DISCLAIMER: Characters and dialogue excerpts are GRRM's and his alone. Personally I'm far too much like Sandor (minus the whole kinslaying desires, threats of beating and alcoholism and constantly killing people thing…heh…) and love imagining what he was thinking during his many conversations with Sansa Stark.
SanXsan LJ community commentfic meme prompt: There is another battle; another night when the world is burning around them; another darkened chamber. [future scene that mirrors the night of the Blackwater Battle.] What happens this time, in Sansa's bed, as desperation grows frantic, time runs out, and the world burns to ashes for a second time?
Someone had told Daenerys Targaryen about Petyr Baelish.
That was the only explanation for this, but what exactly did the formerly exiled Queen know, Sansa wondered?
Squirreled away in the Vale as they were, winter raging all around, the stories of dragons and Targaryens and faith militant taking back Westeros bit by bit had seemed as if they could almost be no more than legendary tales...for a while. Sansa had been Alayne then, had held onto that alter ego until the day the brothers from the Quiet Isle arrived. They staggered in begging food, shelter, mercy. They weren't supposed to speak, one of them admitted. They'd taken vows of silence. He was a proctor and already he'd been speaking far more than the one day of seven that he was allowed, because a bit more than a fortnight prior the Warrior's Sons had arrived on the Quiet Isle, demanding their gold, their jewels, their arms and their men. It was their duty to provide for the High Septon and the Faith Militant, these 'Sons' announced...and then the Elder Brother had proclaimed that they would do nothing of the sort, that they were peaceful, sworn only to the Seven.
And then the Elder Brother had been run through with a sword and as the Isle erupted in conflict, those who could gather themselves to flee did so.
One of the brothers stood at the back of the group, looming dangerously over his fellows. Petyr had eyed this man and pointed out that he seemed he would belong to the Warrior's Sons rather than the begging brothers.
"Perhaps," the proctor admitted. "But Brother Sandor has been our saving grace on this harrowing journey. He is strong and fearless. He remained behind on the Isle and cut down many before coming after us and vowing to be our...protector, of sorts."
Alayne's heart had stopped then, and suddenly she was Sansa Stark again. Surely there were other men named Sandor in this world, but she could feel the weight of his gaze on her from under his cowl and she knew.
She knew.
"Brother Sandor, is it?" Petyr had said, thoughtfully. "And might I have a word with Brother Sandor?"
"He...he has taken a vow of silence as well, but I...I suppose..." The proctor had turned to Sandor Clegane, who nodded slowly in response. Petyr had called for a servant and directed that the brothers be fed and given shelter from the winter storms for as long as they would stay, and then he had placed a hand on Sansa's shoulder and pulled her aside.
"Don't be frightened, sweetling. Ser Lothor will be with me when I speak to our former...acquaintance. I mean to ascertain whether he is a danger...or whether he can be of use to us."
Sansa had bitten her lip and nodded. What Petyr didn't understand was that strangely enough, she was not frightened. She was shocked, mayhaps a bit concerned...but she kept returning to the words the Hound had uttered to her the night he left King's Landing. "I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."
As Petyr had beckoned for Sandor Clegane to follow him, Sansa felt his eyes on her still. She had stared at her feet until they were gone, not allowing herself to look at him, afraid that if she did she would never be able to look away.
Petyr had come to her bedchamber that night, but thankfully he had not pressed unwanted kisses on her. Not that time. Instead he had said, "Cersei has made what may well be her final grave mistakes."
"She...she has?"
"Oh yes. Sandor Clegane is no longer a Lannister dog, and he has agreed to enter my service as your sworn shield." Petyr had crooked a finger under her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. "Funny how a pretty face can alter a man's alliances," he'd smiled. "As for these Warrior's Sons who are apparently causing so much trouble...well, the re-arming of the Faith was a blunder of epic proportions. Nothing is worse than a righteous fool with a sword, don't you agree?"
Though she hadn't been quite sure what he meant, Sansa had nodded. "Will...will he speak to me? Brother Sandor?" she'd asked, though she hadn't known where the words came from or why she said them at all.
Petyr's mouth quirked into one of those mocking little smiles he tended to give her when she said something he thought was silly. "Sandor Clegane never took the vows that would make him a true brother. It may be that he is quite changed regardless, but yes, I am sure he will speak to you if you start a conversation with him."
That had been months ago now. Petyr had been right; whenever she was able to work up the courage to talk to Sandor, he replied - though his answers were often curt and were obviously meant to stop her from continuing the conversations. If you can even call them conversations, she thought with a sigh.
Sandor Clegane still got drunk sometimes, though admittedly nowhere near as often as he had in King's Landing. When he did drink he turned even more sullen than usual and she would catch him staring at her in ways that made her blush. One of these times she somehow let herself focus on his lips, those lips that had stolen a kiss from her so very long ago - until he suddenly chuckled and rasped, "Stare all you want, little bird. They won't get any prettier."
"I...I'm sorry..." Sansa stumbled over the words and was unsure whether to call him my lord - no, he hates that - or ser - no, he hates that even more - or Hound? But she hated that...so, Sandor? Too familiar by far...
