Chapter Text
iii.
When she woke up in the morning, Sansa was sore and hurting. She tried her best to ignore it as she sat up, and then she noticed the Hound wasn’t there. Her heart leapt into her throat, and Sansa quickly scrambled to her feet. Everything was gone, everything but the blanket wrapped around her, and she brought her hands to her mouth as she started to panic. She couldn’t breathe. Tears fell from her eyes, and she clutched onto her arms.
She didn’t even bother with picking up the blanket. Sansa hurried down the ladder until her feet touched the bottom and she turned around and ran smack into somebody. Sansa gasped and pulled away, nearly tripping on her own two feet to escape the big burly frame of a man, until she looked up and saw who it was and all of her panic turned into joy in way she did not understand at all.
Sansa threw her arms around Sandor, burying her face against his chest.
He didn’t hug her back. He kept his arms down at his sides, and when she pulled away to look at him, she smelt the liquor on him and saw the dazed look in his eyes. Where did he get wine from? Sansa wondered, remembering his wineskin from just days ago. She had thought he drank it all. She remembered last night as a sudden throb of pain shot through her, and she swallowed past a catch in her throat.
“You’re drunk,” Sansa said, and he scowled heavily at her. The Hound grabbed her arm and turned around, walking her out of the barn.
“We’re leaving,” he said brusquely.
“Where are we going?” she asked, and he lifted her on Stranger before mounting the creature himself. He sat in front of her this time, taking the reins.
“I’m bringing you to your aunt in the Eyrie,” he said. “She’ll know what to do with you.”
Sansa was hurt by the words. She didn’t know why he was being so mean to her all of a sudden. He was acting like it was her fault what had happened last night, and she didn’t even want to hold onto him but she had to or she would have fallen off the horse. They rode for hours until they reached an inn, and the Hound strapped up Stranger and took her down from the horse.
“Stay by me,” he said in his gruff voice, and Sansa obeyed silently. She followed him into the inn, pulling her cloak tightly around herself. The Hound walked up to the bar and spoke with the innkeeper about getting through the Vale to the Eyrie.
“Won’t happen,” the innkeeper said. “The hill tribes run the countryside now. No one goes out that way anymore and comes back. They’ll kill you and steal the girl with you. Best not to go that way at all.”
The Hound said nothing to that. He ordered a drink, and Sansa had to sit in silence as he drank himself into a stupor. The innkeeper asked if she wanted anything, and she looked to Sandor, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her anymore. “Water, please,” she said. The kind man brought her water free of charge, and Sansa drank it in silence.
“Well, who’s this here?” a voice said from behind, and Sansa turned around to see three men standing just before the entrance to the inn. She didn’t recognize any of them, but they were looking straight at the Hound like they knew him and two of them were smiling.
“Fancy seeing you here, Clegane,” the second man said. Slowly, putting down his drink, the Hound turned around to face them. He scowled in their direction.
“What are you rats doing out here?” the Hound asked them, and one of the men looked at Sansa. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile, and she quickly averted her eyes.
“Look, he’s got a princess with him, Polliver,” the third man said, pointing at Sansa. “Pretty little red-haired thing. Say, she looks like that lost Stark girl, doesn’t she?”
“My, my, she does,” the first man, Polliver, said.
The second one was eyeing her, and he spoke next. “I hear the Queen has a reward out for her.” He cut his eyes to the Hound. “And you.”
“Touch her, and you’re dead men,” the Hound warned them, slowly standing up from his seat at the bar.
“Not if you’re dead first,” Polliver said.
The Hound drew his steel, and Sansa hurriedly backed away. Two of the men pulled swords, but the third one only had a knife. Sansa realized with a fright that she had nothing, and Sandor was drunk and unsteady on his feet. On his best days, he could overpower three shorter men, but this wasn’t one of his better days.
If he lost, she would be back in the hands of the Queen or worse.
Steel flashed on steel, and the Hound kicked into one of the men’s chest, sending him flying onto a table. The third man with the knife stayed back while the other with the sword charged at Sandor. They fought, steel clashing against steel, until the first man scrambled back up from the table, slicing Sandor’s leg with his blade. The Hound growled and swung at him, the edge of his sword cracking against the man’s skull before he could even stand up straight again. Blood flew from the blade as it came crashing down on the second man’s sword once more, and it was then in that moment that the one with the knife came at Sandor.
