The Hound had brought his little bird to Pentos. Across the Narrow Sea but still near enough to hear news, it appeared to be the best place for Sansa Stark to escape, to lay low, to gather her strength. For what, Sandor Clegane wasn't sure. But he wanted her to be ready, wanted her to live free of a cage for a while. At least until she decided what she wanted to do. He knew that Winterfell would always be her home, and eventually, that would be where he would take her. He would don his sword and armour again and brave that fucking cold to take the little bird home. Because he'd promised.
Pentos was not the safest of cities, but Sandor knew he could guard the girl against virtually anyone or anything. He worked for a little coin in the mornings, but was home by the afternoon most days. The girl had her orders from him; stay inside, keeps the doors locked, don't open them for anyone but me. He would have gone crazy staying inside the tiny house they were renting near the docks. Nothing to do, nothing to see, he didn't know how she wasn't mad by now.
And Pentos was hot at this time of year. Sun hanging high in the sky, it warmed everything. Sandor was relishing in it. The cold made his bones ache, and the cold meant fires to keep warm. He preferred this natural warmth, and liked breathing in the salty breeze off the water. He thought he could stay quite happily in Pentos for the rest of his days; were his brother not still alive, had the little bird asked it of him. But she wouldn't ask that, he knew. And he wouldn't expect her to. He had promised to protect her, not make her play house with a fucking dog in the free cities.
Sandor's thoughts drifted to the little bird once again. The house was small, two rooms and a guarderobe. They slept in the same bed at night. He had offered to sleep on the floor on his bedroll but she had snapped and told him he ought to stop being "ridiculous." He almost chuckled again, thinking of that day. It made him reconsider calling her a little bird. She was a she-wolf, through and through. She slept fitfully beside him though, waking up often during the night, and sometimes he would find her hanging half out the window, breathing deeply.
He was reminded that the girl was more wolf than bird more often these days. The longer they were away from King's Landing, the stronger she grew. She still chirped away constantly, but he minded it less now. And she minded him less. He noticed her watching him often, gazing upon him as they sat in their cramped kitchen together as night fell. She would absent-mindedly touch him as if it were nothing; slipping her arm though his as they walked in the street, leaning over him to grab things as if he weren't even there. And it shocked him. Doesn't she know it burns when she touches me?
And sometimes he would wake up in the night to find her curled into his side, a slender arm thrown across his chest. If he wanted to, he could lean down a place a kiss on her face. And oh, how we wanted to. How he wanted to mark the little she-wolf for his own. But he didn't. Wouldn't. He'd made a promise to keep her safe, and that included keeping her safe from himself.
Sometimes he would try to shift her arms off him, try to move her over, but she'd just slither back in beside him minutes later, head tucked into the crook of his neck, her breath fluttering lightly against his skin. Sometimes he was sure she was awake, draping a skinny leg so possessively over his own, nestling into his body. But she wouldn't mention it the next day, and neither would he. And how could he? He was still trying to apologise for that horrific night on the Battle of Blackwater where he had scared her half to death; and for what reason? Because he was drunk? Because he wanted to? He didn't know. He only knew that he had to keep her safe now, had to keep his promise.
She had trusted him, and he would die for that trust.
She still didn't say his name though. Sometimes he could see her lips curling around the word but she never let it past her lips. On a good day she would call him 'Ser' and he would pretend not to hear her. Otherwise, she didn't call him anything. She didn't need to. He knew. The dog with no name.
He rarely used her name for that matter. He pretended it was for her own safety. If someone were to find out that this was Sansa Stark of Winterfell … but that wasn't the reason. They were safe enough.
If he said her name, she would be real. Real and dangerous and powerful; too much so for her age and experience and standing. That would be too intimate for a man of his low birth, he told himself. Not that he abided by courtesies at any other time, not that he abided by propriety when he let her sleep with him of nights. He scoffed at his own foolishness.
He was sitting outside their little house in Pentos one afternoon. Or home, Sandor thought, his mouth twisting wryly. He could call this home. It was growing later in the day, and he was sat enjoying the sun on his face, when the girl poked her head out of the front door.
She was smiling, but it was not the girlish smile of the scrap of a girl he had taken from King's Landing. Her eyes held sadness now; bitterness, anger. Like his. Her Tully blue eyes were ice now. Her hair was fire. She was so real, not that whelp of a thing from years ago, head continuously in the clouds, preoccupied by fantasy. This girl was concerned with real things, this girl of ice and fire. "Time to eat," she told him, kicking the door open with her foot as she waited for him to enter.
