The smell of cooking food wafted over her, and a cacophony of voices and clattering broke her from her thoughts. They rounded the next corner and found themselves in the midst of the bustling kitchen. Servants ran to and fro, arms leaden down with trays of food, baskets of fresh linen, and cooking utensils. While the rest of the castle slept, the servants were already wide awake and preparing for the day. A portly woman, her thick grey hair twisted away from her face, broke through the mass of swirling bodies and glared at the two of them.
"No room," she snapped, her Summer Isles accent thick. "We're expecting those Tyrell shits in a few weeks time and have no rooms to spare for the girl. All are spoken for, like I already told that idiot Mandon."
Sansa had heard nothing of the Tyrell's upcoming visit, but she was hardly surprised. She was barely spoken to, and when she was it was with cruel words and sneers.
"W-Where am I to stay, my lady? I am not permitted to return to my old rooms." Sansa felt bold. "Surely there is space enough for me to share a room with another."
"Aye, I suppose there could be. All the kitchen girls, handmaids, and chambermaids are two to a room- they would revolt if they had three. The soldiers have begun doubling as well, not sure how much space is left. The only ones with single rooms still are the nobles and the kingsguard. Could be you'd have space enough at the foot of one of their beds." The head cook smirked.
Sansa felt her cheeks redden in shame at what the rude woman was suggesting.
"Perhaps I could sleep here, in the kitchens. There is space enough by the hearth," she tried again.
"I'd rather not come in here to find your face eaten off by the rats, if it's all the same to you m'lady," she drawled.
Sansa felt the blood drain from her face.
"Enough," Sandor snapped. "The girl is here by the king's orders. She is to be housed in the servants quarters. Do you defy your king?"
The large woman bristled. "Of course not! There ain't no room for her is all. The king ordered we keep half of the rooms free for whatever damned servants the Tyrells drag along with them. I dare not defy that king's order either. We have spare rooms for the nobles, but as you said she must remain in the servants section."
"Oh for-" Sandor bit off his curse and spun round, the corner of his burnt lip twitching madly. He stormed back the way they had come.
Sansa jogged after him and nearly ran into his broad back when he stopped in front of a door many twisting hallways later. Balancing Sansa's chest in one arm, he opened the door with a creak and stepped over the threshold. Sansa did the same, and studied the room.
It was small, much smaller than her old rooms. A largish bed took up half of the right wall, which spoke more to the size of the room than the bed. A small table and chair stood in the opposite corner of the room, a flagon and a overturned cup on the grimy table. The other corner help a chest, a heap of old clothes, and a wash stand. Between both corners stood an empty fireplace. The stone ground was bare, the single window shuttered, and a staleness hung in the air.
"Where are we?" She breathed.
"My room. You'll keep your chest in here while we find sleeping quarters for you," came the rasping reply. He refused to meet her eyes as he thumped down her chest beside his own, kicking his old clothes out of the way as he did so.
"What will we do if we can't find any?" She asked, the lump in her throat loosening at that thought of we. It made her feel warm to know she wouldn't be expected to do it all alone, almost as though she had a friend again.
He grunted but did not reply right away. "Go back to the kitchens. Start your work for the day. I'll fetch you in the evening."
Sansa did so. The head cook sent her to trail after Grette, another chamber maid. Grette was a stick thin girl with an upturned nose and a look upon her face as though she always smelled something foul. She did not introduce herself, but instead shoved a bucket full of soapy water at Sansa and barked, "Scrub this hallway. When you're done, knock on the doors and if no one's in them scrub those floors too."
"Where shall I find fresh water once this becomes murky?" Sansa asked.
Grette glared. "You make do with the murky water like the rest of us, m'lady Lamb Hands."
Grette quickly grew tired of Sansa's questions and her slowness and her inexperience. Sansa was miserable. Her hands stung from the strong soap they used to scrub the floors, her shoulders ached beneath the weight of the water bucket, and her empty belly growled in protest by the time the mid-morning bells rang.
The changing of bed linens was just as awful. The old sheets were sour, covered in stains she tried not to study too closely. Sweeping the hearths was suffocating work, her pale blue dress became smeared with ash, and she felt as though she would forever have a cloud of dust hanging over her head. The worst chore by far was the chamber-pots. She dry heaved more than once, much to Grette's amusement.
She held the pot as far from her face as possible and trudged to the nearest water closet to dispose of the foul liquid. So far she had been lucky in avoiding any nobles. Every room they cleaned was empty of life. The same could not be said for the path to the water closet.
