Author's note:
Special thanks to Magnus for always letting me know what you think, it's much appreciated.
Chapter 2: Breathing
Sansa had come to her senses wrapped in the Hound' arms - a not entirely unfamiliar occurrence - but with the added twist of being atop his horse, making their way through what looked to her like the merchant's district of King's Landing.
She stirred a little, pins and needles in her hands and feet, trying to get her bearings.
"Ah, the little bird is awake," he grumbled above her.
"Where are we going?" she mumbled, her head swimming and mouth so dry her tongue barely cooperated.
"Your new home," he said shortly.
She had no idea what he was talking about, so she just leaned her aching head back against his chest.
This felt a lot like that one time when Joffrey had forced her to drink cup upon cup of some vile spirit that had burned all the way down to her stomach. Back then, she had woken hours later when someone slapped a wet, ice cold rag across her face. Only seconds later she had emptied the content of her stomach into a bucket while the Hound held her hair back from her face and recounted what had been done to her.
He never spared her, not even the things she had forgotten. True to his nature, he seemed convinced that she was better off knowing exactly what she had endured and at whose hands.
She wondered sleepily what had made her pass out this time and gingerly took stock of her body. Pain was conspicuously absent and while the horse's gait did nothing for her swimming, aching head, her stomach was curiously settled.
Snuggling closer into the warmth Clegane's big body offered, she closed her eyes and wished - not for the first time - she could just stay where she was forever, nestled securely against the chest of the realm's most fearsome warrior.
Try as she might, she couldn't clump him in with her tormentors, even if it was him who took her there, him who stood still as a statue, unflinchingly witnessing her suffering until he called a stop to it.
But she saw the pity in his eyes every time he had to fetch her and she knew how big a risk he took every time he stepped between Joffrey and her. And she knew that he went beyond what was expected of him when he took care of her afterwards.
He always took care of her. When she came back from Joffrey bleeding, he ordered the maids about and sent for a maester. When she was crying and shaking, something she only allowed herself afterwards and only with him, he held her tightly to his chest until the worst of it was over and then saw to it that the maids tucked her into bed as comfortably as they could.
He always made sure her windows were barred and nothing with a sharp edge could be found in her bedchamber for her to hurt herself with. On some occasions he had told a maid to keep watch.
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that he was the only reason she was still breathing, even though that might be about the only thing she did that felt like she was still alive.
"What happened?" she asked, while rubbing her hand wearily over her eyes to get rid of her sleepiness.
She only got an unintelligible grunt in response.
"We're here," he said a few minutes later and dismounted in one fluid motion.
Robbed of the support of the firm body behind her, she began to sway, but was quickly lifted from the saddle and tucked to his side.
They were on a relatively quiet street somewhere on the eastern flanks of Visenya's Hill. She could see the Great Sept of Baelor but not the Red Keep. Between the Street of Steel and Cobbler's Square, she surmised, a maze of streets and squares that was home to all sorts of craftsmen and merchants.
Across from where they were standing, a cobbler had his shop and right next to him in a neat looking house with flower pots next to the doorway, a shiny new sign advertised the services of a barber and apothecary.
A few women, huge shopping baskets on their arms, were clustered together in front of a milliner's shop animatedly talking, and next to a carpenter's workshop, some children played at spinning top.
A scene so normal and peaceful, it seemed unreal to Sansa.
"My lord, it's good to see you again."
Sansa turned to see a middle-aged woman standing before them, hands clasped demurely in front of her, her gaze averted.
The Hound neither replied to the greeting nor seemed upset about the woman's obvious reluctance to look at him.
"Is everything as I requested?" he rasped instead, while Sansa felt indignant at his behalf.
"Yes, my lord," the woman replied eagerly, bobbing the beginning of a small curtsy. "Everything is cleaned."
The woman's eyes quickly fluttered to Clegane's face and down again apparently looking for his approval.
"Show me."
"Of course, my lord," the woman said and, eyes still on her shoes, preceded them to the house. "This way, my lord."
…
The Hound had dismissed the woman quickly after they had finished taking a look around.
Sansa had eyed everything critically but found no reason to fault the woman's work.
"I didn't know you owned a house in the city," she stated, still not knowing why she was here.
"Bought it a couple of years ago," he said. "To have a place to sleep whenever Gregor was in King's Landing. No one knows about it. They all think I spent my time...," he caught himself before completing the sentence.
She nodded. She knew the rest anyway. Whoring and drinking. That's what everyone probably thought he did while in truth he had only tried not to sleep under the same roof as his monster of a brother.
"I sent someone to clean and set everything to right, since I didn't know what condition it was in. Haven't been here ever since his death."
She tasted bile at the back of her throat at the mention of Gregor Clegane's death. She quickly slammed the door shut on that particular memory. Madness lurked there.
"It's nice," she said.
"You think so?" he asked as if truly valuing her opinion.
"Yes," she answered truthfully. It was a neat half-timbered house, two stories high with a light-flooded sitting room, a moderately sized kitchen out in the back, a storage room, a non-too shabby room in the attic for the servants and a spacious and comfortable bedroom on the upper floor. More than enough for one man.
"Good," he said. "You'll be spending a lot of time here. I will be at the keep most of the time, but I'll try to be here every night. I'll hire a maid and a cook tomorrow, tonight we'll have to do without. Your things will be brought later in the day, and..."
She lifted her hand to stop the uncharacteristic effusion, because nothing of what he said made any sense to her.
That was when she saw the soot on her hand from where she had touched her face before, saw the dress she was wearing and she suddenly knew how her hair looked and why.
"It wasn't a dream," she stated tonelessly.
"No."
He reached out towards her arm as if afraid she would faint again, but she took a step back, suddenly needing the distance.
