She did not expect to see him, of all people, step into her chamber at such an early hour. The size of the man before her banished the cool, soft peace she had enjoyed only moments before his arrival. The Hound was dressed in crimson red and soot black and his dark hair clung damp against his face and neck as though he were fresh from his bath. The smell of him overpowered the soft breeze still teasing the curtains. He smells of horses and sweat, yet he looks freshly bathed. His face betrayed no thought or purpose, but his dark eyes burned – oh gods, I'm staring..
Courtesy forgotten, Sansa looked away and hid her embarrassment behind her speech.
"What – what are you doing here at this hour? I am barely awake. I am not dressed – my handmaiden has not – you should not be here!"
The Hound seemed not to notice as Sansa fumbled to pull her thin robe firm against her body. "I knocked."
"I expected a servant."
"I serve the King."
"A lady's servant. Why are you here, Ser?"
"Go to your bed."
So this is how it will be. No courtship, no marriage, no knight. The hollowness in Sansa's belly was quickly consumed by a queer sense of calm. He warned me with his words that the songs were not true. Now he has come to show me. Sansa found courage to look upon the giant before her, blue eyes meeting grey. Better the dog than his master.
"I will do as you wish, my Lord. I only ask that you be gentle. The Queen will soon learn if you leave your mark on me. My handmaiden.."
The Hound lunged towards her, his face aghast. "What in seven hells are you talking about, girl? Who do you mistake me for? Get into your bed. Close your eyes. When they knock, do not answer. You'll wait until they come in, do you hear?"
The tips of Sansa's fingers prickled from shame. She wasn't sure whether to feel relief or disappointment. Silly girl. What would a man grown want with such a silly girl? She nodded at the man who had disturbed her cool, sweet solace.
"They'll ask after your health. Maybe they'll ask how you slept, if you passed water in the night – did you?"
Sansa blushed. "You ask the questions of a Maester, Ser."
"Fuck your sers. Did you pass water in the night?" Sansa froze, unable to blink or speak or shift her gaze from the Hound's snarling face. Groaning, the man moved in towards her bed in search of the chamber pot. Sansa found her voice and spoke loudly. "I did not. I did not need to. It is empty. Please, you're frightening me."
It was the Hound's turn to freeze. He grabbed at the bed post, exhaling with force as he rested his forehead against it. As he spoke through clenched teeth he turned his scarred cheek towards her.
"Get in the bed, little bird. Take off your robe, bind your hair back, and close your eyes. When they come, do not answer. Let them wake you. When they ask after your health, lie to them. Tell them you are unwell. Your stomach feels empty, your head feels heavy. You've had bad dreams. You have a thirst that cannot be quenched no matter how much you drink, yet you pass no water. Your skin burns. Do you hear me?"
Sansa did not reply. Swiftly she moved towards her bureau and slipped the muslin robe from her shoulders, dropping it over a chair as though it was yet to be worn. The cool morning air no longer caressed her skin. She shook off goose bumps and returned to the window and crouched, collecting her ribbon from the cold stone floor.
"Are you in the habit of sleeping with your curtains pulled and your window glass open?"
The Hound stood straight, still holding onto the bedpost, staring at the slender girl before him.
Sansa nodded. "It gets so warm in here. I feel as though I can't breathe when the windows are pulled shut."
The Hound snorted. "I had thought you left them open for the birds and their noisy chirpings."
Did he listen for them also? "You hear the birds, Ser?"
"Aye, as does most of fucking Kings Landing. Bind your hair girl, you have little time."
The Hound continued to stare at her as her slender fingers imprisoned her auburn hair in another braid. Sansa secured the ribbon in a simple but firm knot.
"No pretty bow?"
"It would come undone in my sleep, leaving my hair tangled. My handmaiden is not forgiving with her brush, so a knot serves me best."
The Hound smiled, or at least Sansa thought he smiled. The scars on his face made it difficult for her to tell. She no longer felt fear when she looked upon the ruin of his face but she could not look for too long before she began to imagine the King pressing her own smooth face against an open flame. On this clear day turned grey, Sansa forced herself to keep looking. She saw his skin was flushed, as it was after he had worked his sword arm in the yard. His hair was not damp from a bath but from exertion. As though he could read her thoughts the hound blinked and looked around the room for a mirror. Upon noticing a tall looking glass past the bureau he strode towards it, swearing at his reflection.
"A rag. Fetch me a rag."
Sansa frowned. "Pardon, my Lord?"
The Hound snorted. "You're as stupid as the Queen says you are." Glancing to his left, he reached for the muslin robe which Sansa had placed over the chair. Sansa frowned as the Hound used her robe to rub his hair and face dry of perspiration.
A fierce heat rose to the surface of Sansa's skin. Stupid girl, silly girl, head filled with songs. Must he remind me of what I know so well? Anger defeated restraint as she responded, furious. "A lady does not keep a store of rags in her chamber, Ser. I am not a servant. On that note, I am sure that the laundress will wonder why a lady's morning robe stinks of a boorish man!"
Laughing, the Hound turned away from the mirror. "That's it, little bird. Show me your claws. Mind you draw them back when the Queen and her boy King come knocking on your door. Now get in your bed and sleep, damn you, before I put you to sleep with my fist."
If she'd been in Winterfell, she would have stomped her foot and protested and whined her resistance. Instead, Sansa breathed deep and thought of her mother. Sansa had never seen her mother lash out or speak from immediate anger. Her mother was fiery and passionate and strong, but she had not been rash. Catelyn Tully knew how to pick her battles, and her daughter would follow her example.
Without a glance at the Hound, Sansa followed his instructions. Her sheets were no longer cool and the fabric scratched at her cheek as she lay her head against the lumpy pillows. With a sigh, Sansa Stark closed her eyes and willed herself to think of sleep.
How can he expect me to feign sleep under these conditions? Why must I do this? The petulant child within threatened to bubble to the surface and fight this further assault against her freedom and happiness. Sansa swallowed hard. Be calm, breathe deep. What could the Hound seek to gain from this farce? He has not lied to me previously. He must have his reasons, and I would be wise to listen. Calmed, Sansa snuggled against her pillow and sighed. The chamber was silent.
Where is the Hound? As soon as the thought entered her young head, Sansa knew the Hound had not moved from his place by the mirror. He is watching me. The idea of the cruel-mouthed man staring at her as she slept pleased the northern girl. She remembered a story Old Nan had told her once, a lifetime ago, of a maiden cursed to sleep for a thousand years and the fair knight who had rode to her rescue.
But the hound is not a knight, and I am not cursed. There will be no happy ending for my tale.
An echo of movement in the hall outside seemed to jolt the Hound to action. He grunted at the auburn-haired girl in her bed as he left the room. "You're ill, little bird. Chirp your pretty lies the best you can."
As the door rested shut against the stone frame, hollowness again settled in Sansa's stomach.
I don't have to pretend.