Sansa panicked, grabbing a jug from one of the tables and throwing it at the little man with the knife. It hit him in the side and knocked him off course, giving Sandor time to cut the first man in half with his sword right through the chest. There was so much blood; the floor ran wet with it.
Once he saw both of his friends dead, the last one alive tried to scramble to his feet while his knife remained forgotten on the floor.
Sandor walked up to him slowly, the point of his bloodstained sword aiming down at the other man’s face. “Please, no, I’m just a squire,” he pleaded, but Sandor ran him through with his sword, putting all of his weight on the little man. Sansa watched in horror as the blood pooled into a messy puddle beneath his body, seeping away like slow running river, and the light left his eyes.
Lifting his sword out of the dead man’s body, Sandor stumbled and hit one of the tables.
Sansa ran quickly to his side and grabbed a hold of his arm. He was far too big to hold up, but she didn’t know what else to do. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
“Just my leg, little bird,” he rasped, though when he tried to stand on his own, he stumbled again. Sansa looked up for the innkeeper. The man was standing terrified behind the counter.
“Ser,” Sansa called out to him, “please, do you have a room? He’s wounded.”
The innkeeper nodded his head quickly, though he didn’t look too happy about it. He helped her guide Sandor to one of the rooms down the hall despite his reluctance, and together they laid him on the bed. Sansa turned to the innkeeper, trying to think of anything she might need. She was going to have to ask him for it.
“Do you have any needles, thread, and ointments?” she asked. “I can pay you. I have coin.” The coin was Sandor’s coin, but she was sure he wouldn’t mind in times like these if spending them meant saving his life.
When she mentioned payment, the innkeeper nodded his head again. This time there was a spark in his eyes. “I’ll get them for you, miss. Wait right here,” he said, as if she was going anywhere.
Sansa immediately began checking Sandor for wounds, looking for blood and holes in the fabric around his chest, his arms, his stomach and sides. She found one on his arm and another deep in his side. Sansa knew about the one on his leg already, and she pulled back the gash in his breeches to see the cut. It was deep as well, bleeding the worst.
Sansa had never actually treated anyone’s wounds before, and seeing them made her hands shake uncontrollably, but she had an idea of what to do as long as she could still her hands. She had to sit for a moment, wringing them in her lap until her nerves were somewhat calmed. Then, she stood up and began to undo his jerkin and push it aside before rolling up the hem of the pink-stained tunic. Sandor rolled his head towards her in his daze.
“What are you doing?” he asked her, his speech slurred.
“Helping you,” Sansa answered him as steadily as her voice would allow. As she lifted his tunic, his wound came into sight. It was a nasty thing of sore pink flesh, oozing red. Sansa brought her forearm to her mouth to prevent herself from getting sick at the sight of it.
He snorted at her and rolled his head away. “What for?” he rasped.
Sansa didn’t answer him. She left the room to find wine, returned and poured it into a pot above the fireplace. As Sansa struggled to light a fire, the innkeeper came back with the supplies. He took over with lighting the fire, accepted her coin gratefully, and left them alone in the room.
Sansa took a rag to soak up the hot wine. When she used it to wash Sandor’s wounds, he gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out. Her hands were stained pink, sore from the heat of handling boiled wine, but she threaded a needle and tried to remember all of her lessons growing up. It is the same thing, she told herself.
Slowly, she sewed up his wounds. When she was done, he had passed out on the bed. Sansa sat there in the chair, a bloody needle in her hand, and stared at him with glassy eyes. When she returned to herself, she put everything on the small table by the bed and tried to wash her hands off in the basin. The water turned pink as she scrubbed her hands clean.
Sansa knew they couldn’t stay here. They had to leave as soon as possible. If those men were working for the Lannisters, then there were more Lannister men nearby.
She would go anywhere in the world as long as it wasn’t back to the Red Keep.
Not wishing to disturb him, Sansa made a bed on the floor and rested her head. She couldn’t go anywhere until he woke up again, and so she might as well get some sleep herself. Within no time, Sansa found herself drifting off. No time passed at all between falling asleep and the toe of a boot tapping against her back. Sansa opened her eyes, rolling over to look.
