolf had backfired so horribly.
__x__
Okay, for anyone getting picky, yeah I know Joffrey gave Sansa that necklace
later in King’s Landing but just for this I wanted her to already have it so as
to have a (wrong) idea of who she was!
For anyone who got confused and needs to read back:  Ned = Ned, Sansa = Alayne,
Arya = Cat, Cersei = Joan, Jaime = Pod, Sandor = Gregor and Joffrey, just to
really complicate your lives = Jaime.
This suggestion was one of the BEST ever and I am so open to more quality one
shot ideas like this! In fact, just name me Buffy episodes, I could totally get
under that!!
 
 
***** Chapter 28 *****
Okay, I have to thank a lot of people for their input with this one. based on
the success of the last chapter I decided to do another Buffy episode. It was
put to me to do “Halloween” – the one where they all turn into their costumes.
So I have done. I want to thank everyone who chimed in with this – especially
Sassyeggsand Direwaggle42.I warn everyone though – if anything this is even
sillier than the last chapter!
 
In the early spring, as her hold on the north secured, Sansa decided to throw
the first major masquerade ball the north had seen in centuries. She could
never have foreseen the amount of arguing her idea would cause. Not in the
preparations, the decorating or the food – Hot Pie threw himself to the task of
the banquet with delighted abandon – it was the costumes that got everyone in
distress. All over the castle it was as though war had broken out all over
again.
“But I wantto be a knight!” Arya wailed.
“You area knight anyway!” Sansa admonished – “At least you’re training to be!
Why not go as something – completely different from who you are? That would be
more fun”.
Arya glared at her suspiciously;
“You’re just trying to make me be pretty!”
“Well I couldn’t do that if I tried!”
“Fine! Fine you know what – I’ll go as you!”And so on.
In the library Sam was trying to shoot down all of Gilly’s laughing suggestions
that he should be a White Walker. He could not think why she would do this to
him.
“Well then – I will if you will!”
“I already have my costume planned,” Gilly countered with an easy shrug –
“You’ll see.”
The little ones were going to be dragons; Sansa had spent weeks going far and
wide for the materials to make their costumes, Bran overseeing the proceedings
with tolerant amusement.
Sansa had not thought, right up until the night of the ball, that she would get
Sandor in a costume at all. Eventually, grudgingly, just before they were due
to go down, he emerged in a suit of shining armour and a flowing cloak of blue
silk. Her eyes glowed –
“Oh shut up,” he grumbled before she could express approval – “You asked for
everyone to be unlikethemselves remember? Well I’m one of those true knights
you’re always going on about.” She beamed;
“Well pray, escort me to the hall, good Ser!”
“No” Sandor grumbled – “That’s too much, little bird. Look at you, all feathers
and everything.”
Sansa had decided even before she put the idea out there to be at least a
partial bird and her cloak was a riot of colourful feathers. They almost
stumbled over Arya coming into the hall as she ran past yelling –
“This is stupid! Ladies can’t fight dragons!” tripping over her skirts whilst
Rickon and Shireen ran after her roaring.
“Arya!” Sansa laughed – “Ladieslook where they’re going!”
Arya stuck her tongue out at her sister and ran on. Sansa looked around the
room, smiling benignly; Sam and Gilly were late but otherwise – there were
Jaime and Brienne – dressed as caricatures of each other, Gendry was a bull and
in the corner -
“Good gracious!” Sansa announced – “Whatever is Hot Pie?”
Arya ran up behind her wheezing for breath –
“He’s a – hot pie!” she laughed – “Can’t you tell?”
Suddenly everything shimmered and went dark.
When Sansa came round again something felt very odd. She stretched, then she
flexed her wings – she gasped – she had wings! All over the castle she heard
murmurings and she looked around in the dark to see what she could see. The
noises from the courtyard were alarming – it sounded like roars and bellows and
wings. Jaime and Brienne were screaming at each other – Brienne was missing a
hand and Jaime had both of his;
“How in the seven hells would I have stolen your hand woman?” he was yelling.
