2.
Sandor
"Swear to the gods, little bird," he rolled his eyes, sitting up in bed with a heave – "I will never get used to your fucking family".
The dragon that was Bran peered its face further into the room, close enough to be almost nose to nose with him. That was a little too close for comfort and he could feel himself pulling a face as he drew away.
"Honestly Sandor -" Sansa sighed, still smiling benignly – and if he did not know better, which she frequently told him she did not – he could have sworn that the dragon was smiling the same benign smile that she had. He often groaned and sarcastically annoyed her by saying he could see the family resemblance, but at times like this he almost could.
"He won't hurt you," she shook her head, getting out of bed and finding Bran a leg of rabbit as she spoke – "We've told him, all of us, no fire, except where needed, and no-one saying the – the -" she lowered her voice, knowing that the little part of Drogon that remained had trouble controlling himself at times – "The D word," she whispered.
"All of you my arse," he grumbled, opening his mouth to tell her about Arya yesterday, after one of their frequent spats, yelling "Dracarys! Dracarys!" repeatedly in the dragon's hearing until he could have sworn he actually saw the great black shining creature shake its head at her in tolerant refusal to rise to the bait.
"I'll talk to Arya," again, she sighed, patiently.
"Great," he grunted "Good luck with that." She shook her head and turned to her brother;
"Run along now Bran," she smiled, scratching him behind the ear – "It's still a little creepy to be nosing into my room like this".
Bran withdrew and a great breeze washed through the room as black wings beat the air outside. Sandor relaxed; much as he respected, indeed even liked most of Sansa's family, he was not sure he would ever get used to having a huge, potentially fire breathing monster flying around the place.
"He used to do this when we were little too," she shook her head, getting back into bed and snuggling in. His arm went around her as though they slotted together that way.
"He used to – be a dragon?"
"He used to climb. I'd wake up and find him peering in my window just like that. I never knew how long he'd been balancing there grinning at me. It was weird."
"Weird like having a fucking big dragon flying around the place?"
"Sandor –" she kissed him on the nose – "Shh."
He shushed. He could never, he thought, have imagined his life coming to this – the happiness of waking every day with this girl beside him, of reaching to a point where not only would anybody want to be kissing him on the nose but that he would accept such a thing.
He had learned to accept calm, even peace amongst the Brothers. Cut off from the rage and rumble of the world he had gradually found something akin to contentment. He had never considered himself miserable, had never stopped to care if he was happy or dared imagine he could deserve it. All those years at Casterly Rock and then King's Landing he had not considered himself unhappy, he had not considered himself much at all, avoided thinking too hard wherever possible, drowning doubt and bitterness in the acid of wine. He had refused to think of himself as broken, learned to ignore the way people looked at him, learned to react if he had to, with anger and intimidation. He had seen himself turning into someone he hated and convinced himself he was glad of it because it was better than trying to be something that did not exist; trying to be good. Whatever that meant.
She had ruined it. He had tried to hate her for it and almost succeeded. Almost; until he realised, with a sinking sensation that was like wildfire in the gut that it was not hate after all. He could have pinpointed the exact moment he realised it for good, when he had seen her strength as well as her beauty and known that he was doomed. It had been creeping up on him the whole time she had been staring at her father's head; she wasn't seeing, he could see it when none of the rest of them could. He had looked at his own face the same way often enough; walling himself off from it, refusing to be affected. It had taken him by surprise to see her do this too, to be so strong, so stubborn and so young. And then, when Joffrey had threatened her with her brother's head and she had said, barely a whisper – "Maybe he'll bring me yours". That was it, that was the moment, he had known who she was then, heard the ice in her voice and then, as he knelt before her, seen the wolf in her eyes. She was a wolf of Winterfell and he was hers from that moment on.