Sandor stood above her, a cloaked figure in the darkness. The fire burned low and red in the corner, and it lit his face with a red flame.
“Come, girl,” he said, and he extended his hand to her. Sansa looked at his hand before she reached out to take it. He helped her to his feet, but she noticed as he walked that he dragged his leg.
“How are you feeling?” Sansa asked him, worried they might not be able to make a journey if he was still unwell.
“Better,” he said. “Thanks to you.” He grabbed their things, and then he took her by the arm. “We need to leave.”
Sansa wouldn’t move at first, pulling back from his grip. “I won’t go to the Eyrie,” she said firmly. “I will go anywhere but there.”
Sandor was still in the firelight. “There is nowhere else, girl.”
Sansa knew in that moment she had to make a decision. The Hound wasn’t going to make her decisions for her. All he thought about was bringing her to any distant family member he could find for her, but Sansa knew better than that. It wasn’t safe to be a Stark anymore, and it wasn’t safe to stay here. She held up her chin, even though he wasn’t looking at her.
“I am not Sansa Stark,” she said, her voice trembling. “I am just a girl, like you said, and I don’t want to go to the Eyrie. It’s no better a choice than Winterfell or Riverrun. I have no home anymore. I have no family.” Sansa took a deep breath, and her hand clutched his arm. “There must be other places to go. We can find a boat, and . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
Sandor turned in the dark to look at her at last. “We? Who said anything about ‘we’?”
Quickly, Sansa pulled her arm out of his grasp. “What do you mean?”
In the light of the fire that played across his twisted face, Sandor looked torn between one reaction and another. He took a moment of silence to decide for himself before he answered her. “I can’t take care of you, girl. You well enough know that. You’d fare better in the hands of your aunt than me.”
Sansa remembered that night, and she looked away from his eyes boring into her. It embarrassed her, brought on a flush borne out of shame, but she did not hate him for it. He had not done it to hurt her, not intentionally, and he obeyed her command to stop. Sansa did not want it repeated, but she still felt she could trust him or he would not have listened to her at all.
“I know you better than I know my aunt,” she whispered.
“That doesn’t make me better,” he said.
“It does,” Sansa told him, meeting his gaze once more. “You listen to me.” Sansa began to shake her head. “My aunt will not.”
Sansa thought they stood there for what felt like a year, trying to make decisions in silence and in darkness and in fear. When he took her by the arm again and marched her out of the door of the inn and into the cold night air, they mounted Stranger and took a path down the nearest river until it winded out to sea. They found a passage out to sea aboard a small vessel. It wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be.
Once they were aboard, she looked out behind her as the wind whipped through her hair. The land that she once knew drifted further and further away from her until the sea swallowed it whole, never to return it to her again for as long as she lived.
*
“You should get up,” Sansa said cheerfully, pulling back the curtains as a wash of bright light flooded into the chamber.
Sandor groaned and turned his face into the pillow away from the light of the sun and her. He mumbled something into the pillow, and though Sansa couldn’t make it out, she made her way from the window to his bed and crawled on it.
“Come on,” she said, nudging at him with her hand. “Please, get up. They are having a festival today, and I want to go.”
Sandor made a rumbling sound deep in his chest and rolled over onto his back, bringing one of his big arms to his eyes to shield them from the light. “Why must you go to a festival?” he asked her, irritated, and Sansa found herself smiling. He drank too much the night before, Sansa was sure of it, so he would not protest too much with her if she did something a little indecent.
It had been five years since they crossed the Narrow Sea, and Sandor had treated her very much like the little lady she was the whole time. He never made another move to touch her, but she saw him leave the house late at night every few months or so, going to a whorehouse to get what it was that men wanted from women. Sansa was jealous at first, even hurt to point of crying once, until she remembered she did not like it so much the one time she experienced it and he was only doing what was normal for him. Sandor always came home again, and he always spent every second of his attention on her.
If she hadn’t been ready for something like that with him, and she wasn’t at the time, she realized she couldn’t have expected him to not seek it elsewhere. She was older now, though, and things had changed in her mind. A few months ago when he had made to leave the house late at night for his trip to the whorehouse, Sansa had approached him in the foyer and stopped him.