Before she could say anything else, he snorted and walked away, leaving her with so many inner struggles that she didn't even know which one to face first. Why do you care if he speaks to you, looks at you? He is meant to protect you, nothing more. How often Sansa reminded herself of this...but the truth of the matter was that she had for so long missed Sandor Clegane's brutal honesty. She had dreamed of his kiss, felt the ghost of his heavy hand on her shoulder, recalled him pulling or pushing her almost gently from one end of the Red Keep to the other. Yet here at the Gates of the Moon, he never touched her - and Sansa began to wonder if she'd imagined or dreamed up their past, all of it.
The silent brothers from the Quiet Isle were allowed to remain. "As long as I have food to feed you, you are welcome here," Petyr had promised them. Though the men of the faith took this as proof of Lord Baelish's kindness and generosity, of course Sansa knew that her 'father' was merely making them players in his little game. The question that plagued her was whether Sandor Clegane was a player as well. She tried to ignore the hope that welled within her, the hope that perhaps - perhaps - he was no player, and only stayed because of her. "Funny how a pretty face can alter a man's alliances," Petyr had said...but he had never explained what he meant, and Sansa was almost afraid to ask.
How many times had he run from fire, and yet it always found him again. The Mountains of the Moon were burning; Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons were coming for Petyr Baelish.
And how had he ended up here? That damned little bird, Sansa fucking Stark, he'd thought she was relegated to dreams and distant memory...but then he'd followed those begging brothers in their quest to spread the news of the Warrior's Sons' treachery and to find a place to ride out the rest of the winter and there she was, hiding in the Vale. Under a false name and a layer of dull brown hair dye, but he knew who she was the moment he laid eyes on her. And then that buggering proctor had to say his name, Brother Sandor, and though there may be a few or more Sandors in Westeros how many of them boasted his size, his bulk? I'll have to fight my way out of here as well, he thought with disgust, remembering the blood lust that had come over him when the Warrior's Sons had attacked the Quiet Isle. Except...it had been...different. He'd fought for the Elder Brother, slain for no damned reason at all. He'd fought to give other brothers time to escape. Deep down he knew he'd also fought to fight, as he had done so often in the past, but when it was over and the only Warrior's Sons who hadn't fled from the wrath of his sword lay dead or dying, Sandor Clegane had felt...nothing. No desire for wine, for a whore. No anger against the fools who had caused this violence. The only thing he could think was I must find the brothers who fled.And so he had.
But they'd led him here, here to her and to Littlefinger and then that man had voiced a desire to meet with him in private.
"You do not mind breaking your vows, Brother Sandor?" Littlefinger had asked pointedly.
"I took no vows," Sandor rasped. "My silence was an act of penitence, requested by the Elder Brother and agreed upon by me. Now what is it that you want from me?"
"What do I want from you..." Littlefinger leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on its arm. Sandor felt a growl of frustration rise in his throat and was barely able to bite it back before Littlefinger continued, "You fled from the Battle of the Blackwater. From the fire, the Imp said. Is that the only reason you deserted your masters, Clegane?"
Sandor chuckled, a harsh sound. "If I said yes, would you believe me?" When Littlefinger merely raised an eyebrow, Sandor didn't bother to bite back this growl. "I didn't much care for being their dog anymore," he grunted.
"And whose dog did you want to be, then?" The silence stretched between them until finally Littlefinger said, "I believe you noticed my daughter."
"She's no more your daughter than I'm a knight."
"Ahh, so you did recognize her. That's...unfortunate."
"For you, or for me?"
"That remains to be seen. I'm always in need of a talented swordsman, Clegane, and as times grow ever more perilous I begin to feel that my...daughter...should have her own sworn shield. What say you?"
"I say I'd rather be on my way."
Littlefinger tsked at him. "There will be money in it, Clegane. And I remember you taking a certain...interest in her back in King's Landing. You saved her life from the mob, did you not?"
Sandor had to nod; everyone had heard that story and why deny it anyway?
"It may be that she trusts you, and she doesn't trust many people. It is clear at times that she doesn't even trust me." Here Littlefinger sighed and looked sad, but the expression did not extend to his eyes. "I can't let you leave, not now that you know who she is. But if you stay by choice you will have a very important part to play in our little household. And I believe that my Alayne is a bit easier on the eyes and much easier to withstand than your last charge. So I ask again, Hound - what say you?"
Of course he'd said yes - once he'd seen the little bird, how would he have been able to refuse? Of course you would never refuse her, you arse. Littlefinger had played him, and quite easily at that. Sansa fucking Stark's sworn shield, bugger me.
Sandor remembered her in King's Landing, all chirping courtesies, cowering before the Lannisters, never looking him in the eye unless forced to do so. She looks at you now, though.
Aye, and far more often than he'd like. She spoke to him sometimes as well, and he felt that if he allowed it she would converse with him far more often than she already did. Instead he responded as required, and no more. As for that trust that Littlefinger had been hoping for...well, if it was there Sandor didn't notice it. The girl was as careful with him as she was with everyone else, from what he could tell.
Most of the time. There had been that incident where he'd escorted her back to her bedchamber after dinner...he'd drunk a few too many cups of wine and whenever he did that he knew that he watched her a bit too closely. He was sure she caught him doing so more often than she let on, but when she detected his gaze on this night she didn't look away; rather her eyes flitted to his mouth, his lips, and Sansa Stark seemed to lose herself for a moment. He laughed at her, and she became flustered, she apologized, her usual little bird chirps...but Sandor had to walk away then, because something about the way she'd looked at him made him think that if he wrapped his arm about her waist and pulled her in and pressed his lips to hers...she mightn't have protested.