“You’re the woman!”
“Arya?” Sansa caught sight of her sister with relief – at least Arya looked
like herself.
“What’s happening?” Arya sounded scared, tiny – “What’s wrong with everyone?
Why do you have wings?”
“I – I don’t know. Arya did you hide your sword in your dress – you might need
it.”
Arya looked shocked;
“Why would I do that? I’m a properlady – ladies don’t use swords.”
“Arya that’s not helpful, stop it now, this is serious.”
“I don’t understand. Maybe we should just wait here and some brave knight will
no doubt come and rescue us.”
“Arya stop it! It’s starting to scare me!”
“Little bird?” behind her Sandor sat up groaning – “Sansa? You alright? –
fucking – ” he broke off looking at her – “The fuck is going on?”
“Well at least someone’s acting normal!”
“Oh thank goodness!” Arya cried, clasping her bosom – “Are you a knight come to
rescue me, good Ser?”
“She keeps doing that!” Sansa looked perplexed.
“I can be,” Sandor shrugged – “Let’s try and find out what’s going on here.”
“Wait –” Sansa flapped her wings as she spoke, it was surprisingly relaxing as
she floated up towards the ceiling – “I’m getting something – Jaime and Brienne
came dressed as each other and now they’ve swapped hands – Arya you came as a
fine lady and –”
“But of course, I did!” Arya looked peeved – “I ama fine lady, I am not used to
this kind of strangeness!”
“But Sandor you seem much the same – except you didn’t shout at Arya for
calling you Ser – so somehow –”
“Some magic has made us all our costumes!” Jaime said, coming over – “Look see,
there’s the most enormous pie in the corner!”
“Hot Pie!” Sansa cried in alarm – “Oh no – oh no –”she said again “Sam was
going to be –”
As if on cue there came a terrible chill and a frost swept in from the main
door. Sandor had already ushered out most of the guests who were still human,
and Arya clung to his arm, trembling.
“RUN!” he yelled. They did, Sansa flew right over the head of the terrible
White Walker that came crashing into the room. Sandor and Arya swerved around
it.
“You can blame Gilly!” Brienne yelled.
“Where isGilly?” Sansa called down.
“Oh what a pretty flower!” Arya bent over to pick a flower out of the stone
corridor.
“Not now, Arya!”
“That’swhere she is!” Sandor sighed – “Arya you keep that flower safe!”
They ran out into the courtyard, but it was no safer – two little dragons were
flying circles round and round whilst Bran tried desperately to keep them under
control and a minotaur was destroying the blacksmith’s forge. Arya fainted into
Sandor’s arms.
“She’sno use to us!” Brienne complained as they all huddled into an archway.
“You’re always so mean!” Jaime grumbled at her.
“Shut it wench!”
“You shut it, kingslayer!”
“Both of you stop!” Sansa snapped sternly – “Arya –” Arya was coming round,
head on Sandor’s arm. She gazed up at him adoringly –
“You rescued me!” She beamed – “Just like in a story! How can I ever thank you
my good lord?”
“You can stop thatfor a start!” Sansa pulled her to her feet – “Arya, I need
you to take care of that flower and go back into the main hall with these two
and make sure nobody eats Hot Pie!”
“But – but I want to go with the brave good knight!”
“Iam going with the brave good knight. Now go!”
They went. Sansa fluttered down to the ground –
“I still don’t know where to start,” she sighed.
“You’ll be alright,” Sandor patted her awkwardly on the wing – “I’ll keep us
safe.”
Sansa smiled at him, reassured somehow even in the midst of all the chaos;
“Wait –” she frowned, peering as a red cloaked figure came out of a door across
the courtyard – “What is shedoing here?”
They chased the red woman down, Sansa remembering how Arya had described her to
them – it could be no-one other than Melisandre of Asshai.
“I wanted to make you all see,” she said – “To show you your true selves and
bring you to the Lord of Light – I did not know you would all be pretending to
be such strange people and creatures.”