“Where are you going?” she had asked him, innocently enough.
Sandor had been taken back by her sudden appearance. “What are you doing up?” he had asked right back. “Go back to bed.”
“I . . . ” Sansa had begun, finding it hard to finish. “I was hoping maybe you would join me tonight like we used to do before we came here. When we traveled the wild together . . . ” She had found herself smiling at the memory, and Sandor had stared at her across the foyer, his shock dissolving into something else—something Sansa hadn’t been able to identify.
“You should go to bed,” he had repeated, but his voice hadn’t been as strong as it was before.
Sansa had then crossed the distance between them, doing the first thing that came into her mind. The only thing she had known would get him to say yes. She had wrapped her arms around his middle, laying her head against his chest, and sighed gently. “Please?”
Sandor’s stiff posture had fallen soft against her. He had lifted his arms to wrap them around her. “Yes,” he had sighed above her.
Sansa had asked him to make a promise that night as she lay curled up against his side, and he had asked her what promise she expected him to make. She played with his tunic, her fingers making patterns against the white fabric. “That you will not visit the whorehouse again,” she had told him.
He had not been angry, which a part of her suspected might happen. “Why?” Sandor had simply asked her, his hand gently rubbing back and forth on her shoulder.
“Because,” she had said softly, “I would rather you spent the time with me.”
Sandor’s hand had stilled its pattern on her shoulder, though briefly. He had resumed it again a moment later. “Doing what?” he had rasped, his voice low. It had sent tingles throughout her body as she lay there beside him.
“Whatever you like,” Sansa had whispered back, and every night they had spent together since then had been as innocent as the day she was born. He would just lie with her, breathe in her scent, and fall asleep tangled in her limbs. Sometimes she had awoken to him against her back, hard in the morning, but they never talked about it and Sansa never had the nerve to make a move.
She had recently asked some of her friends, especially Ona, about the sorts of things men and women did together in bed. Ona was young like her, but she was also experienced with men, and she told and sometimes showed Sansa some of the tricks she had learned along the way. Sansa’s confidence was higher now as a woman, and she knew what she wanted now in a way she hadn’t known in her youth.
As Sandor lay on the bed with his arm thrown over his eyes, Sansa crawled onto his lap and straddled his hips. She was wearing a gown, which was not lost on her, and her positioning caused it to hike up to her thighs. Sandor instinctively reached out to grab her hips, and she wondered—with a flush to her face—if this was what he normally did with women.
Sandor’s hands slipped down to her thighs, and Sansa smiled and bit her lower lip. She ground her hips down on his, and he groaned low in his throat. When Sandor opened his eyes and realized it was her, he pulled his hands away from her.
“What are you doing?” he asked her, an edge to his voice.
“What Ona told me to do,” Sansa answered him softly, and she leaned forward over him, her hair making a fiery curtain around their faces. She drove her hips down again, feeling him grow hard beneath her. “Do you like it?” she asked in a whisper, and Sansa leaned down to capture his lips in a kiss. She expected Sandor to resist, but his stillness lasted for only a moment. He growled low in his throat, grasping the back of her head with his hand, and kissed her hard in return.
Sansa allowed him to be rough at first, but then she pulled away and put her finger to his mouth. “Be gentle,” she murmured. Slowly, she lowered her lips to his chest and kissed him, keeping her eyes on him. Sandor looked like he didn’t know what to do. Between her taking control and giving him orders, he appeared to be completely lost.
Sansa didn’t mind. She wanted time to explore. She ran her fingers against his skin, touching every corner of his chest with her hands. His skin was hot to the touch, and she let her hands rove over his body as he lay beneath her. Each moment she felt him grow harder, and she rocked against him again. Sandor closed his eyes, his jaw tight.
Her hands came down to his breeches, undoing the laces, and Sansa slid her hand in, wrapping her fingers around him. She felt her whole body thrum with excitement as she stroked him. “Would you take me to the festival,” she asked, her shining eyes at him, “if I take you somewhere first?”
“Take me where,” he ground out, and she watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest with an unladylike smirk. It was working, then. Sansa scooted down his body as her hand worked on him, and she felt nervous butterflies in her stomach. She could only hope Ona had told her this correctly.