Foolishness doesn't become you, dog. The little bird may be a woman grown now - how long had it been? She must be at least six-and-ten - but though she was older and her body proved this, all soft curves and deeply sad eyes...he was still Sandor Clegane, still an angry drunk with a hideously scarred face. And under her bastard name and different hair color, she was still Sansa fucking Stark...and she was still beautiful. More beautiful, truth be told.
And he'd held a dagger to her throat and forced her to sing a song for him. He'd watched Blount and Trant and the others beat her. Once he'd even taken the chance to remind her of what honorable Lord Eddard had looked like in his death throes.
At times Sandor found himself wishing that the Elder Brother were here to hear his confessions. There were others Sandor could confess to, of course, but on the Isle he'd only ever told his secrets to the Elder Brother and he wasn't sure he felt 'sinful' enough - he scoffed at the word, the thought - to start spilling them to anyone else. Besides, since he'd begun talking and taken up a sword again, the silent brothers who remained at the Gates of the Moon tended to polite nods in his direction and general avoidance of him otherwise. Sandor didn't blame them for this; on the contrary, he'd known the moment that Warrior's Son pulled his sword on the Elder Brother that his time on and his calling to the Quiet Isle was over. Dead, along with the man who had tried to change Sandor Clegane, to gentle him.
He wasn't the Hound any more, that much was certain. And the thought of Littlefinger and of being in that man's service curled his lip as much as it ever could or would have. The truth of the matter was that he had belonged to the little bird for longer than he could remember...only now here he was, charged with her protection, and he had no idea what to do with himself.
Chaos reigned at the Gates of the Moon.
The black dragon - the one that Daenerys Targaryen called Drogon after her dead Dothraki husband - had been spotted soaring above the Vale, a panicked maid told Sansa. It had to have been the beast who set fire to the forests of the Mountains of the Moon, she thought. She knew that she should be frightened but instead she felt a weary sort of calm steal over her. Petyr did not seem to be worried either - he gathered his household in the Great Hall and announced that he would be taking his best men and leaving to treat with the Dragon Queen.
"Surely she has heard some false information and will listen to my reasoning," he smiled.
"'Dunno about that...she is a Targaryen!" someone quipped, and Petyr chuckled.
"Not to worry, friends. I will have a small but able army by my side. Should the Queen decide to attack rather than to listen, she will rue the day that she burned our peaceful land." He raised his cup of wine and called out, "To the Vale!"
"To the Vale!" "To the Vale!" "To the Vale!" the men and women, lords and ladies and servants alike, echoed. Perhaps all of them did not trust Petyr Baelish, but all of them loved their home. Still, there was a hint of desperation in their calls - they all knew that the Dragon Queen was not known for her mercy.
Sansa approached Petyr, but before she could speak he placed a hand on her shoulder and said, "Do not worry, daughter. This can only be good for us, so long as Daenerys agrees to speak with me. I feel that she will be quite interested to hear about you, don't you agree?"
No, I don't agree, I don't! she was screaming inside her head, but of course she did not dare speak these words. "As you say, father," Sansa murmured. From behind her she heard Sandor Clegane snort. She knew what he was thinking - something about a little bird and her chirps, of course. Petyr looked over her shoulder at her sworn shield.
"Something you wish to say, Clegane?" Petyr asked, his eyes narrowed as if daring Sandor to say 'yes'. But Sandor's lips merely stretched into a grim, ugly smile and he shook his head. "I thought not," Petyr continued. "I thought on taking you with me, but I think you're better served here, protecting my daughter as you've sworn to do. Still, I'd prefer you to position yourself outside the gates, on the other side of the moat - just in case."
Sansa was staring wide-eyed at Sandor, and for once he met her gaze. His grey eyes were hard, cold, unreadable, yet Sansa felt herself nearly go weak in the knees as he looked at her, seemingly through her. It was only when Petyr's hand tightened on her shoulder and pulled her toward him that Sandor finally looked away. "I'll be back soon, sweetling," Petyr fairly cooed, brushing the fingers of his free hand down her cheek and over her collarbone. It took every ounce of her inner strength to not shudder or pull away, especially as she could once again feel Sandor's eyes on both of them. Thankfully there were far too many people present and Petyr satisfied himself with a chaste kiss on her cheek before sweeping off with Lothor Brune and several others close on his heels.
It was several hours before Petyr and his men mounted their horses and rode away. Sansa stood in the yard and watched them leave, the powdery snow of late winter swirling about her feet in the wind, the smell of fire and ash in the air. She heard Sandor approach, his mail scraping as he walked toward her, but she did not turn toward him. He stopped beside her and from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the unscarred side of his face as he said, "I'm leaving the castle, but I'll be just through the gates, just across the moat. Keep to your chambers, little bird. Your father is far less concerned about this than he should be."
"I know," Sansa whispered, and he looked at her again, his eyes boring into her. She thought for a moment he would say something else, something more, but instead Sandor merely grunted, "Remember what I said. Keep to your chambers."
And then he was gone.
Day faded into evening and evening into night, but until the skies that were gray with cloud and smoke grew black, Sansa could hardly tell the difference. And even then the fires burning in the distance grew ever closer, belying a comment Petyr had made that the snow that covered the ground and dampened the limbs of the trees would surely stop the flames from reaching the Gates of the Moon.