... worthless
Give her to me.
...the Hound's bitch
… fuck her bloody
... no one can hurt her as I can
...might as well have her
Memory came back to her in a rush, bringing back the bottomless black terror she had felt when hearing Joffrey's plans for her, the crushing relief when - as always - the Hound came to her rescue, even if with a completely unexpected suggestion.
She remembered holding her breath and praying silently and fervently to every god she knew that Joffrey would let her go, remembered the feeling of her blood leaving her fingertips, of sounds receding, when it seemed as if he wouldn't.
She remembered gasping for air when finally he agreed, but there her memories ended.
"Stay here," he said to her, his insistence bringing her back to the present. "I have a few things still to do, I'll be back tonight. Just... stay."
She gave him a dazed nod. Before she could ask any more questions, he was gone.
…
If her time as Joffrey's favourite victim had taught her one thing, it was that staying in a dazed and confused state for long was something you did at your own risk. Taking action, regardless of whether or not you felt up to it, whether or not you knew what was going on, was always more advisable.
Even the Hound, in the cases when he had held her to him during a breakdown, had growled to her she had to get a grip, told her "snap out of it". Sometimes he had squeezed her so tightly in his arms, it seemed he wanted her to stop falling apart by pure physical strength alone. Sometimes she had to start fighting back just to be able to draw a breath again.
So she forcefully shook herself into a more alert state and tried to come up with something to do.
Water.
She was thirsty and needed to wash her face, so she went to the kitchen to get a bucket and made her way to the well on the street she had seen when they had ridden past it.
When she stepped out of the door, she worried how people would react to her, but since she was dressed as she was, looking like a poor woman or a servant, they paid her no mind at all. She relished being inconspicuous, not having malevolent stares and hissed whispers following her wherever she went.
At the well, she helped a young mother who had to balance her child as well as a full bucket, earning a grateful smile which made her smile back.
To find she still knew how to smile came as a bit of a surprise.
The smile stayed with her all the way back to the house as she asked herself when she had done work like this the last time. Maybe at Winterfell, but she couldn't remember.
Her memories of her home were like a half-forgotten dream by now, hazy and distant, growing more indistinct the more she tried to recall details. The only thing not fading was her longing to go back, to be home again, even if her home would be empty now. She was a Stark and she belonged to Winterfell, if only to wait to re-join her family in the crypts beneath its walls.
Chasing her maudlin thoughts away with a decisive shake of her head, she filled some water into the washbasin and proceeded to scrub the soot off her face. Then she filled a cup and drank to her heart's content, delighted at getting something refreshing and cool to drink.
The water she got at the Red Keep had always been already warm and stale when it reached her room. Nobody had ever bothered to get her water fresh from the well.
With the rest of the water she filled the two pitchers next to the washbasin, one of which surely belonged upstairs.
She would light a fire in the bedroom's fireplace, she decided. The nights were getting noticeably cooler lately and maybe the Hound would appreciate having a warm place to sleep.
Only when she stepped into the room and was faced with the big, four poster bed that dominated it did it occur to her that this was the only real bed in this house.
…
As he had told her, her trunk had arrived at some time before dusk, giving her the opportunity to at least redo and comb her hair and put the few dresses she still owned - too small for her as they were - into the dresser.
A basket with food had been delivered together with the trunk and she had eaten something, even though it had been a challenge to keep the food down. Not eating, however, would just be stupid, as Clegane was wont to remind her often enough, because she needed her strength.
So she had eaten as she always did, mechanically and not quite tasting what she put into her mouth.
What was left of the food she had arranged on a wooden platter and carried into the sitting room for him to eat when he came back.
Then she had built a little fire in the bedroom, somewhat proud of herself for managing it, and was afterwards left with nothing else to do but sit and wait for him, all the while contemplating her new situation with mounting disquiet.
There was not enough innocence left to her to leave any uncertainty of what her lot in life would be from this day on. He had claimed her for his own and even though she had had no say in the matter, it would be demanded of her as a matter of course to give herself to him.
Just as Joffrey had intended, as of this night, her reputation or her worth as a potential wife would be a thing of the past. As would be her maidenhead.
Dread curled coldly in her stomach at the thought and she hated herself for it.
The Hound had saved her from an unthinkable fate and done so at considerable risk to himself. She'd seen the displeasure on Joffrey's face at having his cruel plans so cunningly thwarted, had seen how it had torn the king apart to have to keep his word.
And it wasn't the first time either that Clegane had risked his life to protect her.
She owed him everything she had to give, including her body. She should be doing this with gratefulness, grace and good cheer.
It wasn't the pain she feared. There would be some, she knew, but she had endured so much these past months, she was sure it would be nothing in comparison. Despite his eyes and words speaking of anger and brutality, his hands had never been anything but gentle and she'd always felt strangely safe with him. There was no reason this should change.
But still she sat here close to tears, more than once entertaining the thought of just running away, avoiding the business-like exchange that was to take place tonight.
Access to her body for his protection. Opening her legs for him as payment for not having to do the same for a hundred soldiers.
They'd call her Clegane's mistress if they were polite, or the Hound's bitch if they weren't; they'd call her a whore, and they would be right.
Again she chided herself for her girlish foolishness. Of course it would be business. It would never have been anything else, regardless if she was given to someone in marriage or if the Hound now claimed her as his paramour.
No one would ever think to ask her for her opinion or consent to anything. She was only a woman, after all. A worthless one, as she'd learned today, without a claim to anything. This was just another decision in a long list of decisions made without her participation, but she was expected to hold up her end of the bargain regardless.
And she would, she resolved when she heard the door open downstairs.
Because he had saved her, because she owed him her life and therefore by extension her maidenhead as well.
Because she was a Stark and had been through worse.
...tbc