“Can you undo it?”
“You must look into your hearts and tell me if you want it truly to be undone,”
she replied importantly. Sansa looked around, flapped her wings gently, saw the
dragons and the monsters in the courtyard, heard the white walker running
rampant through the castle and nodded, amazed at the question –
“Yes!” She almost snorted – “yes we want it undone!”
The red woman smiled and vanished and it was done. Bran caught the little ones
as they fell out of the sky. Gendry looked in shame at the ruin of the forge.
Sansa and Sandor ran back into the main hall to check on everyone. Sam was
looking ashamed, Jaime and Brienne were still arguing – but at least this time
they had the right limbs. Nobody had eaten Hot Pie and Gilly was looking
extremely crumpled and distressed from her time in Arya’s pocket and Arya –
“Right!” Arya roared, stopping past with Needle in hand, ripping the sweet silk
dress off her as she went – “Where’s that witch who made me into a swooning
soppy –”
“You sure you don’t want your brave knight to hunt her down for you, my
lady?”Sandor could not help himself.
“Shut up!” Arya yelled – “Shut up shut up shut up!”
“Oh, what are you going to do? Swoon on me again? She’s never going to live
that one down,” he grinned at Sansa as Arya stormed off.
“And you?” Sansa smiled sweetly – “Are you going to live it down that you
dressed as a true knight and hardly changed at all? I can still give you that
knighthood, you know”.
“Urgh –” Sandor groaned – “Shut up, little bird.”
__x__
Poor Arya – having to take Buffy’s role in this one! I did struggle for an M.O
- I had some half baked idea about Ethan Rayne being alive in Westeros as the
sole surviving heir to Castamere perhaps but it was too much to get into this
chapter so Melisandre had to do it!
I’m loving doing these Buffy things people, so keep em coming! Gonna do
Invisible Girlnext which may be a little more serious. However some lovely soul
did suggest Once More with Feeling –so any ideas or lyrics would be welcomed
for that one – without ripping off Coldplay of course – we could make it a
group effort!!
Anyone wants to throw ideas at me off AO3 I’m on tumblr as shadow-in-the-
shade.:-)
 
***** Chapter 29 *****
 
Apologies to everyone who's already read this - this is a shameless snippet
from my new long AU fic, a cross between asoi&f and “Whistle down the wind” –
set in an alternate timeline where the Starks never left Winterfell.
 
They cornered the creature in the den they had made in the small trees. There
was a spot they had found two winters back, where two fallen trees had twisted
together to make the perfect little cave. It had seemed like a wonderland then,
but now Sansa had to duck her head to get in the door the tree trunks had
formed. The little ones fell in after her, but knowing they had come to the end
of the chase they stopped still, staring and silent.
The creature had hunched itself into a corner, hugging the branches that seemed
to hug it back. In the gathering gloom Sansa could see the whites of its eyes,
and in the silence its ragged breathing was louder by far than any of theirs
and it sounded pained. It stared at them, drifting out of focus; then its head
rolled back and the eyes closed.
“It’s gone to sleep,” Bran said.
“Fainted,” Arya supplied.
“Dead!” Rickon yelled, almost hopefully.
“Shut up, all of you!” Sansa whispered loudly, not really knowing why she was
whispering – “It’s not dead and it’s not an it –”
As they moved in closer they could make out the shape well enough;
“It’s just a man!” Rickon announced. He sounded disappointed.
“A bigman!” Arya added, almost impressed.
“However did he get here?” Sansa wondered aloud – “Look, he’s hurt.”
Arya was scrabbling in one of their tins of treasures and got out a candle and
match; in its dim light they could see that the man’s hands were bloodstained,
his garments strange and rough spun, mixed here and there with a mishmash of
armour. He wore a hood which had slipped down, so that as the candle was moved
further up they could see his face. Arya gasped gleefully and Sansa stifled a
cry of horror. Bran said nothing but his eyes grew wide in the dark.
In the shadow and the firelight the man seemed to have only half a face.
