Chapter One
…
The wind was cold and brisk, and Sansa's thighs were sore and hurting. They had ridden fast and hard with green skies and an empty castle to their backs. Sansa rode before Sandor on the Hound's destrier, Stranger, a dark horse almost as huge and vicious as its owner. The Hound's armor chaffed her back, despite a thick earthen cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She had changed into a simple green dress with double layers of undergarments, and cotton breeches beneath, elk-skin boots on her feet and a pair of gloves she'd hand-knitted herself. She had wanted to wear a beautiful, soft brown woolen cloak with it's fox-fur lined hood, a gift from her mother before she'd left Winterfell, but the Hound insisted it was too gaudy and threw it into the hearth.
The sparse remainder of her clothes, furs, and the sack of jewels were stuffed in a cloth bag and tied to the saddle. The Hound himself had fewer possessions, besides a bag of dragons and stags and a few rolled up furs to keep the cold at bay. He had thrown the cloak in the hearth, but kept all the armor save his helmet, for which Sansa was grateful. The vicious, Hound-head shaped helm had always frightened her.
They followed Blackwater Rush with bearings toward the God's eye. Sandor wished to avoid the Kingsroad, and for good reason. They rode all night until the light hours of dusk. Sandor had pushed Stranger at a swift canter for the first hour of their escape, but once far enough from the city and the Kingsroad, he alternated between a walk and trot. By daybreak, the horse's flanks were white with sweat and the adrenaline from the night before had worn off, leaving Sansa exhausted and ridden with saddle sores. They finally stopped in the midst of a sparse forest, the river to their left. Sandor plucked Sansa off the saddle as if she weighed no more than a doll.
As soon as her feet touched the ground, Sansa desired nothing more than to sink into the bed of crushed leaves and fall asleep, but the rest of her body averred otherwise and instead she gently picked her way through the brush behind a thick tree to make water. Stranger was already perched over the edge, swallowing deep mouthfuls of river-water when she joined him. Sansa fell to her knees and gathered water in her palms, cleaning the dust from her face. She wanted nothing more than to shed her clothes and bath, wash away all the sweat and dust and soreness, but it was far too cold, and the Hound insisted they keep a steady pace for at least a few days.
As she dried her neck with the hem of her cloak, the Hound passed her a skin.
"Drink, little bird. We won't be making many more stops 'till Brooks End." Sansa gratefully accepted the skin, drinking heavily as she realized her thirst. "Slowly," the Hound growled. "You'll make yourself sick."
"What's in Brooks End?" Sansa asked once she'd finished. The hound capped the skin and tucked it beneath his cloak. He handed her a slice of salt beef and hard cheese, which she quickly devoured.
"People, and maybe an inn. We'll likely not be able to sell the jewels until we reach Stoney Sept."
"That's along the river, isn't it? Couldn't we take a boat?" The Hound snorted and pulled Stranger from the riverbank, tightening his girth once more. The horse kicked irritably, but calmed at a stroke of the Hound's hand on its rump.
"Look at the current, foolish girl. It runs to the sea, not the mountains. We ride." Sansa nodded, washing her hands in the river and allowed Sandor Clegane to lift her back up into the saddle before mounting up behind her.
…
They rode surely and steadily for the remainder of the day. Sansa found herself dozing in the saddle, lulled by the rhythmic swaying of the saddle and the warmth of the body behind her, even though cold metal armor. So it was naught until she was roughly shaken awake that she realized they had stopped.
"Wake up, little bird," the Hound said, looking up at her. We're at the Inn." Sansa nodded, yawning. The Hound helped her from the saddle, and she stumbled a bit before regaining her feet. Looking up, Sansa realized the sky was turning pink, and the sun had settled low among the trees. She meekly accepted her belongings from the Hound and followed him towards a two-story inn, a cracked wooden sign with a crowned duck hanging lopsidedly from one chain off a wooden post.