It's dragonfire, not wildfire...it looks almost normal but is magic all the same... Sansa brooded as she stood at the window in her chambers and gazed out over the Vale. The Gates of the Moon seemed cloaked in near silence, the majority of their inhabitants gone off with Petyr or prowling across the moat in hopes of protecting those still inside. Sandor, she thought, feeling a strange sharp pain in her chest as she pictured him standing beside her as he had earlier that day, strength emanating from him, his shadow engulfing her, a shade of protection...
Suddenly the door to her chambers burst open and Sansa spun away from the window with her heart in her throat...but it was only Randa and Mya.
"There you are!" Randa cried, shaking her head and tutting. Mya shut the door behind them and the two girls approached her, both crossing their arms over their chests - though Randa's expression spelled amused annoyance while Mya simply looked angry. Sansa had been avoiding them since Sandor had arrived and been named her sworn shield, but she had very good reasons for doing so and they weren't reasons she could ever explain to her friends without giving herself away.
"H-hello," she stammered, forcing a weak smile.
"Hello yourself," Mya fairly growled. Randa shot a look at her and stepped forward to take Sansa's hands.
"You must be so very scared for your father, dear, but I assure you we have nothing to worry about here. We are innocent women, after all, and the Dragon Queen is known to be quite understanding of those who did not bow to her only in fear of what their rebellious lords would do."
Daenerys Targaryen has to know what Petyr's done, or she wouldn't have come here. Someone told her. Perhaps she already knows that I am here, Sansa Stark whose father helped lead Robert's Rebellion, whose brother rose to be King in the North. The last Stark of Winterfell, heir to that seat and to my brother's crown should I desire it. Myranda Royce and Mya Stone may be safe, but I am not.
I am not.
Randa must have misunderstood the stricken look on Sansa's face, for she wrapped her in a hug and squeezed tightly for a moment. "Besides, you have your sworn shield, and by the looks of him and the way he looks at you it would take a dozen men or more to cut him down, if they dared even try at all. Now tell us, dear...why have you been avoiding us?"
"Don't bother, Randa. She'll only say she hasn't been," Mya scoffed. Sansa bit her lip. Mya was right, that had been the first answer that came to her mind - that she hadn't been avoiding them, she'd simply been...what? Busy? She nearly laughed at herself. Sandor was right; she was a terrible liar.
"I...I'm sorry," she said instead, pulling away from Randa and spreading her hands in supplication. Randa waved away her apology and settled onto the bed.
"I have a guess as to why you've been avoiding us," she hinted.
"Now's not the time, Randa," Mya warned, rolling her eyes.
"Of course it is! If we're all to die tonight, burned to a crisp by dragonfire, I'd prefer to do it on good terms with my friends and with a juicy tidbit or two to make me smile when I greet the Seven."
"Randa!" Sansa gasped, surprised that even her carefree, convivial friend could say such a blasphemous thing. Again Randa waved her off.
"I'll come right out and say it, then; it's time you had a man and if you want one I have a feeling that your sworn shield is yours for the taking. And I have a feeling you would not protest having him, either."
Sansa's mouth opened, closed, opened again. She was well aware that she looked like a fish, but she was so shocked that she almost didn't care. Is it really that obvious that I want him? she wondered in a panic.
"You don't need to play the innocent around us, Alayne. You may be a maid, but you're a woman grown now and if we're not blind to the way that man looks at you, you can't be blind to it either," Mya pointed out.
"I...I don't think this is the time..." was all Sansa could think to say. "Perhaps...we can discuss this tomorrow?" Randa sighed and looked up at her with eyes that looked almost sad.
"I suppose you're right," Randa sighed. "We'll leave you to your fire-gazing. But this conversation isn't over." She stood, taking Mya by the hand, and they left Sansa alone again.
She missed Randa and Mya's company, truly she did. But when she returned to the window and saw that far from abating, the flames were licking ever closer to the Gates of the Moon, Sansa knew that she'd been right to send them away. She also knew that she ought to obey Sandor's order to stay in her chambers, but suddenly she felt a strong desire to visit the godswood.
If they storm the Gates, that is where I should be, she knew. With that Sansa wrapped herself in her warmest cloak and ran from her chambers, hearing her long-dead septa's voice chiding her from the grave - "Ladies never run, Sansa." But run she did, down the hall, down the stairs, through the front entrance, past the sept where the door was flung open and the brothers from the Quiet Isle were kneeling silently before the statues of the Seven, to the grove of weirwoods where she fell to her knees and began her own whispered prayers. For the men with Petyr, that they would not perish by dragonfire or sword; for Randa and Mya and Sweetrobin and the servants at the Gates of the Moon, that they would not fall victim to the Dragon Queen's wrath; for Sandor Clegane, that he would be strong and fierce and keep them safe...as she knew he could.
As she knew he must.
You're overreacting, Sandor told himself. Littlefinger did not leave you here because he thinks you a coward. If he believed that he would not have set you to guard the little bird in the first place. Yet still he seethed at being left behind to - what was it the little bugger had said? - protect his daughter? Station himself across the moat just in case?
Of course that 'just in case' was beginning to look as if it would come to pass. Littlefinger had ridden out in the morning but from what Sandor could tell the fires had already burned far past where he should have met the Dragon Queen. Why is it always, always fire?
