Warnings: mentions (but not graphic depictions) of physical abuse and sexual abuse/assault
Disclaimer: George R.R. Martin owns these characters, HBO owns this particular variation of them (especially Shae); I own nothing but my imagination.
Note: I owe a certain plot point to a blog post by the actress who played Daisy. Other plot points may end up completely contradicted by the events of episode 8 or after, but I'm working with what I have as of today. Feedback is highly requested and always loved.
Here, In This Prison
Chapter 1: Sandor
It was the sound of a girl's terrified crying that caught his attention.
The pale light of sunrise filled the empty halls of the Red Keep as Sandor Clegane walked back to his rooms. His night guarding the king had been mostly peaceful, and he was winding down — this wasn't the fastest path back, but frequently one with the best views — when he heard muffled sobs coming from the little bird's apartments.
He glanced through the open doorway, and saw Sansa Stark weeping, tearing at her bedclothes — the back of her gown soaked with blood — and he rushed in, seeking her assailant — not Joff, not possible, he'd seen the little shit still asleep just minutes earlier — one of his fine brothers of the Kingsguard mayhaps?
And then he saw the stain on her mattress, like a banner of Lannister crimson. Seven hells… he knew blood, but not this blood, not women's mysteries. Gods, the little bird had flowered, hadn't she. A woman in truth, not just in looks. He shouldn't be here… And as she sat on the bed, crying, so helpless and pitiful, he turned away, cursing himself for adding to her pain. Shit, this meant she was ready now, for—
He carried the woman in his arms, careful with her limp and broken body. Her brown hair, matted with blood, fell across her blank and unseeing eyes. The dark halls were oddly silent, as if they hadn't rung with her screams but moments before. Silent but for the whispered, desperate pleading of the red-haired whore by his side… The girl's screams echoed down the alley, and he ran, anger fueling his steps… She gasped in pain as the knight struck her, and he clenched his fists, willing it to be over, no, fuck that, do something, anything, you gutless fraud… He cradled his sister's limp and broken body, and all he could hear was her labored breathing, all he could see was her brown hair, matted with blood, her once-bright smile shattered, the only smile that had turned his way since… His own screams rang in his ears, but he could still hear the hiss of the coals as… No. Enough of this.
Sandor looked up as the girl's handmaid burst into the room, breathing heavily. She saw him and stepped forward, knife in hand. But he touched the hilt of his sword, and she relented, contenting herself to staring daggers instead. Ah, so that's how it is. A foreign drudge and an old scarred dog, the only allies the Stark girl had in this damned city. And neither of them likely worth a clipped copper in the end.
But the woman's presence seemed to give the little bird strength, nevertheless. Sansa gazed up at him with pleading eyes, big and blue and filled with tears, and whispered, "Please, ser. Please don't tell the queen."
A flash of rage came over him, just as it had the day before. I'm no ser, he wanted to shout at her, not a bloody knight rescuing pretty maidens. How could he tell her it had been the look in her eyes that was more than enough thanks for him, that moment when her fear turned to trust, the clasp of her hand… Far more real and true than any so-courteous but empty little compliments.
Though that look was gone now, he had driven it away just as he'd known he would. And the little bird sat shaking with fear, the cut on her cheek bright against her pale face, her arms wrapped around herself. He was again but a Lannister dog to her. As he was. An inner voice insisted, but you promised, you said you'd stand between her and Joff — and another, mocking and cruel, replied, and watch? And do nothing as always? Not just a dog, but a craven one. Do as you're told, boy. "Little bird, I—"
"I could make it worth your while, milord," the handmaid said, her exotic accent heavy. Sansa's head whipped round to stare at her maid… she hadn't expected that tactic at all, he realized. He looked the woman up and down, smirking, knowing what the expression did to his scars — and she recoiled, slightly, but enough. So much for that. And I'm no lord, no more than I'm a knight.
"Quiet," Sandor growled. "And you, woman, shut that door. Did either of you say anything about—" he gestured at the bed, "—this? Any words aloud at all?"
