Chapter 3 : Red Morocco Binding
Warning for foul language, violence against women and non con.
No, I'm not nervous. It must be because I lack sleep. Or because of this stupid potion Peitho gives us: I'm pretty sure it has aftereffects. Why would I be nervous?
"Are you alright, girl?" the Hound rasped, making her jump.
As she held the tone arm at this moment, the needle accidentally hurt the shellac surface of the record, causing a disharmonious sound. Hope I didn't scratch it...
Sucking in a deep breath, she spun on her heels and smiled cheerfully to her guest. It was worse than admitting that something actually disturbed her: he knew her smile was fake and he immediately pushed himself from the armchair, brow furrowed, then crossed the room.
"No," he whispered to himself, "not like that."
Sansa stood still, leaning against the table where the Kettelblack brothers had put Eddard's phonograph the day she had arrived in Baelish's brothel, her hands enjoying the comforting vibrations of Do It Again. She thought a piece by George Gershwin would help her calm down – even if she was not nervous – but the Hound's looming presence crushed her hopes. Tension had filled the room when he came in, only minutes ago, and all her efforts to settle down had been less successful than expected.
He motioned her to the side with an incline of his head. People talk to each other when they want something. Gentlemen politely ask permission. He stays silent and he only gestures, she complained to herself, moving aside nonetheless. Whether the Hound noticed her narrowed eyes or not, she couldn't say and she thought he probably didn't care. He unplugged the phonograph, lifted the device as if it was as light as a feather and turned to her.
"Hold it," he ordered, before putting the big phonograph in her hands.
She managed not to drop it on the rug despite the weight – her left knee securing the phonograph's precarious position – and she watched him carrying the solid wood table across the room. He stopped near the French window and placed the table there, before going back to Sansa. The expression on her face made him chuckle and he unburdened her wordlessly.
"Be careful," she begged. "It was my father's."
"It could be the pope's, Little Bird, I don't care. Your phonograph will be better here."
Even though she feared for the only possession Eddard had left her, the phonograph found its place by the French window and the Hound plugged it. Gershwin's music filled the room again as he triumphantly turned to her.
"This way you won't have to cross the room every time-"
"I didn't mind crossing the room," she countered. "I loved the way things were before. And the table feet left marks on the carpet."
He smiled a twitched half-smile, his scarred cheek unmoving while the right side came to life.
"Marks on the carpet," he snorted. "How scandalous."
He stared at her, shoving his hands in his pockets and enjoying her futile attempts to calm down. For a second, she wondered if her pointless anger put him in a good mood or if he was leering at her. None of these options reassured the girl. She was nervous, she couldn't help it and she didn't know why.
"I've got something for you," he said, walking to the console table.
When he moved past her, she smelt his scent – tobacco, whiskey, sweat – at odds with Berdokhovski's Cologne. At least her Russian customer was a man of taste. The Hound took a parcel he had kept in his overcoat and he brought it to her. She took in the newsprint wrapping tied with a string and muttered her thanks.
"Go ahead," he whispered, encouraging her to open it.
As she unwrapped the parcel, Sansa watched him out of the corner of her eyes. Even if he stood in front of her, he pretended to ignore the girl, his head turned to the French window as if he tried to catch a glimpse at something across the street, despite the darkness. His turn to be nervous, she thought, and with that realization, all the anger and unease she had experienced since his arrival vanished.
Under her deft fingers, she felt the binding of three books well before seeing the red morocco. She smiled with anticipation at the smooth surface dyed in crimson but the sight of a roaring lion's motive on the spine made her gasp. I've seen these books before. I know where they come from.
Showing the golden lion on the spine of the first book, she gave him an inquiring look.
"What?" he said, shrugging. "They don't read those books, anyhow. You did."
"You stole books from Cersei's library?"
"You think she will miss them? No she won't. You need them more than her, girl. If you try to make friends with the whores living here, they'll stuff your head with foolish ideas. You'd better stay in here and read."
She suddenly imagined the Hound walking to Cersei's library, on the piano nobile of the Red Mansion, watching the bookshelves with a puzzled look and trying to figure out what books Sansa might like to read. In the end, she guessed he had chosen at random – there was a novel by Henry James, a book of poetry and the first volume of a History of Navigation. He would probably give her some far-fetched arguments if she asked him why he had settled on these books – the novel was a doorstop so she would have something to read for days, he was convinced a dainty girl like her would love poetry and had not realized the book contained only religious poems of the Elizabethan era and the History of Navigation was supposed to perfect her education even if she didn't give a damn about boats – but she found his attention so adorable she couldn't help smiling.