The first person she crossed sneered and held his nose. The second laughed themselves into a stupor. The third scoffed and looked through Sansa, as though she were nothing but a fog. She found she much preferred that reaction and wished more people would ignore her. Invisibility suited her just fine.
The noon meal came and went, a thick stew and crust of bread that gave Sansa enough energy to not collapse half-way through the day. They ate apart from the other servants, balancing their bowls on their laps in the yard behind the kitchen. She delicately nibbled on the bread and tried not to wince when Grette lifted her bowl to mouth, licking the last of the stew from the bottom.
Sansa cleared her throat and smiled as charmingly as she could manage.
"Grette," she began, "How long will the Tyrell house be visiting?"
"Fuck if I know," Grette spewed past a mouth full of bread. "They'll be here long enough to out stay their welcome, I'd wager. Twice the work for half the pay it's worth."
"Do you know when they'll be arriving? And for why?"
"A fortnight, maybe less," she chewed and shrugged. "They've come to shove that Tyrell whore in the king's face and hope to all the gods that his cock takes a liking."
"Grette!" Sansa gasped at her crass language. "Where did you even hear that?"
"They're all saying it. They need a royal heir before the angry twat offs himself in a fit of madness. His temper's been getting worse and worse. The last servant to clean his room came back out beaten bloody by the little shit. She won't never be rid of her limp."
Sansa nodded in understanding. She didn't need to be told of Joffrey's descent into madness. She had seen enough proof to last seven lifetimes.
"You done, Lamb Hands? Those shit pots won't scrub themselves," Grette smirked and stood abruptly. Sansa's stomach turned at the memory of the chamber pots, and suddenly had no more appetite for the other half of her stew.
The rest of the day was no better than the beginning. She spent it scrubbing, washing, sweeping, lugging, kneeling, and sweating through her gown. More than once, her long hair fell over her shoulder and landed in the washing water, leaving a scummy residue on her strands she tried to ignore. The ultimate insult to her injury came near the end of the day.
"Oy, Lamb Hands," Grette called. "Come here. You're a tall one, ain't you? Take this torch and light the other ones down this hallway. I'll be round the corner lighting the other lot."
Sansa nodded and took the offered lit torch. Where Grette had to lift to the tips of her toes to reach the unlit torches, Sansa was tall enough to simply lift her arm. And so, she lifted her arm. A resounding rip echoed through the hall. She glanced down and saw the long tear that had opened along the side of her dress. A breeze wafted the flames of her torch and sent a chill to the bare skin exposed along her rib.
She sighed and fingered the torn material. "The stitching must have weakened from all the scrubbing today," Sansa murmured out loud.
"Oh what a shame," a slippery voice oozed from over her shoulder.
She spun around, the torch held out in front of her like a sword. Petyr Baelish stood before her, a smirk covering his face, his hands help up in surrender.
"I thought I was alone," she gasped.
"You've never been truly alone," he whispered. "You have true friends in the court, and I want you to know I'm counted among them." His eyes lingered too long on her exposed rib, and she struggled to suppress a shudder.
"That's too kind of you, my lord," Sansa began, but Petyr interrupted her before she could continue.
"No, not at all. I'd heard the king had stripped you of your title and sent you off to the servants but I didn't believe it. I can't help but feel as though I could have stopped this." He lifted a hand to her grimy hair and gripped a lock. His hand rested on her exposed flesh above her bodice's collar, but his firm grip on her hair kept her from backing up as she wished to. The smell of mint washed over her in overpowering waves.
"I know there is little spare room in the servant's quarters. If ever you lack a place to rest your head, know that my door is open for you. The king need not know." His eyes traced a line from the swell of her chest, down to her exposed ribs, then down further. Suddenly, she heard the unsaid words, my bed will always welcome you. His offer filled her with anger.
"Now that is truly too kind. I wish not to bring the king's displeasure upon you. He knows what is best, and he has decreed I ought to earn my way as a servant in the servant's quarters. I shall do as I was commanded, just as you will do as you were commanded. I bid you good night, My Lord." Sansa straightened her spine and tugged on the hair in his grip.
His cool eyes glittered in the torchlight. He kept his grip tight a moment longer, then released her.
"Good night, my lady."
Sansa turned and began walking before he could add more. She did not care that not a single torch has been lit in the hall, simply needing to put as much space between herself and her mother's old friend. She knew what his true offer was, and it made her skin crawl. How dare he proposition her? How dare he betray her mother's friendship like that? The more she thought on it the angrier she became.
