AUTHOR'S NOTES:
-I promised myself I wouldn't do this, but I've written a fic. I couldn't help it. I blame the gods?
-Anyway, two things I'd like to point out:
1) I've aged Sansa. I'M SORRY. I just couldn't handle the pairing otherwise. I'm a sissy. I have her at about 17 to begin with, assuming Joff hadn't married her yet for political reasons, with all the raucous over her father.
2) Sandor's age is in accordance with the books, NOT the show. However, some people prefer the HBO show's portrayal of Sandor, so you think of him as a somewhat younger version of the actor if that suits you. My version of him is represented by my story's cover image.
-*Thank you to Corseque, who painted my story's cover image of Sandor Clegane. It's perfect!*
-Thank you kindly for caring to read. This is (and will be) truly a labor of love.
-A visual representation of Kindred can now be found on my tumblr (my tumblr username is the same as my username here). On the right-hand side, there is a link titled "Kindred-related posts". All images have been credited to their creators. It's nothing elaborate, just some stuff I've found to supplement the story a bit. This is also where I post some extra author's notes that I do not put here, like my thoughts on plot development, reviews, etc.
-Though he is unaware of its existence, this story is dedicated to James, without whom I never would have realized my value and potential, or found my way home.
CHAPTER 1
Sansa shuddered. Fingers clutching the stained cloak, she pulled it more tightly around her, then pressed her wet eyes into the thick fabric.
Wipe your face. Wipe your face and get up.
She rose. An eerie emerald glow still flickered at the stone edges of the single window in her room, still burning, still killing. One hand clinging to the cloak, she sniffled and peered out. It took her a moment to realize why she searched among what remained of the distant chaos below, looking at the tops of heads for one taller than the rest, or perhaps one with a distinctive helm. She was looking for the Hound. She wanted to watch him go, to confirm that the only wall left between her and the full force of Joffrey's brutality had finally fallen.
It was impossible to tell one running man from the next. With a last defeated sob, she leaned her elbows on the stone sill and nestled her face into her palms, the cloak falling in a bloodied heap on the floor. Why would she have left with him? Why would he ask her? Perhaps he'd been something of a reluctant ally here in King's Landing, where there were guards, and laws, and watchful eyes, but she couldn't know what truly lurked beyond the Hound's bottled anger and quiet cynicism. Before, she'd entertained thoughts of some secretive sense of compassion hiding beneath his scowls, but this night had left her with naught but fear and a cold emptiness lying like a stone in her stomach.
It was truth she felt now. Cruel, black, uncaring truth. She was alone and friendless, and always had been. She'd been alone when Joffrey pretended to love her. She'd been alone when Cersei promised to spare her father. And she'd been utterly alone when the Hound, drunk and indifferent, had seemed to help her here and there, only to prey ceaselessly on her at every moment they found themselves alone. There wasn't any sense to it, the way he had seemed fond of her, yet hated her so avidly; the way she was sure, just minutes ago, that he was going to rape and murder her there in her bed, but then he cried.
Then she was angry. She stepped over the cloak, meaning to leave the Hound on the floor with it, and went to her wardrobe. As her fingers combed through the assorted capes and robes, she thought on what to do. Some fear had seized her at the window, a thought that she shouldn't be here, shouldn't be anywhere one could easily find her. Though she doubted he had any true integrity through it all, the Hound's sudden absence was weighing on her. She felt naked, with the faces of familiar monsters passing like specters through her subconscious. Illyn Payne. Might Cersei, in her madness, set him on Sansa out of spite? Stannis, if he came. Joffrey, who'd lost droves of men and enjoyed no easy win this night. Joffrey.
Joffrey.
She chose a simple cape of black velvet and fetched a hairpin. Twisting her auburn tresses into a knot, she pinned it deftly and then whisked the cape round her shoulders. Planning only to be away from her room for what was left of this vicious night, she took nothing else and went to the door. When she pulled at the handle, the lock above rattled and held fast. The Hound had locked it behind him when he went. He'd locked the monsters out. Without pause, she turned the latch and thrust the door open, but it was held there, agape.
He bothered to lock the door.
The bloodied cloak was there where she'd left it, growing cold and purposeless. The door creaking as she let it go, she turned and hurried to gather it up. Its smell wafted up at her as she folded it; horses, leather, sweat, wine, blood. She folded it in such a way that most of the stains wouldn't show, and then placed it between some of her other garb in the chest at the foot of her bed. When she closed the chest, she felt better, and smoothed the front of her cape before returning to the doorway. The halls were still empty, the Keep still out of sorts. And when she strode off toward the small empty sept shared by the servants, she didn't look back.