He hadn't much missed the rage that two years with Elder Brother had taught him to control but three times today he had felt the cold fingers slither into his heart and wrap around it and the way he had reacted to it had unnerved him. It had made him careless and he'd almost acted on instinct rather than thought. He sat down hard on the edge of the straw palette and kicked his boots off harder than was necessary, sending them flying half way across the small room in the East Tower.
Fucking bird.
He'd never forgotten about her, in fact often wondered where she'd ended up and was the topic of most of his interactions with Elder Brother, but being away from her had made him forget, dulled what it was like to be around her. This happenstance of fate pushing her into his path again had thrown him. He was unprepared and needed to think, but the desire to act was overwhelming. He'd offered before, offered to take her away to safety, to her family but she'd been too terrified of him then to go. From what he'd seen of her today she was braver now, she answered back and stood her ground, maybe she would accept this time. Frustrated he sighed, rubbing his face with his large calloused hands. There was too much he did not understand.
Snorting, he wondered if he should take offence. He wasn't easily mistaken for another and she had failed to recognise him, he was sure of it. Twice today their paths had crossed and all he had received from her was that blank expression. It was different now though, not that glassy eyed, defiant stare she'd had when looking upon her father's head. No, he found this new expression worrying. She was her but she was not, almost as if she was wearing a mask of her face. He'd had plenty of time during the feast tonight to look upon her face unseen from the shadows, and the control she wielded over her expressions inexplicably saddened him - almost as much as the way she had discretely glanced to Littlefinger for permission before doing anything had caused him to feel the familiar simmerings of rage bubbling away beneath his skin.
Huffing, he laid back on the hard palette and closed his eyes, brows drawn together in a frown as he replayed the day in his mind to try to make sense of it. He hadn't been shocked to see her at the gate with the other girl, greeting their visitors but neither had he been expecting it. Whispers of the sudden arrival of Littlefinger's bastard daughter had spread across the kingdom and when he'd first heard of it in a tavern close to the Quiet Isle he'd snorted and told the barkeep that anyone who believed Littlefinger stupid enough to get one of his whores with child was like to believe him the most handsome knight of the seven kingdoms.
When he had first seen her he hadn't recognised her right away, not with her dull, dark hair and the inches added to her height over the years they'd been apart; he tried not to notice that she would certainly no longer be mistaken for a girl with the way her hips and breasts had filled out. He questioned himself as to her identity for only a moment until something one of the Waynwood fools said made her tilt her head back and laugh and he caught sight of those undeniably Tully eyes. His heart beat skipped for only a moment as her voice drifted over to him, three men back from where she stood conversing with the Lady Anya. He heard her bite back a most discourteous remark and for a second time his conviction waived, his little bird would have never dared answer back like that, especially not to the fucking Heir of the Vale. It was the set of her jaw as she turned and marched off that confirmed it for him and he bit back a smile thinking perhaps she did have some wolf in her after all.
He'd lost sight of her then, the twenty strong party escorting the Heir and the Waynwoods taking much longer to reach castle than the two young girls. He was shown to his room by a pimply green boy who ran off quick as he could; Sandor no longer felt the rage he used to when people would look anywhere but his face yet it still made him wary.
Thankful that the Heir seemed to think high enough of his abilities as a sellsword to warrant his own room, Sandor had used the time to wash the weeks of travel from his skin and clothes. He'd examined himself in the small looking glass hung crookedly above the basin, wondering if perhaps he had changed over the years as she had. Older perhaps, the years working outdoors in the wind digging graves had not been kind to his skin but it had meant he retained his physique, broad and strong, the muscles rippling under the pock marked, scarred skin as he moved. Raising his grey eyes to his face he grunted. There was no mistaking this, never. This mass of scars and twisted skin that claimed half his face. No, if she had seen him she would have known him.
