The next day was a good one for Sansa. She felt quite relaxed and rested, and the reason why— her shameless fantasy and the activities it had inspired— brought a flush to her face each time she thought of it.
A telegram from Bronze Yohn indicated he would be transferring the promised funds to her account within days, to her relief. It was a considerable sum and, once all debts and back-pay had been satisfied, she would be investing it to ensure it could last her the rest of her life, for she fully intended to remain unwed a third time. Perhaps it was ludicrous, a woman of twenty-six swearing off husband and family, but the alternative thus far had been beyond disappointing, and she felt comfortable with sacrificing her dreams of children if it meant she had agency over her own person, finally and for once.
If only it were not such a lonely prospect…
A frisson of sensation ran down the back of her neck. Sansa stiffened, where she was seated at her desk, writing letters to her many siblings to assure them of her settlement in her new home. It were as if a current of cool air had been displaced by someone's movement. But that was not possible, was it? She was alone in her sitting room…
…wasn't she?
No.
Someone else was there. She was certain of it, could feel the person's presence as if they— he— were standing right beside her. Her breath came shallowly, from between lips parted in thrilled terror. Ghosts and spiritualism were all the thing in the cities now; being out in the country with Harry, she hadn't heard of many séances taking place, but when she'd been in King's Landing with the bestial Joffrey, she'd attended one a fortnight, or even more often.
She hadn't really believed in them, but they were a nice excuse to spend time with others, and most importantly be out in public where Joffrey couldn't insult or strike her. But, like a sponge, she'd heard and absorbed some things from the mediums conducting the séances. The air around her was becoming colder, misting before her face as she exhaled. Hands shaking with excitement, Sansa seated herself at the desk and gathered her courage before speaking.
"H-hello," she began, feeling very stupid. "I know you're there. I can feel you."
Surprise. Sansa could feel that the spirit had not expected any response from her.
"You thought I would not be able to tell you are there?"
Yes.
She marveled that these impressions were forming in her mind so clearly. Was this how mediums communicated with the dead?
"Are you going to hurt me?" She had no idea what she would or could do if so, but thought asking might not go amiss.
Amusement. No. No, he would not hurt her, and thought it was funny that she'd ask. She scowled, because it was a very reasonable question, she felt. The amusement grew in response to her pique. The spirit, she decided, was a pest.
Wry laughter. She could almost hear it. The spirit was acknowledging, with humor, that he was indeed a pest. And that Sansa was understating it, in fact. She was startled enough to let out a laugh of her own, quickly stifled behind her hand.
"I am Sansa," she announced. Her mind had an impression of the swirl of a cloak, the sweep of an arm, as a man offered an old-fashioned bow of greeting, with a sharp edge of mockery.
"You don't have to be rude about it," she sniffed, and again came the amusement. "Do you have a name?"
Yes, but with a tinge of contempt; of course he had a name; was she stupid? Sansa was half inclined to give this pesty spirit a piece of her mind, but she didn't want to lose the opportunity to actually communicate with him. She withdrew a sheet of paper and drew the markings of a ouija board across it as accurately as she could recall.
"I have seen spirits guide the hand of mediums with boards like this," she said in a hushed voice. "Will you do that with me? It will be easier."
Yes.
Sansa didn't have a planchette to rest her hands on, and was sitting there, pencil still in hand while she wondered how to compensate, when she felt something encompass her hand. It felt exactly as if a large man had surrounded her hand with his own. She only had time to gasp before her hand was moving without her instruction, under the aegis of the spirit.
Her hand slid across the paper until the pencil's point rested on the S she had written. Then it was moving to the left, to the A. N, D, O, and R followed in swift succession.
"Your name is Sandor," she whispered.
Yes.
Sansa barely stopped herself from squealing in delight. Squealing was so inappropriate for a twice-made duchess and young lady of her age. But elation raced through her, and it mingled with the amusement of the spirit as she became aware of it.
