Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8893405.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sandor_Clegane, Sansa_Stark, Joffrey_Baratheon
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Post-The_Battle_of_the_Blackwater,
      Sexual_Content, Angst, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-18 Updated: 2017-08-23 Chapters: 9/? Words: 36686
****** The King Commands ******
by Infam
Summary
     Joffrey invents a new game and Sandor is left to ponder who his true
     master really is.
Notes
     Drawing inspiration from all the wonderful sansan fiction in general,
     and “Always Find Me Here” by wildsky in particular, this is my take
     on the 'forced sex-scenario', which lands this story squarely in the
     dub-con/non-con genre. In other words, the warnings are there for a
     reason. Happy reading ;)
     Sansa is aged up to seventeen.
  This work was inspired by
      Always_Find_Me_Here by wildsky
***** Chapter 1 *****
The stupidity, the childish incomprehension, the unmatched cruelty that no
longer shocked anyone; it was all written plainly across Joffrey's features.
But for the first time Sandor saw the madness, the utter derangement of the
King, his lord and charge. He saw it, not in the words he screeched, nor the
meaning behind them. It was his expression that finally drove the realization
home for true. In some ways he'd known for a long time, though he'd never
really dwelt on it, never really examined the idea. Now there was no evading
the truth staring him (actually, screaming him) in the face; Joffrey was mad.
As mad as they come, as mad as Aerys. A second mad king. It was a sad thing,
really, and maybe a tiny part of him had allowed himself to feel bad for the
utterly broken boy, if not for the consequences of his madness.
His reluctant attention had been drawn from pleasant recollections of a certain
red-headed, hot-blooded whore by Joffrey's unpleasant screech.
"Dog!"
Fingers flexing, mouth twitching, he inclined his head in subjugation. Gods,
how it stung.
"I'm bored."
The throne room looked a battlefield; the closest brave King Joffrey would ever
get one. Corpses lay strewn across the floor. He would have to guess at their
number, their remains so utterly defiled that there was no telling which body-
part belonged where. The dogs were panting, licking their wet snouts. Paw
prints and puddles of blood stretched from the doors, right up to the slippered
feet of the King. They dangled over the edge of the throne – still too tall for
the boy – swinging back and forth. Like a child. Though in truth Joffrey was no
boy any longer. Certainly not a child. One of the mutts licked his hand,
leaving bloody streaks on his skin, before Joffrey drove his dagger through
it's eye.
Sandor remained impassive. There was no need to speak. It would not be welcome.
"I want to play a different game."
He let the words hang there, cumulating expectation and dread. His kingsguard-
brothers shifted, their agitation making them sway gently on the spot before
Joffrey ended their unease.
"Bring me Sansa."
***
Joffrey had never gotten 'round to marrying the girl. And cruel as Joffrey's
predilections were, they didn't run the way of sexual assault. Thank the gods.
He surely got turned on by violence and misery, but he'd only raped her a
handful of times before loosing interest. It was a small mercy. It was also
sickening to hear her refer to it as such; only raped a handful of times, what
a mercy.
He'd offered to take her away again after that first time. Even offered to kill
Joffrey for her. She never told him why she declined, never confided her
reasons for staying. He knew his though, and was pretty sure she knew them too.
Yet as he approached her chambers, one step heavier than the next, he wondered
at how long that reason would hold. With Joffrey's current state, any day could
be her last. Maybe he should simply kidnap her. He would have, ages ago, only
he knew she must have her reasons to stay, to endure, even though it would most
likely mean her life.
Peering at him from the darkness of her chambers, it took a moment before she
recognized him. The windows had been boarded up two moons ago, every candle
removed. She lived in complete darkness now. Quite literally. Shielding her
eyes with the back of her hand, she groped around with the other, allowing him
to take it and guide her into the hallway.
"What does he want?"
Her voice was raw, scratchy from lack of use. Joffrey had been 'kind' these
past couple of weeks.
"To play."
She nodded as if that explained it all. Lowering her hand from her face she
blinked at him a couple of times before the mask of indifference slid into
place. She was getting frighteningly good at that.
“Is he in a good mood?”
“Bored.”
But even the implications following that word was not enough to make her mask
slip. Not even here, in front of him.
Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, he guided her down the hallway.
Her steps were wobbly and uneven, her eyes still not adjusted to the light. He
only hoped it would last; no need for her to see the throne room in it's
current state.
They proceeded in silence, the only sounds the jingling of his armor and
Joffrey's steadily growing laughter. When they reached the throne room, her
hand slid from his elbow and into his own in an automatic movement. They both
knew what to do and how to pretend. Grasping her wrist, he tugged her after
him, entering the fray.
The King spotted them at once.
“You're here. Good!”
Still laughing wildly, he jumped off the throne and gestured to them.
“Follow me. No, Boros, you stay here. I've got no need of you. For this I only
require the Hound.”
Oh, what joy it was to be the King's favorite. The corner of his mouth twitched
wildly. He could only pray it didn't show. But then, Joffrey had never been
very observant. He led them from the hall with a giddiness to his step that
was, quite frankly, bloody disturbing.
“I have a treat for you, Dog,” he informed them as they crossed the courtyard
towards Maegors Holdfast. “One that I know you will like.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Oh, there's no need to thank me yet. But you will dog, you will.”
Joffrey leveled a gleeful look at Sansa, who thankfully had the presence of
mind to look scared, though he doubted much scared her anymore. She'd confided
to him one night that she didn't think her life could possibly become any
worse, and that she drew a strange sort of comfort from that. He didn't have
the heart to tell her how utterly mistaken she was. Time was, he would have.
Gleefully, and perhaps in a bit too much detail. But there was no point
anymore. Maybe he'd become just as defeated as she, just as resigned to his
role.
Joffrey was giddy. Closing the doors of the royal chamber behind him, he saw
the little pricks hands tremble in anticipation, the front of his breeches
bulging ominously.
“I've created a game,” he announced, pouring himself a glass of wine, red
liquid splattering everywhere. “It's called 'The King Commands'.”
It was hardly a game. It was life. Though to the inbred cunt there was probably
no difference. Pinching Sansa's wrist gently, she took the cue and let out a
frightened whimper. Good girl. If they ever got out of this nightmare, she
would no doubt make a world-class mummer. Joffrey looked pleased, sinking into
a chair, thought he was too high-strung to pull off the air of superior calm he
was aiming for.
“It's quite simple. Even someone as stupid as you will be able to play.”
“T-thank you, Your Grace.”
She followed up the words with a hitch. He would have felt proud if not for the
trepidation seizing him; stomach clenched, his fist aching from strain.
“I will give you a command, and you'll obey.”
And how was that any different than any other day? The little shit didn't know
how to open his mouth without issuing a command. Taking a sip of wine, he
studied her, as if mulling over what to do. Like he didn't already know. Thank
the gods they were alone. If Joffrey wanted Sansa beaten, they'd both grown so
adept at pretending, that she would suffer minimal amount of pain. That was all
he aimed for now.
“Take off your clothes.”
Sansa stiffened. This time it was not an act. His insides froze too, though he
could only pray his reaction weren't noticeable. Apart from the damn twitching.
Damn it all to the seven hells, he thought Joffrey was past this. He would rape
her now. And Sandor would have to watch.
Stepping further into the room, Sansa began tugging at her laces, slowly
shrugging out of her clothes. Joffrey snickered. The things he would do to that
little shitstain. One day...
“You too, dog. What are you waiting for. Your King gave you a command.”
This time his reaction could not be hidden. Joffrey's laugher increased.
“Not to worry dog. You'll like what I have in mind.”
It clicked into place then, what Joffrey had planned. It shouldn't really be
surprising. Joffrey usually delegated the dirty-work of beating, maiming and
killing onto others. Why not rape as well? The thing was, what could he really
do? Stepping in place next to Sansa, fist clenched painfully around the hilt of
his sword, he attempted to catch her eye. Tried to communicate that she could
end it, that it would be over, if only she asked. They would probably die as
well, but at this point...
“Go on,” Joffrey prompted again.
Sansa didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes, never saw the unspoken message
in his. So he relented.
They had become good at playing their parts. Too good. When she whimpered as he
started to undress, it was for Joffrey. When he let his gaze roam her nearly-
naked form, that was for Joffrey too. When she started to shake, when tears
slid down her cheeks, when his cock twitched at the sight of her bare skin, it
was all for Joffrey. He felt like crying himself. Because of course she would
be horrified by the idea of him, naked, thrusting into her. Of course he grew
hard at the sight of her naked. He'd wanted to fuck her for longer than he
could remember. Now their true relationship and the roles they assumed would be
mixed in the most disgusting and twisted way imaginable. He would have to rape
her. He would have to rape her, and he knew that as surely as she would cringe
and cry and suffer, some small part of him would enjoy it.
Sandor felt dizzy. Though he continued to look at her, he no longer saw. He
registered his hands, unbuckling clasps, removing piece after piece, but he
didn't feel them. It was as if they didn't belong to him. A foreigner in his
own body. All he could feel was the pounding of his heart, the twitch in his
cock. She would never forgive him. Hell, he'd probably never forgive her. Alive
or dead, they could have avoided this. If only she'd asked.
Rage brought him back. Comforting and familiar, it surged through his limbs,
brought him back. Anger at her, because while deciding to continue to suffer
was ultimately her choice, she chose to make him suffer as well. She knew that
by now. She knew his pain and didn't care. At least not enough.
As she started to unlace her bodice, she lifted her head at last and looked at
him. She flinched at what she saw there, but didn't look away. She didn't
relent, she didn't ask him to end it, didn't heed his anger. He thought he
could almost hate her for it. Because she was making him a rapist now, wasn't
she?
She reached the end of the lacing, pulling the bodice apart, standing there in
only her smallclothes. Releasing him from her gaze, her hands went to the last
piece of cloth and tugged it off. He followed the movement of the falling piece
of silk, before at long last looking.
She was perfect. All creamy skin and rounded teats and soft thighs. He had
imagined her, imagined a moment like this, only, it hadn't been on command. She
hadn't been crying and cringing, Joffrey hadn't been watching, panting with
arousal. The first time, maybe the only time she bared herself to him, and this
is what he got. It was ruined now; those thoughts of her, the possibility that
maybe, someday...
He divested himself of the rest of the clothing, hurried and unceremonious.
Joffrey mistook it for eagerness. Maybe Sansa did too. Her eyes fixed on the
floor, though she didn't appear to actually see anything. Her shoulders were
hunched, her body taught and tense. She was humiliated; no small feat after all
that she had endured. And though he was far from displeased with his body, he
too felt the unmistakable tendrils of shame; being exposed like this, being
made powerless. Not just by Joffrey; he could kill the fucker. He could leave.
The boy-king didn't hold nearly as much power as he assumed. In some
roundabout, twisted way, it was she that held that power over him.
Joffrey leaned back in the chair, sipping his wine. His feet swung back and
forth; a testament to his eagerness, as he eyed Sansa appraisingly.
“Now, my lady, my dog is going to fuck you, and you're going to like it.”
If she was surprised by this statement, she didn't let it show, but perched
herself at the edge of the bed. The King's bed, sumptouos and oversized. Her
tiny fingers clutched the silken sheets.
“And how is he going to fuck you like that? Get on the bed, stupid girl,”
Joffrey admonished.
Sansa obeyed, sliding across the bed. Her legs fell open, the dark-red curls of
her sex visible to him. He hardened and Joffrey laughed.
It was odd, this mixture of revulsion and want. It was odd, finally being able
to fuck her, and yet not wanting to. It was odd, because if he didn't fuck her
he might well loose his head. Fuck or die... Just as inattentiveness was a sure
death-sentence on the battlefield, so were his thoughts in this moment. Shame
was useless, and so, he cut it loose. It was her choices that had led them
here. Now she would taste the consequences.
She was stunning. Desire for her somehow both marred and heightened her beauty.
Her round, pale breast both begging to be fondled and demanding a respectful
distance. If he hadn't been commanded, he might never have been able to
actually touch her.
He approached the bed with slow, measured steps. His cock bobbed before him, a
movement that surely looked ridiculous. And look she did. Her eyes widened as
his member grew. Behind him he heard the telltale sounds of a crossbow being
loaded.
“Get on your back, dog. Sansa, straddle him.”
As he obeyed the King's command, he felt her trembling. It would surely make
the bed shake. Joffrey had told her that she would like it, which of course
meant that she had to pretend. Accomplished though was, it would seem that this
was the one thing she could not do. It may cost her her life. He gave her a
hard stare, to which she nodded, though he had no idea what that was supposed
to signify.
She did as bid. As he lay supine on the bed, eyes fixed at the canopy, he felt
her little hands brace against his chest, soft thighs sliding against his own.
She settled lightly over his cock, as if afraid of actual contact. His member
fixed that though. It jerked, sliding against her lips, pressing up against
her. She gasped, her fingers returning the favor, pressing into his muscles.
Her teats hovered above him. They were larger than he'd have thought, yet they
disappeared completely as his hands closed around them. So soft, so smooth, he
let his fingers run over them, thumps brushing her nipples. They hardened into
small nubs. He gave them a tentative pinch, to which she gave another small
gasp. Had Joffrey ever touched her like this? Had anyone?
Ignoring the King, Sandor let his hands roam where they wanted, sling down her
torso, across the flare of her hips, down her thighs. They were dusted with
soft hair on the outside, smooth on the inside, though nothing could compare to
the softness of her lips. Despite the hair growing there, the texture were
softer than kid-skin, smoother than silk. She gasped again.
Gaze drifting to her face, he found her eyes dark and wide, mouth slightly
parted. Lifting a hand from his chest, Sansa's dainty fingers enclosed around
his cock. He groaned loudly, and she let go. But the shame was gone. As were
his pity. They served no purpose. And furthermore, she didn't deserve it. Not
from him. He did spit in his hand though, coating his cock in the saliva.
Visibly collecting herself, she pushed up on her knees before sliding her slit
across his cock in a titillating move. Sandor didn't want to consider where she
might have learned that. With one hand on her hip, the other grasping his cock,
he prodded against her entrance. It was wet. He didn't want to consider why
that was either. Only madness lay that way.
Then, slowly, ever so slowly, she sank down, her cunt absorbing him, gripping
and squeezing, until he was all the way in.
“Does my lady like that?”
Joffrey's voice cut hard and clear through the sound of their ragged breathing.
“Y-yes, Your Grace.”
“You're not really a lady at all, are you? You're a bitch, riding my hound,
isn't that so?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Her eyes were closed, screwed shut as she sat there, balancing on his cock. She
might not want to look at him, but she was wet and oh so tight. He felt himself
grow even harder, wondering how she was able to accommodate all of him. He
didn't need her eyes he decided, only her cunt. But as his hands gripped her
hips, pulling her up, sliding her cunt against his shaft, her eyes opened. They
looked straight into his.
Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, breathing heavy and labored. She took
charge. With hands braced against his chest, fingers tickling the hair there,
she rose up and down with slow, deliberate movements. He felt her muscles
soften and relax, her cunt relinquishing, as she slid up and down with more
ease.
He dimly registered a sound, some commotion outside in the yard, then Joffrey's
voice, cutting through his concentration.
“Keep going, Sansa. And if the Hound tells me you have misbehaved, you know
what will happen.”
With that, the King left. He didn't know why. Or why Sansa kept moving, sliding
up and down. His mind was foggy, almost as if he were drunk. Then, slowly, it
began to sink in. Joffrey had left and Sansa was still fucking him.
His hands gripped her hips, stilling her movements.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was embarrassingly strained. Sansa acquiesced and sat still, but
didn't get off of him.
“Joffrey said-”
“Fuck Joffrey!”
Finally in control of his voice again, it echoed through the chamber.
“Do you really imagine that I would tell that little shit that you didn't want
to fuck me?”
She looked at him with a calmness he hadn't expected. Nudging her hips, hands
sliding across his chest, she resumed the fucking. She opened her mouth, her
words a whisper.
“But I want to.”
He didn't really understand what she'd said. He didn't have to; his body found
the way on it's own. Letting go of her hips, he cupped her breasts, fingers
teasing her nipples. She sighed, and he could hear the contentment in it.
“I've wanted to for a long time,” she whispered, hips moving languorous and
slow. She let out a broken moan. “Gods, you feel so good.”
Picking up the pace, his ears filled with the moist sounds of her cunt, her
breathy, low moans. He groaned, loud and involuntary. That spurred her on.
She was fucking him for true now. It was a good thing he'd decided against
thinking, because he'd surely not be able to make sense of this. Yet there she
was, riding his cock in earnest, teats bouncing up and down, head thrown back.
The very image of a wanton woman, and that woman was his correct and courteous
little bird.
His hips snapped up, colliding with her own. She moaned loudly.
“Oh gods.”
The words tumbled over her lips, seemingly of their own accord. She was so wet
he could feel the moisture slide through his pubic-hair.
“Oh, gods, please, please, I'm...”
Hips moving ever faster, she lowered her face to look at him. Brows furrowed in
pleasure, mouth open; she couldn't fake that. Nor the wetness or the shivering,
breathy moans spilling out of her beautiful, fuckable mouth. Gods, she was
arousing. She was aroused! She was fucking him because she wanted to. None of
it made sense. And she kept saying please, begging him for something.
“I'm so close.”
His eyes still fixed on hers, he placed one hand between her legs. Her clit was
swollen and so wet be had trouble sliding his fingers across it. Her cries
grew, loud and uncontrollable. Who knew the perfect little lady would be loud
in bed? He reveled at the thought, his own release looming dangerously close.
His balls had already tightened, his cock as swollen as it could possibly
become. If not for the strangeness of being fucked by her, by Sansa, he would
surely have released long ago.
She kept muttering “please”. Please, please, please, like a prayer in his ear
as the muscles of her cunt contracted. She was impossibly tight now. It would
be painful, if it wasn't so gods damned good, and yes, he knew that didn't make
any sense. But please, gods, just a little more, just let him hold out a little
longer.
When her release came it was long and loud and utterly uninhibited. Orgasms
tend to do that to people. She moaned and cried, her hips slamming into his
with what he suspected was all her force. Her cunt gripped him, squeezing him
hard, almost coaxing out his own release. When she stilled, her body was
glimmering in sweat.
He flung her down, reversing their positions. Sansa's gaze still met his as he
started up the movements. Her arms and legs and breathy moans encircled him as
he began the pounding, delicious rhythm once more. Sandor had no more control
over his mouth than she, groaning and grunting almost as loudly.
It was unlike anything else. Her cunt so wet, his cock so hard, and it felt...
so... good... And oh, gods, just please, a little more, and please, just like
that, and...
He took her hard and fast, just like he wanted, just like he needed right now.
She coaxed him on with her moans and hands, her thighs gripping his sides, feet
digging into his ass, spurring him onwards.
His vision faded as orgasm slammed into him. He would have liked to see her,
see her see him as he came inside her. Her beautiful little face was obscured
in blackness, and he gave in, pressing his face into her hair, feeling the
blood and seed surge through him.
Slamming into her once, twice, three times more, he finally stilled.
***
They were both wet. Sweat and seed and her juices covering them both. Her
fingers were tracing patterns across his back, her hair enveloping his face.
Her breathing had stilled, as had his, yet he still lay on top of her, cock
still inside her. She must be crushed, though she didn't complain. Her only
sounds were that of a slow, deep breathing.
He found his mind and strength at last, pushing off of her, sliding out.
Tumbling next to her on the bed, he closed his eyes, trying to keep his
thoughts at bay. She did that for him, sliding up against him and settled at
his side.
“Thank you.”
Her voice was low, a little hoarse from the previous strain. Placing his arms
around her, he tucked her to his side, holding her close. She didn't belong
there, but seemed content to stay. As with everything else, he let her decide.
***** Chapter 2 *****
She did not use to mind the darkness. Like with almost everything else, she
felt indifferent. Waking, being, sleeping; all in darkness. It did not matter.
She had not been allowed to do anything for ages. They had taken away her
needles and thread, her books and paints and brushes and harp. So really, what
did it matter whether it was dark or not. It didn't; nothing mattered. And that
was fine, because as she'd recently realized, her indifference was the key to
her endurance.
Feelings such as joy and comfort had been stripped away long ago. It was not
the work of a moment, but rather a drawn out acclimation. So when the other
feelings, the dread, horror and humiliation melted away as well, she was
thankful. She did not want to feel when the only thing to feel was pain. Sansa
felt the gods had finally answered her prayers in this; she'd asked them to
make it better, and they had. Although not in the way she'd imagined.
Lying on the bed in the dark, there used to be little else to do but sleep and
think. Now, she felt as well. The flood-gates had been opened, and along with
the joy there was fright and frustration. She had surprised everyone when she
threw her plate, food and all, against the wall. No one expected her to resist
anymore, least of all herself. But suddenly all those things that had simply
been part of life, seemed unendurable.
It was Sandor’s fault. Sansa knew that was not a reasonable thought.
