Author's Note: This fic is rather dark and the ending - which is already written - is… open, so don't read this if you can't stand this sort of conclusion and make sure you read the warnings.
Written for adksansan.
Characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
This fic is rather dark and the ending - which is already written - is… open, so don't read this if you can't stand this sort of conclusion and make sure you read all the warnings.
This is a continuation of 'Nobody's Woman' you can find on AO3 but as this short piece was a variation about the Blackwater night, you can read this even if you never read 'Nobody's Woman'. I published the first part of the first chapter on LJ for the SanSan Russian Roulette.
Burn one's bridges: intentionally cut off one's own retreat (burn a bridge one has crossed) to commit oneself to a course of action. According to tradition, Maelys the Monstrous, commander of the Golden Company, burned down the bridge between two islands of the Stepstones, so that his rearguard could not run away from the battlefield.
Later used to mean "alienate former friends" or "estange relatives, lovers". Maester Eon, Account of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
Clammy and restless, his nights in Tyrosh are all alike, and the hot, hazy climate of the harbor city has little to do with it. Lying flat on his back, with but a sheet to cover his nakedness, Sandor listens to the slightest noise, goes over the tiny events of the day, to finally decide the little bird is safe there, even by daylight when he leaves their house to rent his skills and his sword. The moment he reaches that conclusion, sleep usually shuns him.
Rolling over in bed, he catches a glimpse at the gibbous moon, through the open window. He doesn't allow Sansa to open the window of her bedchamber: there is only danger outside. When a cry coming from the next room breaks the silence, he jumps from his bed and barely puts his breeches on before grabbing a dagger and hurrying to her bedside.
There is no one in her room, except the phantoms of old foes and sad memories that leave her panting and trembling on her featherbed. At seven-and-ten, Sansa Stark has been married twice, and twice abducted from her captors; the second time has been the right one, and Tyrosh the best place to hide, he tells himself.
She whines. Kneeling, he tries to keep at bay his want for her and growls: "What is it, now?"
This seething tone and his aloofness prevents them from bonding - all for the best. She sees him as her hero, for he rescued her, but he's a quick-tempered, distant savior who glares at her whenever she disobeys.
In the darkness, she sits up, face sunk in her palms, whispering about Joffrey and Littlefinger. She'd never feel safe again. Whatever remains of his heart melts when she takes his hand, then his arm, before pulling him close, curves crushing against his chest. Sitting on the bed, he holds her, considering suspiciously the instinct that makes him pat her back and nuzzle her hair. The little bird sobs and sniffs against his collarbone, dangerously close to the war drum beats of his heart. A part of him wants to pull away and to mock her fears, while the other craves to touch and to be touched.
Timid hands make their way around his middle and he understands what it is to be trapped. He freezes, panicked like a horse feeling the halter for the first time. Stranger can rear; can he give free rein to his anger? Does he want to rebuff her again? Tears rolling down his chest weaken his resolution. A last sob, and she begs: "Stay."
Climbing in bed, he holds her close to shield her from her own terrors. If his strong arms dissipate her fears, the warmth seeping out of her shift lulls him like sweetsleep. He needs her to find sleep, and that realization, in his slumber, is both painful and exhilarating. Come the morning, they'll lie in the same bed, her back against his chest, their fingers intertwined.
Three weeks earlier
The heat surprises them both when their ship berths the Tyroshi wharf; clad in their Westerosi clothes, accumulating layers of fabric to protect themselves from the cold that freezes landscapes in an eerie, bluish light across the Narrow Sea, they don't expect the dazzling sun nor the suffocating heat in the Stepstones.
If he's being honest, he didn't expect any of this. As a boy, then as a squire, he never had occasions to travel out of Westeros; furthermore, Gerion's disappearance, after he sailed away to find the Lannisters' ancestral sword, has dampened his inclination to adventure. In Tyrosh, everything looks unfamiliar. No. Strange. And exotic and…
The look in Sansa's blue eyes betrays her fascination and between her nervous gestures to wipe inexistent beads of sweat on her forehead, she keeps gazing at her new surroundings, marveling at the colors, at the unknown language she hears and wrinkling her nose imperceptibly at the smells of the harbor. She doesn't need to voice out her astonishment and her curiosity: he perceives them well enough.
