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CHAPTER 3
SANDOR
It was late, dark and cold, but the girl rested against him as calmly as if she was sleeping on a feather bed. She was so close he smelled her scent again and could even tangle his big fingers into her hair if he wanted. There wasn't enough wine in the entire Isle for him to bear the events of that day. Hope none of the gossip monks saw us or we'll be fucked up, he thought. Though they already were. There was no need to ask; he guessed she was fleeing from somewhere or someone as awful as Kings Landing. Maybe they had that in common; the necessity to run away from everything. Still, her presence made him feel things he didn't know how to deal with yet.
He shook her as gently as he could to wake her up, but she was breathing deeply and didn't move, so he put the hood on again, lifted her up and held her between his arms to take her to her cabin. The little bird was light as a child for him and she rested her forehead against his chest all the way back.
The ugly woman that accompanied her was sitting outdoors, waiting for her. She rose alerted as soon as she saw them.
"What had happened!? What have you done to her?!" she cried.
"Shut up, woman!" he growled, "she's just fallen asleep."
He opened the front door with a kick and laid her on the straw cot. The woman didn't calm until she checked the girl was all right, but it seemed that wasn't enough for her.
"Who are you? Why was she with you so late?" she asked suspicious.
He wasn't in the mood for talking to her any longer, so he turned around and left the room without saying a word, leaving her there with her questions hanging from her ugly lips.
Once in his own cabin, he took off the habit and the tunic, threw them to a corner and poured a pitcher of fresh water over his head to wash.
He realized had not felt so strong and full of life since he fled Kings Landing. His leg had healed better than he had expected and while his body was crisscrossed with thousands of scars, it was still muscular and strong. He was still masterful with the heaviest of swords, and he could still kill a man bare handed. His armor and the sword he wore when the Elder Brother found him was still kept in a rucksack under his bed. He took them and touched them carefully for the first time since he came there, so long ago. The sword fitted perfectly in his hand, like a natural extension of his arm. He turned his wrist and shook it from side to side; it felt good. Fighting was what he did best since he was twelve, and it was all he could offer her; his strength and a sword; almost nothing compared to what high Lords and bloody knights had to offer, but for now it was enough to keep her safe.
He lay on the bed and his body left a wet silhouette on the sheet. He wasn't that old yet, he would fight for her if she so wanted. As shitty life as his life had been, it was worth staying alive just to see the day the little bird finally needed him.