Sansa Stark damn well better have listened to him and kept to her chambers. The supposed Butcher of Saltpans and the daughter of the traitor Ned Stark in one place, ripe for the picking if Daenerys Targaryen wanted them. And oh, she would want them. The formerly exiled Queen and her dragons had made short work of the dissenters in King's Landing, Storm's End, Highgarden and Casterly Rock. She'd blown through the Riverlands and leveled the Twins; in recent months word had reached the Vale that it was said no Frey was left alive in all of Westeros, though Sandor thought that must be an exaggeration. The Queen had yet to visit the North, but if the stories could be believed winter and wights had killed most of those who resided there, anyway.
Still...the Vale had remained peaceful during the War of the Five Kings, so if the Dragon Queen was coming now, she must know something that Sandor didn't. He recalled the look on the little bird's face earlier that day. She knows why the Queen would come for Littlefinger, he suddenly realized. It was a sobering thought, that Sansa Stark knew something he did not.
Likely she knows much and more that you don't know, dog.
Sandor could and would have dwelt on this for quite some time, but just then he heard a shout from the closest guardtower. "She's sent a probe!" the man called out, and Sandor did not care for the fear that he heard in the guard's voice. Other than that single yell the night had been silent; was the man seeing things? It was so quiet that though he could not see the swordsmen who were equally spaced along the outer walls of the Gates of the Moon, he heard the scrapes and hisses as they pulled their swords nearly as one. Better safe than sorry.
The enemy approached so quietly that in the end Sandor was surprised that the men in the guardtower had noticed anything at all. He himself would have missed their arrival had the man who came for him not pulled his sword prematurely, causing it to glint through the trees when a nearby torch flickered just so. Sandor barely had time to let out a shout of warning to his fellows before the Dragon Queen's man was on him.
Sword met sword and Sandor blocked out the sounds of the others fighting. No sooner had he knocked the first man to the ground than two more were on him; when they were vanquished, another appeared. They poured out of the dark forest like wine from a carefully tipped jug, slowly but surely, and he realized that there must not be so many of them if they were trying to wear him and the other men guarding the Gates down like this.
Though it could not have been but a few minutes, it seemed hours before Sandor had a moment to breathe. When he did he fully expected a complete van to overrun them...but nothing happened. He ran along the wall to help Littlefinger's other guards; many of them were dead but far more of the Queen's men lay unmoving. Sandor could hear quite a few of the enemy swordsmen crashing through the brush, back toward their Queen, the sounds slowly fading into the distance - but the gates had not been breached and that was something.
Unfortunately he knew that there was more to come. The men now returning to Daenerys Targaryen would inform her that the Gates of the Moon had been left with few to guard it.
Blasted Littlefinger had made an even bigger blunder than Sandor had originally thought. Ash was swirling in the air now and Sandor swore that he could hear the fire crackling and rushing toward the Gates of the Moon. He wiped at his face and his hand came away sticky.
So it's not just sweat there, he thought with a grunt. He stared at the dark smear of blood on his hand, shining in the flickering light of the torches lining the outer wall. For a moment he was frozen, remembering another night with fire bearing down on him and blood on his face and the little bird held prisoner, Maegor's Holdfast her cage.
It's past time for me to leave this place...and this time she will come with me, he decided. Sandor turned on his heel and made for the postern gate. He was fully mailed but moved at a fast clip, his armor creaking and clanking as he strode through the yard, past the godswood and then the sept, toward the main entrance - yet again thinking that Sansa Stark damn well better be in her chambers. Through the doors, up the stairs, down the hall to the little bird's cage. The door stood open and Sandor fairly burst through the doorway.
The room was empty.
The curtains had been drawn back and the no-longer-distant flames lit it with an eerie fiery glow, but the fear that rose like bile in his throat was not caused by the coming inferno, but rather by the conspicuous absence of Sansa Stark.
Where in the seven hells could she be?
When she was finished praying for her friends, the fellow residents of the Gates, and Sandor, Sansa began praying for guidance. If the Dragon Queen arrived and found Sansa Stark hiding here behind walls and swords, what would she think? Daenerys Targaryen did not fight with her men, but she rode on Drogon's back as he burned cities to the ground, or stood just behind the battle giving orders herself. She was a warrior in her own right, Sansa knew. And so am I.
Sandor was a concern, though. She could not simply leave him to the Queen's wrath; she would need help. She would need the silent begging brothers of the Quiet Isle, and she would need them to speak. Sansa finally stood, brushed off her skirts, and made her way to the sept. On her way there, however, she heard shouts from the far side of the outer walls, and then suddenly the clanging of swords.
Sansa broke into a run.
In the sept the brothers were crowded around the Warrior, the Father and the Mother in near equal numbers. "I need to speak with one of you!" she gasped. The proctor stood and approached her, a weary look on his face. "What is it, child?" he asked. Though part of Sansa felt badly for forcing him to talk, another part of her wanted to scream at him - at all of them - for being so damned passive. But she knew that railing at the proctor or the other brothers would not help her case, so instead she placed her hand on his arm and said quietly, "I need your help."
"Your father has helped us greatly, my dear, and for that we owe him much. If we can assist you, we will," the proctor agreed.