Nevertheless, that was how she felt. It had been fine before, before he touched
her, caressed her, made her feel those things. It had been ecstatic, being
reminded that some touches felt good. Now, lying on the bed for hours on end,
feeling the phantom-sensations of pleasure, the anticipation of experiencing it
again, the pain and boredom smarted all the more because of it.
He hadn't visited. Not once. It was probably unreasonable to resent him for
that too. If he stayed away, he had his reasons. But it was not like it was
beyond his power to do so. He had visited on occasion in the past. Tending her
wounds after a particularly vicious beating, or just to talk when she'd been
isolated for weeks. He was far from a great conversationalist and his touch was
hesitant. She appreciated it all the same. So when days passed without a single
visit, it surprised her. And yes, it hurt too. All because of him.
It all felt a bit too familiar. Like she was turning back into that silly,
stupid girl she'd once been. Worrying about a man. Really, it was ridiculous!
And imprudent. She couldn't afford to feel that way. She couldn't afford to
feel anything, not if she wanted to survive. What she had to survive for, was a
question she preferred not to dwell on. Her parents were dead. As were her
brothers. Jon was at the Wall, Arya nowhere to be found. But she ate her meals,
she did as they bid, she followed their rules. It was as automatic as it was
joyless, but it was her only choice. She did not think of it in terms of hope
or fight. She did what she had to do.
The only real choice she'd been presented with, was given to her by Sandor. He
came to her room after that fist time Joffrey had... He'd grabbed her
shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze, begging her to let him take her away.
He'd been desperate, a wild look on his face. When she declined, he looked near
crying. He relented in the end though, respecting her decision. What he didn't
know, was that it was no real choice at all.
Joffrey had spoken to her after he'd... He had told her of the spies that
lurked at the docks and throughout the city. Proving himself smarter than
anybody suspected, he'd informed her that he knew of the Hound's attraction to
her. Then he'd told her, with a softness in his voice that chilled her to her
very bones, that if his dog should ever attempt to take her away, he'd be
unsuccessful. That when they were caught, and they would be, he wouldn't harm
her. Not at first. But he would let her watch as he tortured the Hound, before
finally killing him. With fire.
Sansa had never doubted a word he said. Joffrey was reliable that way. He would
find them. He would kill Sandor. For all the lives on her conscience, this
could not be one of them. He was not what she had imagined in a knight, but he
was all she had. At some point, that thought had taken root and grown into so
much more. They would never have each other. They would never be happy. But she
found she was willing to suffer for him, and that was a nice thought. It made
her feel stronger, better, almost pious.
When the knock came, it startled her. No one ever knocked anymore. That in
itself gave away the visitor. Her hands shook, her palms clammy. Sansa could
not recall the last time she felt nervous, and yet there the emotion was, as
unwelcome as it was impractical. Feeling her cheeks heat with a blush, mind
scrambling for something to say, she felt as if transported back years and
years, to before everything that had happened. Sandor did that to her. She was
not grateful.
***
As it turned out, there was no need for her to speak. After a curt greeting,
Sandor informed her that the small-council had allowed her a trip to the
godswood. Taking a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, he escorted her
down the hallway without another word.
He didn't say anything, didn't address their last encounter, or his absence. He
did however, take her hand, placing it in the crook of his elbow. His skin was
warm, his body solid. It elicited all sorts of feelings. She had spent many an
hour since the King had commanded them to... well... think about the act, about
what they'd done. They had not kissed. They had barley touched. It had been
enough at the time, but she'd spent the days since lamenting all that they
hadn't done while given the chance. She should have kissed him. She ought to
have touched, caressed, felt. It was doubtful she'd ever get the chance again.
As he guided her across the court-yard, she took note of his clothing.
“You're tunic needs mending.”
Sandor halted for a moment, looking down at her with an expression akin to
shock.
“W-what?” she stammered, feeling her cheeks heat up again. Those thrice damned
emotions!
His face morphed into a softer one, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his
good lip.
“I didn't realize you much cared about clothing anymore.” He resumed walking.
“But once a lady, always a lady, I suppose.”
He grinned shamelessly at his own comment. It was annoying her to no end.
“I don't. I was simply pointing out that it needs mending.”
“Aye. But you noticed, and I suppose that's something.”
The godswood was quiet and mercifully cool. It smelled of dirt and grass and
that indefinable forest-smell. Her arm still on his, he guided her in amongst
the trees. Her palm had grown clammy where it rested against his arm.
“I cannot remember the last time I was here.”
“It's some months ago. Two, perhaps.”
“It is an odd thing for the small-council to discuss. My going to the godswood,
I mean.”
Sandor hummed his agreement, but did not comment further. He chose the path,
steering them onto a small trail. It was almost obscured by grass. It was
darker here where the trees grew thick. She could see better when the light did
not sting so much.
Sansa felt annoyed again, though she did not know why. That in itself was
annoying. She dropped her arm from his and stopped.
“Why did you not visit me before?”
Her tone was accusatory, the question silly. She even knew the answer before he
spoke it.
“Busy,” was his monotonic reply. It was more than that though. He could not, or
it might draw notice, especially considering that they had... He knew that.
What's more, he knew that she knew that. Nevertheless, his shortness only
fueled her temper.
“Busy? You mean to say that you have been on consecutive duty for what? A
week?”
Sandor snorted his usual, unflattering snort.
“Of course not.”
“Then why?”
“You know why?”
“If I did, I wouldn't ask.”
She stated the lie with conviction, and no small amount of anger. That seemed
to elicit a reaction. Sandor's eyes widened ever so slightly, his palms held up
in a placating gesture.
“I might not be a prisoner of the crown, but I'm not free to go where ever I
choose either. Especially not visiting captives without cause. You know that.”
He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. His muscles bunched visibly
through his tunic as he did so. Sansa blushed. Again. Damn her treacherous
body.
“Why are you so upset?”
She laughed, high-pitched and false.
“You ask me why I'm upset? Honestly?”
Sandor's face fell and settled into a grim mask. His reaction surprised her.
Stepping away from her, he perched himself on a rock. He was still taller than
her, she noted. She was as clueless about his reaction as he no doubt was about
her anger. That did not stop her from raging on. In truth, she doubted anything
could. Even if Ser Meryn or Joffrey himself should step through the trees, it
would not have been enough to halt her momentum. Her feelings were back and
would not be stopped by anything, least of all reason.
“You make love to me. You hold me and caress me. You didn't have to make it
good, and yet you did. And then... then you left me.”
She was speaking too loudly, feeling too keenly. She knew it, but could not
bring herself to care. Looking at him where he sat perched on the rock, she saw
his own emotion turn from... whatever it was, into anger. That was a face she
was familiar with. It was almost comforting.
“You can't be serious?”
Springing from his seat, he reached her in two long strides. His muscles were
tense, his face drawn. For the first time she noticed the dark circles
underneath his eyes.
“I have offered to take you away. Time and time again. You are the one who
chooses to remain here. You are the one at fault for our situation. And now
you're angry with me for... for what? Not getting arrested? Not getting you
beaten?”
His eyes were as intense as ever. He looked at her with something akin to
hatred. It was a look she had not seen in quite some time. Sansa started to
cry.
Turning away from him, she buried her face in her palms. Being quiet suddenly
seemed important again. She could hear his heavy breathing behind her. He did
not approach.
“I'd thought you'd outgrown those... fantasies. I thought at the very least you
understood the situation. Or was Joffrey's little game too subtle for you? What
if it was Meryn? Huh?”
He hit a sore spot, and Sansa found her voice again, though she was unable to
quell the tears. Stepping forward, she closed the distance between them and
poked him in the chest. Hard.
“I did!” she nearly screamed. “I did outgrow it. Fantasies, romance, all of it.
I was doing fine, and then you... you undid it all.”
Sandors expression became impassive as he towered over her.
“I had learned not to hope for anything. But then you...”
The words caught in her throat. It was too embarrassing. Crying in front of
him. Screaming. She was that child again, that person he used to despise.
“Then I what?” he prompted.
Sansa swallowed. It was difficult, her throat tight. She felt unable to speak,
so she shook her head. Sandor gave a low growl, no doubt as frustrated with her
as she was with him. He had little patience with crying, she remembered.
Gripping her shoulders, he shook her. It was not ungentle, but still startling.
It was the first time he touched her properly since...
“When you... touched me. Like you did. When we... made love. It brought it all
back.”
She could not bear to look at him. Her face was probably the same colour as her
hair by now. It was too embarrassing. She wanted to be rid of him, to run and
hide. She wanted him to hold her and never let go. She wanted to scream at him,
kiss him, touch him. She wanted to turn back the clock to a time where she
didn't want anything at all.
He was quiet, though he remained close. Finally plucking up the courage, she
looked at him. He seemed... confused. Then, slowly, his expression changed to
one of understanding. He shook his head, eyes closed. When he opened them, the
anger had returned.
“Is that it?” His voice was laced with disbelief and no small among of disgust.
“Is that why you're angry with me? Because I didn't make it horrible for you?
Because I didn't rape you?”
It was the truth, and seeing as she knew how unreasonable she was acting, she
was unable to find a retort. Her silence seemed to fuel his bottomless rage.
“You might not have realized,” he spat, true venom in his voice, “that that
would make me a rapist.”
It was true. She had not. There was certainly a small, unreasonable part of her
that whished he might not have made it feel quite so good. That he hadn't
awoken her feelings again. But she had never, during all those hours laying on
the bed, thinking, contemplated what that would mean for him. He cared for her,
that much she knew. And to expect him to... when he had no notion of how it
would make her feel, that it would make her feel.
“Besides,” he continued, “you were the one who fucked me. You were the one to
continue after Joffrey left us. Hells, you are the one who insist we remain
here. So whatever blame it is that you are attempting to dole out, don't. This
is on you. All of it.”
His chest were rising and falling rapidly, brushing her with every labored
breath. Sansa thought she had never seen him more angry. She knew for a fact
that he had never had a better reason to. Not with her, at least. He leant ever
so slightly forward, his eyes boring into hers. She felt his breath across her
face, warm and moist. His lids grew heavy, though his gaze was no less intense.
It seemed almost as if he might kiss her. But no, that would be absurd. Then he
seemed to freeze, and, shaking his head, he took a step back.
It did seem a bit unfair; now that she felt again, that the bliss had been so
short, while the embarrassment, and now, mortification and shame seemed to be
in such great supply. She started to cry again. Sandor turned away from her.
“Come,” he said, voice as cold as the north. “I need to take you back.”
***
Tucked into her bed and the darkness, Sansa replayed their conversation again
and again in her mind. At the very least, it gave her something to do. She
could not recall every word, but she remembered enough. It seemed he blamed
her, not only for her own situation, but his as well. That too, was something
she had not considered.
When he had offered to take her away, she thought it was only for her. She had
never contemplated his reasons for doing so. After all, wasn't rescuing her
reason enough? It should be, for any decent human being. She had thought it
tragically ironic; he wanting to protect her by taking her away, and she
refusing in order to protect him. It was almost like a song. But, perhaps there
was more. That it was not only her condition he sought to change, but his own
as well.
He was a good man, in his own way. And yet the things he was forced to do... He
would have deserted a long time ago, during the night of the siege, if not for
her. He did not only offer to take her away for her protection. That was his
reason for staying as well. At some point she would have thought that terribly
romantic. Maybe it was. But it was also horrible and messy, as with most things
where emotion are concerned.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Joffrey was bored. Again. The lot of those who've got the world at their
fingertips. No request too grand or wish too unreasonable.
Upon seeing the state of the Kings chambers, floor littered with half-dead
whores and crossbow-bolts, Sandor knew what was coming. Joffrey was laying
sprawled back on the bed, palming himself through his breeches with one hand,
the other toying with a blood-stained dagger. Shame was apparently an
unfamiliar concept. Once he saw him, the King's eyes lit up with a rare and
ill-boding enthusiasm.
«You're here. Good. I thought it time we played again.»
Sandor knew now what he hadn't realized the last time. Sansa was not the only
one getting punished. Of course, being used as means of punishing another,
especially her, was it's own form of cruelty. But through Joffrey's not-so-
subtle comments after the last 'game', Sandor realized that the King knew more
than he'd ever let on; Sandor wasn't simply a convenient tool used to terrorize
the Kings prisoner. He was also the victim.
His time as kingsguard had been like a study in cruelty, watching as the King
graduated to ever more grand and insidious methods. Sandor had always thought
that while Joffrey's penchant for bodily harm was creative as well as
boundless, he was fundamentally lacking in any insight into people, and
therefore could not break a person with any true accuracy. Sandor readily
admitted to being astounded when he realized that the King might have learned
his final lesson were viciousness was concerned; to not only tear apart
someone’s body, but their spirit as well. In other words; the King knew of the
bond between himself and Sansa. And he knew how to use it.
Sandor nodded, the silent consent same as ever. At least that's what the King
would believe.
***
It was a terribly bad plan. Sandor didn't allow himself to dwell on that. No
point anyway, given that this was their only option. If he'd had time to
prepare properly, he would have chartered a ship. He would have bolted in the
night, a head-start of several hours. Maybe he could even have arranged some
sort of diversion. He would also rather have had her consent and cooperation as
they fled.
Sandor would have to do without all that. In some ways it calmed him to know
despite the calamitous circumstances, there was only one thing to do. And there
were hardly anyone more suited than him to do it. Alright, so he wasn't exactly
inconspicuous. But he was strong, relatively quick-witted, and also the only
man to step up. So there.
Sansa opened the door almost immediately. She attempted to step towards him,
but got caught up in her skirts and lack of eyesight.
“The King?” she asked, arms flailing about. They settled once they found his
chest.
“No.”
She looked visibly relieved, before he spoke again.
“I'm taking you away.”
Her shoulders tensed up, arms dropping away from his chest, back to her sides.
“No,” she whispered, taking a step back. “You can't.”
“Oh yes, I can.”
His voice was a growl, threatening as anything. He would have been a fool to
truly believe he could scare her into acquiescing. But it was worth the
attempt.
“I don't want to go.”
“Well, I do.”
He reached her in one quick stride. She must have truly trusted him because as
his hand closed around hers, she looked honestly shocked. Grabbing his dagger,
he twirled it around in his hand, and brought the hilt down at the back of her
head in one swift movement. Thank the gods she couldn't see. She passed out at
once.
It wasn't the escape from the castle that had concerned Sandor the most when
plotting their escape. But he'd always thought that it would be nighttime, with
no servants or guests to run into. The guards didn't really pose a problem.
But with Sansa laying limp across his shoulder, the entire castle awake, he
wasn't particularly spoiling for a fight. He had to stop at almost every floor,
waiting until it was clear. By the time he reached the basement-corridors, he'd
only knocked out one guard. It had also taken much more time than they had.
Most likely.
Still, he felt a bit calmer as he strode down the more-or-less secret passage
from Maegors towards the dungeons. Few knew about these tunnels. Even when the
alarm was sounded, as surely it would be any moment, they would assume he would
head towards the docks. Any sane man would. Or else they would think he
attempted to reach the city-gates. Sandor did not plan on doing either.
He didn't need a torch, having walked these corridors in the dark many a time.
Usually while drunk, though not always. He counted his strides – forty, forty-
one, forty-two. He'd reached sixty-seven when Sansa finally began to stir.
Thank the gods, it wouldn't do if he'd concussed her. Sansa's breathing went
from calm and even to completely erratic as she slowly regained consciousness.
“Put me down,” was her sudden hiss. It sounded too loud, echoing through the
corridor.
“Be quiet!”
If only she would do as bid. He didn't want to make more sound than necessary,
nor did he want to lose count of his steps and have to light a torch. But
Sansa, who'd been nothing but pliant for the past couple of years, had suddenly
started to fight back. First throwing her plate against the wall, refusing to
eat. Then instigating that absurd argument in the godswood. Now this. He
wouldn't have minded if only it didn't come at such a damn inopportune time.
She trashed about more violently than ever.
“I'm serious woman. Be still! Or do you want us to get caught.”
“I want you to bring be back before we get caught.”
Her voice was lower this time, though her attempts to get down no less eager.
“Well, it's too late for that.”
That did the trick, apparently. Her body stilled, though he could feel the rise
and fall of her chest, more rapid than ever.
“What did you do?” she whispered, her voice small and desperate.
“Saved your life.”
She didn't say anything more after that. He imagined she must have a difficult
time finding a retort anyway. He walked on, still carrying her though there was
no real need of that now. She just hung there, limp as a ragdoll. When finally
reaching stride number hundred-and-twenty-one, he stopped.
“I'm putting you down now. Try and run and I'll knock you out again.”
He didn't wait for her to answer. She probably wouldn't anyway. He imagined he
could feel her reproach emanating from her as she regained her footing.
Fumbling against to wall for a moment, he found the flint and torch he'd hidden
away ages ago. Thankfully, they were both still dry and lit up at once.
The light wasn't particularly bright. They could only spy a little down the
corridor on each side. Nevertheless, should someone think to look for them
here, they would be visible a long way off. They were somewhere below the
dungeons, he knew. And there, right next to where he'd placed the flint, was a
small chest. Still here then, thank fuck.
He crouched down and threw the lid up. Sansa seemed to be more curious than
mad, at least for the moment, because he could feel her hovering behind him.
“What's that?”
“I made some preparations. Long time ago.”
“Preparations? Preparations for what?”
“The fuck you think? In case we needed to escape.”
“But I told you I did not want to leave.”
She shuffled behind him, clearly riled again.
“And I listened, far longer than I should have.”
The chest did not contain much. It would appear too suspicious, should anyone
find it. There were only a tattered gown he'd stolen from a washer-woman, a
shawl for her hair, and a cloak for each of them. He grabbed the gown and
shoved it into her hand.
“Put this on.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue. But perhaps reason finally caught up with
her, or maybe it was his expression, because she closed it again just as sudden
and did as he bid.
He might have expected her to show a bit more modesty, but she simply said
“help me,” and began tugging at the laces of her bodice. Thankfully, none of
her dresses were to elaborate now a days. They had her stripped down to her
shift in moments. It certainly spoke to the direness of the situation that he
did not take a moment to look at her, but turned around to tend to his own
clothes instead.
While their current escape was half-arsed, Sandor had known for some time it
might be a possibility. The initial plan, the one predicated on her actually
wanting to leave, was rather more well-constructed. But it didn't mean he
hadn't made contingency-plans. He had also given it a lot of thought, and
therefore had long since decided against changing out of his armor. He would,
later. For now it was enough to change out of his white cloak and into
something a bit less conspicuous. Something with a large hood.
Ripping his cloak off, he let it fall to the ground, pulling on the new one
with great haste. It was black and maybe not as anonymous as he'd imagined,
given that that had somehow become his signature colour. Him and the Nights
Watch. He helped Sansa on with her own cloak, as well as she shawl, making
certain that nothing of that tell-tale hair was visible. After stuffing their
discarded clothes back in the chest, he drew the palm of his hand across the
floor. It was not as dirty as he would have liked, but it would have to do.
Hand now covered in dust, he pulled Sansa towards him and, without warning,
wiped it across her face. He might have been a bit more considerate towards
her, and her look told him he would pay dearly. He also knew that this was a
life and death-situation, as surely as any battle, and therefore not the place
to exact his petty vengeance for the way she'd treated him. Yet there he was,
acting like a little boy and not her supposed protector. Ah, well, he'd never
claimed to be honorable. Wouldn't do to get her hopes up.
Letting his hand drop, he took a moment to evaluate her appearance. She was a
far cry from the servant she was supposed to imitate, but it would do the job,
he was fairly certain of that. In fact, if he let her go on her own, he was
reasonably sure that the City Watch would not recognize her. But then there
would still be sell-swords and pickpockets and good, old-fashioned rapists to
look out for. She would never make it in the city alone.
Pulling up her hood, then his own, he extinguished the torch before fumbling in
the dark for her hand.
“Now, either you come with me willingly or unwillingly. The choice is yours,
though you're coming with me either way. What will it be, girl?”
Feeling her small hand slip into his own, he closed his fingers around it and
tugged her along. It was slightly cold, colder than his own, but she gripped
his hand with determination.
“Where are we going?” she whispered.
“Hush! I'll explain later.”
She seemed to understand; there were ears everywhere, she knew that as well as
any long-time resident of the Red Keep. They walked along in silence for
several long minutes before finally bumping into the wooden surface Sandor knew
to be the door that led out to flea-bottom. There where many such passages
under the keep. They weren't known to a lot of people, though Sandor was sure
that a number of them were being searched right this moment. Like the one to
the docks, or the one that came out right by the mud-gate. Pushing the door
open before peeking into the too-bright street, he once again congratulated
himself on the choice; no guards.
It didn't take long before the little bird started to chirp, asking question
after question. He ignored her, and she soon lapsed into silence. But once they
had slipped through alley after alley in the seediest part of town, she
suddenly came to an abrupt halt. Pulling her hand from his at last, she crossed
her arms and gave him a look of such affront he would have applauded her if the
circumstances allowed. It had been a long time since she'd seemed capable of
being affronted at all. The little bird were regaining her claws. Good.
“Where are you taking me?” she hissed.
“I'll tell you once we're there. This isn't the place to talk.”