Sansa stared and stared, her insides swirling with revulsion and fascination.
The firelight painted what was left a scarred, ragged red, and the shadow made
the ruin more grotesque. Half of the man’s face was burned away, lower down
almost to the bone and it glistened wetly with dried blood making it all the
more gruesome.
“It isa monster!” Rickon positively perked up.
“He’s just hurt,” Bran said.
“He’s like the Stranger,” Sansa whispered in awe. “Remember – ever since mother
died we’ve been praying for the gods to come help us out – I never thought
they’d send the Stranger.”
It did not sound like madness to any of the others; and to Sansa, as soon as
the words were out they settled in her heart as an unshakeable truth.
“We prayed so long for an answer,” she whispered reverentially – “We mustn’t
deny it when it comes.”
“He’s wearing armour – like a knight,” Arya pointed out.
“And the hood of the Stranger,” Bran pointed out. They all suddenly took a step
back as the bulk of the Man moved.
“The fuck ….” he groaned out, eyes opening slowly. “Get that fucking fire away
from me –”
“Please Ser –” Sansa began, shooing Arya and her candle back, her eyes widening
as she thought of the Stranger’s aversion to light, how much he was a thing of
shadow and darkness. He blinked, looking at her, justat her, Sansa thought, as
though really seeing her, for a long time. He stared for what seemed like
forever, his look becoming fixed, more focused. She started to feel strange
herself beneath that stare.
“Not a Ser,”he rasped, scowling.
“I toldyou he was the Stranger,” Bran whispered to Arya behind them, as though
this proved it. Arya took a gentle swipe at him.
“How is it that you come to be in our Godswood?” Sansa pressed. The Man looked
around him, scowling harder –
“Fucked if I know –” he started to cough, spat on the ground – “You got any
wine? Food maybe? It’s hard work being this close to death so long.”
Sansa’s eyes widened –
“Isn’t it – isn’t it what you do?”
“What? Death? Aye girl, it’s the business I’m in and that’s for sure – but I
didn’t do what they said, and you can tell them to piss on that.”
In truth Sansa only heard the first part of all he said and, with her
suspicions confirmed, she did not feel a need to understand the last part. She
reached out impulsively and touched the filthy hand that rested against the
ground –
“We’re glad you’re here,” she said – “We’ve prayed for you –”
“Girl, your mouth is open but all I hear is chirping. Like a bloody little bird
aren’t you? Get me some fucking wine.”
“We don’t have wine – but there’s water in the pools – Arya, go on!” Sansa
waved her away.
“Why me?”
“Take Rickon and Bran too then!”
The little ones went off grumbling. Sansa wondered at her boldness to stay
alone with the Strangest Man of all but somehow, despite the frightening
otherworldliness of him, she felt curiously safe.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“You’re safe now,” she nodded – “That’s all that matters. We’ll look after you
– we’ll make you well again, truly, you’re safe with us.”
“Will you –” he looked at her more carefully now. “Will you not tell the adults
– there areadults, am I right?”
“They’ve gone out for the day,” she said – “But I won’t tell, I swear. I’ll
make the others swear as well. We won’t let anyone know you’re here – and we’ll
come back later with food and – things.”
The Man stared at her, at the brightness in her eyes and the smile playing
round her lips. He felt her soft hands, two of them clasping one of his and had
to turn his face away. The noise of the children coming back suddenly seemed
terribly loud.
“We brought water!” Bran said.
“We heard horses,” Arya added – “Father and the others are back”.
“We have to go,” Sansa said, all but ignoring all of them, patting The Man’s
hands as she rose from her knees – “I’ll come back after supper with the rest.”
The little ones whispering excitedly, she ushered them out of the den, Arya
pushing the water bowl into The Man’s hands that seemed to grasp for something
the moment Sansa pulled away. Arya could only assume it was the water.
The Man watched the children leave, trying to let these new events settle in
his head. Now that he was awake and conscious, he felt near dead with thirst.