"Brother...you must know that Lord Baelish is not my father," Sansa admitted. When the proctor exchanged a glance with the brother closest to him, she understood that they already knew this. Did Sandor tell them? she wondered, but she decided it did not matter and pushed on. "The Dragon Queen will likely come here, and soon," she said, looking back over her shoulder to the distant sounds of men fighting, feeling a pang in her heart knowing that one of them must be Sandor. "I propose that we go to meet her. You are innocent men who've taken no part in any quarrel with her, and I am a girl who was not yet born when Aerys and Rhaegar were killed. I would go on my own, but I need you brothers to speak for Sandor Clegane, to assure that he is proven innocent of the Rape of Saltpans. You were all on the Isle when this happened, were you not? And he was there as well, recovering from his grievous wound?"
She waited until the proctor and several other brothers who were listening nodded. "It is time for me to leave this place," she announced. "Past time, in fact. I will not have Daenerys Targaryen find me cowering behind these walls. Winter is nearly over, brother, I can feel it in my bones. Perhaps the Dragon Queen will help you retake and rebuild your Quiet Isle; perhaps she will help bring me home. So will you come with me? Will you help me?"
A moment passed, then two, then three. Finally the proctor looked back to his brothers, who were all watching him expectantly. When he turned to face Sansa again, he nodded.
"Yes, Lady Stark. We will help you."
Sansa nearly wanted to grab his face and kiss him full on the lips, but that was not something a Lady would do. It was something Alayne Stone would do, perhaps, but now she was to be Sansa Stark again. Everyone would know her as such, and she must act accordingly.
"I must retrieve some things from my chambers," she said. "I'll return within the hour, and then we must hasten away before Lord Baelish returns. Will you be ready to leave?"
"We came here with the clothes on our backs, my lady, and that is how we will go from this place," the proctor replied, and she could have sworn a smile played across his lips for a moment. "We shall wait here in the sept for your return."
Sansa dropped a slight curtsy and fairly raced from the sept. Gods, but she hoped that Sandor was all right...
And then she saw him. It had to be him; the only other man near his size in Petyr's household was Lothor Brune, and he'd gone to meet the Queen with his master...
She shouted Sandor's name as he shoved open the doors to the Gates of the Moon and strode through them, but he must not have heard her, he didn't stop...Sansa hurried after him, damn these laces, damn this dress, and she nearly giggled at the knowledge that she kept thinking that foul word, damn damn damn...
Am I going mad? she wondered. Chasing after Sandor Clegane, planning to escape from Petyr's clutches, to present herself to Daenerys Targaryen as Lady Sansa, The Last Known Stark...
She could smell the fire in the air, ash and smoke and flames, and as she ran up the stairs to her chambers, breathless from the exertion, she remembered fleeing from the hall in Maegor's the night of the Blackwater. It had smelled nearly the same, and she had walked at first, then, breaking into a run only when she was sure no one worthwhile would see her...but she had been full of fear, a little girl, really, and now she felt only a blind sort of courage and something like hope and when she burst into her room and Sandor turned toward her, the glow of the dragonfire flickering across his hideously scarred yet wonderfully familiar face, Sansa smiled.
"Fool girl! Where have you been, why are you smiling?" Sandor growled, wrapping a hand around one of her wrists, enclosing it in an iron grip. "There's a battle out there, little bird, and we're not winning it, you know."
Sansa Stark cocked her head at him. "That doesn't matter," she said, and he was so surprised by the conviction in her voice that he nearly forgot what he'd come here to say. Sandor narrowed his eyes at her.
"I suppose it doesn't. We're going."
"Going? Yes, of course we're going," the little bird agreed, shocking him yet again. She moved toward him and Sandor almost took a step back, but she was gazing up at him with a curious look on her face, the fiery glimmers of light from the window revealing tinges of auburn in her dyed-brown hair, and he found himself tightening his hold on her wrist as he said, "I'll keep you safe. They won't harm you, no one will-"
"Yes," she said, smiling again. "If they do, you'll kill them all." She raised her free hand and cupped his cheek. He remembered this touch, remembered it all too well, but this time, this time, something was different.
There was no fear in her eyes.
Almost without knowing what he was doing, Sandor released her wrist and wrapped his arm around her back, clasping her to him, barely registering the fact that the little bird tipped her head back and rose on her toes to meet him.
When Sandor's lips touched Sansa's, it was as if his heat was transferred to her. She could feel it pooling in the pit of her stomach - no, she thought, lower than that... Her knees felt weak, her head light, as she surrendered herself to his kiss. Willingly, this time. For a moment his mouth was hard on hers, but then it was open and she felt his tongue dart across her lips, coaxing her to follow his lead. Sansa obeyed and as their tongues played against each other she felt the muscles in his arm tighten against her back, holding her body more firmly against his as she lost herself in their kiss. He did not taste of wine this time, but there was blood there, and sweat, and though Sansa knew that she should not feel this way the tastes of these things made her want more, more, more. It was as if the wolf inside of her had truly awoken and she heard herself let loose a growling little moan...
Suddenly Sandor broke away, looking at her as if she'd lost her mind. There was anger there, too, but whether his anger was for her or for himself she could not tell. "What...in the seven hells...was that, little bird?" he asked, breathing heavily, his chest heaving as he spoke.
"You...you kissed me," Sansa replied, unsure, stepping toward him, reaching out her hand. Kiss me again, she wanted to say, but he drew back from her. Frustrated, Sansa squared off and snapped, "Why did you come here?" Why aren't you still out there fighting, why did you kiss me, why are you trying to ruin everything?