Sandor made to grab her hand once more, but she would not relent.
“This is flea-bottom. The docks are in the opposite direction. There are no
city-gates in flea-bottom.”
“Aye, you're right about that,” he conceded. “We're not leaving the city. Not
at once. Now, unless you don't wish to leave, ever, let's go.”
She seemed somewhat mollified, and slipped her hand back into his.
Sandor wasn't certain whether the vast crowds were a good or a bad thing.
Easier to slip away, and yet more eyes to spot them. Though the residents of
flea-bottom carried no great love for their King, nor the City Watch. If
someone should be inclined to hide a prisoner of the crown, it were these
people. He had been happy with this plan, given the short amount of time he'd
had in constructing it. It could not have been more than an hour since Joffrey
sent him on his way. Still, as he looked out across the square, gold-cloaks
milling about with the common-folk, he began to feel the first tendrils of
panic.
Turning to the little bird, he ducked his head and whispered: “I'm afraid we
have to break up.”
She pulled her head back, looking horrified.
“What?”
“They're looking for the two of us, not a girl on her own. And I'm far more
noticeable than you.”
“But... I don't know where we're going. I've hardly ever set foot outside the
keep.”
He would have been annoyed by her uselessness. But of course, it was not her
fault.
“That's fine. It's only for a little while. You see the small alley there?
Across the square?”
She followed the line of his finger and nodded.
“I'll meet you there. You just have to make it across the square on your own.”
She gave him a wide-eyed stare, and he could not help but contemplate how
utterly helpless she was but for him. That was the way some women helped
themselves, he supposed, by ensuring endless loyalty from more capable people.
Even if it wasn't by design. She did find some of that inner strength she must
have such great quantities of though, because she nodded, a determined look on
her face.
“If I don't turn up, then make your way to Birch-street. To the house with the
green front door. There's an open window at the back. The place is mine.”
Another nod, though a little more hesitant this time.
“There's coin and clothing there. Though make sure that no one sees you.”
She didn't say anything, just gave one final, weak nod.
“Alright then, girl. See you in a bit.”
With that he gave her a push and she stumbled into the square. At least she had
the sense not to look behind her as she disappeared into the crowd.
 
***
Sandor praised his own presence of mind as he wound his way through the crowds.
If they should discover her, he might be able to create a diversion. Though
there would be little point; he very much doubted she would make it on her own.
Still, she'd proved stronger than he'd ever suspected. At least he owed her the
chance. Well, as a matter of fact, he didn't really owe her anything. But he
would give it to her anyway.
There were gold-cloaks everywhere. They didn't make their activities much of a
secret either, approaching any red-headed person in the crowd. It seemed it
didn't occur to them that looking for him would make their search easier. Then
again, the City Watch had never recruited on the basis of intelligence.
He made it across in a matter of minutes, keeping his instinct to run in check.
Sansa had not been able to do the same; she was already waiting for him,
breathing heavily. She slipped her hand into his without comment, though relief
was plain on her face. Her expression made him feel all sorts of silly things,
but there were no time to dwell on those now.
The house was one he'd bought years ago, after winning the tourney of the hand.
He'd never told anyone about it, and was certain no one knew. He'd only been
there a handful of times, when life at court proved too oppressive. Usually
when Gregor visited. It was a shit-hole in truth; small, damp and with a
terrible smell. But as he opened the backdoor and followed Sansa inside, he
wondered if any place had looked quite so welcome to her. It certainly didn't
look it. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she took in everything from the
leaking chimney to the dust-covered floor. When they landed on him, wonder and
relief was replaced by something else.
She made her way to him, hands braced against his chest. It took a moment for
him to realize she was attempting to push him. Whether due to her weakness or
his strength, it seemed more like a caress. He had to admit, it was odd, this
transformation of hers. Too long he'd been used to the meek version of her,
he'd forgotten that beneath it all, she was a wolf. Sandor caught her hands in
his, though he tried to be gentle. His voice, however, was anything but.
“What? Hitting your rescuer? Not very lady-like, is it now?”
“Shut up,” she hissed. “How could you do that?”
She was shouting, entirely too loudly.
“I told you, time and again, that I didn't need rescuing. I didn't want to go.”
She was an odd creature. Try as he might – and he had certainly tried – he
could not figure her out.
“By all means, kill yourself if you must. I'm quite sure that that was what
Joffrey had planned today. Or if not today, than soon. At least now you have a
choice.”
He was quite satisfied with his words, and had honestly expected her to deflate
at once. That was not what happened. Instead she seemed to grow more angry.
“You should have asked me. You should have listened,” she ranted, sounding torn
between crying or maybe outright killing him. “He will find us now. He will
find us anywhere. He will kill us. He will kill us both.”
“He would have done so either way.”
“Not you,” she screamed, her voice more high-pitched then ever. Deciding that
enough was enough, he stepped forward, clamping a hand over her mouth. Her face
was wet, her body trembling ever so slightly. The anger seemed to have left her
now. Without it, she looked defeated.
Closing her eyes, she leant into him. She didn't seem like she was in the mood
to scream, so, removing his hand, he wrapped it around her instead. It was
tentative and a little awkward. He wasn't used to holding her like this, much
less to the idea that she might actually want him to. She did seem to want it
though, and burrowed her face into his mailed chest.
“I'm not so easy to kill,” he muttered, placing a hand on her head, still
covered by that ugly shawl. “Besides, I don't think I was long for in that
keep. Joffrey seems to have tired of me at last.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, voice muffled against his chest.
He shrugged.
“He seemed to have it in for me of late. What with that whole... game.”
With that, she pushed away from his chest, looking at him with wide, horrified
eyes. Gods, but they where blue!
“But...” she stammered. “I thought that was some sort of reward for you.
That's... what he said.”
“Aye, that's what I thought as well. At first.”
She looked at him intensely, urging him on. He sighed and acquiesced.
“But some of the things he said... It occurred to me that he knew, the best way
to hurt me would be through you.”
“So,” she urged on, “you think that he knows that you... that you care for me.
And that's why he chose you for his game, because he knew that hurting me would
hurt you?”
He nodded, silent.
“That's terrible,” she whispered, sounding genuinely shocked.
“That's Joffrey.”
“But... I thought he at least liked you. That he would not hurt you without
cause.”
He sighed, running a hand though his sweat-damp hair.
“Aye, so did I. I think he did, for a time. Maybe he was just bored.”
Sansa looked away, thoughtful. It occurred to him that whatever reason she had
for staying, she had yet to divulge it. Not that it really mattered to him;
it's not as if he could be expected to put anything above either of their
lives. And if that made her angry with him, well, that was just fine. There was
a part of him that was still angry with her as well.
“I'm tired,” she muttered, not looking at him.
“There's a bed. Upstairs. You take it.”
Lifting that thoughtful gaze to him, she reached forward and took his hand. As
she led the way up the stairs, it occurred to him that maybe she wasn't all
that angry after all.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It was late evening when she woke. The room was blissfully dark, and she felt
unable to sleep anymore. Alt last. Sandor had explained to her that she was
concussed, and couldn't sleep for too long at a time. He had woken her at
regular intervals, and the afternoon passed by in flashes. Sometimes he lay
next to her, though as evening neared he had left, only coming back to wake
her. He had seemed calm, almost bored, so she supposed there were still no
immediate danger.
Sitting up in bed, she was momentarily surprised by the rough-spun dress that
she wore. No wonder, it was all rather a lot to take in. The last unknown
period of her life she had done literally nothing, unless one counted thinking.
But even before that her days were usually far from eventful. And now, with an
impromptu escape, a chase through the streets of Kings Landing, the discovery
that Sandor owned a house; no wonder she forgot the dress. Sansa was painfully
aware that there was a time in which that would have been at the forefront of
her mind. She was ashamed to remember, more so because Sandor had known her
back then. He remembered too, she knew.
Noises from downstairs alerted her to his whereabouts. At least he was still in
the house. The staircase was narrow and rickety, creaking with every step.
Sandor turned from where he'd been hunched in front of the fireplace, feeding
the flames with kindling. He didn't say anything, merely gave her a curt nod
before resuming his task.
The room looked cozy in a spartan sort of way. There were no decorations, no
hangings, almost no furniture. The piece of cloth covering the windows were not
curtains, as she'd first thought, but rather their cloaks. To keep prying eyes
away, she surmised. But the candles and the fire gave the room a warm glow, so
much softer than sunlight.
She took a seat by the fire on one of the room's two chairs. Sandor's back was
still turned. It rippled in subtle movements as he worked. He seemed content to
maintain silent, and though she would love nothing more than to talk, to have
an actual conversation after such a long time in silence, she realized that she
did not know what to say.
She should thank him. But then, he had taken her without leave, against her
express wishes, and she didn't want to let go of that anger just yet. She
should also apologize for making him stay. The emotion most predominant since
their fight in the godswood had been guilt. But then again, she had never asked
him to. Not since that night of the Blackwater battle. It was unfair of him to
put that on her. All of these emotions, at odds with each other, and she had no
idea how to handle them. It was too much, too confusing, so she too remained
silent. At least about that. There were still more pressing concerns, things
they ought to talk about, even if he was not in the mood.
“What are we going to do?”
Sandor stiffened slightly, the movements in his back stilling. He appeared to
be done with the fire though, because he stood up, slowly, and looked at her.
“About what?”
Gods, but he could be difficult.
“About everything,” she responded, exasperated.
“You mean, how are we going to get out of Kings Landing?”
She nodded. Sandor sighted and perched himself on the other chair. He looked
just as bored as ever, and something about his lack of emotion annoyed her. He
looked at her for quite a while before sighing.
“By boat or on horseback. I'm not rightly sure. Though I think boat will be
easier in the long run...”
His voice trailed off, his gaze shifting from her to the fire. His expression
was still unreadable. It gave her another twinge of annoyance that he who had
used to brim over with anger now appeared to have every emotion in check. It
felt... lonely. She knew Sandor felt, and that he felt keenly. She had been
confronted by his emotions, swinging from anger to mirth and back again with
bewildering speed. It had used to scare her. Now his apparent self-control
frustrated her. She would have liked nothing more for him to join her in
temperamental chaos.
“What do you mean?”
He sighed again with apparent exasperation; the first flicker of emotion that
he displayed.
“It will be easier for them to keep the docks under surveillance. Bribe the
captains, keep eyes on the docks. Much more so than the gates. On the other
hand, once we're on a ship, there's precious little they can do about it.
Unless they know where we're headed. If we left on horseback we would have to
travel for weeks, maybe month through unfriendly territory.”
It all seemed rather obvious now that he pointed it out. It was also
disheartening. She knew Joffrey had been right, she just knew it. He was just
too smart, his resources too plentiful. A deserting non-knight and a high-born
woman against a king. There was no hope. And when they were caught, she knew
all too well how it would end. He should not have taken her, he ought to have
left alone. That way he might not... Her eyes grew moist at the thought. Sansa
cursed herself for her own weakness, and looked away so that he might not see.
He did not like it when she cried.
“But,” Sandor continued, “if we hold out here for a while, it will be a
different matter.”
“How so?”
Her head whipped around, tears forgotten. Could he possibly have a plan? Maybe
she had done him a disservice by underestimating him?
“They will expect us to get out of Kings Landing right away. The last thing
they'll be counting on is for us to remain here. Besides... I believe Joffrey
is overestimating people's devotion to him. Anyway, if we manage to hold out
here for a while, we can charter a ship in a few days.”
She drew a sharp breath, mind reeling. It was true! The wouldn't expect them to
remain. There might yet be a way out of this; this city and this situation.
“So if we simply wait here for a while, they will stop looking for us. But this
is good news, Sandor!”
He grimaced, seemingly uncomfortable with her enthusiasm. Sandor ran a hand
across his face.
“There's still a chance that we might get recognized. Either as we board a
ship, or while we wait. In case you hadn't noticed, we're not exactly
inconspiucous.”
Still, it gave her more hope than she had experienced in a long while. She only
wondered at his lack of faith. It had been his fool-hardy notion to escape. She
decided to ask.
“Surely you must have thought of this? You were always aware of the dangers.
Why do they seem so insurmountable now?”
In one abrupt movement, Sandor shot to his feet. Then he was pacing from one
end of the room to the other. His entire body was tense, muscles stretched
taut. He was angry, she could tell. Maybe that was better than feigned boredom.
His self-control had begun to slip.
“Aye, I did think of it,” he spat. “I thought and planned. I had decided on
chartering a ship in advance. To leave during the night. We would have stood a
chance then.”
Sansa was confused. He had taken her without permission. Surely he could have
followed his initial plan.
“Then why didn't you?”
Predictably, her question made him angrier. His emotions didn't scare her
anymore. In some ways she even relished pulling him down with her. It felt good
to not have to be reasonable anymore.
“Why do you think?” he asked, throwing his arms in the air, before resuming his
pacing. “You said no. Again and again. When I finally took you, it was because
there was no other choice. Things had gone too far.”
Something must have happened, she gathered. It was not Sandor being his usual,
volatile self, but rather a choice born out of desperation. It did not feel
right, both that he should decide on her behalf, but also that he should have
had to.
Getting to her feet, she crossed the floor to him. Placing a hand tentatively
on his forearm, she looked up at him. He seemed to have calmed, though his eyes
were stormy.
“There is no use thinking about that now,” she whispered. “We are both here,
and we are both safe. For the moment. And maybe we will escape, maybe we'll get
caught. All we can do is try.”
He nodded, face softer but still determined. Her hand tightened around his arm.
It felt good, to be able to touch him, to reaffirm that he was actually there.
There was such an assault of feelings then. But she knew that the emotions, the
anger and worry, as well as the the relief, the hope and the gratitude, were
all equally welcome. Because, due to him, she could feel again. And no one
would punish her for it here, so long as they managed to elude Joffrey's grasp.
“But promise me, Sandor, that if we do get caught... promise me that you will
kill us. Both of us. Do not let us get pulled back in. There are worse things
than dying, I know that now.”
Sandor nodded. He appeared thoughtful as he lifted his own hand, placing it on
top of hers.
“As you say.”
***
It was not until later, while lying in bed waiting for sleep, that Sansa
realized how little she actually knew Sandor. It was not something she had ever
really considered; he was her only friend. He liked her and she trusted him.
That carried with it some implication of acquaintance with each other's lives.
But while Sandor knew almost all there was to know about her, in addition to
having an unnerving sort of insight into her feelings, she not only knew very
few facts about him, but his character was a constant source of surprise as
well.
After their conversation by the fire-place, Sandor went on the hunt for food.
They had not brought any with them in their haste, and he had been reluctant to
leave her while she slept. Neither wished to traverse the streets; not enough
time had passed. Thankfully, it turned out the house boasted a small back-yard.
Therein grew an apple-tree and a small, dilapidated kitchen-garden with
potatoes, cabbage and even beets. It wasn't much to people used to castle-food.
The garden was also full of weeds and looked as if it had not been tended for
years. Still, she was immensely grateful.
“Do I look like a fucking farmer,” was Sandor's response when she asked him
about it.
“Surely you could have hired someone?” she pointed out. Sandor snorted in
derision and went back to picking apples, while she scrambled in the dirt.
“That would have defied the point. I got this place to be alone.”
It was hardly a satisfactory answer, and her mind reeled with possibilities,
though she suspected that it was no more than a means for him to escape court-
life once in a while. She understood that well enough.
It did, however, imply things about him that had not occurred to her before.
Like how much money he had. As it turned out, he had quite a stash of gold
tucked away under a loose floor-board. He had not been born rich, she knew, so
how did he come across it?
The back-yard also boasted a well. Sandor instructed her to fetch water while
he got more wood for the stove. Pressing a bucket into her hands, she stood in
perplexed bemusement for a while, before finding out what she was supposed to
do. Her muscles had taken their toll during her years of captivity. Now they
had wasted away to barely nothing. It was a struggle to haul a bucket full of
water from the well. Even more difficult was the short journey from the back-
yard to the kitchen. By the time she reached the stove, she was drenched, a
trail of water marking her every step.
Sandor had laughed. It was as unexpected as it was annoying. Throwing his head
back, he let out a loud yelp that trailed into smaller chuckles. Sansa did not
like being laughed at. But that was momentarily pushed aside by the realization
that Sandor could laugh. She knew he had a sense of humor. She had even
witnessed it, crude as it was. But that had been such a long time ago. She
realized that Sandor had suffered and changed over the past years as well. That
he too had repressed parts of himself. Parts that he was now allowed to let
free. And free them he did, laughing without restraint. It did not die down
until she took it upon her to smack him. On the chest. Hard.
“Stop it,” she reprimanded.
“You look a right fool. What did you do? Jump in the well?”
She crossed her arms and tried to look formidable. It did not work. Sandor did
not even appear to notice. He did eye her wet dress for a while, seemingly
mulling something over in his mind.
“I don't have a second dress for you,” he mumbled at last. “Take that off and
hang it in front of the fire. In the meanwhile, I'll see what I can make of
these vegetables.”
“Should I help”?
Sandor cocked an eyebrow.
“Do you know how to cook?”
She shuffled her feet, looking down. The question made her uncomfortable. She
did not know how to cook. In fact, the only things she did know, would be
perfectly useless in their current situation. She was helpless, utterly
dependent on him. And Sandor knew it.
Sansa shook her head.
“Well, then...”
He shrugged, and that appeared to be the end of the matter. It occurred to her
that this implied that Sandor could cook. However had he learnt that? Shrugging
out of her dress, she threw it over the chair, dragging it close to the fire.
Seating herself in the other, she sat there, watching the flames. That was
another thing he could do that she could not. She wondered if he had really
considered how much work she would be. Not that she was afraid that he would
leave her. But she dreaded the thought of being a burden to him.
Still, it felt good to sit in front of the fire. Such a simple act, and yet one
she had not enjoyed in years. The heat licked pleasantly across her skin,
reminding her what it was like to feel truly warm. The sensation awoke other
memories too. She blushed at the thought. But if there was one thing that
characterized that... act, it was warmth. Maybe wetness and mess too. Making
love had been nothing like she imagined it would be. She did not count her
experiences with Joffrey. Those were different, it had not been of her own
volition. But she had thought that what happened in the marriage-bed was
cleaner, matching the supposed purity of what it symbolized. Perhaps it was,
but it certainly had not been with Sandor. She remembered with trepidation the
wetness of her own sex, the way it had trickled out of her and onto him. Sandor
did not seem like he minded, though.
Sansa could not help but wonder if they would do it again. If she was somehow
allowed to now. Joffrey had taken her maidenhead. Besides which, she was on the
run. Marriage had never seemed further off, perhaps it would never even happen.
She was ruined, penniless and without family. Except Jon, and maybe Arya. But
that was a big maybe.
She had a feeling that she did not yet fully grasp the implications of all
this. Her life had always been headed in one direction; marriage. Now, should
she survive, she was free to choose. One thing was certain, she no longer had
any honor left to protect. No one would care should she become Sandor's lover.
No one would even know. So the true question was, what was it that she wanted?
That too seemed overwhelming; whether a captive or not, choices was never
something she had had an abundance of.
The smells emanating from the kitchen served as a good distraction. She was
hungry like she had never been before. Her stomach growled in an unlady-like
fashion. Impatience got the better of her, and she reentered the kitchen,
finding Sandor leaning over a large pot.
There were peels of various sorts scattering the bench. It appeared that he had
done little but peel and cut the vegetables, dumping them all in with some
water. It did not altogether look very complicated. Sandor was stirring the
concoction with lazy movements, looking up as she entered.
He looked at her like he never had before; lingering and unashamed. His eyes
travelled up her form, now only clad in her shift, lingering at her breasts.
She could not help but squirm, and tried to figure out whether shame or
excitement were the predominant feeling. When his eyes met hers, they appeared
hungry.
Dropping the ladle with a small splash, he went to her in two long strides. His
movements seemed a curious mix of haste and languid patience. Lifting a hand,
he placed it firmly at her waist, drawing her to him. She had hugged him once
before today, but without the presence of his armor, it was all the more
intimate.
His other hand found her neck, winding it's way underneath her hair, thumb
drawing circles on her skin. As her eyes found his, he quirked an eyebrow. She
realized it was his way of asking permission. Sansa knew that he liked her. She
also knew that he had enjoyed making love to her. Yet, somehow she had imagined
he would be more restrained. Maybe because of his anger, because he still
blamed her for their remaining in Kings Landing for so long. Apparently anger
was no obstacle to desire though.
She wanted him too, she knew that. But she had expected more time to decide, to
sort through all the complicated implications of becoming his lover for true.
But while her mind was not made up, her body had long ago decided what it
wanted. She had admitted this once before. She could do so again.
Rising on her tiptoes, she braced her hands against his chest, face inching
closer to his. He understood her meaning, head descending to meet hers. He took
it slow. It seemed as time had suspended as his lips slowly inched closer to
hers. She could not take her eyes off of them; one half burned, the other thin
but soft-looking.