"That's- that's very kind," she said, trying to lock eyes with him.
He avoided her gaze, for a change, and he shrugged. When she stepped forward, tentatively cupped his good cheek and put a shy kiss on it, he didn't move but he stiffened so abruptly she regretted it at once. She stayed on tip-toe for a few seconds, peering at him. The gray eyes challenged her. On her lips, she still had the sensation of his five o'clock shadow, that same beard that itched her fingers, and his scent was stronger when she stood in front of him, making her feel dizzy. At some point, she completely forgot why she was standing there, trying to put a kiss on his cheek and she recoiled suddenly, as if she had just did something inappropriate.
Stepping back, she bumped into one of the bed's column, saw the red morocco bindings on the console table and remembered. He offered me books. Stolen books, maybe, but he did it for me. She had received many gifts since her arrival: Baelish had offered her dresses and this huge bedroom, Berdokhovski had brought her chocolates and roses.
God, it was so different from this.
The day Berdokhovski had come back, Sansa had heard his voice – or his laughter – in the staircase, long before he knocked to her door; he was talking with Peitho, in English first, then in Russian. By the warm lilt of their voices, Sansa had understood they were chatting like two old friends and when she opened the door, Berdokhovski had extended his arms as if he wanted to hug her.
"My sweet sister!" he had exclaimed, grinning.
At that moment, Sansa decided that he deserved a nickname – less cruel than Pig's, but a nickname all the same – and Sweet Sister, because it was at odds with his manly appearance and the varnish of respectability he tried to keep, would be perfect for him.
Not that the man was ugly or unpleasant; on the contrary, everything about him was a bit too much. Berdokhovski was rather handsome with his icy blue eyes and blond hair with strands of white; tall and slender for a man in his forties, he was well-dressed. He smiled a lot, talked a lot, was never shy about flattering Sansa. The expensive box of candies he had brought on his first visit and the pink roses he gave her that day suggested he would shower Sansa with gifts if he became a regular customer.
Now that she thought about him again, she knew she couldn't be unfair with him: he did his best to make her feel comfortable. Berdokhovski even ventured on joking though her lack of reaction, it must have frustrated him. When she began to dance, he smiled at her, but it never was with the perverse look Pig had given Sansa. It was a rather warm smile that didn't make her feel out-of-place. He applauded, praised her beauty and her talent, said he had never met someone like her. Before leaving her, he confessed she had changed since his first visit: she was more confident, more expressive and he liked that.
In fact, Berdokhovski's second visit was a bit too easy, as if Sansa was meant to receive men in her bedroom and to dance in front of them. Afterward, once he was gone, she thought his presence didn't really bother her, and she even smiled when remembering his compliments. Feeling better, she walked to the phonograph, ready to listen some cheerful tune, and froze when she picked a record at random: she had come across Allegri's Miserere. Father. Mother. How would they react if they knew I danced for him and almost liked it?
She looked at the pink cabbage roses, blossoming in a vase and filling the bedroom with a rich scent.
Baelish and her Russian customer wanted to spoil her – or so they said. One – Baelish – had given her what she needed to be a good, profitable dancer; the other one had tried to coax her with expensive sweets and a gorgeous bunch of flowers. The chocolates had been eaten and the roses would be wilted the day after. Berdokhovski's attentions, as lovely as they were, revealed what he saw in her: a kept-woman, who could be bribed with clothes and jewels.
The Hound wanted her to stay the girl he had met on the platform of Grand Central Station, on a warm afternoon of May; a girl who had dreams and who sheltered herself in books when life was disappointing. God knows he laughed at me for reading romance novels but somehow he came to accept it. He stole these books to please me, to protect me from the things I see and hear in this place. She felt grateful and moved at the same time.
"Will you read the books?" the Hound tentatively asked.
"Of course I will. I'm touched, really."
"Such a perfect lady," he sneered at her.
His bad manners came back, arousing her own exasperation. She thought of some cutting remark she could use to humiliate him, then gave up. Maybe that's what he wants. He loves it when I'm angry.
"If I finish these books before we leave, I'll tell you which ones you should steal from Cersei's library," she said quietly.
Her reaction surprised him so much he didn't answer anything and he laughed. It was just a chuckle at first, something she thought he could easily repress, then it turned into a roar drowning out Gershwin's music. Sansa hoped the house's inhabitants didn't hear it through the door.