Her words echoed in his head. Why did you come here? Why did you come here? He wanted to say, "Certainly not to kiss you, little bird," but that wasn't really an answer, now was it? You promised me a song, that's what he'd said the last time she'd found him in her chambers while the world burned around them...but he'd taken that song and left her in King's Landing, left her to be beaten by Joffrey's words and the kingsguards' hands, left her to be bespoiled by the Imp...
She did not cringe away from you; she kissed you in return, said a niggling little voice in the back of his mind. And she was looking at him now, looking him right in the face. She seemed more worried than scared and he didn't have to tell her to look at him. With a grunt that was part frustration and part wonder, Sandor moved to Sansa Stark's bed and sat down. For a moment the girl paused, looking at him, the window, the door.
And then she moved for the latter and shut it gently, bolting it against unwanted intruders before turning to face him again. When she approached him Sandor felt his heart begin thumping wildly in his chest; the same way it had when she'd startled him awake by sitting on her bed in Maegor's, whimpering about something or other.
Just then a swirling lance of copper and crimson rose from the forests, spitting at the stars and lighting the room with a fiery glare. The little bird suddenly looked nothing like a bird but a fierce goddess, her hair nearly crackling in the light, her eyes glowing like an animal's.
Like a wolf's.
And Sandor knew that he had to have her.
She'd heard her Aunt Lysa's screams when Petyr took her in their marriage bed. She'd dreamed of the Hound in her own bed and she'd heard Randa's stories. A surprising calm washed over Sansa as she sat beside Sandor on her bed. He took hold of her again and yanked her closer and though she wanted him to kiss her, wanted to close her eyes and feel his lips on hers again, instead she continued to gaze at him.
"You can bear to look at me now," he stated.
"I've been looking at you for months. Or hadn't you noticed?" Sansa replied softly.
"Aye, I noticed." He paused. "I'm not a kind or gentle man, little bird."
She reached up and cupped his cheek again; it felt like the right thing to do. The window was behind him and she could not see his face, but she could feel the blood and the sweat. No tears this time... Sansa thought, and this pleased her. "I do not want or need a kind or gentle man. I desire strength and honesty and those things you absolutely possess," she whispered.
Sandor tugged at her arm, not ungently, and pushed her down onto the bed. He hovered over her for a long moment and finally said, "Little bird," his voice rough and full of what could only be called emotion. When he lowered his head to kiss her Sansa arched into him, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pressing her body against his in the ferocity of her need. But she was met with the hard and unforgiving metal of his mail and she fell back with a whimper of frustration. Sandor paused and in another flash of light she saw the combination of desire and concern on his face.
"Your mail," she said by way of explanation, and with a snarl he stood and began fairly tearing it off, throwing it piece by piece to the floor. Sansa propped herself up on her elbows and watched him divest himself of the breast plate and plackard, cuisses and greaves, bit by bit until he was wearing just a pair of hosen yet his bulk was barely diminished - but far from being frightened, seeing him like this made her entire being pulse with heat.
He came back to her slowly, sitting on the bed beside her, and when he reached for her she grabbed hold of him and pulled downward until he covered her body with his. One large calloused hand rested at the neckline of her dress and she nodded, though when he tore it away from her Sansa couldn't help but gasp.
Seven heavens and seven hells couldn't have prepared him for this, for Sansa Stark...offering herself to him?
Is that what this is? The little bird coming to me, ready and willing? It well and truly felt like it as she pressed her body against his, reminded him to remove his armor, nodded her permission for him to do away with her dress. She expelled a sharp breath when he tore it off of her but she didn't vocalize any further protest as he ran his fingertips around the outside curve of her perfect little teat, watching in wonder as her nipple immediately rose into a hard pink nub. He bent to kiss her, barely touching her lips before running his own along her jawline, down her neck, over her collarbone, between her breasts, before finally taking her aroused little nipple into his mouth, sucking on it gently until the girl sighed with pleasure.
Sandor released her breast and took hold of her hand, guiding it below his waist and pressing it against his full, throbbing cock. "Do you feel what you do to me, little bird?" he asked hoarsely, suckling at the dip between her neck and her shoulder before continuing, "This will not be like it was with the Imp, I promise you that."
Sansa wriggled under him and he allowed her to pull her hand away. "The Imp?" she cried. "Why would you speak of him now?"
Confused, Sandor raised himself up on his hands, looking down at her face, at her eyes that were both angry and defensive. "He was - is - your husband, girl," he growled. "I speak of him because no matter how he treated you in the marriage bed, this will be different."
She screwed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. "Sandor...Tyrion never treated me any which way in our marriage bed. I'm still a maid."
A sickening feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. This could not be true; if it was, how could he continue this...this...whatever it was? "You lie," he snarled softly, wanting to believe that she was lying. If she wasn't...
But no, she looked him directly in the eye and insisted, "I do not."
Gods, she really is a maid. Sandor raked his eyes over Sansa's body and felt his cock pulse with need. "If that is true..." he said through gritted teeth. Say it. Say you cannot take her, cannot ruin her like that.
"Of course it is true," Sansa replied, exasperated. "But it changes nothing." She reached for him again and Sandor allowed her to guide his lips to hers, relaxing his body against hers until his erection was pressing against her thigh. His wanting of her was almost painful, almost more of a need than anything else, and Sandor groaned as he reached down and pushed up her skirts, running his hand up the smooth curve of her leg until he found her cunt and brushed his fingertips over its folds, finding her so slippery wet with her own juices that he was rendered nearly incapable of anything other than carnal thought.