They were soft. His pressure was gentle, just a soft brush of lips against
lips. And yet, a curious sensation, like a tingling, golden thread, stretched
from her lips, down into her stomach, pooling between her legs. Her reaction
did not feel in proportion to the touch; such a strong response from such a
tentative caress. Yet it did not feel like enough, and so when Sandor's arms
tightened around her, pressing her against him, when his lips grew more
insistent, it felt right.
He kissed her with confidence, and she was swept away. That was the only manner
it witch she managed to describe it. No hesitation, no thought. If their
movements were at times awkward, they did not notice. His lips enclosed around
her bottom one, then the top. She mirrored his movement with an automatic ease.
It was unlike anything she had ever experienced; something she was proficient
in without experience, or even trying. When his tongue swept across her lips,
delved into her mouth, slid against her own, it felt natural and undeniably
pleasurable.
She moaned. Then she blushed. The involuntary sound brought with it
consciousness; an awareness of what they were doing, how odd it was, how
inappropriate she was behaving. But had she not already decided that it didn't
matter anymore? That concepts such as propriety were irrelevant now? She
decided that they were. It did not matter. Nothing mattered, except kissing,
and being kissed, by him.
With gentle nudges and not so gentle pushes, Sandor guided her out of the
kitchen, up the stairs. He kissed her all the while, kissed her lips, her
throat, cheeks, forehead. She clutched him to her, fisting her hands in his
tunic, letting him guide her, kiss her, overwhelm her.
As they reached the bed he let her go, taking a step back.
“I want to watch you.”
He was out of breath, his voice deliciously hoarse.
“Take off your clothes.”
Sansa was glad she had decided to not think, to only feel. As her fingers
loosened the strings of her bodice, she was nothing but eager. She noted they
shook slightly. As did his, as he began to undress. They were hurried and
clumsy, but that was good; there was no need for artifice. Finally naked, she
sat on the bed. Sandor was in front of her in an instant. She still felt a
little shy at seeing his manhood, so explicit in it's want, leaving no doubt as
to what they were about to do.
He nudged her gently, pushing her further up on the bed. She lay back, her
thighs falling apart on their own accord. It felt right as he lay down on top
of her, nestled between them. As he kissed her once more, her legs drew up,
enclosing his waist. Sandor groaned, his breath pushing into her mouth, his
tongue delving after.
When his arm left it's place beside her head, she knew it was about to happen.
His manhood slid against her, between the folds, nudging and teasing, before he
pushed into her in one, clean stroke. His movement seemed almost desperate, but
as he started to move above her, they were slow and measured. It felt so
curious and so good. She knew she was already close to that sensation which she
had only felt once before. He felt almost too big and too small at the same
time. Too much and not enough. Digging her heals into his bottom, she nudged
him, silently asking that he move faster. Sandor obliged, triggering new
sensation as his body hit her bottom for every thrust.
He was panting and groaning, which called her attention to the sounds she
herself was making. She had not noticed before, the moans spilling from her own
mouth. Had she been an observer to the act, she would have found it obscene.
Now, there was nothing more natural. She did not think she would be able to
keep silent, even if she should wish it.
It felt wet and warm and tingling and so much more. There was no use describing
the sensation, no words could do it justice. She felt herself grow tighter
around him, could hear the indelicate sounds of her own wetness. Sandor's lips
found her own, her throat, her breasts. It amplified the sensation inside her.
She felt as if she must glow from the heat.
And then, then there was nothing but warmth and piercing pleasure. It did not
matter that her head spun, that she could no longer see. Sandor kept pounding
into her with relentless movements, drawing out the pleasure to the point that
it might be painful. She didn't know, didn't care. Dimly, she registered the
erratic pace of his hips, a loud groan against her neck.
He was still on top of her when awareness returned. Their bodies were too warm,
both drenched in sweat. Sandor's breath was moist against her neck, his body
heavy as it lay on top of her. He had completely abandoned any attempt at
keeping his own weight, which now rested fully on her. She body was in a
similar state of relaxation, and it was a struggle to raise her arm and nudge
against his side.
“Get off,” she mumbled, her voice sounding as if from far away.
It took a moment for him to oblige. Yet oblige he did, sliding off, laying down
next to her. His chest was still rising and falling rapidly.
She tucked herself against his side, placing her head on his chest as if it was
the most natural thing in the world. Though they were still too warm, Sandor's
arms enclosed around her, pressing her firmly to him.
“Worth it,” he mumbled.
It took a while for her to register his words. By the time she did, Sandor was
already asleep.
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter gave me a lot of trouble. If there are still some parts
     that seem messy, or don't make sense, please let me know.
***** Chapter 5 *****
The King's Landing harbour was never quiet. Ships came and went at all hours,
and those sailors not occupied with haling cargo, could usually be counted on
to wander about, drinking with their shipmates. And that were in addition to
the whores looking for work, and the city watch, looking for unrest.
Still, there was something to be said for the hour of the wolf, when one could
usually count on the sailors being at least somewhat drunk, and the guards
preoccupied with the ensuing brawls. With this in mind, Sandor had headed out
well after sun-down, sneaking through dirty alleys and the lesser-crowed
streets towards the harbour.
Sansa had fretted incessantly, insisting on bundling him up with her scarf, in
addition to his cloak, effectively covering his face. There was nothing to be
done about his height though; he made a conspicuous figure whether his face was
hidden or not. And while he appreciated the girl's concern for him, he thought
it best not to mention all the ways this could still go wrong.
They had spent a pleasant couple of days, doing little but eating, resting and
fucking. There had not been much in the way of conversation. He had little need
of it, and while he got the impression that his little bird had plenty to say,
for whatever reason she kept her beak mostly shut. She watched him though,
seemingly assessing. Although sometimes it seemed distinctly appreciative. Like
when she let her fingers trail across his arms and chest, lips following after.
For whatever reason, she wanted him. Sandor was not about to question that, so
he too kept his mouth shut.
When earlier in the day, he'd announced his intention of checking the streets
and harbour, Sansa had gone pale with worry. She had impressed him though,
setting her jaw and giving him a firm nod. Then she kissed him. Plump, soft
lips moving firmly against his own. She seemed to have taken a liking to it.
His lips were still a little swollen. Sandor had spent the last couple of days
intermittently grinning to himself at this unexpected turn of events, and
falling into brooding thoughts regarding the journey ahead. He'd also spendt
long minutes contemplating her request.
She had asked him to kill them, should they get caught. And while he dreaded
few things more, the thought had somehow instilled a certain calm in him. No
matter how things turned out for them, there would be no going back. Whether he
would actually be able to do it, was another matter. One he choose not to dwell
on.
Still, as he proceeded down the darkened alley, he felt the tell-tale signs of
nervousness. His heart beat in an erratic rhythm, his palms clammy, which was
unusual, and buggering irritating to boot. Getting caught was not an option.
There were few gold cloacs around, but people were still milling about,
drifting in and out of taverns. Most were drunk, but that didn't mean they
wouldn't recognize him. So he stuck to the shadows, moving swiftly through the
city.
Despite the task, it was still nice being outside after days cooped up indoors,
no matter how pleasant the company. The evening was mild, the winds smelling of
autumn. It had rained earlier in the day, the sky still overcast, adding to the
darkness. If he were a religious man, he might have thought the gods were with
him.
He reached the harbour without incident. Back pressed against an old warehouse,
Sandor looked about, finding the place almost deserted. A good sign. It was
quiet, save the rush of the waves and the faraway sound of laugher coming off
the ships. Apprising them, he saw plenty of war-galleys, as well as the King's
private ships. They would be of no use to him. What he needed was a small boat,
lithe and fast, with a foreign captain, preferably one who preferred gold in
hand, rather than the promise of a bounty. But it would seem business was slow
of late. He counted no more than eight transport-vessels. Most of them were too
large, but there were smaller ones as well. One of them would have to do.
Slinking out of the relative safety of the shadows, he sprinted past the
harbour master's offices and warehouses with lithe steps. Wincing for ever bit
of strewn glass breaking beneath his feet, he made it to the dock without being
seen. Breathing a sigh of relief, he noted once more how hard his heart was
hammering. It was unusual for him to feel such, but then he had seldom found it
necessary to hide while in combat. It wasn't his style.
The wooden planks slippery from the previous rain. The heals of his boots
tapped audibly against them for every step, but there was really no helping
that. Perhaps he ought to have sent Sansa. With her light frame and slippered
feet, she would surely make no noise at all. But then again, she would not have
been able to find this place, much less offering someone a bribe without
getting ripped off and most likely raped in the bargain. Not for the first
time, Sandor felt glad not to be of the gentler sex.
With his dagger hidden up his sleeve, he stepped up on the gangplank of the
nearest vessel. It suited his purposes perfectly, being small and unassuming.
It was named Nestoris, a braavosi name. Braavos would be as good a place as
any. A fitting city for people going into hiding. The waves lapped loudly
against the ships hull. If he was cautious and the sailors drunk, they would
not be able to hear him approach. Best not to cause a commotion until he was
aboard. No one would think twice about unrest on a foreigner's ship, much less
a braavosi one.
The deck seemed abandoned. It was quiet, though light emanated from the
deckhouse. He approached on toe-tip, aiming for the nearest window. If he was
lucky, he might find the captain alone. Eyes fixed on the door, he approached
with caution, intent on reaching it. The night was unusually quiet. All he
could hear were the sound of waves and his own steps.
Then, there came another sound. Another set of steps. They were in time with
his own, but slightly louder. Sandor turned, spying about. Creeping across the
deck, was another man. The light from the deckhouse glinted off his cloak,
revealing it to be the tell-tale gold of the city watch. And where there was
one, there was sure to be more.
He reached the man in two swift strides, dagger gliding into his hand with a
flick of the wrist. The man was unsurprisingly nowhere near as fast. His hand
made it all the way to the hilt of his sword. Sandor scoffed to himself. A
sword. As if that would do him any good when sneaking up on someone.
It was not a fair fight. Dagger pointed against the other man's neck, Sandor
sent him a swift kick in the stomach, then an elbow to the neck. The man
crumpled before him, wheezing in pain, unable to call for help. Crouching down,
he flipped the man on his back, and set the blade against the his throat once
more.
Sandor's first instinct was to ask how many they were, why they were here,
skulking about at such a late hour. But at last reason caught up, and there
were no need to ask questions. The unusual lack of people about. The quiet. The
lack of guards. They had been laying in ambush all along. He could bloody well
kick himself for not realizing sooner. The man's eyes were wide open, his face
frozen in terror. Still, it didn't pain him when he shoved the point of his
dagger into the man's flesh, tearing sinew and blood-vessels as he went. The
gold cloak bleed to death quickly and without a sound.
Crouching in the growing puddle of blood, Sandor's mind reeled. There could not
be too many guards about, or else he would have been caught sooner. Perhaps
they had simply stationed them on the ships, thinking it more difficult for him
to escape that way. Well, then they ought to have used more men. Still, no
matter what their plan, his best option seemed to exit the way he had entered,
praying he wouldn't leave bloody footprints for them to follow.
***
Sansa had not moved since he left. She was still perched in that dilapidated
chair, face towards the door. She was pale, and went paler still at the sight
of him.
“What happened?”
Shutting the door behind him and tearing the cloth from his face, he strode
towards the staircase, Sansa trailing behind him.
“We need to get our things, little bird. Gather some food. I will fetch the
rest.”
“Did you secure passage? Are we leaving?”
“We're leaving, though not by boat. And no more questions now. Just do as I
say.”
He turned, pushing the scarf into her hands. Sansa did not appear satisfied
with the answer, but at least some of the worry seemed to leave her. Irritated
was better than frightened, he supposed. They did not have many possessions.
Nothing but the clothes on their backs and the few odds and ends to be found in
the house. He collected the blankets off the bed and the pouch of gold hidden
in the floor. Downstairs, Sansa had gathered the few vegetables they'd already
dug up in a chair. Her hands were constantly fidgeting with the hem of her
sleeves, but otherwise she seemed calm enough.
Throwing down the blankets and the gold, Sandor proceeded to the kitchen and
collected a small pot, as well as the pouch of salt they'd found forgotten in a
cupboard. Bundling it all inside one of the blankets, he handed the other to
Sansa, then blew out the candles and declared them ready to leave.
“We're heading for the Old Gate.”
“What happened,” she asked again, clearly not content with leaving him in
command.
“An ambush, little bird. They were clearly expecting us to leave by boat.”
She looked shocked, hand flying to her throat in mortification.
“But that would mean the gates are probably guarded as well. We can't leave
now.”
It was not ideal, but neither was staying put. Sandor told her so.
“I killed a gold cloak. Might be they think it's just a random attack, but it
happened aboard a ship. They were obviously working with the captains, so they
don't really have a reason to suspect the crew. In any case, if they figure
it's me, they know we're still here, and we might have to wait weeks for
another chance.”
Placing his hand on her back, he guided her towards the door.
“Don't fret so, Sansa. It took a long time before I was spotted, they can't
have placed too many guards there. The gates are probably even less secure. But
they won't be by tomorrow. You can count on that.”
Mollified at last, Sansa gave him a stern nod before opening the door. During
all those years when he'd imagined the moment of their escape, it had never
happened like this. But then, he had never been too fond of plans.
***
Sandor would dearly have liked to steal some horses. He could probably have
managed it too. But that would make sneaking past the guards even more
difficult, and if they should be discovered, he was not such an idiot as to try
and fight astride an untrained nag. Sansa would probably not be too happy about
walking, but then he supposed she would be even less happy if he stole from
some unsuspecting inn keep.
Even though the Old Gate was close, it took them a long time; navigating the
smaller alleys, and ducking into darkness whenever a member of the city watch
strode by. They had been instructed to keep on the lookout for them, most like.
But seeing as no one seemed to actually be looking, it appeared as if the watch
had given them up for a lost cause. That was good. The men guarding the Old
Gate would probably be just as lazy as they always were. The gate was not in
much use anymore, and if he'd planned on sneaking past the guards, it would
have been an exedingly bad idea. But seeing as they had to escape at night,
slipping past them would be impossible anyway. Their only option was to get a
drop on the men, killing them before they could raise the alarm. He did not
intent on informing Sansa about that earlier than he'd have to. Although, given
what she'd suffered and what was at stake, she might not object as vehemently
as she once would have. If they should get past in once piece, they gate
brought them out north of the city. People would assume they were heading
north. Sandor had no such plans.
Though Sansa was small and easy to conceal, her physique had suffered from her
time in captivity. She grew quickly out of breath, her legs already strained
from the effort of crouching and running. It did not bode well for their
journey, should they even get that far. By the time they reached the gate, her
limbs were shaking in exhaustion. Slumping against a wall, she tried to regain
her breath. He took the opportunity to inform her of what needed to be done.
“Best you stay here for a while. When you hear the gates open, you run.”
“What will you do?” she asked, though it seemed to him as if she already knew.
“Kill the guards.”
There was no purpose in lying. With Sansa's recent and tentative return to her
old self, he braced himself for some sort of objection. But she merely nodded,
jaw set, though her eyes would not quite meet his. He could not decide if this
placidity was a good thing or not. At the moment it certainly was, but in the
long run...
She did give him a kiss before he left though. It was hasty, their cheekbones
clashing together, lips more pressing than caressing. He appreciated it
nonetheless. Putting the bundle of blankets and food down, he left her huddled
in the shadow of some old house, clinging to a whole were the bricks were gone,
trying to remain upright.
Sandor proceeded, dagger once more in hand. It made him all the more
appreciative of his sword. Daggers and stilettos were for quiet assassinations.
Swords were honest. They gave a man a chance to defend himself, even if that
chance was small, should it be his sword they met. The wall provided extra
cover, casting the entire street in shadow. At the end of it he spied a guard,
the gold of his cloak visible even in the darkness. The man was trudging back
and forth, appearing bored and inattentive. There ought to be at least one
other guard, at the top of the tower. It was thin and rickety, the mortar and
stone crumbling little by little as the centuries past. Unlike the other gate-
towers in King's Landing, this one lacked a roof, making it easy to ascertain
how many guards there were. He could even have killed them from here, had he
brought his bow along. But his bow was still stowed in his room at the keep,
and the tower appeared empty. It was well into the night by now, dawn
approaching fast. While he would have liked more time to reconnoitre, they were
running out of time.
Sandor approached the guard, sliding silently along the wall. It went quickly
and without much fuss. Creeping up behind him, Sandor made swift work of the
mans neck, catching him as he crumpled and lowered him silently to the ground.
Still unable to find a second guard, he approached the tower-door. The leaver
to open the gate was inside, and, Sandor suspected, a guard shirking his
duties. Sheathing his dagger, he drew his sword instead. It was impossible to
break down a door with stealth. With his good ear pressed against the door, the
tried to discern any noises.
At first all seemed quiet. The stillness seemed to press against his eardrums,
almost as if it were a sound all on it's own. He became aware of the sound of
his breath, and the blood pumping past his ears. But behind the quiet noise of
his own breath, he could discern the clinking of armour and a low muttering.
There were more guards here after all, most likely more than one.
The tower was not particularly big, but could still accommodate perhaps a
twelve average-sized men if they crammed together. He could not fight twelve
men. There might be no more than two, but then why would they keep quiet? Like
the harbour, this was an ambush, he was certain of that.
Sansa was startled when he reached her again. Still slumping against the wall,
she suddenly shot to her feet, ready to run until she saw who it was.
“Did you do it? Did you open the gate?”
The little bird could be so dense at times. He sighed.
“No. Too many guards.”
Her head hung, defeated.
“Don't fret, we might still get out. They're all hiding inside the tower.
There's no one outside. If we can scale the building, they will never even know
we passed.”
This did not cheer her. Still, she seemed to collect herself and fixed him with
a stern gaze.
“You will make it past. We both know I am unable to climb anything. Even if my
constitution were better, it would still be impossible.”
“Daft bird, I have no intention of leaving you. We'll both make it past, you'll
see.”
Blanket in one hand, her hand in the other, he led them back towards the gate.
Rather then head for the door, he brought them to the south-facing wall. The
tower was not all that tall, it's uneven surface perfect for climbing. As long
as the crumbling stone held. He lay her hand against the wall, guiding it
across the ridges. Fitting her dainty fingers into a gap, he made her take
hold.
“Here, give me the blanket.”
She passed it to him, but looked dubious nonetheless.
“It's no more difficult than climbing a ladder.”
It occurred to him that Sansa might never even have used a ladder. She hadn't,
most like. Still, he gave her bottom a pat to get her going. She obliged,
despite the crudeness of his instruction. Tying the blanket-bundle to his back
with hers, wincing at every sound they made, he followed after.
It went excruciatingly slow. About halfway, Sansa made a stop, breathing
heavily. Her arms and legs had begun shaking again. But while Sansa was
woefully weak, he did not fare much better himself. His body was heavy, the
stone dissolving underneath him as he went. If they paused for much longer, he
would fall.
“Sansa,” he hissed. “Move!”
“I can't”
Her voice seemed more scared than strained, however. Maybe it was something
other than tiredness that made her pause. That was one too many problems to be
dealing with.
“Either you climb, or we get caught,” Sandor hissed. “Just don't look down,
we're almost there.”
Feeling his feet beginning to slip, he searched for another purchase, but they
all fell away the moment he put weight on them. If one of the bigger rocks
should fall, it would alert every gold clock in the area.
“Bugger this.”
Giving up on the foothold, hanging on with his hands alone, he scrambled
sideways, trying to find a part of the wall a little less damaged. That seemed
to get her moving. His feet scratching against the wall, he found hold at last.
Together they made it, side by side and ever so slowly, to the top of the
tower.
It was empty, thank the gods. Sansa staggered over the edge and sank to the
floor, while he seized the moment to look about. The other side appeared
blissfully free of soldiers; there were nothing but muddy fields. The street
behind them were still empty. Taking a moment to calm himself, he too sat down.
“We're fine. No one heard us.”
She managed a shaky smile, hands clutching at her side.
“I apologize,” she whispered. “I did not even know I was afraid of heights
until I thought I might fall.”
Grabbing her hand, he gave it a squeeze before drawing them both to their feet.
“Best get moving. Sun's almost up.”
She kissed him again. It was less desperate, more tender. Her breath was still
coming fast, pushing past his lips. She could have easily made him forget
himself, forget this entire situation. Breaking the kiss before he actually
did, Sandor gave her a smile that he hoped seemed reassuring.
This time he went first. If she should fall, he might be able to catch her, or
at the very least cushion her landing. She was tentative, but seemed more
confident in her movements. Sandor too began to feel more secure. They might
just survive this yet.
Step by careful step, they descended the tower, ears pricked for sounds of the
people on the other side of the wall. The entire city seemed quiet now, every
tavern and brothel closed, every drunken soul asleep, and the gold cloaks as
ignorant as ever.
The ground was soft and wet, squelching beneath his feet as he reached the
ground. Stretching his arms out, Sansa took the hint and jump the rest of the
way, into his arms. She no longer looked scared. She hugged him tight as he
lowered her to the ground. He must look just as relieved as her, no doubt. He
had a hard time reminding himself that danger was far from over. It was
unpleasant, forcing himself back intro that alert nervousness. But such were
the cost of survival.