"Sandor, you must tell me about yourself," she gushed. "I know you're a man— you feel quite manly—" she broke off, blushing a little, because underlying all the emotions she'd sensed from him was an powerfully masculine undertone, something dominant and intensely strong. Genuinely strong, not the cruel bullying Joffrey had used to pretend at courage, nor the indiscriminate whoring Harry had engaged in to 'prove' his masculinity. No, her ghost had nothing to prove, and no need for pretense. There was something of the apex predator in him, supremely confident, and Sansa liked it.
A lot.
Pleasure. He was fiercely pleased not only that she had understood so much about him, but that it had affected her so. She felt uncomfortable for the first time, realizing that her ghost had access to her thoughts, will she or nil she.
"This," she murmured, "will not do."
Questioning.
"Tell me how to hide my thoughts," she said. "I do not want you able to stroll through my mind as you like."
The big male hand covered her own once more, and started zipping across the paper so quickly that Sansa soon could not follow, and started laughing.
"Slower, slower! Again, from the beginning!"
But the hand made her flip over the paper and began manipulating her pencil into words, uneven and jagged.
I dont think theres a way to keep me out
No one ever knew I was here before so no need to try
Sansa sat and stared at the wobbly letters he had scribbled across the page. She was unsure if she should feel uncomfortable by the way he had taken control of her hand that way, but before she could work herself into a dudgeon, he wrote another line.
"I'm the first one you've ever been able to communicate with?"
Yes.
"Has it been a long time?"
Yes, with emphasis.
"How long?"
what year is it now? scrawled under his previous lines.
"It is eighteen hundred and eighty-two."
There was a long pause.
been near to a thousand years then
All by himself for a thousand years? Sansa's heart contracted.
"How lonely you must feel!" she gasped. "How awful for you, to be alone so long—"
Anger.
chirping platitudes like a little bird, he scribbled. I don't want your fucking pity. And then he underlined the words, pressing hard enough to snap the pencil's point.
Sansa jerked in surprise, cringing back in her chair. She was felt awful for upsetting him, and then she became angry.
"Don't you yell at me," she told him, her voice low but furious as she tossed the broken pencil to the surface of the desk. "I've been yelled at quite enough by men for whom I'm a convenient target, and I won't have it again."
Shock. Then a cold little tendril seemed to thread its way through her mind, and she knew he was exploring her memories. Her first instinct was to cringe more, to feel shame for how she'd capitulated to Joffrey's rages, how she'd justified Harrold's infidelities. But no. No longer. She'd survived the beatings, the screaming, the innumerable humiliations. She had nothing to be ashamed of.
Shock shock shock.
He really was amazed to learn of her ignominious history. Sansa smiled grimly; served him right, for prying when she'd told him not to, and for being rude and vulgar in response to her compassion.
But then she was the one in shock, because the channel between them was going both ways. It had loosened some seal, had opened some door, that kept his emotions in check, and for a moment she felt as if she were drowning in him. He was stoicism and practicality, determination and strength, confidence and vigor. He was, most poignantly, loneliness and yearning— though those two were hastily swept back out of sight in hopes she'd missed them.
And threading throughout the intricate tapestry of him was anger, anger, anger. Sansa gasped again, to feel it. She thought she'd been humiliated, had experienced betrayal, had felt pain, but she knew then that her own past held nothing in comparison to how Sandor had suffered.
She reached out— with her arms at first, like a ninny— before recalling she was conversing with a non-corporeal being, and trying to stretch the bounds of her mind to him. The first tentative touch was rebuffed as he recoiled from her, but Sansa persisted, crowding him with a courage fueled by her need to soothe another person who knew torment. She wrapped her mind around him, her heart throbbing in response to his misery.
Shock. Panic. Confusion. And then, "No. No."
Sansa sucked in a breath, stupefied. He had spoken. She'd heard him as clearly as if he'd shouted in her ear.
"Yes," she said, fighting to maintain her mental grip around him. "I won't hurt you."