"What is this place?" She asked, sidling up closer to the Hound, who was leading Stranger to his left.
"An inn. Hot food, a warm bath, and a straw bed for the night if we're lucky." Sansa cringed at the thought of the itchy straw, but the warm bath sounded god-sent at that moment. A dirty young boy with olive skin and dark hair emerged from the side of the inn. He looked at them suspiciously until Sandor threw him a copper.
"I expect my horse washed, brushed, and fed," he ordered. The boy nodded and made to take Stranger's reigns but the destrier snapped at his fingers, ears pressed back. Sandor laughed as the boy snatched back his hand.
"You'll have to let me lead him to the stables. He's harmless otherwise." The boy nodded and shot the horse a wary glance before disappearing back into the stables.
"Why did you do that?" Sansa asked, frowning.
"Do what?" The Hound growled.
"You knew what Stranger was going to do when he got close," she said. "Why didn't you warn him first?" Sandor shrugged.
"He should learn to have a healthy fear of all beasts. Horses aren't stupid creatures."
"He could have lost a finger," Sansa insisted. The Hound spared her a glance.
"Or many more, and I wouldn't be to blame." Sansa said nothing, and followed Sandor into the inn. The Royal Duckling, as she learned it was called, was small if anything, with tables and chairs crammed together like bricks. Dirt and leaf litter covered the floor, and the air smelled of mold and damp wood. The inn was sparsely occupied. Three large, frightening men sat at a table nursing cups of wine and talked softly, sparing the newcomers a few glances before returning to their conversation. A single man, fat and red-faced, was slumped over the table, snoring beside an empty cup. The innkeeper was a short, lanky, long-faced man with small, suspicious eyes that darted over the two of them.
"What can I help you gentle-folk with today?" he said, rubbing his hands on a greasy apron.
"Hot food, a warm bath for the lady, and a room for two," he said. The man narrowed his eyes.
"Do you have silver?" he asked. "Hot water will cost you more."
"A dragon for the hot bath and ample wine," Sandor grunted, placing a gold coin on the counter. The innkeep snatched up the coin and bit into it. Satisfied, he pocketed the coin and smile, revealing a row of crooked yellow teeth.
"Make yourselves at home, good folks. My wife will prepare a hot bath once you have had your dinner, and a room will be prepared. Will you prefer two rooms or one?"
"One room, two beds," Sandor replied stoutly. The man nodded and rushed toward a wooden stairwell, yelling in a high, shrieking voice for a certain Sheila. Minutes later, a plump woman with red cheeks, a flat nose, and dark brown hair plodded down the stairs.
"Shut your racketing, Ilyn," she barked. "What is it?"
"We'll be needing a hot bath for the lady, and they'll take the third room," Ilyn replied. She glanced at the travelers and nodded, heading out the backdoor and returning a few minutes later with a bundle of chopped wood under an arm, which she heaved upstairs.
Sansa and Sandor took the seat nearest the back doorway. Sandor sat with his back to the wall, downing his wine as Sansa sipped at a cup of sweet cider. Sansa couldn't help but glance at the three men at the far table, who had been keeping an obvious eye on them since the Hound had flashed his dragon, but Sandor didn't seem to notice them, or if he did, he made no remark upon their interest, only rested his palm on the hilt of his sword. It wasn't long before a plate of well-cooked horsemeat with salt, onions, and turnips was placed before them.
Sansa hadn't realized how hungry she was until she smelled the plate. She immediately began cutting delicately at the meat, changing hands to manipulate her fork and knife. The horseflesh was hard and stringy – Sansa rarely had the misfortune of dining on it – but it filled her belly and sated her appetite. The Hound tore at his meat with his teeth and fork, the knife left forgotten on the table. Half-way through her meal, he took the knife from her.