Sansa looked around, noticing where they were. Her face seemed to light up.
“Are we heading north?”
“No, not right away at least.”
“Then where?”
“They'll expect us to go north. It will be better to head south. We'll find a
harbour, and decide where we'll go from there.”
The field was vast, extending from the bay and meeting up with the tourney-
grounds. It was mostly mud, so close to the city-walls, but farther off the
grass stood tall and autumn-yellow, and beyond that there were trees. With dawn
fast approaching there was no time to loose. He took Sansa's hand, and together
they headed towards the forest.
***** Chapter 6 *****
They walked for the better part of the day. Trudging through tall grass and
obstinate bushes, she asked Sandor if he thought they were being followed, if
they could take a rest, if there was much farther to go. Though he did not
appear sullen, neither was he very forthcoming. Perhaps he was beginning to
tire too.
Sansa gathered that though he had killed two guards, the city watch had no way
of knowing whether they had made their escape or not. Thusly, they did not know
if they were being chased. It appeared as if Sandor assumed the worst. As her
mind drifted to thoughts of her sore and swollen feet, the ache in her head and
legs, the agony of an empty stomach, she resented him ever so slightly. Had she
been on her own, she would surely had lain down to rest long ago, submitting to
her bodies needs. Despite the pain and resentment, whenever her eyes landed on
his broad back, she remembered what was at stake.
Sandor had quickly dismissed the notion of heading north. At least right away.
Though initially disappointing, Sansa now found that she was glad. She missed
the north. She missed the heaths with it's ling in bloom and the smell of pine
and cold, so different from King's Landing. Most of all, she missed Winterfell.
But what would the north be without her family. What joy would there be in
picking heath-flowers without her mother, or walking through the godswood
without her father. Without Arya to chase her or to chase in turn, without her
brothers to mock and console her, Winterfell would be a hollow place. Without
her family, the north was just a cold and vast wasteland, and no longer her
home.
She supposed home would be with Sandor now, in whatever place he brought them
to. If he said Dorne, it would be Dorne, if he said Essos, then that's where
she'd go. As long as he was with her, it did not matter. Sansa could not
determine where they were headed. Keeping to the forest, the trees growing
thick on either side, there was no way of knowing. But he'd said he'd take them
south. That would mean they would have to circle back, past King's Landing.
They must be close to the city still.
As morning turned to high-noon, the sky darkened with rain. It was a curious
sensation at first; the drops tickling her scalp and shoulders. How long had it
been since she last stood in the rain? Years, most like. Her elation was short-
lived, however, as her cloak grew heavy and the ground turned to mud. Sandor
did not appear put out in the least.
“This is good news,” he said when he saw her miserable expression. “If they've
brought dogs, they'll have a hard time finding us now.”
With this in mind, she felt a little more forgiving both towards Sandor and the
rain. Still, her slippers were caked in mud, slipping against the ground. The
thin soles did little to protect her feet, twigs and rocks poking them with
every step.
“Is it still far?”
Sandor grunted, same as with every other time she'd posed this question.
Though her mind knew what was at stake, it would seem as if her body did not.
Her legs had begun to cramp, her feet growing more tender by every step. She
did not want to tell him; he might insist that they stop. Also, she suspected
that he would not like her lack of endurance. But as they descended a steep
slope, her legs made the decision for her, buckling underneath her. Though she
had been waiting for that very moment, it still came as a surprise when she
tumbled to the ground. As she lay on the mud and grass, she knew herself to be
unable to get up.
Sandor turned. He did not seem annoyed, but looked at her appraisingly. His
gaze landed at her feet. He was at her side in quick strides, lifting her into
his arms. Then, without another word, he walked on.
He was just as filthy and wet as herself, but with a warmth that to her, seemed
inhuman. Draping her arms around his neck, she tucked her hands under his
collar, warming them. Though he winced at the contact, he did not complain, but
seemed content with the silence.
It would have been rather nice if not for the rain. Cradled as she was, she
rested her head against his chest, watching the scenery glide by. The leaves
where displaying shades of green and yellow, the fat tree-trunks covered in
moss. There was such a freshness to the air, and through the steady tapping of
the rain, she could hear birdsong.
“I thought all the birds had flown south by now.”
“Not all the birds. The last one's flying now.”
Sandor grinned, giving her a pointed look. Had she been less of a lady, she
would have rolled her eyes.
“Do some of them remain through winter?”
“Some. Magpies, robins. I saw a woodpecker once. And there's plenty of crow.
Always good for a meal if you can't find anything else.”
Scavenging on the scavengers. She certainly hoped they wouldn't have to resort
to that.
“I thought your maester taught you things like that.”
“He might have. It's been such a long time. I left Winterfell by my twelfth
nameday.”
She probably hadn't paid attention anyway. At that time, winter seemed such a
long way away, more like a scary story than something real.
“How many winters have you seen?”
“Three, thought I can't remember the first.”
A winter-child. He had the look of one. She studied him, assessing his
features. He seemed more at ease now, apparently happier talking about birds
than their destination.
“You look like a northman. Is there any of the north in you?”
“I suppose that must be a compliment, coming from you,” Sandor chuckled. “Not
that I know. Though remember my line only spans a couple of generations.
Commonfolk aren't as interested in that as you nobles.”
“But surly your parents told you stories?”
“No.”
And then he was back to being sullen again. It he did not altogether look very
different from when he was happy. Still, she felt she could tell the
difference. Perhaps it was not so much his expressions as the way he carried
himself, the sudden tensing of his shoulders. So she kept quiet, waiting him
out. He trudged along at a steady pace, through thickets and bushes and long,
weedy grass. It made no matter to him, his legs cutting through it all like
warm butter. With the gentle swaying of his gait and the steady drumming of the
rain, Sansa soon felt sleepy. Burrowing her face into the crook of his neck,
she closed her eyes, giving in to exhaustion.
***
When she woke, she was laying on the ground, the blankets folded over her.
Between the folds in the fabric, she could spy grass, bent over with dew. The
drops travelled down the stems, seeping into the earth, filling it, making it
brim over. Her cloak was entirely soaked through.
Struggling out of the blankets, Sansa sat up. Sandor was nowhere to be seen,
though she knew he would not have gone far. Taking a moment, she took stock of
her body. She felt better, though there was still a dull ache in her feet and
legs. She needed to eat. She needed warmth and new shoes too, though most of
all she needed to make water. Not daring to walk too far off, she squatted down
where she was, though a little ways away from the blankets. Should Sandor
return now, it would have been embarrassing. But perhaps fatigue had it's
advantages, given that she could hardly find it in herself to care about that.
After she was finished, her mind felt more at ease as well. Their escape did
not seem quite as insurmountable now. Still, as her confidence in their plan
grew, so did her awareness of her own uselessness. She did not know how to make
a fire or build a shelter. She could not hunt. Not for game, and certainly not
for shoes. Dependence had never seemed like a bad thing. Not before, when
everyone knew their tasks. It seemed like the only way a lady was meant to
live; either within stone walls, surrounded by a host of servants, or not at
all. A lady without a keep or a family was no lady at all. But this realization
was not an unwelcome one. She felt indifferent, rather. Maybe she was still a
lady, maybe not. It was irrelevant.
Sandor came back. He was carrying a rabbit, already skinned and field-dressed.
He looked dour, grasping her hand and tugging her behind him.
“Shall I gather some wood?” she asked. Her fingers were as soft as a horse's
muzzle, but she was determined to be of use. Sandor dismissed the notion at
once.
“We'll not have a fire tonight. Still too close to the city.”
“You mean to say that we shall eat the rabbit raw?”
She had been willing to let her hands grow callused and dirty, her hair tangled
and arms strong. Apparently she did not yet fully grasp the challenges of the
forest. But Sandor only chuckled, shaking his head.
“No, little bird. It's for tomorrow.”
He threw the rabbit to the ground, his carelessness making her wince, despite
the animal being already dead. He followed suite, lowering himself down on a
thick and twisted root.
“I'll need some rest before we go on.”
“Do you need a blanket?”
Sandor shook his head. His back braced against the old and gnarly trunk, he
looked perfectly comfortable. Wild and dirty, like a creature of the forest.
She perched herself next to him, head on his shoulder, and followed him into
sleep.
***
Sandor must have been tired. He was still sleeping when she awoke. There were
deep, dark circles underneath his eyes. His lashes fluttered. They were
prettier than her own, long and dark, where hers were short and pale. Sansa
wondered at what he would say, should she point it out. She could imagine his
roaring laugh, how his eyes would crinkle at the corners. The thought elicited
a queer feeling in her chest and stomach. It was reminiscent of pity, but
lacked the condescension. Perhaps it was tenderness; Sandor ought to be happy.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, she let it trail across it, reaching his cheek.
Cupping it gently, stroking the blackened skin there, she watched as his
eyelids slowly fluttered open, and the momentary look of confusion as his mind
struggled to wake.
“'Morning.”
His voice was raspy and warm.
“Good morning.”
“How do you feel?”
“Very well, thank you.”
Sandor snorted.
“It was not a courtesy, my lady. Move your arms and legs.”
She did as told, stretching her limbs, finding them stiff and slow to respond.
There was an ache in her thighs, stomach and arms from last nights exertion.
“It does ache a bit, but I'm sure I will be fine.”
He had a non-committal noise.
“And your feet. How are they?”
Sansa had not considered that. While her body was sore, her feet were numb. She
flexed them fearfully, finding that they moved, though she could still not feel
it. Sandor lifted her into his lap, grabbing one foot and divesting it of it's
slipper. He poked and prodded, making various grunting sounds. She could not
tell what he was looking for, only that he seemed displeased.
“We need proper clothes,” was all he said. “But it's better if you try and walk
yourself. You need the warmth.
He stood, lowering her carefully down on the ground. Fetching their few
belongings and handing her and old, soft carrot to break her fast on, he
declared them ready to leave.
***
They walked in what Sansa perceived to be miserable silence. While the previous
day had certainly been exhausting, it was also fueled by the elation of being
free. Now, as morning turned to midday, she felt a mounting worry. Aside from
the issue of Joffrey, they, or at least she, did not have proper clothes.
Autumn was already here, and despite being southbound, they blankets would soon
be unable to ward off the nightly chills. They had no horses and few
provisions. And while she had plenty to fret over, her largest worry was the
knowledge that if Sandor had been alone, he would be just fine. If they should
get caught, it would be her fault.
Sandor declared that they would save the rabbit for later, when it would be
safer to build a fire. It hung by it's tiny feet from his belt, swaying with
every step. It was a revolting sight, and it made her sad. She tried to look
elsewhere, but the swaying of the tiny body drew her eye. Sandor had caught it
with his bare hands. They didn't have any traps, but the animal was old and
slow. It was easy pray, he said.
The forest grew ever denser around them. Sandor told her that they had passed
King's Landing by, though how he knew, she had no idea. The forest floor was
soft, but there were twigs and pebbles all around, digging into her tender
feet. By early afternoon, her pace had slowed considerably.
“Do you know where we're headed?”
Sansa could not fathom how anyone would be able to navigate this dense wood.
Sandor muttered a confirmation, but did not expand.
“Then, where are we headed.”
“Stonedance.”
“Sonedance?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“There are ships in Stonedance.”
His disposition seemed sour, so she kept silent after that. She suspected the
wet and the cold and the hunger had it's effects on him as well. At least he
did not complain about their slow pace, though she knew it must annoy him. As
afternoon turned into evening, he declared that they had walked far enough for
one day, and set about collecting firewood.
Sansa tried to help, but every twig she brought was either the wrong sort or
too wet. She did not know whether this was actually the case, or whether he was
just being petulant, but did not press the matter. By the time he was crouching
on the ground, coaxing out smoke and flame, Sansa was huddled on another big
root, almost asleep.
She noted his movements, but was too sluggish to consider why he was doing it.
Having finished the preparations, he sat down next to her, lifting her into his
lap. It seemed he liked holding her as much as she liked being held. She noted
all these things, mentally compiling a list in all the ways they fit together.
Sometimes she wondered if the gods had fashioned them for each other. She did
not ask him though, knowing his scorn of the gods. He patted her back, his nose
pressed into her hair. His hands were so warm. As he cupped her cheeks, they
felt nearly searing against her skin. When he kissed her, sending heat back
into her lips, they tingled pleasantly.
Fearing that he might want to lay with her now, she broke the kiss. He did not
appear annoyed, but simply tucked her head against his chest, holding her
close. It was curious how his moods turned, one moment brusque, tender in the
next.
“We'll cross the roads tomorrow. The rose road, then the king's road.”
“Will it be dangerous, do you think?”
He sighed, her body rising and sinking with the movements of his chest.
“Aye. But no more than this.”
“If they suspect our route...”
“They won't. Joffrey has sent soldiers in every direction, most like, but they
won't know where we are. Or even that we've left King's Landing.”
“But the watchmen you killed?”
“They don't know it's me. And even if they suspect, they won't know that we
left. All they can know is that we've tried.”
He nudged her out of his lap, placing her gently down on the root. He picked up
a stick and set to stirring the small pot he'd brought with, now filled with
water and bits of rabbit and old vegetables. It was not even boiling yet. They
would wait a long time for dinner. Sansa was hungry, thought that was probably
nothing compared to how he felt. Although, she reminded herself, he had proper
boots, she had none. Perhaps their discontent were equally matched.
Sandor sat back down next to her, blankets in hand. Lifting her back into his
lap, he tucked them around her.
“There's some hunting lodges near the roads. They'll all be abandoned now, most
like. But we might be able to find some snares. Mayhap even some shoes.”
“You'll have to teach me.”
At that, Sandor laughed. The movements of his chest were pleasant against her
cheek.
“Ladies don't hunt. At least not with snares.”
“I'm not a lady anymore. At least I don't think I am.”
“You're the most ladylike lady I've ever met. And I've spent years at court.”
When she didn't respond, he continued.
“It's more to being a lady than family or wealth. It's how you're brought up.
The way you move and talk and think.”
“Maybe I'm not like that anymore.”
“You are,” he said, his tone dismissive.
“Still,” she pressed on. “I do not even know how to build a fire. I cannot cook
or hunt or navigate. I'm quite... helpless.”
As she talked, it occurred to her that maybe that's how Sandor preferred her.
For all his mockery of nobility and their ways, it seemed he did not want her
any other way.
“I'll take care of you,” he muttered into her hair.
“But... We would stand a better chance if I could help. And what if something
happened. What if you're not around.”
Sandor grew still. His arms lay heavy across her back, the rise and fall of his
torso his only movement. Next he spoke the sun had set, the soup at a violent
boil.
“Nothing's going to happen, little bird. But I'll teach you, if you want.”
“What will you teach me?”
“Anything you want to know.”
She then proceeded to list them all, while he nodded and mumbled his
agreements. He did not seem angry nor happy. There was a resignation to his
voice that she could not quite puzzle out. As he lifted the pot from the fire,
he finally voiced his displeasure.
“You're not angry then?”
“Angry?”
He gave her a furtive look, before fixing his gaze back at the pot.
“You are a great lady, reduced to the state of a bum. If I were you, I'd be
angry.”
Of all the ways to consider their escape, this was not one she'd contemplated.
She looked at him as he added salt to the pot, his movements economic and
precise. He did not appear as if he cared about her answer either way, and she
was not arrogant enough to suppose that he felt shame as to the manner of their
escape. But something was troubling him, that much was clear.
“I'm not. I suppose I am angry about how I was treated. What Joffrey did to me.
And to you. I'm angry at the small council for not doing anything. I am angry
at my self, at the person I was. Sometimes I'm even angry at father for placing
honor above family. The only person I'm not angry at, is you.”
Sandor did not seem overly moved by this speech. She knew that he could not say
the same. He was angry at her, very much so, for not acquiescing to their
escape. She had thought of telling him her reasons many times during the past
days. He ought to know, and there were no reason for her not to tell him. But
she suspected he would be angry, and, having no energy to fight, she let it lie
for the present.
***
They crossed the rose road without incident. They had both grown quite sulky,
the elation of their freedom short-lived. Sansa contemplated this in order to
keep her mind off the hunger and the ache of her feet. She had longed for this
moment, imagining it with such clarity it almost felt real. Then, as her
captivity wore on, it became a wild and distant dream. But the mind had a
strange habit of focusing on present ills, and though her past ones put them in
perspective, it did not make it any more pleasant.
When they found the small cottage nestled between the two roads, her mood
soared anew, until Sandor informed her that they couldn't stay. It was little
more than a shed, it's roof patchy and it's door crumbling, it's insides damp
and moldy. Yet to Sansa, it had a certain charm, and she would have liked to
stay, at least for a night.
Sinking down on a rickety bench, she observed Sandor as he examined the place.
He rifled through a small chest, fishing out a threadbare blanket and a small
knife. There was a flint-stone by the hearth that he pocketed as well. There
were all sorts of tools on pegs along the walls. He dismissed most of them,
although he seemed pleased when he came across others; a stick with a wire
attached to it, an empty leather bag, an empty wineskin and a pair of rusty
scissors. The last item he handed to Sansa, along with the bag.
“For your feet,” he explained.
It was not the shoes she had imagined, but she set to without complaint.
Meanwhile Sandor repacked their blankets, tucking the newfound treasures
inside. The scissors turned out to be too rusty, so Sandor took his dagger,
making quick work of the tough leather. He then tied the scraps around her
feet, regarding them with satisfaction.
“It won't keep you dry, but it'll protect them some.”
Then he kissed her lightly on the forehead. It was such a sweet gesture, she
almost felt like crying.
He gestured for them to leave, and Sansa cast one last look around the room. It
was shabby and dirty, yet for some reason leaving it left her feeling a strange
melancholy. Sandor left the door open behind them. It swung slowly too and fro,
signaling the emptiness inside.
Once they were back in the woods, she soon forgot her sadness and the old
house. Sandor's mood had turned. He seemed more energetic now, more free in a
way Sansa had never seen him before. It served to remind her that while there
were aspects of his character that she knew well, in other regards he remained
a mystery. There were almost something childlike in his excitement as he showed
her the stick with the wire, explaining that it was a snare. By his reckoning
it would seem that hunger was now a thing of the past.
“I'll show you, when we make camp. It's easy enough to set up, though you won't
like what comes after.”
“I thread on a mouse once, when I was a little girl. It's the only time I've
ever killed anything.”
She could still recall the sensation of the tiny body flattened underneath her
foot. She had screamed and cried, though it had not been for the mouse. Sandor
regarded her warily, as if he suspected that that might be her reaction now as
well. He did not like it when she cried.
“You will have to show me how to do it.”
They travelled onwards, crossing the king's road. The forest was just as dense,
the ground just as wet, but her shoes and Sandor's buoyant mood made the going
easier. After they made camp, Sandor took her out between the bushes and trees
to demonstrate how the snare worked. He was a good teacher, never impatient as
she had suspected he might be. It did seem to make him a little sad however.
Sansa suspected that he could not stop dwelling on the instances were she might
need to do this alone. But as they returned the next morning, finding fowl
instead of a rabbit, and she killed it with one determined twist of it's neck,
he looked at her with unmistakable pride. It was a wonderful sensation.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Sansa was making a fire. She was trying to, at any rate. Her small, pale
fingers were dotted with blisters, and several of her fingernails were torn.
Her progress was slow, and she did not look like she enjoyed it overmuch, but
refused his attempt at taking over. In the meanwhile, Sandor had built a lean-
to, with a roof thick enough to hold out the rain, and a floor of moss and
leaves. Having completed his task, he was growing impatient.
She had asked him what sort of wood to use while leaning against a spruce-tree,
every word punctuated by her heavy breathing. Sandor complied, pointing out the
dead and dry twigs underneath the spruce's prickly greens.
«You see how it grows, the branches pointing downward. It keeps the twigs
underneath dry.»
She had nodded, trailing her fingers over the brown twigs, a contepmlative look
on her face as if this required a great deal of thought.
They had made similar stops throughout the day, with Sandor pointing out
suitable kindling and Sansa nodding eagerly. There was determination in her,
but few smiles. He supposed he ought to be satisfied with this. After all, she
never complained. That would have made this trip truly insufferable. When
evening fell at last, she had flitted off on her own in search of wood, leaving
him to skin the rabbit. It would seem that dinner was still a ways off however;
Sansa had yet to produce a single spark from the stones, no matter how many
times she struck.
It was raining. They had woken up with the sunrise, dew misting the air. By
noon it had turned to fat drops, heavy and slow and cold. By evening most of
the darker clouds had passed on, the water falling lightly, softly, almost
without sound. And yet, if she did not hurry up, the kindling would be soaked.
Pushing himself off the ground with a sigh – which must surely be a sign of
middle age - he was at her side in a couple of strides. Sansa drew her hands
back in an automatic gesture, hiding the flint in her skirts. Her obstinacy was
childish, and yet he found himself feeling endeared to it. And when he placed
his hand over hers she did not resist.
In his strong hands the flints sparked at once. He had almost hoped it would
take more, saving the girl's pride, but the wood was already wet enough, the
kindling giving off more smoke than flame. Sansa's hands lay open in her lap.