The little bird doesn't lose common sense though, for she follows, staying two feet behind Sandor, never letting him outdistancing her; this way they check on Stranger in the nauseating depths of the ship's hold, take their belongings in their cabin and disembark under the sailors' curious eyes. This prying lot, always leering at the little bird who is, as it happens, the only woman on board and the prettiest thing these rats have seen in a while… He won't miss them.
Once on solid ground, his major concern is to find a place where they can spend the night, before he starts looking for some fat Tyroshi merchant who needs his sword. After saddling Stranger who is now the shadow of his former self, he helps her mount the horse and threatens to leave her alone on the wharves if she doesn't hide her face under her hood. She mumbles something about the heat but he ignores her, knowing well she never disobeys when it comes to safety. Thus, with her on horseback and him leading the way, they walk deeper into the tortuous streets, making people move out of their way and stare at them. Everytime he glances over his shoulder, he sees the little bird taking in the beards and long hair dyed in uncanny shades of blue and red, observing the strange outfits and listening to the locals jabber.
"Do you understand what they say?" she inquires, leaning forward on Stranger so that he can hear her words despite the buzzing street.
"No," he spits. "And you'd better keep your highborn ass on the saddle and shut your mouth."
As always, his dismissive tone puts an end to the conversation and the next time he catches a glimpse at her, she sulks, avoiding his gaze on purpose. Suit yourself. As long as she's cautious, he doesn't give a fuck about what she thinks of him.
Through narrow streets the stalls make it even less passable, they keep moving until he spots a tavern not too expensive for their purse. Sansa stubbornly looks at the stall where a woman garbles ceaselessly, waving garish fabrics and promising the earth to the cunts who are fool enough to listen to her. Sandor tugs at the reins, thus informing his companion they're arrived. He silently takes her in his arms to dismount, then he heads to the stables where he leaves Stranger.
Inside, he sweeps the place and notices the weary looks of the few customers, most likely caused by the burns on his face. After the little bird becomes bold enough to stop hiding behind him and starts glancing around, something changes in their attitude. She draws their attention, he muses, glaring at the bald, scrawny sailor who eyeballs her while licking the wine from his upper lip. All of a sudden, he announces her under his breath they can't stay and refuses to tell her why when she asks.
Another walk to the stables, a never-ending debate with gestures and grunts in lieu of words with the stable boy and they're wandering in the streets again. The second tavern they come in is hardly different from the first, but Sansa's impatience and his own tiredness convince him to stay and so she collapses on the cot, while he lies down on the wooden floor, a moth-eaten blanket folded under his head. What do we do now that we are in Essos? What do we do now?
At dawn, before leaving, he gives her his instructions: she must not open to anyone, save the maid who received orders to bring her food and water. Sandor has no idea when he will be able to come back, not knowing if someone will hire him in the first place. He might be gone for one day or for three.
As her watery blue eyes fix him, his tone becomes more cutting than ever - a reaction, almost a reflex he has developed over the last two months, since their journey began. The sweeter the little bird is, the more aloof he sounds, pursing his lips with something akin to disgust. Sansa seems to lay blame on his rudeness and wipes a tear away, staring at the exact spot where he slept.
He hardly softens when he cups her chin. "And if I don't come back within a week, take the gold that is left and head to Meeren. The journey is dangerous, but I heard rumors saying your first husband, the Imp, had become Queen Daenerys' advisor. He might help you."
She nods, but her jaw tenses under his fingers as if she was fighting back tears again. "You don't even speak Valyrian…"
"If I don't come back, take care of Stranger. Do not sell him unless you can't do otherwise. Be good with him for me, will you?"