"Stop eating like a highborn lady, and maybe people won't figure it out," he growled when she complained. Sansa was forced to eat the rest with her fingers after she realized that tearing at it with her fork wasn't working so well. By the end of the meal, she felt dirty and greasy, but wouldn't clean herself on her cloak. She tried wiping the grease from her mouth with the back of her hand, but the Hound only laughed at her.
"You look better with the grease," he said, "less like a lady, more like me." Sansa scowled, and gladly left his company when the inkeep's wife came to fetch her.
"Who's the knight?" Sheila asked as she ushered Sansa upstairs and into a large room. A fire was burning on the left side of the room, with a small cauldron of boiling water suspended over it. A large, wooden tub sat in the center of the room, hot steam swelling out of it.
"He's not a knight," Sansa replied.
"Not a knight? He sure dresses like one. Or is he an outlaw – one of those Brave Companions?" Sansa frowned.
"He's not an outlaw. I don't know the Brave Companions." The Brave Companions sounded like a gallant band. Maybe they were outlaws who stole from the rich to feed the poor, like Gillian the Rider, who had ridden across Westeros hundreds of years back, distributing gold from the pockets of the wealthy to the hands of the lesser folk. Or so Septa Mordane had told her, many years ago, but Sansa had come to mistrust the tales of gallant knights and good men. They seemed to be harder and harder to come by.
"Well, what is he then? Your husband?"
"He's my father," Sansa said. Sheila tutted, stripping Sansa's gown off and helping her removed her underclothes.
"He looks young. How long have you two been traveling together?" Sansa disliked Sheila's poring questions, but she did not want to be rude.
"Not long. We met up a King's Landing. My mother is gone, and my sister disappeared." Sansa wondered if her tale was too close to the truth, however vague, but the woman only nodded sympathetically, dumping the last of the hot water from the cauldron into the tub.
"What a pity. He's quite handsome, your father. Despite the scars. Do you know what happened to him?"
"He was burned," Sansa replied curtly. The inkeeper's wife finally seemed to understand and asked no more, helping Sansa into the tub. Sansa moaned in pleasure. The water was just the right temperature, and the heat seeped through her delicate skin, soothing the bruises, blisters and sores. Sheila grabbed a bar of soap and began scrubbing Sansa's skin.
"Ouch, you're hurting me," Sansa complained as the woman began scrubbing at her back.
"You're a sensitive little lady, aren't you," the woman said. "You've a lot of bruises and sores for someone whose been traveling around for a while." Sansa did not like the suspicious tone of the woman's voice one bit.
"I'm not used to riding," she lied, "and father rides hard and fast."
"Where are you headed?"
"West," Sansa said. She ignored all other questions the woman asked her until she had been thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned and her skin was red as a baby's cheeks and stepped out of the bath, shivering. She was scrubbed up and down again with a scratchy towel, and once she had redressed, she was ushered to her room. There were two beds on either side of the room made up of a cot stuffed with soft hay on a raised wooden bed. The only light came from an oil lamp at the foot of Sandor's bed. The Hound was lying on the one closest to the doorway, but it was far too short for him and his boots dangled from the edge of the bed. His eyes were closed, but they opened as she entered the room. He had removed his armor, but kept the rest, including the sheathed sword sitting by his head.
"Have you bathed to your pleasure, little bird?" he asked as she entered. Sansa blushed and made for her own bed, sliding beneath the covers. The sheets were soft enough that the thick, scratchy woolen cover did not bother her has much as it could have, and the pillow was stuffed with feathers, not hay.
"Where are we going?" she asked in the darkness. She had wanted to ask, but never had, and despite their travels, they had never discussed the ultimate destination.
"Riverrun. Your mother should be there, else, her father. They'll know what to do with you, little bird."
"What will you do when we reach Riverrun?" she said. The Hound said nothing, and she heard him rustle in his bed.
Sansa closed her eyes, immediately finding a dark, dreamless sleep.
…
Sansa was shaken awake early the next morning. The Hound stood over her, his scar red and slick in the early light. The sight was enough to jerk her awake.