But he watched the bushes move in their wake for a long time before he drank.
He thought of the older girl, the pretty one with the sweet voice, the little
bird; he thought of how soft her hands had been, how tenderly the had held his
and a wetness that was not water cut down his face, a feeling running with it
that he had not known in a long time. Nor did he know, at all, what to do with
such a feeling.
When the Godswood was still, he drank the water fast. Then when he choked on it
he drank slowly until, for the first time since he could remember, he felt
almost human again. But more refreshing still was that girl’s voice, the sweet
softness of her being and the way she had looked at him with those innocent
eyes. When he closed his eyes and took a deep breath her image still did not go
away, nor long after the last of the night’s dark had fallen.
__x__
I’m curious who knows the plot of Whistle Down The Wind and can guess where
this is going! I’m not sure what’s worse – knowing or not knowing! Either way,
you can find the whole of this story, it’s called “Nature of the Beast”.
***** The Badger and the Bird *****
 
 
Hogwarts AU! Just a little snippet! The result of too many late night
discussions as to what Hogwarts house most of the g.o.t characters would be in.
Obviously just for this one I've made like all the characters the same age! :-)
 
30.
 
He remembered the first time he saw her- reallysaw her, that was. He supposed
she must have been there all the time, they must have come close every time
Hufflepuff shared a lesson with Ravenclaw, but he did not truly register her
until the Care of Magical Creatures class in the summer of their fifth year.
They had been studying thestrals. It was relevant because more than half of the
class had been too afraid or otherwise unwilling to head out into the forest
for the practical aspect of the class. Due to the categorisation of the
creatures as highly dangerous, anything other than theoretical study was not
forced upon them, and then half of the students would not have been able to see
them anyway. In the end there were only some dozen of them who ventured out and
he felt, more than usual, that he stood out like a sore thumb among the largely
Ravenclaw based group.
As it was, when they saw the creature emerge darkly out of the mists, most of
the class fell back in fear, even the Targaryen girl, who was normally the
first to run and hug a dangerous creature. It was onlyher, he noticed, the
Stark girl, who went forward, touching it on the nose as though it were a
friendly horse and smiling to it as though they were old friends. Hagrid sang
her praises of course, and when he called for another volunteer Sandor was the
first to offer. He smiled at the girl awkwardly over the Thestral’s nose, and
for the first time in his life, he experienced a girl smiling back at him.
“My family keep dire wolves,” she said with a little shrug.
Then the moment was gone, Daenerys overcoming her fear and demanding to be
allowed her turn.
It was still two weeks before he plucked up the courage to talk to her. But he
could have sworn he had caught her look his way once or twice in that time. But
maybe it was fear, or disgust. It usually was.
In the end she found him. He was down by the lake in the shade reading up for
his OWLS. He knew they weren’t going to go well, but he figured he stood a
chance of a decent grade in Care of Magical Creatures if nothing else. He had
shut himself off from the rest of the day and almost jumped when he heard a
shy, curious “Hello” above him. He looked up, trying not to squint in the
sunlight; god knows his face was bad enough without that. And it was her, the
Ravenclaw girl with the beautiful eyes.
“…hi,” he managed.
“Can I join you?”
He forced himself not to ask why; why a pretty girl like her could possibly
have nobody better to be with. He had seen her going around with those Tyrell
girls; they had to be better company for her than he was. In the end he
shrugged;
“If you want,” It came off more abrasive than he meant it. She didn’t seem to
hear it. She just sat down. He didn’t know where to look and the only thing it
occurred to him to talk about were the Thestrals. He almost opened his mouth to
say “So who died?” before shutting it again quickly.
“I saw you,” she said, eventually into the awkwardness – “In care of magical
creatures. The animals like you.”
“Yeah,” he said, almost exhaling audibly in relief – “Animals like me better
than people, I reckon.”
“Why?”
“Have you seen me?” She had, he knew she had. He had seen her look and then
wonder where and if to look.