He continuously wanted to laugh at how she had changed. Little Sansa Stark would never have kicked a door open with her foot, cursed when something didn't go her way, or stand up to the Hound. Now she did all three without a second thought. Not that she had lost her imagination or love for knights and maids and stories and songs. She hummed Florian and Jonquil near every morning, and she would get people from the marketplace to tell her fantastical stories of the Pentos of old, listening with rapt wide eyes while he shifted impatiently behind her.
He didn't mind stories so much himself, now. Sometimes she would tell him stories of Winterfell; stories about her father and mother, her brothers, her little direwolf of a sister, of her maester and her nurse Old Nan, and he would listen quietly as she rambled on into the night.
And sometimes she asked him questions about his own childhood, his home. She asked very carefully, tentatively, and he would answer truthfully, not matter how it may shock the girl. She coped though, listening attentively and never once offering the pity that she knew would hate. They minded each other less now, they were better with each other. They knew.
She'd put out a small spread for dinner; bread, cheese, some fruits and other things. It was far too hot to eat the stews and soups of home, and the girl was no cook. Sandor cut a chunk of bread for himself as he sat opposite the little bird, both of them silent. She was engrossed in her meal; they had found good fresh fruit at the market earlier that day and she was delighted about it. He took the opportunity to watch her.
She was made for winter, he knew that much. Her red hair curled in sweaty tendrils around her face, the rest hanging limp down her back. She couldn't wear her woollen gowns from home, but the light and revealing gowns that the fashionable ladies of Pentos wore were not to her taste. She looked uncomfortable; a she-wolf in the wrong environment.
Sansa looked up from her dinner to see him watching her intently and her face flushed red. "Yes?" She asked curiously.
Sandor ducked his head. "Nothing," he said gruffly.
He heard the girl sigh, leaning back in her chair, one hand fanning her face. "It's so hot here," she complained.
He didn't say anything, only watched her, taking another bite of his bread. If it was possible, he watched her flush even darker. "Not that I'm not grateful!" She insisted. He realised she thought she was flouting all those courtesies she'd learned by heart at court. He started to speak, but of course she chirped over him; "Sorry, sorry," she said, "I've never actually … said thank you properly, for what you did for me."
He started to speak again, and held his breath in as the little bird leant across the table and put her small hand over his mouth. "No," she ordered. He could see the wolf glittering in her eyes. "You never let me say thank you, because … because you still think you've done wrong by me. Well … we're both different people now, Sandor Clegane, and you saved me. Thank you."
He took her hand off his mouth and held it briefly in his own. "Aye, girl. You're welcome." He didn't know what to say. Wolves and dogs did not speak the same language.
She sighed tiredly, sitting back down again. "Although … gods …" she looked as if she were about to cry or laugh or both. "It's so bloody hot here!" She exclaimed. He wondered if she really had gone mad, trapped in this house alone. My wouldn't that be wonderful, he thought wryly, he would take her back home to Winterfell so she could crown herself Mad Queen in the North.
With that, Sandor watched her storm to the door, lifting a full bucket of water that she kept there to rinse her hands with after she'd been outside, still the highborn maid after all this time, and tip the entire thing over her head. He watched her chest heave with gasping laughter, watched her flick her red hair off her face. She sighed in relief as she felt her body go cool enough to shiver.
And Sandor knew it was time, then. Pentos could be there home no longer. "Does the she-wolf need winter?" He asked dryly.
Sansa let a small sob escape her. "It's too hot." He knew she was not just talking about the weather.
He approached her almost awkwardly, this girl he had been sleeping beside for months yet barely touched, except in the darkness, in the silence. "I know," he said, sucking in his breath as the girl practically went limp in his arms. It has been a long time since she has been touched with affection also, he reminded himself.
He put his hands tentatively on her back, her hair dripping cool water onto his arms. He felt her sniff into his tunic. "I want to go home. It's time to go home." She whispered.
"Aye," Sandor pulled back to look at her, putting one finger under her chin. "We'll get you home."
And he knew that no matter what they faced, he would do it. He would get his she-wolf home to Winterfell, because he'd made a promise. Because that was where she belonged. And he'd promised to keep her safe, so he belonged by her side.