"Do you really mean what you say, Little Bird?" he asked, still convulsed with laughter.
"Yes, I mean it. If you think Cersei won't miss these books."
Regaining his composure, he pointed at the phonograph. Can't he talk instead of pointing at things? Rolling her eyes, Sansa unhurriedly crossed the room and placed another record on the turntable. When she spun on her heels, she found him right behind her, and jumped again. She had not heard his steps on the rug nor felt his presence. He looked a bit sheepish, now. Trying to put as much space as she could between herself and him, she leaned against the table he had carried effortlessly minutes ago, and she almost sat on the edge.
"How is your back, today?" he inquired.
If someone had asked her what the stormy gray eyes expressed at that very moment, Sansa would have answered 'concern'. Unlike Baelish who thought getting hurt by a customer was a hazard and there was nothing to do about it, the Hound seemed worried and perhaps guilty for what had happened to her.
"I think I'm fine... I don't know," she added on an impulse, looking for sympathy.
"Do you mind if I have a look?"
Like the first time? She was at a loss, because he had asked her, for a change. Sansa bit her lip and pondered over it before making up her mind. Nobody seemed to care about her – even if the red-haired girl they call Evie smiled at Sansa every time they met in the house. And he asked my permission. With his arms dangling and his seriousness, the Hound didn't look like he was about to hurt her. She slowly nodded.
"Sit down on the edge of the bed, then," he whispered.
"Are you going to apply balm on my back, this time?" she asked him. "Because it left greasy stains on the dress I was wearing the other night."
Sitting down, she bit her lip, remembering how he had laughed at her when she complained about the marks on the carpet; to Sansa's great surprise, his sarcasms never came.
"Don't think it's necessary," he simply commented.
The mattress sank under his weight when he positioned himself behind her. Her shoulders tensed but she said nothing and let him button down her dress. The Hound didn't rant this time and did it wordlessly; she clutched to the front of her dress, her hands on her heart. She wanted to ask him if her cuts were healing, if everything seemed alright, but the words were stuck in her throat.
The cheerful music coming from the copper-colored horn and filling the room contrasted with their silence; she knew he was looking at her, staring at expanses of flesh nobody saw. For a second, Sansa imagined what he saw: the auburn hair she had put in a bun on the back of her neck, her spine, her pale skin scraped in places. She tried to picture the grazes that were brownish now, and the bruises turning to yellow, but the image lingering in her mind was that of the Hound's big calloused hands next to the small of her back.
He'll find another excuse, next time. Will I refuse? Sansa contemplated the possibility of forbidding the Hound to have a look at her back; she could tell him the cuts had healed, she could give modesty as a reason, she could tell him she simply didn't want to give in to his tantrums anymore. Is this what I want?
All of a sudden, she felt his hand on her right shoulder, the long fingers and the palm fitting the form of her joint; the warmth his hand provided made her relax a bit more until his callous thumb slipped between her skin and the strap of her dress. Then, he slowly made it slide off her shoulder. Sansa's heart skipped a beat and her back stiffened; she nonetheless let him do the same on her left shoulder.
Now that he had access to her back she thought he would run his fingers down her spine or something like this but nothing came. He watched her wordlessly and when the song finally ended, giving way to the crackle of the needle against the record, all she could hear was his breathing. That sound – his ragged breath behind her she heard despite the faint noises coming from the phonograph – disturbed her more than what had happened before.
Sansa knew the situation was inappropriate – even Baelish would hit the ceiling if he saw his protegé half-naked in front of a customer who had only paid for a dance – but she was glued to the edge of the bed and she didn't want anything of this to end. I won't protest if he wants to have a look at my back next time, she realized, guilt and curiosity being on a level playing field in her mind.
"The phonograph," he said softly, as if he was afraid of rushing her.
Sansa stood up abruptly and put the straps back in place with a shrug before walking to the phonograph. While she was by the French window, picking another record, she didn't glance at him, but she felt his eyes on her. Her dress was still open and her position, facing the phonograph, allowed him to see a large part of her back. What he saw, what he didn't and what he imagined as her dress hung loosely on her shoulders made her swallow hard.
I should be more careful with him; I should impose limits instead of accepting everything. Yet the sensation of being watched was strange: disturbing and intoxicating at the same time. Slow but steady, the barriers her education had built around her were collapsing one by one. The changes she went through puzzled her. Is it because of the place I'm living in? Is it because of him? She didn't feel ready to answer this question.
Sansa nevertheless came back to the Hound, blushing deeply.