The little bird stuttered, "I… I said… if the queen finds out… that I can have Joffrey's children now…"
"Seven hells." He leaned against the wall. It's not the children you should be afraid of, girl, it's the begetting. (A gasp of pain, and then her screams echoing through the hall; her auburn hair, matted with blood, blue eyes unseeing.) Too late, too damned late. "No use to try and hide it, then. Varys — that bloody Spider — he's got eyes and ears throughout the castle, nothing stays secret here." The handmaid's expression went carefully blank at his words, he noted, interesting. He added, "And fucking Littlefinger has his spies too." It was Sansa who flinched at that news, or perhaps his lack of courtesy, and glanced oddly at him. Yes, girl, I am always hateful. "Either one of those bastards will sell you out in a minute. Little bird, I…" He shook his head. "The queen will hear as soon as she wakes."
She whimpered softly. "My other handmaid belongs to the queen, but… Shae stopped her — didn't you?" The foreign woman — Shae — nodded, her mouth tight. Sansa went on, more desperate, "We could… we could say it's not true… get rid of my featherbed somehow…"
Sandor had to laugh. Pretty little thing, but such a bad liar. "How, girl? Set it on fire? Why not your bed too? Why not your whole room? The truth's not in your mattress, but in you."
"He is right, milady." Shae sighed, and moved to sit on the bed next to the little bird, and patted her hand. "I shut up that bitch, but she still may talk — and even if we somehow keep this secret this time… there is the next time, and the next… how long can you hide?"
"We could try," Sansa whispered earnestly, her eyes filling up with tears once more. "Until… until Robb—" And she stopped short, looking around in fear, no doubt for the eyes and ears he'd told her about. No, girl, even in your bedroom you're not safe. Gods, the little bird still thought her noble brother would come save her, didn't she, like a true knight out of songs. Might as well suggest they run away together…
And for a moment, Sandor entertained that wild thought — her arms clinging to his chest as they rode off… her trusting eyes looking at his across a campfire… a shared smile… But no, that was so stupid, they'd never get away, not with the castle, the city on guard like this. Less than the chance they would have had if he'd let her push Joff over the edge, that time.
Shae said, slowly, "Perhaps… t-the Hand could be of help?"
The Hand? "Seven buggering hells, the fucking Imp?" he spat, and both women stared up at him in surprise. The damn dwarf thought he was so clever, but the look on his face when Sandor had brought back what was left of his "present"… her brown hair, matted with blood… "He's fucking useless when it comes to the king." And yet he spoke up when you did nothing, the voice mocked, when you stood there in your white cloak and let them beat her. He shook his head. No more of this.
Now, Cersei was no better with Joff, had indulged the boy since he was born, but of late Sandor had sensed a certain wariness… he wasn't sure, but it was better than the alternative. "Girl, you should go to the queen, tell her before a spy does. You'll save yourself pain that way." If anyone knew how spiteful Cersei could be to those who displeased her, and how rewarding to those who obeyed… "I'll take you to her, if you like. Be a good dog." He laughed bitterly.
Sansa closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and nodded assent. "Yes, we must all do our duty, mustn't we," she said, resigned. "We'll go now—" She stood up, and staggered, nearly falling — he reached for her, but her handmaid caught her first.
"Ah, no, milady. First you must have a bath, and a clean gown after. Then we will go." Shae looked at him, and jerked her head toward the door. "You, ser, let Her Grace know we are coming soon."
Go, dog. Or was it, Get out, man? He didn't belong here, he never had. Sandor turned to leave, but the little bird caught his arm. He stared at her, and she stared back, like yesterday, so disconcertedly bold. If she tried to thank him again, call him brave… or worse, kind… But all Sansa did was… smile… sadly, the corners of her mouth barely turning up, her eyes still teary. Nothing like the delighted look she used to give Joff before she learned the truth about her beloved. But still, a smile, at him. For him.
"Little bird," Sandor rasped. He nodded to her, and walked away.