When she looked at him first, she thought once of how ugly she used to believe this part of a man’s body, but age made a difference on her thoughts. She lowered her mouth to him, cautiously licking at the head and lifting her eyes to see his reaction. Sandor hissed, swore, and gripped the bed sheets with his hands. Sansa smiled and dragged her tongue along his length, the skin slightly salty to taste.
She took him in her mouth then, closing her lips around his shaft and moving her mouth up and down. She had never seen him so unhinged before, not even that night they spent together in the barn so many years ago. She found she liked this, too, just as much as him. Knowing she could have this power over him made her throb between her legs with a familiar ache, and she knew she wanted more than just this.
Sansa pulled away but returned just long enough to gently suck on the head of his manhood, and it elicited another curse from his lips. With her eyelids heavy with desire, she headily grinned at the sight of his prostrate body before her. Sansa crawled back up his body, gripped his hardness in her hand, and gave it a few good strokes and squeezes. Leaning forward just slightly to give herself enough room, she positioned him near the dampness between her legs.
Sandor’s body seemed to shudder beneath her. “What are you doing?” he asked yet again. “Where are your . . . ”
“I took them off,” Sansa whispered, referring to her lack of smallclothes. She rubbed his head against her entrance, moaning softly at the little shocks of pleasure it brought her. Sandor’s hands gripped her hips again despite his protests, kneading her skin through the thin cloth of her sleeping shift.
When she sank down on him slowly, her body didn’t want to accept the intrusion. It hurt despite her readiness. Sansa expected as much. Ona said it would hurt the first few times, not just the first time, and she would need time to get used to it. Sansa pushed with her weight until she felt him go in fully, and she gasped at first, her hand splayed against his stomach.
Sansa sat completely still, waiting for the moment when she felt comfortable to move, but she couldn’t be sure. She rocked her hips a little, but she didn’t quite have a rhythm. Sandor must have noticed, for he sat up to reach her, wrapped a hand around her head and kissed her. She relaxed in his arms, and Sandor pulled her down to the bed with him before rolling over to cover her with his body. He was above her, and Sansa wrapped her legs around him.
The first thrust was strange to her, and it probably showed on her face, but the second and the third sent a deep, pleasant ache into her belly. Sansa moaned and gripped the back of his neck with her hand, the other hand on his side. Sandor was slow at first, but one thrust drew out a strangled cry from her throat, and Sandor descended on her neck with his mouth and fucked her harder until she was begging and pleading and digging her nails into his back.
He came inside of her, and her body throbbed with both pleasure and pain, but she found she didn’t mind as much after all. She was coming down off a high, floating through the clouds. The light was blurry, but then it faded in its hue. Sandor was lying beside her, breathing heavily. Sansa rolled over and curled into his side, placing her hand on his chest.
“Will you take me?” she asked softly, making little circles on his skin with her finger.
“Take you where?” he asked, out of breath.
“To the festival, of course,” Sansa said, laughing somewhat.
“Oh,” he said. “Right.”
“It’s going to be a big one, they’ve said. The streets will be filled from corner to corner of the whole city. They’ll have mummers and cakes and dances . . . ”
“Yes, I’ll take you,” Sandor answered her.
Sansa hugged him, and then she was up from the bed in a heartbeat. She hurried to the door, where she paused long enough to look back at Sandor’s startled face, and she grinned at him. “Well, we don’t have all day,” she said, chiding the look on his face. “We have to get ready now if we’re going to go!”
The streets below were already filled by the time they left the small villa, and Sansa held onto his hand in the crowd so they would not be separated. All of the people were dressed elaborately in various colors. It looked like a rainbow everywhere she looked, and she loved every moment of it.
Sansa saw a mummer’s show going on somewhere up ahead, and without realizing it, she let go of Sandor’s hand and parted her way through the crowd to get a peek. It was a puppet show of maidens and dragons and knights. Sansa watched it all the while, laughing and clapping when it was over.
A hand clasped her on the shoulder, and Sansa immediately turned around, smiling, knowing it was Sandor. He had probably been standing behind her the entire time with a frown on his face.
But it was not Sandor. The man wasn’t terribly tall, but he was rotund and wore a hooded cowl. He had a close-shaven beard and goatee, and he looked at Sansa as if he knew her. “My lady,” he said, “you must forgive me. I thought you were someone I knew.”