After he'd washed and dressed, opting for a leather jerkin rather than full plate armour, he'd left his room and wandered the castle and its grounds gaining his bearings should he need to defend his new master. It was during this exploration that he'd caught a second glimpse of her. Watching from a small, high up window his eyes had followed her as she made her way across the yard, every inch the lady of the castle with the same girl in tow as before at the gate and the addition of what looked like a serving master, no doubt finalising details of this evenings feast. For a moment he felt a calm settle over him, this is what her life should be, who she should be, the busy Lady of the castle, fluttering around and keeping herself happy with her womanly duties. Squinting as Littlefinger glided across the ground to meet her Sandor couldn't help but think it was the wrong castle.
When time came for the feast he'd had a few hours to puzzle over why no one seemed to find it strange Sansa Stark was hidden away in the Vale. Before the first course had arrived he'd worked out it wasn't that they didn't find it strange, it was that they didn't know. They didn't know she was Sansa Stark, Princess of Winterfell...Queen of the North in the minds of some. That puzzled him further.
He'd had an excellent view of her up on the dais, the fire behind her giving her an ethereal glow while she smiled and laughed with Baelish and the Royces. He ignored her studiously instead choosing to concentrate on his food, all 64 courses of it. The bird had done well organising it all but even he could see Baelish was ultimately behind it, sending a message to all those Lords in attendance, displaying his wealth and what he had to offer in exchange for their support.
He brooded and ate, grunting and snarling at anyone who tried to speak with him until he saw three cooks wheeling out the biggest lemon cake he'd ever seen. He couldn't not look at her then. His hand froze halfway to his mouth as he watched the delighted smile spread across her face, her eyes on Littlefinger alone, her eyes alight with emotion, but what emotion he couldn't place. Pushing his chair back he'd made his exit from the table, sinking into the shadows at the back of the room as systematically Littlefinger's household staff transformed the room from a banqueting hall in to a dancing room.
That was when he'd been able to really watch her; watch her float from guest to guest, suitor to suitor as they all clamoured to have her hand in a dance. She'd smiled and laughed and touched their arms in all the right places, enamouring them further to her and yet something seemed so off about it. He watched her for hours, his intense gaze following her around the room as he tried to learn about the woman she was now rather than the scared young girl he had once known. It was during that time that she'd walked past him, her gaze quickly sweeping past him as she smiled her apologies for bumping into him, flying off to speak with some other guests, cajoling them up to dance.
Harry had appeared by his side then, leaning against the wall next to him, his gaze following Sandor's to land on the bird.
'There are worse things to marry.'
'Aye,' Sandor grunted, carefully schooling his features. He'd never been one to talk, didn't want to draw attention to himself by suddenly seeming interested now. 'She's no Frey'
The Heir snorted at that, holding out a black velvet cloth wrapped around something small enough to fit in the palm of Harry's hand, something with such a distinct shape that it could only be a dagger. 'Here,' Harry handed it to him, 'Lord Baelish has given all competitors tokens to remember the tourney by. I have no need of it but I know my merry band of sellswords are often on the lookout for new weaponry.'
Sandor had taken it with a grunt and slid it into his boot, he'd take a proper look at it later.
'I suppose I better go and dance with my wife to be' Harry had left him then, Sandor's brows knit tight together as he tried to puzzle this out. His attention was caught by Harry delicately taking Sansa's hand, spinning her around the room. It was as his eyes followed her spin that he caught sight of Littlefinger watching too, a pleased smile on his lips and a cunning glint in his eye. Whatever was going on here Littlefinger was engineering it, of that much Sandor was certain. The thought filled him with more rage than he'd felt in years and chilled him to his bones. What was the bird caught up in here, just how dangerous was it?
And that was how he'd ended up back in his room kicking his boots across the floor. His new master wasn't cruel, not like Joff, she wouldn't be beaten or humiliated but neither would he love her as she deserved to be. She'd have a comfortable life, caged in a bigger castle that wasn't hers, mayhaps even some babes but she'd never truly be free and she'd never truly be happy.
He growled into the empty room and cursed her again for the turmoil she was causing. Why did it have to be fucking Littlefinger she was with. Littlefinger with his manipulative schemes and disturbing looks towards her. He needed more time to think. He needed to fucking sleep, after so many weeks travelling and camping outdoors this wooden palette felt like a feather bed in comparison. He laid fully down, stretching his large frame across the hard wood and fell into a fitful sleep.