It was no wonder she had been unsuccessful, her fingers and palms coverd in
blisteres, some if which had burst. And yet, she had not once complained...
«Watch me,» he instructed.
Leaning over the modest sparks, he blew them into cautious flames. They would
not catch easily, not in this weather. He knew this, was perfectly aware of it.
Yet the smell of the smoke and the crackling kindling invariably brought with
it a feeling of fear. Where there was a flame, there was this feeling, and by
the Stranger if he didn't hate it.
Sitting back up, he saw he had withdrawn too quickly. He instructed Sansa to do
as he had, in an effort to cover his shame. If she noticed, she did not let on,
although she was probably too well-mannered to say so anyway, dirty fingernails
or no.
«Don't blow too hard, it will snuff out the flame.»
She set too, and soon the flames grew, licking and dancing their way across the
sodden wood.
It took several trips, searching out more dry branches, before the fire truly
took hold. Sansa coughed constantly, looking rather displeased with the smoke,
but otherwise giving no signs of her displeasure.
It was well past dark when they could finally eat. There were no more
vegetables, and despite the season they had not been able to find any edible
flora on their way. But the rabbit was tender, the broth salty and warming, if
slightly thin. They ate quickly and in silence, after which Sansa wiped her
chin as demurely as if she was still at court. His previous annoyance was soon
chased away by the feeling of near fullness and the sight of her contented
expression and impeccable manners.
«Come here, girl,» he said, patting his lap.
Giving him a knowing look, she did as bid, placing her pert rear right on his
crotch. Tucking her head underneath his chin, she sighed. It seemed to him a
happy sound. Stroking his chest with the back of her hand, he was reminded of
their state.
«Give me your hands.»
«They're fine, Sandor. It's nothing but a few blisters.»
«Maybe, though I bet it still hurts.»
Her sigh seemed less contented when she said «everything hurts.»
«Aye, that might be. But you can't get a spark if you can't strike the flint
hard enough. And with the state of those fingers, I'll wager that near
impossible. You should have told me.»
«I'm used to pain.»
It was not the reply he had hoped for, but there was once again that stubborn
obstinacy in her voice, where before there had been little but listless
resignation. It was an odd thing, to feel pride on someone else's behalf.
As the rain picked up, he carried her into the shelter. It was crude, but
worked as intended, and with a bed of soft moss and their cloaks and blankets,
it made quite the cosy little nest. Fat drops gathered on the end of green
needles, falling with soft-sounding drips. The rain did not reach them however,
and though their cloaks were wet, they were not cold.
Sansa burrowed into him, placing her head on his chest. It was an unusual
intimacy, but one he had found he enjoyed. Pulling her closer, he let his hands
skim up and down her back, reaching down and cupping her rear. She was thin,
and growing thinner still, but there was still a bit of plumpness to it. He
began squeezing, massaging it gently. She did not like it when he was rough. At
least not most of the time.
«Sandor,» she muttered, face pressed against his chest. «I apologize, but I'm
too tired.»
«It's fine, Little Bird. We don't have to do anything. I just want to touch.»
Sansa nodded her consent, though she did not reciprocate, her hands no doubt
too painful for caresses. She did make a noise of apparent satisfaction though,
when his other hand slid across her body, lightly fondling a breast. He stroked
and toyed, careful to avoid the nipple untill she began to squirm.
«Sandor,» she said again, this time in impatience. He grinned, knowing he had
won.
Cupping her breast fully, he extracted his other hand from beneath her, drawing
up her skirt. Underneath her thighs were warm and soft, quivering as he stroked
them ever so lightly. Disentangling them, he pushed up on one elbow while she
lay down, sighing, trying to keep still. Her breathing was already coming fast,
her legs falling open in expectation. She had come to crave their couplings
faster and with rather more enthusiasm than he had expected. All it took was a
few gentle caresses before she was wet and ready. She usually rebuffed him at
first, claiming exhaustion. Sandor didn't know if she was only pretending, not
wanting to seem wanton, or if his attentions made her forget how tired she
actually was. It didn't really matter.
He licked her lips, tasting salt there. They were cold and so very soft. The
feeling of them, of her thighs and teats made his heart pound, his breathing
ragged. She pressed her lips against his own, her delicate nose bumping against
his too large one. Sansa had proven a fast and eager learner, mimicking his
movements to find what he liked. Her tongue swept along his lips and into his
mouth.
Kissing her had proven an unexpected pleasure. It made his cock hard, to be
sure, but it also created strange little tingles in his belly. There was
something both filthy and delightful in it, and when she sucked on his tongue,
he groaned with the pleasure.
Deeming her sufficiently warmed up, his fingers sought out her cunt. He stroked
it tentatively, the fabric of her small-clothes still between them, delighting
in her soft, surprised cry. Her hands made for his tunic, but her fingers were
too clumsy. Drawing back, he undressed within moments. Helping her with her
laces, she soon were naked too, lying prostrate and panting underneath him.
He descended for another kiss, this time on her breast. A hand found the other,
pinching and teasing it. Her nipples had grown small and hard, making perfect
little pebbles for him to suck on. As he took it into his mouth, her legs
enfolded his hips, drawing him towards her in an unmistakable gesture. Sandor
was in no hurry though. Leaving one breast for another, he let his fingers
trail along her skin. Down her belly, across her mound, finally finding her
lips. They were delightfully slippery, her cunt inside dripping. Letting a
fingertip skim the folds and dips of her cunt, he basked in the sensation of
flesh that was wet and warm for him.
Sansa was growing ever more impatient. Pressing her arm between them, she
reached for his cock.
«Your hands are too cold,» he muttered, voiced muffled by a mouthful of breast.
«Then enter me. Please.»
He would grant that request, no doubt about it. Slipping a finger inside her,
she moaned loudly, legs falling further apart. He thrust it slowly in and out,
taking note of the feel of her. She was so soft inside. Soft as silk. The only
silk a man would ever want. The only better way to feel her cunt was with his
own sex. Withdrawing his hand, he positioned himself, teasing them both for a
moment with the tip against her entrance.
They both groaned loudly as he entered her. The sensation of a cunt, warm and
tight and moist, was one he would never tire of. He had used to think that one
was much like another, and yet there seemed to be something special about
Sansa's, though he could not quite determine what that was.
Her limbs enclosed his body as her cunt enveloped his cock. His patience had
evaporated the moment of entry, and withdrawing quickly, he pounded back into
her, setting a relentless pace. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he
saw nothing but shades of red. But with the sounds Sansa was making, he had no
need to see her face in order to know that she was enjoying it. She was moaning
with abandon, and cute though her timid cries were, he preferred her like this;
naked and panting and wet, all thoughts of propriety and dignity chased away by
the feel his cock.
It did not last very long. Sansa's cries built with her pleasure, and soon
enough she was singing her release as her cunt rippled and contracted around
him. It would seem like her peak was created to bring about his own, the
increasing wetness and tightness being too much to resist. His hips stuttering
and pounding, he pulled out at the last moment. Face buried in hair and earth,
he came with a sobbing groan, covering her belly in his sticky seed.
Time passed. He could not say how much. Letting himself sink into the soft
foundation, every limb grew pleasantly numb. Sansa was laughing. He was not
certain when she had repositioned herself, but they were now back where they'd
started, with her head on his chest, his arms around her torso. The vibrations
from her laughter reverberated from her lungs, seeping into his own.
«Something amusing?»
She did not answer at first. Fingers trailing through the hair on his chest,
laugher continued to bubble out of her.
«No. I'm not certain.»
Blushing and grinning, she rubbed her forehead and cheek against his skin. The
gesture was reminiscent of that of a cat. When she spoke again, her voice was
languid and deep.
«I'm just happy, I suppose.»
***
He woke with the sun. Small tendrils of light poked between treet-runks and
leaves. The sky was blessedly cloud-free, it would seem the rain had finally
let up. The woods still smelled of moisture, earthy and fresh. Fat drops of
water gathered on the topmost branch of their shelter, seeming reluctant to
fall. Sansa was still curled around him, naked, small hands tucked against his
torso. Her breathing was deep and even, the girl still fast asleep.
Shaking her awake, he fumbled around for their clothing. They lay in heap by
their feet, the fabric damp and cold. Curse him, he should have hung them to
dry. At the very least, their cloaks had dried up during the night, kept warm
by the heat of their bodies. Sansa made a low squeal as he threw her her dress,
discarding it to the ground in an instance.
«It's wet.»
She sounded so indignant, he had to laugh.
«Aye, Little Bird. Someone forgot to get dressed last night.»
Pushing up on her elbows, the cloak fell from her breast, bunching about her
stomach. Despite the cold, she did not look remotely prepared to put on the
sodden garment.
«And I'm not going to now either. Can we not wait for it to dry?»
Enjoying the sight of her, naked and unabashed, he spotted his seed, now
crusted on her belly. Following his gaze, she looked down at herself and
scratched the white flakes away with a dirty finger.
«Why did you do that?»
«Do what, Little Bird?»
She blushed a little, her eyes struggling to meet his.
«You know. When you... pulled out.»
Such an innocent young thing. Did she not even know how babes were made? Surely
her septa must have told her that much.
«So you don't get with child. I should have done so from the start, only I
didn't think... I didn't think.»
She seemed to be more curious than horrified. Gaze returning to the seed still
glued to her skin, she picked it off, watching the flakes fall.
«It feels strange.»
He laughed, which in turn evoked a smile. She looked so pretty like that, with
her hair unbound, naked and smiling.
«I suppose it would not really matter anymore. No one knows us in Braavos. No
one knows who we are or care what we do.»
«It matters. No matter where you are in the world, it matters. Besides, the
time might come when you'll want to go back.»
«Still, I wouldn't mind carrying your child.»
He didn't answer, but handed her back the dress, perhaps more brusquely than
warranted.
«We should get moving. It's already late enough.»
***
After cheeking the snares and finding nothing, he looked over the few supplies
they had. Sansa's dress was muddy and torn. She needed something warmer. She
needed proper shoes as well. But that was only the top of a very long list. A
horse would have been nice. As would a proper bedroll, a thicker cloak, a tent.
Hells, at this point he would pay an entire gold dragon for a new pair of
socks.
Game had proven surprisingly hard to come by. Such was the hunter's luck, but
if it did not turn soon, he feared for their progress. Sansa's bad condition
and even worse shoes already made the going slow. The last thing they needed
was to be slowed down by empty stomachs and fatigue.
He had tucked his gold at the bottom of the satchel. As he repacked, he saw
them there, glinting at him, taunting him. It made their present condition all
the more galling; all that money, and nothing to spend it on. Or rather, no
one. Sandor was not overly familiar with this part of the King's Wood, but
there ought to be at least a few small villages scattered here and there. If
nothing else, he knew for a fact that there were plenty of small farms. And yet
they had not come upon a single other person. Mayhap that was for the best.
People meant soldiers and farmers willing to do anything for a bit of extra
gold, including chasing down young women. But as things presently stood, soon
enough it wouldn't matter.
Sansa was worried too, though she pretended otherwise. She had never been good
at it, and when he showed her the empty snare, her face fell noticeably. Her
feet were hurting too, as well as her hands, but she trailed along behind him
without complaint. She did talk an awful lot though.
«How many days 'till Stonedance?»
She was panting slightly. Her body had grown stronger during the past days, but
she was still woefully out of shape.
«Couldn't say. A sennight, mabe two.»
«Have you ever been there before?»
«Once, with King Robert. Stopped by during a hunt.»
Sansa murmured something he couldn't hear. Neither did he ask her. Sandor
preferred to walk in silence, something the Little Bird seemed incapable of. He
knew she tried, bless her, but something in her made it impossible for her to
remain quiet for long. It was comforting, despite the annoyance, to know how
far she'd come from her days in captivity. It had not been that long ago, after
all.
«So you know Lord Massey?»
«No.»
«But if you were there with Robert-»
«Our late King wasn't in the habit of introducing his son's sworn shield to
Lords. Besides, we didn't stay for long. It's a grim place. Why do you want to
know.»
She shrugged.
«I was only curious.»
«Aye, I've noticed.»
She fell silent, trailing behind him on the path. It was less muddy in this
part of the forest, the ground they trod made of small, smooth rocks. With the
sun shining, their bodies in constant motion, their clothes soon dried.
Sansa started singing. She was smart enough to keep it quiet, but it was still
a beautiful sound. He didn't recognize the tune. Some song from the north, most
like. Still, it was sweet and lulling, driving away thoughts of cold and
hunger.
When she stopped, it was abruptly, and felt instantly wrong. Turning around, he
found her frozen on the path, hand outstretched and pointing. By the look of
her, one would think it was a ghast she'd spotted. Or maybe a soldier. But
following the line of her finger, he saw it was only an old fox.
It was sniffing around a rock, noise buried in the ground. The fur was almost
the same shade as Sansa's hair, made golden by the sunlight. It pawed at the
earth, scratching and sniffing, too preoccupied with it's own prey to notice
them.
Drawing his dagger free if it's sheath, he placed the blade in his palm. Sansa
was breathing heavily behind him, but was wise enough not to move. Drawing his
arm back, he sent the dagger flying, and watched as the blade buried into the
creatures neck. It whined and writhed, but didn't run. Blood sprouted from it's
wound, staining the fur and the ground below. Turning to Sansa, he took her by
the hand and led her over to the dying fox.
She didn't need to be told what to do. Kneeling down next to the dying animal,
she placed her wounded hands upon the hilt and looked up at him with
questioning eyes. He nodded, and Sansa pulled the dagger out, then across it's
throat in one swift movement. The fox's legs twitched, once, twice, and then it
was dead.
Standing up, Sansa handed him back the dagger. She looked sad. Sad, when she
ought to be proud.
«You did well.»
It was enough to coax forth a small smile.
«It's beautiful. It was a shame to kill it.»
«Aye. But we're hungry, and it's food.»
When she nodded, he knew she understood.
He carried the animal a little ways away. She might have killed it, but she
didn't need to see what was about to happen. Not now, hopefully not ever. But
as he guided the blade underneath it's skin, he heard her rustling around
behind him.
«Show me,» she said, covering his hand with her own.
He guided her through the skinning and the gutting, and not once did she look
away. She washed her hands in a small brook, but didn't look upset at the sight
of blood on her skirts. As they resumed walking, she started to sing again. And
later, as they ate, Sansa sat on a blanket of fox-fur.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Sansa was resting. Tucked in her cloak, a blanket and her new pelt, she was
watching Sandor as he fished. One hand grasping a sharpened pole, the other
held out for balance, he stood still, gaze directed at the water that flowed
between his legs. It was clear and cold, good for visibility but far too chilly
for Sansa. His trousers were tucked up around his thighs, his socks and boots
resting beside her. Sandor was good at this. She could tell by the way he
moved, by the confident set of his features. Also, he had told her.
They had come across the river a short while ago. It was nothing like the
Blackwater Rush, stretching only a few meters from one bank to the other. While
refilling the wineskin they used for carrying water, Sandor had spotted a fish.
It was a trout, he'd said. And apparently, there was nothing like fresh trout.
"I used to catch them using nothing but my hands,» he'd said. «They were slow
and stupid. In the spring and fall there were so many, there were no need for
nets or poles."
He looked quite happy as he reminisced, all the while whittling away at a long
stick.
"Have they become faster, or is it you who have grown slow," she asked, eying
the instrument.
Sandor laughed, understanding the comment to be a jape. His eyes had crinkled
in the corners in a way that made him appear younger. They continued to do so
now, as he peered into the water, seeking out trout, looking both young and
happy. Somehow, it seemed more like a dream than reality.
He might have grown slower over the years, but Sandor was still fast. Suddenly
there was a movement, a splash. When he emerged from the stream, a fat fish was
wriggling between his hands. Wading back to the bank, Sandor's legs cut through
water as easy as if it was air. He looked extremely pleased, jogging up the
slope where grass met water with easy movements.
"Get your dagger," he said as he crouched down next to her.
He had gifted her a spare he'd kept tucked away in his boot with the promise
that he would soon teach her how to wield it. It had already seen plenty of
use, cutting kindling and dressing hares, but somehow they'd yet to find the
time for him to show her more defensive moves.
She kept the dagger by her waist, fastened by a strip of cloth cut from the hem
of her dress. Tying it there for the first time had made her feel proper in a
strange sort of way. Not like a proper lady, but something else. A proper
woods-man perhaps, a proper hunter. It was as if there was one way to conduct
oneself in society, another in the woods. And as Sandor had told her
repeatedly, one simply did not enter the wilderness without a blade of one sort
or another. Whatever the feeling amounted to, the sensation of the sheath
bumping against her hip felt right.
After some fumbling beneath the layers of cloak and blanket, she found the
hilt, drawing it free. Sandor still kept a firm grip on their prey while
guiding her other hand, placing it on the creatures back.
"Keep a form grip. It's strong."
It was indeed, but the texture was not as bad as she'd imagined, it's scales
more sharp than slimy. He let go, sitting back, apparently trusting her to do
it right.
"Cut it's throat. Swiftly now. There's no need for it to suffer longer than
necessary."
He continued giving instructions, while she complied. It was a little
unsavoury, but the fish was smaller than the fox, and it's intestines slid out
easily. Not knowing what to do with them, she stared at the lumps of guts lying
in her palm until Sandor plucked them out of her hand and flung them into the
water. She threw the head in herself.
Sandor declared the riverbank a good place to make camp, and that they had
walked far enough for one day. The sun was still high in the sky, evening still
a few hours away. But though her body was tired as always, the prospect of
halting before necessary did not appeal to her.
"Are you certain? We could get further still."
She didn't need to tell him why she was worried. He might not encourage
conversation, but he seemed to understand her well enough.
"Don't fret, Little Bird. The King's men have fast horses and all the supplies
they need. We could never outrun them. But they'll have a hard time finding us.
And you need rest."
She agreed, sinking back into her nest of blankets as Sandor set out in search
of wood, still with a certain bounce in his step. His mood had become
progressively lighter the farther they got from the city. There were still
things to worry about, and their days were long and hard. But it would seem as
if his troubles did not bother him as much as they had. She could see him
smiling more often. And whenever he found something he thought interesting,
like a rare tree or a fallen birds-nest, he would show it to her with an
enthusiasm that seemed almost childlike. He would talk more too. Not so much
about himself, but Sansa no longer felt uncomfortable asking. His good mood was
affecting her in turn. She was still tired, still worried about Joffrey and his
men, but she no longer dwelled so much on the possibility of being caught. It
no longer seemed as likely, as if no one would be able to find them here, in
between the trees. This was a different life, and the idea that someone from
their old one should somehow be able to intrude upon it felt impossible,
despite the fact that she knew it was not.
They had taken to list all the things they would buy if they could. Where
before Sansa would have listed silks and jewels, she now found that she craved
nothing as much as shoes and a warmer dress. She wanted thick socks and a large
pelt to sleep underneath at night. Meanwhile, Sandor wanted a horse. He often
talked about his old one, a big black beast called Stranger. He'd said it was
the only creature besides her that he cared about. According to him, this trip
would have gone by in a moment, if only he'd brought Stranger along.
Sandor returned a while later with an armful of twigs and branches. He set to
building the fire, every movement precise and methodical. She saw now what she
had not noticed before, how the smaller twigs went on the bottom, how the fire
needed to be coaxed out before the bigger logs could catch fire. He had taught
her how to do this, but it was not until that moment that Sansa came to wonder
who had taught him. He knew so many things. He knew them well. His childhood
had not been a happy one, and yet someone must have taught him all those things
that for most people were necessary for survival.
As the fire took hold, Sandor sat down beside her. He draped an arm around her
shoulders, burying his fingers in the red tresses of the fox-fur pelt. She had
taken to wearing it around her neck, appreciating it for how the colours
blended with her own hair, but most of all for the warmth it gave. Even during
their short journey, the weather had grown noticeably colder, a chill wind
blowing in from the north. But at this very moment, with the fox fur around her
neck and the hare pelts Sandor made her bind around her calves, the sun still
high in the sky, it was not so bad.
"You hungry, Little Bird?"
"Only a little."
Sandor grinned.
"You lie."
She smiled back. Understating ones pains was apparently the one sort of
falsehood he could tolerate.
"I'm fine, Sandor. I'm sure you must be more hungry than I."
His fingers drifted from the fur to her hair, playing with it, letting the
strands glide between his fingers.
"It'll be a while before the coals are hot enough. Might be you'll want to do
something in the meanwhile?"
She had grown to crave their lovemaking with an ardour that was embarrassing.
Sansa tried to not let her needs show too plainly, but she never turned him
down without good reason. Sometimes the nights were just too cold, her body too
worn out. And now... she could not quite puzzle out what bothered her, but for
some reason it did not tempt. Or rather, though her body was willing, her mind
felt too muddled. She shot him swift look, shaking her head.
"Naughty little bird," Sandor mock chastised. "Get your mind out of the gutter,
that wasn't what I had in mind at all."
"Oh?"
"You've been pestering me about learning to use that dagger for days."