She made her way back to the kitchen, and sat on a stool by the great fire, stewing on the exchange. She tossed the torch still in her hands into the fire and ignored the small handful of servants preparing the kitchen space for the next day.
Sandor found her there a short while later, just as he had promised. His face was grim, and for a moment she worried Joffrey had added to her punishment. That thought chased all the anger out of her.
"Little bird," he began, "Come along." She followed him as he stomped back to his quarters. He swung open the door harder then needed. She flinched when it bounced off the wall behind it. He slammed the door shut with as much vigor.
"Has your day fared well?" Sansa asked politely.
"No," he snarled. "It hasn't. That buggering kitchen whore was telling the truth. There isn't a spare room in the entire godsforsaken keep."
Sansa gazed up at his scowl. "What shall we do?"
Sandor did not answer. He threw himself into the only chair and unstopped the flagon on the table only to realize it was already empty. He tossed it to the side in disgust.
"Perhaps I could stay in the kitchens? Surely the head cook was jesting about the rats," Sansa offered, wishing to smooth away his rancid mood.
"She wasn't."
"Oh," Sansa murmured. They both lapsed into silence.
Petyr's offer sprang to mind, and it filled her with disgust. She would never lower herself in the way he had demanded. She glanced over to her chest sitting snugly in the corner of Sandor's room, almost as though it had always belonged there, and an idea filled her head.
Feeling safe in her decision, Sansa took a step forward and smoothed down the front of her stained dress.
"Perhaps...Perhaps I could stay here. It is in the servants' quarters as King Joffrey requested, and there is room enough in front of the hearth for myself. I promise I won't take up much room, and I'll stay quiet."
She cast hopeful eyes up at him, then shrank back at the fury she found.
"Stay here?" Sandor's mouth twitched and twisted terribly. "Aye, all curled up at the foot of my bed like a nesting bird. Just as if I was one of those true knights you love so well, yes. What do you think a knight is for, girl? You think it's all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in gold plate? I have no use of your bloody chirping."
Sansa twisted her hands together and set her shoulders. "Why are you always so hateful? I don't presume to stay without earning my keep. Your room will be kept tidy, your floors scrubbed, your armor polished."
"And what if I wanted more than that," the hound rasped darkly, his eyes blazing.
"You don't," Sansa shook her head and smiled softly. "I've seen men who do and you don't have their look."
His gaze bore into her, burning with challenge, and something else she couldn't name.
Sansa held his gaze. "You won't hurt me."
They both stayed still for a few moments, then Sandor shook himself and broke their eye contact. "No, little bird," he said softly. "I won't hurt you."
He stood quickly, as though his seat had stung him, and left the room without another word or glance. She lifted a hand to her pounding heart. She knew it was not pounding in fear but she could not place what else it could be. Perhaps it was that look in his eyes. Sansa stood beside his bed, suddenly unsure of what to do with herself.
She crossed to the other side of the room, and began gathering his discarded clothing. It would be best to prove herself before he returned. She sifted through dust crusted tunics, ripped pants, and small clothes that made her blush. At the very bottom of the pile, she found a bed roll bundled up tight as though he had forgotten about it after returning from a journey. She wondered if it was from his trip to Winterfell all those moons ago.
She folded the clothing together and shoved it into a discarded pillow covering. She would ask Grette tomorrow where the linens were washed, then wash the clothing there herself. She used an old wash cloth to scrub the wine-sticky table, then smoothed down his bedding. Satisfied that the room was tidier than before and too exhausted to do more, she unrolled the bed roll and laid it before the empty hearth.
She gazed longingly at her chest, but knew she couldn't risk wrapping herself in the cloth hidden in there lest Sandor see it upon his return. Sansa laid down on the bed roll and pulled it as high as it could go, barely noticing how hard the stone floor was, then drifted to sleep.
She awoke only once in the night, to Sandor stumbling in. The thick smell of red wine filled the room to bursting. The room was pitch black, but she could hear him shuffle past her head to his where his bed roll had been kept. He patted around blindly in that corner before realization dawned on him. He paused over her, as though able to make out her shape through the gloom. He said not a word, simply shuffled over to his bed. A loud thwump sounded as he threw himself into his bed. Loud snores soon followed.
When Sansa next awoke, thin beams of morning sun slanted through the window's shutters. Sandor's bed was empty and rumpled. She rose with stiff limbs to begin another day as a chambermaid.