"Get up, girl. We leave now." Sansa sat up, rubbing her eyes.
"It's so early," she complained.
"And we best leave soon, unless you want to find yourself with a sword in your gut and your precious sack of stones gone." Sansa paled and slipped out of the bed, quickly bucking the cloak around her neck, sliding on her boots, and padded out behind the Hound. He handed her a round of cold bread and an orange for breakfast. The inn was quiet, and only the stable boy was awake to see them off. He kept a healthy distance as Sandor took his horse, which had been brushed and saddled.
They mounted and were off as the sun rose above the horizon. They followed the river for several more miles until it forked off along the Goldroad.
"Pull up your hood, little bird," the Hound rasped from behind. "If you're seen here, its straight back into Joffrey's loving arms for you." Sansa dutifully bunched her hair behind her neck and raised her hood to shade her face. The sun had risen high in the sky, but a cool wind kept her from sweating too hard. The Hound, however, smelled strong and musky, not entirely unpleasant, but she resolved to encourage he take a bath at the next inn they met.
As they wandered along the Goldroad, they met only a small group of travelers, ragged and old and poor, with only an old mule dragging along a single cart piled high with their sparse belongings. They gave Sandor and Sansa a suspicious look, but exchanged not a word, and were quickly lost behind them.
"Who were they?" Sansa asked.
"Common folk," Sandor grunted.
"What were they doing? Where are they going?" The Hound's gaze dropped to look at her.
"Fleeing," he said simply. She furrowed her brows.
"Fleeing? From where?"
"They could be running from anywhere. Likely their homes were burnt down, their sons killed and daughters raped."
"Did outlaws do that?" she asked. The Hound shrugged.
"Outlaws. Or Lions, or Wolves." Sansa stiffened.
"Robb would never abide the rape and murder of innocents," she countered defiantly.
"Your brother cannot control every man under his banner. Many and most men are cruel and greedy, and war only makes them harder. Even the young wolf would kill and rape if he didn't have to worry about his title and his damned honor."
"That honor is what makes him different from the common men," Sansa replied.
"Aye," the Hound replied, "but underneath, he's no different from them." Sansa jerked her head to the side to glare up at him.
"How would you know, Ser Clegane? You've served Joffrey, not Robb." Sandor's hands twitched at the surname, but he only countered Sansa's glare with a cruel smile.
"All men are the same. They all love the thrill of a woman fighting beneath them, the blood of other men slipping through their fingers. I'm sure your precious brother would love to see your pretty little face wet with tears and squirming under him." Sansa trembled with rage, and considered throwing herself off the horse, but it wouldn't take long for the Hound to catch her on his destrier.
"Just because you are sick and twisted does not make my brother the same," she hissed angrily. The Hound laughed and transferred the reigns to one hand, reaching up with the other to push her hood back. She slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch me," she snapped in a strained voice. She half expected Sandor to hit her then, but he only snorted.
"Quiet your shrill chirping, little bird," he said. "You're not near enough a woman for me." Sansa clutched the saddle with white hands and bit her lip to keep the tears stinging her eyes from falling. For the first time since the night of green flames, she regretted leaving King's Landing.
…
.:Author's Note:. Many thanks to all the reviewers thus far. I've been working diligently on this story thus far, but I began fleshing it out more, and realized it may end up longer than I originally planed. I'm trying to stay relatively true to the character's personalities, and thus I can warn you that this won't be an immediate romance. The Hound is coarse and hard-minded, and cruel in his own way. He isn't a romantic character, and developing his relationship with Sansa is going to take a while. Please bear with me, and let me know if I stray too far down the OOC road. I'm not used to narrating from the POV of a more girlish girl like Sansa. I'm possibly going to stick with Martin's manipulation of her as an unreliable narrator - we'll see.
Thank's again, and I'll try to update soon!
- Kerrigas