Meeting his gaze again, she found his expression to be warm and playful.
"How about it? Feel in the mood to be taught some more?"
Nodding with an eagerness that even surprised herself, she got to her feet.
Sandor took her by the hand, guiding her away from the trees, onto the flat
expanse by the bank. The grass stood tall, and even though the blades were
yellow and dying, they remained tough. Dotted between them there were twigs and
rocks. But when she asked if they should not move to smoother ground, Sandor
merely laughed and instructed her that this was the best place for learning.
"Your opponent might attack at any place. It's better you're prepared for it.
This won't be like the way your master at arms trained your brothers, in a
yard, with rules and dry ground. Now, get your weapon out, girl."
"But isn't that how you were taught? You grew up in a keep. Did you not also
learn to fight in a yard?"
Sansa knew she sounded petulant, but his comment about her brothers, though not
mean-spirited, still riled her. Sandor did not appear to take offence, however.
"Aye. I learned in a yard. Not at Clegane Keep though. I left when I was old
enough. But I've had to fight in corridors and taverns. Sometimes even in the
forest. And I can tell you, it would have been nice if my buggering instructor
had taught me that battles are seldom fought it the training-yard."
She nodded, eager to show that she understood. She still thought it might have
been a good idea to start out someplace easier, but in this she was sure that
Sandor knew best. But there was something else he'd said that caught her
notice.
"When did you leave for Casterly Rock?"
"At ten," he said, shrugging, as this was commonplace. Maybe it was, but
Sandor's upbringing had been far from normal. He had not told her much
concerning his childhood, but she had gathered enough to understand that it had
not been a happy one, and that the reason for this was Gregor.
Sandor began the instruction by telling her that the way in which she held the
dagger was completely wrong. He then proceeded to tell her how to hold it and
why. She listened and nodded and did as he bid her, all the while asking him
about his time amongst the Lannisters. He in turn told her of how he had
arrived at the gates as a gangly ten year old, of his time in the yard and
evenings spent in Lannisport, all the while instructing her to lift her arm
like that, or twist away like this. Soon enough she was panting, face and palms
moist and sticky with perspiration.
"Now, since you're so small, the best thing would be if your attacker didn't
know you were armed at all."
She nodded, too winded to ask any more questions.
"The best thing would be if you hid the dagger away, someplace where it's not
visible. And when you reach for it, remember not to look."
"Why not?"
Sandor, who had not even broken a sweat, grinned, looking pleased in his role
as teacher.
"Because if you look, then your attacker will look too. Best thing would be to
distract him in some way. If you practice pulling the blade out, you won't need
to look anyway."
He then asked her to practice drawing the dagger. He made her do it again and
again, until her arms hurt and her chest were blowing like a bellows.
He then asked her to practice on him. Holding her to him, asking her to try to
get free, he laughed when she failed and praised her when she succeeded. She
suspected that he made it easy for her, that she would never actually be able
to break free of arms as strong as his. It still gave her a feeling of pride
and power, whenever she twisted his arm like so, or pretended to stab him like
that, and he would crumple before her. When he swiped away the sweat from her
forehead and declared them done for the day Sansa was smiling along with him,
and knew herself to be happy.
***
Breaching through a thicket of brambles, they found themselves on the top of a
hill. It was not very large, not like the mountains up north, but she could
still see the narrow valley stretching out before them and the forest that
continued beyond it. Far away and past the trees, she could even spot the place
where sea met sky. It seemed both distant and close all at once.
The Kingswood was a beautiful place, it's trees old and tall, covered in
colours of red and yellow. They grew densely on the valley-floor, but from
between them she could spot the wispy tendrils of smoke rising towards the sky.
It had been an easy thing to imagine that there were no other people in
existence, tucked away and isolated as they had been. The flimsy column of
smoke heralded people. Whether this was good or bad they had yet to find out.
"Could be soldiers."
Sandor had seen it too, and stopping beside her he stared at the smoke, a
hostile look on his face. Sansa did not know how to respond. The notion of
running into the King's men terrified her. But her feet were still aching. As
was her stomach. Sandor seemed to believe that they would never reach
Stonedance if they did not first get some proper supplies. And yet, if they ran
into soldiers, they would never escape anyway. At a loss for what to do, she
looked to Sandor.
"Could be a farm too," he conceded. "Or a hunting-party mayhap. Seems more
likely than soldiers wandering so far from the road."
Despite admitting to this possibility, she knew he would rather not go near the
place at all. He continued to stared fixedly at the spot from which the smoke
emanated, seemingly just as undetermined as she.
Sandor had a habit of fingering the pommel of his sword whenever he was
nervous. At first she thought this simply meant that he was pensive, believing
that a man such as he was not plagued by nerves. And perhaps nervousness was
not the most accurate way to describe the state he was in. But there was an air
of apprehension about him. Sansa realized that this did not stem from cowardice
or a frail nerves, but rather that he recognized the danger, and that he took
it seriously.
His fingers scratching at the pommel, Sansa was seized with a desire to still
his hand. Just as he comforted her with kisses and caresses, she wanted to
comfort him in turn. It was a growing desire; to tend to him, take care of him,
as if his problems were her own, and if only she could solve them, she would be
stuck with one less. But Sansa kept her hands at her sides, content with
observing him. He wouldn't appreciate the gesture. Or at least, he would never
show it.
Reaching a decision at last, he turned to her, face as stern as ever.
"They might have things that we need, but there's no need to place us both in
danger. I'll go down there, meanwhile you'll hide away someplace. Here, maybe,
where you can see them coming."
Sansa could tell he was uneasy with his decision. As was she, for as much as
the prospect of encountering King's men frightened her, so did the idea of
being left by herself.
"No. I will not stay here alone."
Sandor did not appear as if he had expected her resistance, and looked visibly
taken aback.
"Yes, you will. Even if they don't recognize us, we'll look all the more
suspicious if we're two."
"Maybe..."
Sandor was right, she knew, but that did not lessen her fear. Mind reeling, she
tried to think of an alternative, one that would keep him by her side and the
soldiers far away.
"Maybe if we snuck up on them. We could see if they were soldiers. And if they
are not, we will both meet them."
Sandor opened his mouth, presumably to protest. Sansa raised a hand to quiet
him.
"Of the two of us, you look by far the most suspicious. And if they recognize
you and tell of it, the King will assume that I'm with you regardless. The
safest place for me is at your side."
After a while, Sandor nodded his agreement, and they set off down the hillside.
***
Sandor was berating her. He didn't say anything, but the looks he shot her way
were unmistakable. As they closed in on the fire, Sandor had told her they
needed to stay quiet. She had not spoken a word since, but she must have been
doing something wrong judging by the way he looked at her. Already uneasy with
the situation, his looks made her increasingly worried.
Catching her eye once more, he looked pointedly at her feet. Following his
gaze, she saw nothing wrong. Apart from her make-shift shoes, there was nothing
out of the ordinary. Looking back at him, she shrugged, only distantly noting
how unladylike the gesture were.
Sandor approached, bending down, lips at her ear.
"You sound like a buggering bear with all the noise your making. Try to walk
quiet."
He proceeded through the trees, not waiting for her to reply. And true enough,
Sandor glided between trunks and over sticks and grass and bushes, nary making
a sound. Taking a tentative step of her own, Sansa became aware of the rustling
of leaves and twigs. As she resumed walking, she kept her gaze downturned,
looking at her feet and the ground underneath. Careful to avoid anything that
might break or rustle, she proceeded slowly through the woods, hoping that
Sandor had not progressed too far ahead.
She didn't notice when he stopped, but suddenly his legs came into view.
Halting, she looked up to find Sandor right in front of her, his shoulders set
and tense. Peering out from behind him, she saw nothing more than trees and
bushes. But Sandor must have spotted something she did not. Judging by the way
his fingers gripped his sword-hilt, she could only guess he did not like what
he saw.
It was as if temperature had dropped, her body suddenly cold. Distantly she
noted how her hands were shaking, her feet rooted to the spot. It was soldiers,
she felt sure of it. But surely they hadn't been seen. Maybe they could walk
back, or past them. Perhaps they could even hide?
But then Sandor turned, nudging his head in the direction he'd been looking.
"Seems like hunters," he said, no longer bothering to keep quiet. "There's two
of them. One young, one old."
With that, breath returned, filling her lungs and dispelling the cold. She was
still shaking, but only slightly. Placing her hand on the hilt of her dagger,
as she'd seen Sandor do so many times, she felt herself be comforted by it's
presence.
"Alright. Let us go then," she said, nudging his back, acting braver than she
felt.
The men sat in a small clearing, the fire burning brightly between them. One
was holding a stick, poking at a dead animal – a hare, Sansa guessed –
suspended over the flames. The other, a boy younger than herself, was lying in
the grass, whistling on some melody she didn't recognize. At the edge of the
clearing, there was a horse. It was bound to a tree, gnawing at the bark. The
three of them made an idyllic scene, similar to something she might have seen
rendered in a storybook once. Then Sandor entered the clearing, and the scene
changed.
Both men bolted to their feet, the boy no longer whistling, the old man still
clutching his stick. He held it out in front of him as though it was a sword.
The horse whinnied, pawing at the ground and throwing it's head back, while the
older man stared intently at Sandor. However, the boy seemed distracted,
looking about on the ground. There was a bow there, discarded beside the fire.
"It's no use, boy," Sandor called to him. "You'll be dead before you've knocked
an arrow."
As Sandor stepped further into the clearing, Sansa followed behind. She kept
close to his back, though there was really no point. It was not as if these
people could do her any harm. Not with Sandor there to protect her.
"Be easy. We're not looking for trouble. We only seek to share your food and
fire."
He lifted his arms as if to demonstrate his lack of malicious intent. The men
did not appear comforted until they saw Sansa, stepping out from behind Sandor.
"We can pay," Sandor added
He walked over and sat down without waiting for an invitation. Sansa followed
after, though somewhat more timidly. The men eyed them both, but seemed to
decide that despite Sandor's fearsome appearance, they made no threat. After a
moment, they sat down as well. The old man resumed his poking, while the other
took up his tune.
"Who are you folks then?" the old man asked.
Worried that Sandor might offend the man, Sansa hurried to reply before he
could.
"I'm Jeyne, and this is my husband, Robert."
She didn't like to talk to strangers any more than she enjoyed lying. But the
men had no reason not the believe her, and nodded. She saw the old man eying
her torn dress and dirty footwear. She hadn't thought on it before, but surely
they must look like the poorest of people.
"I'm Len. This is Daniel, my son."
Sansa smiled, trying to put them more at ease. The old man - Len - didn't
notice, but his son smiled back.
"What a sweet horse. Is it yours?" she asked.
It looked more like a beast, in truth. Huge and black, with shaggy fur and a
long and tangled mane. The boy shook his head, looking suddenly serious again.
"He belongs to the farm. We bought him to help with the harvest. We were lucky
to get him. Horses are becoming hard to find, especially one strong enough to
do farm-work."
It was the first the boy had spoken. His voice still unbroken, it was soft and
lovely. It drew Sandor's attention, making the boy blush and squirm.
"And those boots, are they yours, boy?"
Confused, he looked down at them, a hand fidgeting with the laces. Sansa hadn't
noticed until Sandor called attention to them. Following the boy's gaze, she
looked at them. They were rather ugly, but the leather seemed tough, and the
size small. They would probably fit her, but surely Sandor didn't mean to take
them?
"Aye," the boy squeaked. "They're mine, and new as well. Father bought them off
a tinker just outside of Arna."
Sansa had no idea where Arna was, but tried to not let her confusion show as
she nodded along.
"So, where are you headed?" the old man asked, bringing their attention back to
him. "It's a bit late in the season for travel. Winter will be here soon."
Having no idea how to respond, she left Sandor to answer the question.
"We're going to King's Landing."
He didn't say anything else, and the old man didn't pry any further. It didn't
seem as if he was really interested anyway.
Sandor had begun to relax. Leaning back on his elbows, he stretched his legs
out, flexing his large feet.
"Seems like that hare is done. How about it, old man? Feel like sharing?"
Len nodded, and soon enough they were all gnawing on a piece of flesh. It was
slightly charred, but tasted well enough. Neither of them had eaten since they
caught the trout, and the sensation of flesh between her tongue and teeth, the
way it slid down her throat, filling her belly, felt indescribably good. She
tried to savour it, tasting every mouthful, for who knew when they would get
their next meal.
After they had eaten, the atmosphere became noticeably less tense. The boy had
lain down once more, chewing on a straw. Len picked up his stick, and were
poking the flames absentmindedly. Sandor unrolled their blankets, sitting down
on them, motioning for Sansa to sit next to him. It would seem like he had
decided they would spend the night here, for which she was thankful. It was
late, and the food had made her sleepy. Besides, the men seemed harmless.
Placing her head in his lap, she closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of and
smoke and grass.
***
She woke to the sound of voices, finding the rest of the party already awake.
Breaking their fast on some of Len and Daniel's dry meat, they ate in silence.
The horse was grazing behind them, probably the only one of them who got to eat
his fill.
Devouring his piece in one bite, Sandor opened the satchel and rummaged about.
When his hand withdrew, it was holding a bronze coin. The others stopped their
chewing for a moment, staring at the coin, before looking away, pretending not
to have noticed.
"I'll give you a copper for the food. Ten, if you give us the lad's boots,"
Sandor said, tossing the coin to the old man.
He caught it in the air, looking at it as if it was made of gold. Taking
another bite, he chewed slowly, turning the coin over in his palm.
"Fifteen coppers."
Sandor laughed, shaking his head. It was a bit unreasonable, Sansa thought, to
haggle with such poor people. They had plenty of money, what did it matter if
they saved a copper or two?
"I'll give you twelve," he said.
Len nodded his consent.
"Alright then, twelve."
Money changed hands, and the next moment Sansa discarded the dirty leather
scraps, her feet ensconced by the boy's boots. They were hard and ugly, but fit
well. She almost looked forward to walking now, if only to feel the difference.
Smiling, she squeezed Sandor's hand in thanks. He didn't look back however, but
kept his eyes trained on Len.
Daniel did not look too put out by the loss of his shoes. It would seem as if
twelve coppers was a fair price for a pair of used boots. As he saddled the
horse, he moved about with ease, presumably used to being barefoot. Sansa could
only hope he had an extra pair at home though. Winter would be hard without
shoes.
As Daniel saddled the horse, Len and Sandor packed up. When Sandor had
finished, he handed the satchel over to her, looking at her intently as if
trying to communicate something, but not wanting to say the words. As he turned
away from her, his hand did not finger the pommel, but rested firmly on the
hilt of his sword.
"Your horse, we're taking that as well."
He said it in such a nonchalant manner, it almost appeared as if he thought
this was a completely reasonable request. Both Len and Daniel froze, staring at
him. Daniel seemed to want to make for the bow again, but Len, having spotted
Sandor's hand on his sword, shook his head.
"Forget it boy," he said. He didn't look angry though. Nor sad. He kept shaking
his head, a curiously blank expression on his face. Sansa, on the other hand,
felt disappointed. It was not as if they knew these people, but why, when they
had so much money, and the others so little, could they not buy the horse from
them, rather than take it? She would have asked Sandor, but it didn't seem like
the time. Instead, she snuck her hand into the satchel, searching out a couple
of gold coins. Waiting until Sandor was occupied with untethering the horse,
she quickly pressed it into the boy's palm.
As they rode away, Sansa cradled snugly against Sandor's chest, she looked
back. Both men were standing in the same places, a forlorn look on their faces
as they stared after the horse. The golden coin still lay in the boy's palm,
seemingly forgotten.
***
They rode throughout the day. As the horse picked it's way between rocks and
thickets, Sansa talked while Sandor listened. She told him stories of her
childhood, of Lady, and how everyone said that the direwolf was so sweet-
tempered because of her owner. She told of the people in Winter Town, and how
she had used to accompany her mother when visiting the poor. She told of how
she had once helped Maester Luwin with the ravens. She told him of every kind
thing she had ever done, yet she still couldn't forget the look on the boy's
face as he stared after his horse.
***** Chapter 9 *****
People stole things every day. Someone had something taken from him and took
something else in return. It wasn't something Sandor did unless needed, but
he'd never understood why it was placed so high in the hierarchy of sins
either. It seemed to him that the most powerful people were those who stole the
most. Surely it was better to steal to survive, than to tax poor farmers just
because you could. Still, it plagued him more than he had thought it would. No
doubt the result of the Little Birds influence. He would have to take care not
to go soft.
It was good to be in a saddle again. The horse was a good one. It wasn't made
for speed, nor trained for combat. But it was a strong and lively creature, not
shy about making it's opinions known. Riding throughout the day, Sandor
familiarized himself with the horse, how it balked when having to wade through
water and the sure-footed way it navigated the rocks and bushes covering the
forest-floor.
Sansa was talking all the while. He felt sure she'd never talked so much in her
life, at least not in his presence. At first he thought she simply wanted him
to know about her life. After a while, however, it seemed she talked more for
her own benefit than his. There became something manic about the way she spoke
as she went on and on about her wolf, or one of the many peasants she seemed to
have befriended. It struck him as a little odd; both her endless talking, as
well as her seemingly close relationship with the small-folk. But if the last
few weeks had proved anything, it was that he didn't know everything about
Sansa. She was indeed far stranger and more complex than he'd ever realized.
Sandor had felt sure she would be angry at him for taking the horse. He'd been
prepared to fight her on it, had even made ready some arguments to persuade her
of the necessity. He would have bought it if he could. But gold would not help
the farmers with the harvest, and it would have been unwise to let on just how
much coin they carried in any case. Little seemed more suspicious than
seemingly poor travelers toting about vast amounts of gold dragons. Besides,
the money would come in handy later, and he'd rather not waste any. Sansa
hadn't said anything thought. Not about that. She kept talking about her home
and her past, making Sandor suspect that something was wrong, but leaving him
no wiser as to what that was.
They made significant progress throughout the day. From this new vantage-point,
Sandor felt better able to appreciate their surroundings. The ground was still
uneven, the forest still dense, it's twigs and branches clutching and ripping
at their clothes. But the horses legs were long, it's hooves hard. They were
striding across the ground at twice the pace they'd kept on foot, despite going
no faster than a gait.
There was no telling exactly where we were, but Sandor estimated perhaps three
more days until they reached Stonedance. Three days was still plenty of time
for something to go wrong. But they were better off now then they had been
yesterday, and there was no point in dwelling on all that might happen.
A small brook wound it's way between the stones. Following it, they soon
reached a spot were the trees parted enough to make a small clearing.
Surrounded by spruce, the dense branches almost looked like walls. It was quite
dark inside, but the ground was thickly covered in brown needles, soft and
springy under his heels as he jumped down off the horse.
Lifting Sansa down alongside him, she crumpled to the ground at once. She was
whimpering, clutching at her thighs. He hadn't thought of it until now, but of
course the little bird wasn't used to riding. Well, she would be soon enough.
Just as her arms and legs had grown stronger as she got accustomed to walking,
so she would now learn to ride. He was no longer concerned that she wouldn't be
able to manage. Sansa was tough, despite her dainty appearance.
Rolling out the blankets, he placed her on them, before ridding the horse of
it's saddle and bridle. It would seem that Sansa would be of little use this
evening, so he headed out to set the traps on his own. As he returned with an
armful of firewood, he found Sansa sitting cross-legged on the blanket, one
hand massaging a thigh, the other clutching her dagger.
When the fire was lit, the small pot filled with water and some twigs of spruce
to make tea, Sandor took over the massage, while Sansa continued to fiddled
with the dagger. After a while her fingers sought out her new shoes, a happy
expression on her face.
“Like them, do you?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.
He had decided to take them the moment he saw the boy, and was only glad that
they allowed him to buy them. Otherwise he would have stolen those as well.
They were of a tough leather - cow hide perhaps – and were fastened with
leather cords up the front, so even thought they looked a bit too big, they
wouldn't slide off.
Sansa smiled and nodded.
“They are very nice. Thank you.”
He doubted very much that she found them nice. But after almost two weeks of
walking on uneven and wet ground, he knew that she appreciated them.
The water began to boil, filling the air with the sweet-smelling aroma of
boiling spruce.
“The greens make for good tea if you have nothing else to eat. It doesn't taste
much, but it nourishes a bit, and keeps you warm,” he told her, as he lifted
the pot away from the flames.
They didn't have anything to drink from though, so he placed the pot on the
ground, waiting for it to cool. In the meanwhile Sansa had begun to unfasten
the laces around her boots.
“I thought to keep the dagger here,” she explained.
Sandor gave an approving grunt. The Little Bird was learning.
“Make sure to tie the cord loosely. You need to be able to get it out quick.
You should practice some.”
And so, as they waited for the tea to cool, Sansa drew the dagger again and
again. She looked pleased, happy either with her progress or the shoes. But as
he handed her the pot after taking a drink, her face fell noticeably. Wrapping
her hands around the kettle, she took a small, dainty sip before handing it
back. Her posture was rigid, her hands grasped tight around each other.
“What's the matter, girl?”