"You want this," he growled in his surprise, then he swore inwardly at his mistake - he hadn't meant to say that out loud.
But, "Yes," the little bird breathed. Then again, "Yes."
She said "yes" and she meant it, meant it more than she'd probably ever meant anything. Sansa recalled Randa's lengthy descriptions of how amazing it felt to experience a man and wondered whether Randa had ever experienced a man like Sandor. His weight was heavy on her and she could feel his manhood hard against her leg; his kisses were rough but his callused hands were surprisingly gentle. When he played with the folds of her woman's place she felt herself automatically bear down on his fingers, and he broke their kiss and took her other nipple in his mouth, teasing it with the tip of his tongue until she reached up and clenched his long dark hair in her hand. Her dress was wrapped around her waist and tangled under her legs and she twisted beneath him, wanting it out of the way, wanting him undressed as well, wanting him to be as exposed as she was.
He understood, somehow, and rolled to the side to take hold of her dress and help her pull it over her head. Sansa moved her hand and placed it over the bulge of his erection under his hosen and Sandor grunted as he pushed with his hands and kicked with his legs until he was naked as his name day, naked as she was. As he settled himself beside her, Sansa turned her back to him and nestled it against his chest. She reached for his hand and wrapped it around her waist, and when Sandor bent his head toward hers she murmured, "Randa told me it would hurt less, this way."
With a shuddering sigh Sandor slid his manhood between her legs to rest against her folds. He moved the hand that she had wrapped around her waist, reached down with it and being stroking the nub above her entrance in firm circles until she felt a hot pressure building beneath her mound and began grinding herself against him. He was there, right there, and the sudden longing to feel him inside of her was almost more than she could bear.
Sansa was facing the window now and could see the night sky still lit with dragonfire - and she knew then that this was right.
Gods, if he did not do this soon...
No whore, no fight, no jug of wine had ever made Sandor feel like this, his cock squeezed between Sansa Stark's legs, pressed against her cunt. He had wanted to balk this position, had wanted her to look him in the face, but now he embraced it, burying his nose in her thick hair as she moved against him. "Little bird," he breathed, and she reached around and grabbed hold of the back of his head, pulling it closer.
Now, he knew. Now, now, now.
Sandor moved the hand that he'd been using to rub the firm little pearl amongst her folds, reaching for himself. Sansa moaned, a guttural sound that seemed out of place coming from her - but he took this as his cue to slide his cock into her. Though she was wet and ready for him he tried to move slowly, even when her tightness enveloped him and he nearly bit down on his lip, groaning with the effort of keeping still when he felt the little bird tense against him. He waited several moments before gently thrusting his hips toward her again, but this time he could not stop, not even when she let out a short cry of pain.
When Sandor entered her it felt uncomfortable at first, but it was only when he pushed his full length inside of her that Sansa felt the pain she'd been told to expect. She cried out, then, and with a low growl he stopped moving. She was trembling, but when he began to slowly pull away she whispered, "No. Stay." As much as it hurt, the idea of him not being inside her made Sansa ache with a new, different sort of longing. She waited until the sharp pain had dulled and realized that beneath it there was still a delicious sort of pressure below her stomach, and she began moving again. Sandor slid his right arm beneath her and gently brushed a nipple with his fingertips as his left hand began kneading that firm button of flesh that gave her such pleasure.
Sansa finally sighed. This act seemed almost pleasant, now, and so when Sandor gently pulled himself out of her, hushing her protests, and rolled over onto his back she obeyed his summons and settled herself on top of him. Again he guided his manhood between her folds and though the sensation was slightly unpleasant for a moment, his hands were light on her hips and as she kissed him full on the mouth she found herself rocking over him, following the hints her body gave her and finding a rhythm that caused the pressure inside of her to begin building again, building and building and building and suddenly she had to break the kiss, her mouth forming a silent "oh" as his lips searched for hers again and his hands reached down to cup her bottom and then -
There, there, there, and she murmured "Sandor!" as something bloomed within her, an explosion of sensation the likes of which she'd never felt, never imagined.
When the little bird's movements became for a moment more frenzied, Sandor knew what must be happening but didn't dare believe it, not until she spoke his name, his name and her cunt constricted around him and suddenly he lost himself, pushing up into her with all the force he could muster and spilling his seed as she rode out her pleasure on top of him, making blissful little mewling sounds near his ruined ear, her perfect smooth skin pressed against his scarred face and her not caring one bit that this was the case.
Soon they were still and he lay there in silence, not wanting to end this...this fantasy. He chuckled at the sudden thought; fantasies and dreams were things of songs, and songs belonged to Sansa Stark, not to him.
"My...my lord?" the girl whispered, in reply to his laugh. Sandor tangled his hands in her hair and pulled her face toward his, kissing her with the passion that their coupling had awoken in him before mumbling, "I am no lord," against her mouth.
This time, she was the one who laughed.
Sated and exhausted, for a moment Sansa wanted nothing more than to stay here like this, draped over her lover - lover, your lover, you've taken a lover, she mused with a smile - but she knew they must be on their way. "I thought we were going?" she reminded him playfully.
"Aye," he grunted. "You distracted me from that, little bird."
With a sigh she moved away from him. There will be other chances for this, there will be more time, she promised herself. "No more distractions, then. I have a plan."