“My brother did it,” he blurted out, surprising himself even more than her. He
had never told anyone this before and had no idea why he was starting now –
“It wasn’t an accidentin potions, or with a dragon like they say. I know what
they say. It was Gregor. I’d borrowed something of his, he thought I’d taken it
– I hadn’t – I was only playing.”He could not quite help, even ten years later,
how defensively it came out. He saw sympathy sparkle in her eyes and told her
the rest not looking at her.
“Your brother –” she frowned – “Gregor Clegane in Slytherin?”
“Yeah,” he grunted – “Everyone was so proud of him. Then of course he got made
Beater on the Quidditch team and was bloody good at it. Probably going
professional when he fails his NEWTS.”
“You play for the Hufflepuff team,” she pointed out gently – “I’ve seen you.
You play much more fairly than anyone in Slytherin.”
“It’s not hard.”
“My sister’s seeker for Gryffindor,” she added, stretching her legs out in
front of her – “All my family went to Gryffindor. I think they must be quite
disappointed in me.” She sighed and looked at her hands. He looked at her
sideways and it took great daring to say –
“I don’t see how anyone could be disappointed in you.”
She smiled then, and he was suddenly dizzyingly afraid, a drop opening up in
front of him that was going to swallow him. He wanted to make her smile like
that forever.
“You’re – too kind.”
He frowned;
“I’m not. You’retoo polite. The littlest singing bird in Ravenclaw tower,
aren’t you?”
She somehow failed to take this as an insult and faced him with another smile,
holding out her hand –
“I’m Sansa Stark.” He did not shake it.
“I knowwho you are, Little bird. Everyone knows, the Starks are one of the
oldest wizarding families in the country – with the Lannisters.”
“My brother Robb takes classes with Jaime and Cersei Lannister,” she supplied.
He nodded. He remembered the day Cersei Lannister had been sorted into
Gryffindor. Nobody had ever seen a first year student so furious. She had
thrown the Sorting Hat half way across the hall screaming at it to take it
back. For a moment there they had all thought she would set the hat on fire but
her brother Jaime had taken it off her and only when he too had been sorted
into Gryffindor did she begin to calm down. Lannisters had been going into
Slytherin for as long as anyone could remember; everyone could only imagine the
mortification Tywin had felt when his oldest children defied this convention,
leaving only Tyrion to carry on the Slytherin torch a year later. Sandor
reminded her of this now. She laughed. He was not sure he had ever heard
anything so pretty.
“But –” she went serious – “I sort of know how she felt. I felt like I’d
betrayed my family when the hat said Ravenclaw. We’ve not had a Ravenclaw since
my aunt Lysa.”
He shrugged again –
“Guess there’s advantages to muggle parents after all.”
She smiled. A bell rang up the hill. Sandor swore, following it up with a gruff
sound that was almost an apology and standing up quickly.
“Class?”
“Defence against the dark arts,” the groan was clear in his voice – “With
Professor Baelish”.
“Ugh -” She even wrinkled her nose prettily “Baelish is the worst.Doesn’t he
sound like he’s trying to speak in Parseltongue?”
Their hissed impressions of the professor took them most of the way back up to
the school. For one brief moment before they said their awkward goodbyes Sandor
almost but not quite took hold of her hand.
__x__
Uff, I feel like I’ve been gone a hundred years – family holiday keeping me
from my writing I’m so sorry! Still I’m back now, just wrote this for a warm up
before I get back the more serious AUs!
If anyone cares I’m a total Hufflepuff. Baelish is sucha Slytherin and I could
probably tell you where I think everyone in the books or series would go! I’m
also open and available for lovely arguments with anyone who has different
ideas on the matter! (as long as it’s not Sandor, he’s the Huffly-est puff that
ever Hufflepuffed! Just look at his house colours!)
 
 
***** Things you said between your teeth *****
 
Things you said between your teeth
 
He knows about holding back. He never would have got so far, maybe not even
have survived if he had not. So he does not mutter or comment or even voice an
opinion, it is not in his job description – bugger that – it is more than his
life’s worth to dare. He thinks the things, buggering hells does he think the
things, and when he’s had a drink or a few - which is usually - by the gods is
it hard to bite it back. But he does. And he lives and does alright doesn’t he?