She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. She looked hesitant, as if she
was gauging his reaction. Opening and closing her mouth numerous times, she
said at last “I don't know that I can explain it.”
“Why don't you try?”
He took another sip, coughing a little at the bitter taste, while waiting for
her to find the words, or perhaps the courage. A while later, the weak tea now
gone, she finally seemed ready to speak.
“It's confusing...” she began. “I don't quite know how to act anymore.”
“How do you mean?”
Taking yet another moment, she sighed and tried again.
“A few days ago, when I was redressing my feet, I found that the soles there
have begun to harden.”
Sandor laughed. His Little Bird was concerned about her appearance. Well, that
was nothing new.
“Aye, I expect they would. Don't worry about that thought. They'll soften again
as soon as we have you back in your silk slippers.”
This didn't seem to appease her however. Hands still knotted about each other,
she seemed just as tense.
“No... that's not what I mean. I was glad, you see. Relieved perhaps. And just
now, as you went off to gather wood and set the trap... It felt wrong. That I
couldn't help, I mean.”
Looking at him at last, she placed a hand above his, squeezing it. She seemed
so earnest, almost desperate.
“I suppose this is all for the good. That I am able to help. That I want to.
But only a few weeks ago, it would have never even occurred to me. I didn't
know how to build a fire, or skin a hare, or anything about how to survive in
the wild.”
“Aye, I know. But you asked. You wanted to know.”
Annoyed, Sandor drew his hand back. He had not been particularly eager to teach
her in the first place. She was a lady. Her fingers were made for caresses, for
sewing and weaving. They were pale and soft, and he hadn't wanted to see them
grow callused. But she had asked, and despite making him feel as though he was
failing her, he did as she bid.
“I know, I know. And I am so thankful to you for helping me. But all that time
in King's Landing, in that room, not being able to do anything, not seeing
anyone... and now, here, with all these new things that I've learned, I am no
longer sure what is the right way to act.”
Her voice was wavering, her eyes glazing over. Drawing a deep breath, the
another, she seemed to be able to quell the tears before they fell. Sandor felt
uncomfortable. He didn't know what to do, always feeling like a clumsy fool
when trying to comfort her. Mollified, he reached over, picking up her hand and
enfolding it in his own. Sansa drew another deep breath and went on.
“I used to be a lady. I used to know what to do, and how I should act. But
little of that really applies anymore. So much have changed, and in such short
a time. It's as if something inside me has been warped, changed, and I no
longer know what to do... Or rather, how I should be.”
Emphasizing the last word, she looked directly into his eyes. Her face was set,
the expression intent, willing him to understand what she meant. In all
honesty, Sandor couldn't say he did.
“You are a lady, Sansa. Building fires and sleeping rough won't change that.”
She turned away, obviously displeased with his answer. Grasping her chin, he
turned her face back towards him.
“No, listen to me. It won't matter whether you live in a keep or in a cottage,
or even if you sleep right on the ground. You are highborn, you're a Stark.
That won't ever change.”
Seeming truly riled now, she shot to her feet. Startling the horse with her
abrupt movement, it whinnied, pawing at the forest-floor in agitation.
“No, Sandor. You don't understand. If I behaved as a lady would, out here, I
would surely die. And wherever we are heading, I don't suppose it will be for a
life in a castle, with servants and handmaidens. And so I can't act as a lady,
and I don't really want to either. And without that, I don't have anything to
guide me.”
Pacing back and forth, hair a wild tangle, and cheeks aflame in anger, she
looked fetching. This was probably not the time to say so though, upset as she
was. Sandor tried to understand why, he really did, but her distress made no
sense to him. Seeing his apparent confusion, she seemed to calm a bit. Sinking
to down to her knees before him, she fixed him with a pleading look.
“This morning, when we stole that horse, I let you.”
“You couldn't very well have stopped me, Little Bird.”
Sandor smiled at the notion.
“No, I couldn't. But I know that as much as they need that horse, so do we. I
know that in order for us to survive, I will have to do things I've been taught
is wrong. I suppose what I mean is that I don't know what is wrong anymore. In
some ways it feels wrong when I get my hands dirty. At the same time, just
lying about, letting you do the work feels wrong also. I didn't want to take
that horse, but I don't want us to get caught either. Do you see now?”
The desperate urgency had seeped out of her. She just seemed sad now. Resigned.
Not knowing what else to do, Sandor gathered her in his arms and drew her into
his lap. Breathing deeply, she rested her head against his chest, one palm cool
against his neck.
“Aye,” he muttered. “I think I do.”
And he did understand. He knew what it was to no longer now what was right and
what to do. Once, when he'd been a little boy, his mother had used to read for
him every evening. He could still recall the fell of her rough spun skirts
against his chubby fingers as he nestled in her lap. She would read him
stories, while he toyed with her hair. It was usually those knightly stories
Sansa had loved so. As he heard them, he would wonder, and ask his mother why
this hero or that chose self-sacrifice so readily. And his mother, though not
very bright, would tell him to always take care that one did the right thing.
What to consider right had undergone slight variations during his upbringing.
But it wasn't until his tenure as Joffrey's sworn shield that he'd abandoned
the notion all together. For such a long time, he'd been convinced that even
though one action might bring about more happiness than another, in the grand
scheme of things, it didn't matter. This was the creed by which he lived, and
he believed it wholeheartedly. He knew the things he did were wrong, just as
surely as he knew that disobeying was considered sin, and that no matter which
choice he made, it wouldn't make much difference.
It didn't matter until Sansa arrived at court. He had not been explicitly aware
of it at first, but as moon after moon passed, he realized at last that the
unhappiness he was feeling was because he understood what suffering his action
caused. Even so, when caught between the demands of his own conscience, and the
orders of his King, deciding what to do had not been an easy thing.
He had never expected Sansa to have to face such quandaries though. She was
crying freely now. Tears were pearling in her eyelashes, snot around her nose.
It didn't appear as if she cared. Her hands where knotted together in her lap,
a lone ant crawling across one white knuckle. This disregard for her own
appearance was in itself a demonstration of what she meant.
“Here girl,” he said, drawing his handkerchief from a pocket.
It was damp and a little dirty, but she took it nonetheless, dabbing daintily
at her eyes and nose. The ant fell to her dress, swallowed in folds of fabric.
Sandor, wanting to comfort her, searched for something to say.
“I do know what you mean, Little Bird. I understand. But you don't need a septa
to tell you right from wrong. You've got a good head on you, and a tender
heart. You know what's the right thing to do. As for how you should act, I
think you should do as you please. But knowing how to survive, and not moan and
complain about every little thing, that's a good thing, as far as I'm
concerned.”
His speech was muddled, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. It was the sort of
intensely frank conversation that made him very uncomfortable. But Sansa seemed
to understand what he meant, and looked as if she felt slightly better for it.
“Besides,” he added, “there's plenty of time to worry about manners and morals
later. I suggest you put those thoughts away for now, if you want to survive
the journey.”
***
By midmorning the next day, they had passed through the patch of spruce and
entered a narrow glen. The rock faces on either side looked as if torn asunder,
and in between there was nothing but yellow grass. There grew trees on the top
of the rocks on either side, creating a tall canyon. A thrush sat on a low
branch, calling out. It's belly was speckled white and grey, it's song high
pitched, insisting. There were no one to respond. All the others had already
flown south.
It was a blessedly warm day. One of the last in the season. The sun was out,
and the wind carried with it a light breeze from the south. They must be
nearing the coast, for there was a certain salty tang to the air. It was as if
the horse could sense it's destination as well. Perhaps it knew these parts. At
any rate, it trotted along eagerly, ears pricked forward.
Sansa was humming. It was a sweet tune, and sad. She seemed a bit distant,
still troubled by her thoughts. But there were more distractions in this part
of the forest, providing sights to keep her occupied. Head swiveling back and
forth, she too caught sight of the lone thrush.
“I thought it would have flown south by now.”
“It should, if it has any sense. And so should we.”
Shifting in the saddle, she turned to look at him. She was so close he could
see the steady beat of her pulse beneath her ear, and the dusting of fine hair
at the nape of her neck.
“Where will we go?” she asked, looking curious and complacent all at once.
“Braavos, I thought. Though we'll take the first ship that sails. Unless it's
going to King's Landing.”
“Braavos...”
She said it slowly, tasting the word.
“Braavos is quite far north. It will be winter there as well.”
“Aye, it will.”
Truth be told, he hadn't really given much thought as to which place was best.
He'd simply settled on Braavos when seeing the ship, and that was that.
“We might go someplace further south. Lys, maybe. All the way to Asshai, if you
wish.”
“I don't mind staying north.”
She said it with a smile, before turning back in the saddle. Her plump bottom
was nudged snugly against him, swaying as she followed the animals movements.
“I like snow,” she went on. “It would be nice to see it again. It has been so
long. Not since I left Winterfell.”
“You might have grown heartily sick of it by winters end. It could last for
years, you know. But Braavos is a good place. It's close to Westeros, and I'm
guessing there's more people who speak the common tongue there than in Asshai.
Don't know about you, Little Bird, but my Valyrian is not so good.”
“I don't really know. I think I've forgotten most of it,” she said, reminding
him of her superior education.
“What will we do there? In Braavos?”
“Don't know. What people do everywhere, I suppose. Work, eat, live.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, nudging him softly with an elbow.
“I do, Little Bird. And I meant what I said. I don't know. I'll find work, I
suppose. We'll rent rooms someplace. Don't fret though, we'll sort everything
out when the time comes. And the gold will last us a while.”
Sandor was neither thrifty nor a wasteful. But with no family to support, there
was little enough for him to spend his money on. Tourney winnings, wages and
card-winnings ended up making a tidy sum of gold.
“How long?” she asked, voice tense. She appeared apprehensive once more,
shifting restlessly in the saddle.
“It wont last forever. I'm guessing you have some expensive habits. But we're
far from destitute. It'll buy us passage and pay rent for a while, if our
accommodations are more on the modest side. One gold coin can last a long time
if you live like a commoner. And we've got a handful.”
Sansa continued her squirming, a sure sign that something was gnawing on her
mind. His suspicions were confirmed moments later.
“A little less then a handful now,” she said.
Her voice was nothing more than a whisper, timid and soft. Her little body
curled in on itself, as if she was trying to disappear. Too caught up in her
reaction, it took him a moment to register what she'd said.
“What do you mean?”
He could see her pulse picking up pace, her hands clenching and unclenching
around the pommel.
“I... I gave some away. Two, I think.”
Confusion gave way to realization. The farmers. He'd been surprised at her lack
of protest. But apparently she'd blown straight past that, disobeying him
instead. This would account for her odd behaviour last night. His hands
constricted around the reins. He didn't notice until the horse came to a stop.
The familiar gnawing sensation flooded his stomach and chest, urging him to do
something, anything. Hit or kick or run. Normally, he didn't register these
emotions, but simply barreled ahead and did exactly those things, relieving his
anger in a wonderfully satisfying burst of power. The fact that he now had the
ability to refrain did not put him in a better mood.
“I apologize,” she said, her voice more controlled now, more even. “It was your
money, and I had no right to take it. But neither did we have a claim to that
horse. I only did what was right.”
“Oh aye,” he spat “You did, girl. Let's just hope that act of kindness don't
end up getting us killed.”
Pressing his knees against the horse, they resumed walking. It seemed even more
agitated, probably sensing it's riders moods. Horses were clever like that.
“What do you mean?” Sansa asked.
She wouldn't have realized, of course. It was stupid of him to think that she
would. That Sansa had any conception of how rare gold dragons were. Most people
went a lifetime without seeing two rubbed together. No one handed them out
freely, not unless they had more than they could use.
“How do you think that will look to those men? Two travelers, with few supplies
and clothes barely worth the name, but with a few gold dragons to spare. We
looked suspicious enough already.”
“But they don't know who we are,” Sansa protested.
“No, but should they run into soldiers, they'll have some tale to tell.”
Turning in the saddle once again, Sansa fixed him with a reproachful glare.
“Did it ever occur to you that it's less likely they'll talk, now that we've
given them money?”
Stupid Little Bird. He almost said so out loud. But apparently he was growing
wiser in his old age, because he was able to restrain himself. If only just.
“If they should come across Joffrey's men, they might not be given the chance
to keep silent. They might see the coins, and demand to know where they got
them from. You think those farmers will risk hanging on your account?”
Sansa looked properly chastised. Turning back around, her head hung low,
exposing her neck. The skin there was a pure white.
“And even if they don't find it, giving us up might be the only way for those
men to save their lives. Or at least to think they'll be saved. You know what
soldiers are like, Little Bird. You know enough, at any rate. They might
terrorize them, even if they don't believe they know anything.”
Sansa didn't have a response to that, and Sandor had nothing left to say, so
they rode on in silence. They were getting close to Stonedance now, Sandor felt
sure of it. And a good thing that was too. Though Sansa's ill-advised
generosity might endanger them further, chances were that it would not amount
to anything. Still, Sandor was rigid, shoulders tense, head swiveling this way
and that. The horse mimicked his movements, it's ears twitching back and forth,
clearly made tense by it's riders. It did no other harm then to tugg on the
rains once in a while, and Sandor was glad of the horses' spirit. It seemed
just as ready to run as he was.
They passed through the glen and into the trees beyond. Dense spruce had been
replaced by gnarled and misshapen pine and birch. It made for a more open
landscape, with the sun reaching all the way down to the forest floor, chasing
away moss, and allowing for grass to grow, as well as the few autumn flowers.
There were more birds in this part of the forest, all of them calling to one
another, or screeching in warning as they passed underneath. A magpie followed
them for a while, jumping from branch to branch, peering at them with curious
eyes, it's head cocked to one side.
He kept his ears trained for any noise, much more cautious now than he'd been
earlier in the day. It was just as well. The lack of any true obstacle, as well
as Sansa, with her endless questions and fine body, had served to distract him.
Now he was back on track. But between the birdsong and the horses loud
snorting, he doubted he would be able to hear any soldiers until they were upon
them. Sansa had begun to relax again, and joined in the song before he asked
her to stop. He might have been harsher about it than he needed to be, and new
that he'd feel badly about it soon. But she'd acted wrongly, and he wasn't
prepared to let go of his indignation just yet.
At long last Sansa spoke again.
“I am sorry, Sandor. Truly. Not for paying the farmers, but for placing us in
danger. But... maybe we should not have taken the horse at all. They needed it,
perhaps even more than us.”
He was about to respond when a noise caught his attention. It sounded like a
rustling, far away and very faint. Perhaps a brook, or maybe an animal stomping
through branches. Or maybe...
“Keep quiet, Little Bird.”
Bringing the horse to a halt, ears pricked, he waited. The rustling persisted,
but didn't appear to grow any closer. Sansa must have heard as well, for her
face had grown deathly pale, the tips of her fingers digging painfully into his
thigh.
Leaning close, breath warm in his face, she whispered,
“Should we run?”
Mind whirring, Sandor tried to decide on what to do. They could spur the horse
and ride away, as quickly as they could. But a horse would run more slowly with
two riders than with one, even one as strong as theirs. Or they could keep
still, hoping whatever was out there would pass them by. Finally deciding on
the latter, he shook his head. If the sound came from men, they would be
alerted all the sooner if they ran.
Time passed, but the sound did not. Sometimes it appeared closer, sometimes
further away. He and Sansa, and even the horse, kept completely still. Suddenly
the birch and pine trees seemed less inviting. There were open spaces
everywhere, and few places to hide. Sansa had begun to shake, but her breathing
was even and controlled. He noticed that she sometimes would look down at her
boot, as if to reassure herself that the dagger was still there. At least she
was prepared to fight. He felt a momentary sensation of pride at that, until he
recalled what would likely happen if she did have to square off against a
trained soldier.
The sound was gradually changing, a soft and steady thudding being discernable
as well. He wasn't entirely certain, but it could be horses... And they were
growing closer. It now seemed as if it was coming from someplace behind them.
As the thudding sounds grew, so did Sandor's certainty that they were, in fact,
horses. More than one. And they seemed to be coming from the direction where he
and Sansa had just passed.
He had been careful not to leave to obvious tracks. But there were bound to be
some broken and twisted branches, no matter how careful he'd been. Besides, it
was difficult on a horse, with ground as soft as this. Looking behind him, he
saw the deep hoof-prints in the dirt.
That's when he heard the voice. Indistinct, still far away, but still
unmistakably a voice. And someone eager at that. Acting out of instinct more
than anything else, he picked Sansa up, and dropped her unceremoniously down on
the ground. Vaulting off the horse a moment later, he quickly untethered the
satchel from the saddle, before giving the horse a hard smack on it's rump. It
neighed indignantly as shot off between the trees, stirrups floundering at it's
side.
Swinging the satchel over one shoulder, he threw Sansa over the other. She
seemed confused, but went along without protest. They needed to hide, quickly,
and Sandor didn't trust her not to make tracks. Erasing the one's they'd
already made when landing, he headed in the opposite direction of the horse.
They didn't have much time, so he decided on the first sizable bush they came
across. He sat Sansa down, before lying on the ground, flat on his stomach.
“We need to get under. But try not to break too many branches.”
She nodded, face pale but determined, and followed him to the ground. He went
first, with Sansa crawling after. The bush did not have much space underneath,
with gnarly branches poking his back and head. It took some wriggling, and his
tunic and breeches became covered in dirt, but at least the leaves were dense,
covering them both from sight.
He could hear more voices now. They must have heard their own horse whinny,
because the approaching men were galloping, shouting amongst each other. They
could not be the finest soldiers in the King's service. From the noises they
made, it sounded as if there was some disagreement. They didn't have a proper
leader then. That was good. Sandor tried to make out how many they were, but it
was impossible to tell. They were getting close though, nearing the spot where
they'd left the horse.
Peering out from under the leaves, he saw the first pair of horse-legs coming
into sight. It was soon followed by others. Eight, if he'd counted right. Then
the riders came into view. Sure enough, they were soldiers. Fully armored, the
metal burnished with the kings colours, they stood out from between the foliage
like a sore thumb. They looked somewhat bedraggled too as if they also had been
out in the forest for weeks.
Sansa was breathing fast beside him, every gulp of air sound like a shout to
his ears. Taking her hand in his, he squeezed it gently, trying to reassure
her. Peering back out from underneath the bush, he noted with relief at his
plan seemed to have worked. The soldiers rode on, following the tracks of the
horse, still talking and squabbling amongst each other. Useless fools.
They ended up sleeping underneath the bush. The sun was already low on the sky,
and neither of them felt like chancing running into the soldier's again. It was
damp and cold, but at least they were safe. Sansa curled her back against him,
and fell asleep quickly. He kept awake a good while longer, ears still trained
for any sound. But the forest was silent, except for the birds.
***
The next day found neither of them in a good mood. It had started to rain
again. Hard. Despite the dense foliage, they were both drenched to the bone by
the time they awoke. It was cold too. Sansa could not stop shivering, despite
the blanket wrapped above her cloak. He supposed he should only be thankful she
hadn't fallen ill yet.
Crawling out from beneath the bush, they found the forest soaked. The drops
fell in such amounts, it was difficult to see more than a few paces ahead, and
the noise as water hit leaves made such a noise they even had trouble hearing
each other. Not that they talked much.
The ground soon turned to mud beneath his feet, water seeping into his boots.
He recalled that they had not eaten since the morning before last, and the cold
and hunger made their progress slow. It was difficult not to curse his luck,
having lost both a horse and two golden dragons in the span of two days. It had
been a good horse too. Sandor had considered bringing it with them across the
sea. Or else it would have fetched a fare price at the market in Stonedance.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a bird singing it's warning.
Muffled by the rain, it was difficult to tell which direction it had come from,
but as he spun around in search of it, he found Sansa behind him on the path.
She stood frozen, arms drawn tight across her belly, lips pale and quivering.
She was not alone.
Flanked on either side of her were two soldiers. He recognized them from last
night, both muddied and bedraggled from several nights on the road. They made
of a pitiful pair, mousy-haired and puny, the both of them. One was leering at
him, the other at Sansa, a sour expression on his face. Regardless of their
small statures, they kept their postures well, evidently knowing how to handle
a sword.
“Hound,” the closest one called out.
Sandor dimly recalled having seen him around the Red Keep. His name was Lorry.
Loraks. Something stupid like that. He was looking distinctly worried, though
his sword-arm seemed steady enough. As did the dagger the other man was holding
against Sansa's long, pale throat.
“Come now, drop your sword. If you surrender peacefully, we'll not mistreat you
along the way.”
Sandor laughed. Neither of the men seemed entirely convinced that holding Sansa
hostage would be enough to make him comply. But if it wasn't, a false promise
of good treatment would hardly stop him from cutting them both down on the
spot. And by the Stranger, how he longed to do so. Hand gripping the sword-
hilt, he imagined how they'd sound as they begged for mercy, the idiotic look
of fright that overcame men about to die.
But between them stood Sansa, scared and helpless, with a blade pressed against
her lovely neck. Drawing his sword, he let it drop to the ground, raising his
hands in surrender.
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