Sansa looked at him closely, but he did not look familiar. “It is all right, ser. I do not believe I have met you before.”
“My deepest apologies,” he said. “I must admit it was your auburn hair that caught my attention. Few ladies have such a delicate coloring.”
Sansa felt her smile faltering. “Thank you, ser. It is forgiven. If you’ll please, I must be on my way—”
She made to move, but his hand stayed firm on her shoulder. “Perhaps,” he began, “you can tell me if you’ve seen an auburn-haired young lady such as yourself nearby? I do admit I must find her soon.”
Sansa was starting to feel uncomfortable. Her eyes roved the people around her without turning her head away from the strange man. Where was Sandor? Why did she leave his side? “I . . . I have not,” she stammered. “Please, if you will let me go—”
“What is this?” a familiar voice growled, and Sansa’s heart leapt with joy. She separated herself from the stranger’s grip and hurried to Sandor’s side, wrapping both arms around him and feeling instantly safe.
The stranger looked at Sandor and then to her, a look of surprise blooming over his face. “Nothing,” he quickly said. “It was only a misunderstanding. My apologies. I will be going now.” He turned around and vanished into the crowd as suddenly as he had appeared. Sansa’s grasp on Sandor was tight.
“Let’s go home,” she said, having enough of the festival.
When they returned to the villa, all was quiet. Even the noise from the streets seemed to be nothing more than a faint echo, and Sansa found her feet taking her to the washroom. She wanted a bath to rinse away her troubled thoughts, but the moment she moved to close the door, she heard a loud crash down the hall.
Sansa flung open the door and hurried to the sound. It came from Sandor’s room. She heard the sound of a sword being drawn from a scabbard, and Sansa ran as fast as her feet would carry her. She burst into the room. Sandor stood on one side of the bed, his sword drawn, a chair and dresser knocked over onto the floor.
On the opposite side of the bed perched a shadowy figure, a silver blade in hand.
“No!” Sansa cried out, and the shadowy figure turned to look at her. Sansa could only make out two points of light, the eyes, glowing grey back at her. The figure watched her slowly, creeping a little out of the dimness. It was a girl, Sansa saw, just a girl. Dressed in mottled browns with ragged dark hair.
The silence seemed to stretch on, and then the girl whispered, “Sansa?”
How does she know my name? Sansa thought, and she slowly walked forward. “Do I know you?” she ventured, trying to make out the face, but it held no familiarity. It was gaunt and stark, a grim face for a young girl.
“Not anymore,” the girl said. “I have no name now. And he—” She pointed her blade at Sandor. “—He must die.”
“No,” Sansa said firmly. “Nobody is dying. Please, tell me, what was your name?” Familiarity began to itch at the corner of Sansa’s mind, and the young girl lifted her chin, her grey eyes on Sansa. Then it dawned on her, and Sansa’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “Arya,” she breathed.
“You remember,” the girl whispered.
“Yes,” Sansa said. “I remember.” Her voice wavered, though, and she was perhaps more afraid with this knowledge than comforted. “Please, do not harm him. Leave us be and go. He is a different person now, and he won’t harm anyone ever again unless they try to harm me first. You must believe me, Arya. You must forgive, please. For my sake.”
Arya looked between the two of them. It seemed a long moment passed before the dagger in her hands disappeared, and she crept away from the bed towards the window. Without a word, Arya climbed the sill and disappeared beyond it, never making a single sound.
Sandor sheathed his sword. “She will come back,” he ground out.
“Maybe,” Sansa agreed in a quiet voice. “But maybe it will be for better reasons next time.”
“Don’t count on it,” he said.
A year passed, and Sansa sat by the window of their room, holding a newborn son in her arms and singing softly under the night sky. The child had dark hair like his father, but the Tully blue eyes of her and her mother. When Sansa looked up beyond the window, she saw a figure crouched on a rooftop nearby. She recognized the figure, and smiled softly at her. Lifting her voice higher, it carried out into the night.
Her baby fell asleep in her arms, and as her melodious voice reached the figure on the rooftop, a single tear rolled down the listener’s cheek. One of them had a family again. At least one of them had made it.
Arya leapt down from the shingles, and her shadow vanished into the night.