But she’s only young and she’s innocent and she’s stupid – maybe, maybe not but
he worries for her. Maybe she isn’t stupid but he can see a fire in her eyes
and it calls to him and that – that doesn’t make sense, it should frighten him,
maybe it does but most of the time he finds himself frightened for her instead,
frightened she will say one of those things he can see her thinking.
And then she does, on the bridge , overhanging a drop that seems to suck at her
he watches her not looking at the heads along the wall, he watches a light in
her eyes go out that day as she learns to not see, watches a door close in her
eyes and it hurts him in the chest but he cannot speak, he never speaks, he has
only spoken to her really in years. In these last few weeks he has said more to
her than to anyone maybe in his life, of anything that matters, of himself - if
that matters.
He can do that too, look but not see, but he cannot do it as well as he
suspects she will become able to and he hears everything with distaste.
“- after l raise my armies and kill your traitor brother, l'm going to give you
his head as well.”
He does not react though it makes something curl up painfully in his chest, he
hates nothing more than a bully and then she does it, lets the words slip out
from between her teeth –
“Or maybe he’ll give me yours.”
He almost reacts. He knows better. He is not going to make it worse for her by
having Joffrey see his reaction which can only be fear and pain for her and
delight to hear somebody answer the bastard back. He has seen a lot of shit
from the cunt over the years, a lot of people brought to tears by him and
nobody has ever hit back like that. He knows then that she is the strongest
person he has ever met, that if she were his enemy he would regret it. He could
never be her enemy.
After that he hears her often, hears her sweet replies and her dutiful
chirpings and hears the too the things she hisses between her teeth at
Joffrey’s retreating back so quiet he never hears himself. She learns quickly
not to let him hear but she is still too young, too fierce, too full of
everything she feels and too brave not to let a little of her heart spit out
between her teeth. He finds himself frightened of her and for her on every
level, impressed by her and in despair at her foolish daring. He suspects she
feels rather the same way herself. It starts to occur to him that he might have
to fight for her one day, more to the point that he would.
“What do you think?” he hears Joffrey say.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea your grace” he sees Joffrey grin fatly and
saunter out, Sansa left alone in the room and staring him down venomously –
“Wonderful” she repeats in that quiet hiss – “If you died in a fire.”
Perhaps he makes a noise, he is not sure, but she turns round and sees him
there and for a moment the new hardness melts from her eyes and she looks sorry
and sad and she stares at him realising that he has heard her, realising – he
can see it cross her face – that he has been hearing her all this time –
“I’m sorry –” she stammers, eyes big – “I didn’t mean –”
“Don’t” he says – “You’re a bad liar girl remember? I hear you”
“But I –” it makes him want to laugh – people have talked behind his back all
his life, not to mention to his face – nobody has ever paused to be afraid they
had hurt his feelings or upset him before. He had not imagined she could speak
any quieter but somehow she manages it –
“I didn’t mean you – I meant.”
“Girl –” he grins, almost laughing and something in her face relaxes, the
change is minute but it is enough – “I know who you meant.”
He walks past her to follow his king as he must, but he stops, placing a hand
on her shoulder as gently as if she were a real bird –
“Be careful” he says – “I don’t want to die because a little bird couldn’t keep
its noise down understand?”
He walks on before she can answer and does not see the warmth in her eyes, the
comfort that floods her upon feeling just ever so slightly less alone. He does
not see a sense of wonder kindle in her eyes or the frown that crosses her face
as she wonders if he has just offered to die for her. He does not see the
dreamy, wistful look of Romance that flares up in her briefly but brightly,
enough to illuminate her for days, enough to keep just a little of her faith
for a long time. After allshe thinks isn’t he brave and gentle and strong?And
just for a moment her heart giggles like it used to all those long long weeks
ago.
__x__
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