He had not wanted to change her, only to help, to give fuel to that strength in her he had seen that day. It had frustrated him, every time they awkwardly spoke, to see her hanging on to her ridiculous notions of honour and truth, still living a story in spite of everything she saw, everything she said. Instead he had found himself questioning his own disillusionment, his bitter insistence that the stories were all lies. Her insistence and the way he looked at him – the fear was bad but the pity was worse – and then she had tried to treat him like a rescuing knight in one of her stories and he had not known what to do. He couldn't tell her he would only ever have done it for her, not because it was harsh but because she might have worked a few things out – and not the things he wanted her knowing. So he had been vile to her instead, put a sword at her throat and laughed about her father's death. He had cursed himself the rest of the day about that.
In the end he did not think he had managed to change her at all. Instead she had changed him, almost back into someone who still believed there was anything of honour and bravery left in the world. Of course he had run from her before ever hearing if she would go with him or not.
When he had got word that she had moved to take back Winterfell and the north he had debated with himself for days. It seemed wrong to just leave the Brothers who had done so much for him; it was terrifying to think of re-joining the world, more so to think of seeing her again. He felt he had come so far, learned to embrace a stillness he never though he would have; it had washed him out and made him better and he knew it. It seemed that the most awful thing he could do was to throw that away.
"Do you have to?" the Elder Brother had asked him when he expressed these thoughts aloud, another thing he had learned to do here.
"What?"
"Throw it away? Is peace such a poor thing it should be dependent on this place?"
"Perhaps for me –"
"And this girl – you speak of her. I hear you out there, in the hallways, quietly singing under your breath, it's the song she sang to you, yes?"
He had not been able to meet the man's eyes. It was. Of course it was.
"Hiding from the world is not peace. Take it with you, no place is so big you cannot live there in your heart and this – my friend – it's only a small island. Go."
He went. He had hated himself for not just making himself known to her, but the stillness in him insisted just to lie low, to help her but not get in the way, confuse her or frighten her. He had not lost what he had gained on the Quiet Isle and the dogs he worked with helped him to maintain that stillness, animals always had. It was not rage and ager that began to return to him, just her. He had been glad of the hood for being able to watch her without her seeing, trying to guess how she would react to him.
And then she had spoken to him, almost as though she knew. He had felt worse than he had in a long time for not telling her; but that look in her eyes when she had spoken of his being dead- it led him to hope as he had never dared hope before. Even so he had never expected her to kiss him as she had when she finally knew him – as though she had missed him, thought of him, like he had her; even as though they had kissed before.
They talked about that later; in her mind they had kissed before. He wished he had been there for it.
They had almost argued badly; the moment she was finished flinging kisses and limbs around him she broke away embarrassed and demanded to know why he had not told her straight away. She had actually slapped him – and then instantly started to cry.
"I missed you," she wept – "I missed you every day. I thought you were dead. Do you know what that's like?"
"I couldn't – how could I possibly know that? I thought you – hated me, like your stupid sister."
"I – you – oh!" she sniffed, angrily, at that – "When you came to me – the night of the Blackwater – you kissed me, you threatened me, you offered to take me with you and then –"
She glared at him furiously – "You just left!"
It was not what he had expected, he did not know how to begin to explain himself, how she had sung to him and he had cried to hear such sweetness, such pure forgiveness, to feel her little hand so soft upon his face, to cope with tenderness – he could not. He had turned craven after all, like they all said, and not on account of the flames. He could not say any of that and so instead –
"I – kissed you?"
They argued about it a moment until she made a gesture that said she was done, looked at him very seriously and simply said –
"I was going to say yes."
It was a short step from there to kissing her, for real this time, shorter from there than he could have imagined, to marrying her.
And now, five years later, here he was, ruling The North at her side; little Ned and Robb, just as she had always wanted, and no leg to stand on when she reminded him that all those silly fairy tales did come true after all. And yes, she reminded him every day, and was in danger of becoming insufferably smug about it.
It was perfect. Like a dream he never needed to wake up from.
_x_
I'm thinking the next chapter will probably be from Bran but I AM going to return to these two probably repeatedly, because Sansan. :-)