"As if you could," he rasped, right behind her, and she leapt from the chair to spin around.
There, behind her, was a silvery outline of a man, hard to discern because of the room's dim light, but when she squinted, yes, there he was… tall and massively built, but so faded it was difficult to make out his features.
Shock shock shock.
His, and her own. He was as astonished as she that it had happened, she could tell from the poleaxed expression on his face.
Oh, his face…
A huge scar covered one half of it from hairline to chin, mottled and raw-looking. For a moment, the smell of seared flesh was pungent in Sansa's nose, and she realized with horror that she was still in his mind, and that wasn't her vivid imagination.
It was his memory of his own face cooking.
She took an aborted step forward, wanting to protect him from the flames, though they had already touched him, or wanting to comfort him, though his wounds had already healed. She could scarcely breathe past the lump in her throat, and just stared at him, speechless even as his features contorted in fury and he began a litany of the most profane curses she had ever had the misfortune to hear.
He said words from other languages, words that had gone out of use centuries ago, even words that Sansa suspected had not been invented yet. When she was able to unlock her knees once more, she parked herself upon the settee and waited for him to finish. His stamina was impressive, too, because she stared at him patiently for at least a full minute, and his tirade did not falter for even a moment.
When at last her teeming emotions had calmed, she decided it was time to interrupt him. Sansa gave a genteel cough and a pointed look. He didn't appear ashamed as he ought to have done, to have spoken so in the company of a lady, but at least he stopped, clamping his mouth shut and glowering at her from under a heavy brow.
"I don't want your fucking pity," he repeated, verbally this time instead of on paper. His voice was deep and soft and hoarse, putting her in mind of velvet over gravel, which made no sense but she was in no mindset to figure out the blatherings of her own thoughts just then.
"Fortunate, since I was not offering any," she replied tartly, and was gratified to see his eyes narrow a bit. "I would not waste my time pitying you, since you have no appreciation for it. No, I was feeling empathy, since the tiny amount that I could comprehend of what you went through must have been appalling. Compassion, since I am very sorry you had to endure that, and wish you had not. And admiration, for you to have survived it. You must be very strong indeed, both in body and spirit."
He squinted at her, clearly suspecting a trap.
"Believe me or not, as you will," she said, waving a breezy hand. "Will you have a seat?" She gestured to the squashy armchair across from her settee. "I am very excited that we can communicate, and I have many questions. Will you answer them?"
He nodded slowly, suspicion gleaming in his eyes, and took a seat, sprawling in it in a way that rather amazed Sansa— she'd never seen a man so relaxed in her presence that he'd sit with his legs all over, crowding her space. She made a mental note of how fine those legs were, long and muscled in the snug trousers he wore with knee-high boots and a tunic.
"This will be a short and unhappy chat if you refuse to ever speak again," she said, teasingly, leaning forward to meet his downcast gaze, trying to coax a smile from him.
He lifted to her a piercing gaze that seemed more gray, somehow, than the rest of him, and the faintest smirk curled his lips.
"Are you trying to flirt information out of me?" he rumbled.
"Will it work?" she shot back. "I am very determined to have my way, you see, and will be shameless in the attempt."
He shook his head briefly, as if in resignation, but she had the sense of his cooperation.
"So, first things first, yes?" she began. "You said your name is Sandor. Do you have a last name?"
"Clegane," he replied easily.
Sansa committed it to her memory.
"And what years were you alive?" she asked. "Oh, dear, is that insensitive of me, to reference your death? I'm terribly sorry, if so."
Sandor shrugged. "Death is part of life, and I've had long enough to get used to the fact that I'm gone." He frowned a bit deeper, then, as if thinking hard. "I don't remember when I was alive, exactly. Not anymore. Been a while, y'understand."
"Is that a frequent characteristic of ghosts?" she inquired.
"As I'm the only ghost of my acquaintance, I could not tell you," he replied with a hint of humor.