Her blue gaze could undermine his resolve as she nods again, silently begging him not to leave her alone. A last glance at her and he walks away, not knowing when or if he will come back.
The first day is a complete waste of time, Sandor ignoring where sellswords gather to find whoever needs their skills. He comes back to the tavern to sleep a handful of hours before wandering another day in Tyrosh. At the end of that second day, he gets somewhat accustomed to the sun and to the odd sounds coming from the locals' mouth, recognizing some words he learned as a boy with a maester and some the little bird taught him while they crossed the Narrow Sea. And finally, he met Collio Cletis.
Collio Cletis has a taste for uncommon things: the forked beard, dyed in a deep shade of green, might blend in the local culture, but he boasts about his Westerosi roots and he seems to take an immense pleasure in speaking the Common Tongue under the incredulous gaze of the other Tyroshi. He's as mannered as all the rich Tyroshi men Sandor met in two days, but he's the only one who carries a Westerosi dagger tucked into his silken belt, and above all he's the first to express so much interest in Sandor's skills.
To his questions about his past, Sandor answers evasively, only giving his first name and stating he's an experienced master-at-arms. Collio Cletis keeps sizing him up with a faint smile and waddles around him: Sandor can tell the sword he carries across his back impresses the merchant.{I can't remember in the books does he carry a sword on his back? Or is it a show thing? It doesn't matter at all I just can't remember is all and if you want this more of a book AU then i can check for you}Then he asks Sandor to show him his skills; among all the sellswords around him, Sandor picks a Pentoshi as tall as him but even more muscular. The sellsword grins smugly, seeing this mock-fight as an chance to cause a sensation. When the man bites the dust though, Sandor sees in his eyes how humiliated he is; he then turns to Collio Cletis and understands the merchant wants him and no one else.
Like everything in this foreign world, the negotiation surprises him. Collio Cletis invites him in his mansion; Sandor follows the merchant's palanquin in the moonlight, guided by a young slave who holds a lantern. The sight of the opulent-looking manse on the city's heights would delight the little bird. Collio Cletis offers him some wine and they resume their bargaining: the merchant wants someone who protects him during the day, but who also teaches swordplay to his eldest son. When Cletis says he will have his own bedchamber under his roof, Sandor puts a halt to the rich man's monologue. He'd do any task the merchant assigns him if only he can leave at night. Cletis gives him the strangest look and caresses his green beard for a moment. "Why?"
Because you're not the only person I need to protect. "I have my reasons."
Discussing the wages takes another two hours and Sandor imagines the little bird frightened in her bed, alone among strangers who talk loud and whose laughter shakes the thin walls of the tavern where she waits for him. Once satisfied about his wages, Sandor asks if his host knows where he can find a house with stables.
"I just offered you to stay under my roof. I know you Westerosi are sometimes as crazy about your horses as the Dothrakis, but I also have room in my own stables."
As Sandor remains silent, Cletis sighs. "Well I guess one of my servants can help you finding a house nearby…" The merchant's slaves keep pouring wine in Sandor's cup and he spends the rest of the night listening to his talkative host.
At dawn, Cletis informs Sandor he will accompany him in the harbor and in some of his customers' houses, then he tells him to get some rest because they will depart one hour later and he waddles away. Sandor lies down on the cushions, asking himself when do these foreigners sleep.
Wine and fatigue make his day never-ending: hours stretch until he comes back to Cletis' mansion and meets the servant who searched for a house for him. The first two they visit don't look safe enough to protect the little bird The third house, with its high walls and window guards, is much more to Sandor's liking. He doesn't bargain the rent asked by the owner and he walks back to the tavern at dusk.
A timid yet relieved bird welcomes him in the bedroom. What did he see? Did someone hire him? Where will they live? To all these questions, Sandor answers he'll tell her everything later, that he needs to sleep first. He thus collapses on the only bed with his clothes on, too tired to bother about propriety, and when the little bird crawls in between the sheets, finding just enough room to lie beside him, he tells himself this is the first and final night they spend in the same bed.
He's so wrong.
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