"Ah, so there are no others here in the Abbey?"
"None others on the entire isle," said Sandor. "And believe me, I looked. I don't think I was a man much for companionship, when I was alive, but after the first few centuries with only myself to speak to, I went looking."
He had been staring down at his outstretched legs while speaking, but now raised those piercing eyes to her once more.
"I'm very glad you can hear me," he said, gruff but sincere, and a little embarrassed, Sansa suspected. "You're the first person who could."
She thought of centuries of speaking and speaking and no one hearing a word, and felt a pang in her chest at how alone he'd been, totally lacking for fellowship, for hadn't she also been calling for help for years, only to receive silence in return?
"Well," she said briskly, "here I am, and here I plan to stay for the foreseeable future. I would like for us to be friends."
He did not say a word, but she sensed a strong current of relief coursing from him. She relaxed back into the corner of the settee and surveyed him more closely. Was it her imagination, or was his form seeming more solid as time passed? He had been barely visible at first, but now he seemed less translucent, almost as solid as a living man, and the grayness was fading as well, leaving behind the natural colors of life.
She could see his features clearly now. Excepting the scar, they were unremarkable: a broad forehead, thick brows capping deep-set eyes and a proud nose over a mouth with surprisingly full lips. His chin, she noted, was stubborn, and she would hazard a guess that he was argumentative, as well. When his glower deepened, Sansa perceived that he was still monitoring her thoughts.
"We must discuss that as well," she said. "I would very much appreciate privacy in my own head, if you please. In return, I promise I will stay out of yours, as well. Are we agreed?"
"I don't know how to stop it," Sandor told her. "I've spent all this time trying to have people hear me. No idea how to get them to stop."
"We shall just have to try to be respectful of each other."
This was met with a grunt that promised nothing in either direction, and then silence fell.
She continued to study him. He looked familiar, somehow, though she was quite sure she'd never before encountered a man such as he. Certainly she'd have remembered him: despite her own unusual height, he had towered over her in those few moments they'd both been standing while he cursed the air blue. He had shoulders an elk would envy, a deep chest that tapered into narrow hips and long, well-muscled legs. His hands, resting on his knees, were immense.
A fine physical specimen, then. He must have died in his prime. There was a grimness about his eyes that spoke of warfare, she fancied, having seen it before in the many gentlemen of her acquaintance who had taken the king's shilling and gone off to make their fortune in the name of building an empire in exotic climes. Sandor seemed like a man who knew his way around a sword and shield, and those shoulders could easily bear the burden of a mail shirt and plate armor.
Sansa surfaced from her little reverie to find that her new friend had been surveying her as well, his gaze raking slowly up and down her form. When he finally met her eyes once more, she felt oddly breathless, as if his stare had left little icy trails in its wake.
"Will I do?" she said, managing to imbue the words with a jaunty tone while hoping he was honoring his word to keep from poking about in her mind.
"Aye, you'll do," Sandor replied, his voice pitched even lower, his gaze resting on her mouth, and a little shaft of… something… darted from her breastbone to her navel at the sound of it.
Oh, this was madness; this made no sense at all, she thought, with a flicker of alarm. She knew what that dart of sensation had been. She'd felt it once or twice in the past, for the Duke of Highgarden's third son, Loras, until she'd been made aware of his alternative preferences, and for Joffrey, before she'd realized his true, hideous character. And even after all she'd been through with Joffrey, she'd even felt it, a bit, for Harrold… until their wedding night, when she drew the conclusion that marital relations were vastly underwhelming in general.
Until last night's fantasy, that was. She'd brought herself to satisfaction many times since that second disappointing wedding night, but always thinking of men in an abstract way, nothing specific or personalized. Last night's pirate, so tall and strong… with long dark hair… and piercing eyes…
Sansa gasped as she realized just why Sandor seemed familiar to her. It was because he was identical to her pirate, the pirate who had ravished her so thoroughly in her mind.
…had it been only in her mind?