"Can you help me button up my dress?" she asked, avoiding his gaze.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him nodding and getting on his feet. He fumbled with the buttons, like the first time, and he sighed when it was over.
"There's something to eat if you're hungry," she said, turning to him. "I asked for sandwiches."
Sansa pointed at the dome plate cover on the desk; earlier that day, she had asked the cook to prepare a plate for her guest. The old woman had frowned but she had obeyed all the same, giving her a plate with three ham sandwiches.
The Hound nodded curtly, walked to the desk and went back to the leather armchair, the plate in his hands. He bit the slices of bread while she sat cautiously on the edge of the bed, observing his attitude. Once the first sandwich was but breadcrumbs on his pants, he sat back and let out a sigh.
"Want some?" he rasped, holding out the plate.
That's an improvement. Maybe I'll finally teach him politeness.
"No, thanks. I've eaten before."
"What did you eat?"
She repressed a chuckle. He sounded like her father when he had had a long day at work and asked her what she had done, who she had seen, and what she had had for lunch.
"Some soup," she answered evasively. "Bread, cheese and... baked apples."
"What kind of menu is that?"
"Well, that's what the cook gives us for dinner everyday. Peitho's orders."
The girls ate together in the kitchens, under the madam's watchful gaze. Baelish's employees couldn't get too fat or too thin and Peitho therefore controlled what they fed on. Sansa had heard that some of her companions had stolen food from the kitchens because they were hungry; Peitho had kept a part of their wages once she had discovered it.
"Why doesn't she give you meat or eggs? Some solid food?" the Hound inquired.
Sansa didn't want to discuss the concept of solid food with him, but she felt the urge to answer nonetheless.
"Peitho doesn't want us to get fat," she explained. "We eat boiled vegetables and baked fruits because it's good for digestion.
"Your better off saying she doesn't want Baelish's whores to fart while they are in bed with a customer," he snorted.
It's gross! How can he talk like that?
"You think I'm rude, girl," he commented, observing her. "You're right. Take one."
He held out the plate to her, though she looked at her pretty high heel shoes insistently.
"It took away my appetite," she replied coldly.
"Oh, come on, Little bird. Don't make a fuss about a stupid remark."
The Hound waved the plate under Sansa's nose, hoping the smell of ham tempted her. Even if she faced his scarred side, he looked triumphant when she met his gaze.
"But you're hungry."
"I'm a man, I'm always hungry," he retorted, shrugging.
She gave him a long look and finally took a sandwich.
"Good girl," he whispered, smirking.
He had spoken as if she was a wild animal he tried to tame, but Sansa wondered who was really domesticating the other one. I'm the one who gave him food in the first place, she mused, nibbling at her sandwich.
After she put another record on the turntable – a ballad called Blue Jeans – she sat again on the bed and watched him carelessly dusting down his pants so that the breadcrumbs fell on the rug.
"I've heard you knew this place," she said, taking him unaware.
Forgetting about the breadcrumbs, he stared at her, narrowing his eyes. Don't pretend you're surprised, you knew that conversation would come.
"I met the girl you... visited," she added. "Evie. She's pregnant."
She saw him curl his fingers and uncurl them as if he prepared himself before a fight. His long dark hair hid a part of his face and when he locked eyes with her again, he looked more sullen than ever.
"Can't be my child, girl. It's been a year since I last came. And I always take precautions."
A deep blush crept over her cheeks as she tried to keep away the images of the Hound knocking at Evie's door.
"Why did you choose her?" she heard herself whisper.
Sansa couldn't believe she had had enough guts to ask him; it was tactless and indiscreet – exactly what she found so exasperating about the Hound. He stared at her for a long while, his narrow eyes and scowl more threatening than ever.
"She's mute and I never liked talkative whores," he finally answered, observing her reaction. "Don't go to brothels to talk with a stupid girl who knows nothing except spreading her legs. And if she goes on talking, well... I've my own ways to shush whores. It's rather efficient, usually."
A sardonic smile pulled up the corner of his lips, animating the right side of his face with a cruel satisfaction; he anticipated her scandalized look – when she understood the exact meaning of his words – and he enjoyed it. Sansa averted her eyes.
"Why are you so insufferable?" she managed to say, unable to meet his gaze.
"Why did you ask, in the first place?"
"Evie said you told her about me."
"She said?" he asked, frowning in disbelief.
"Oh, you know what I mean... She's mute, but she can express what she thinks-"
"Fuck! Why would I tell her something about you?" he rasped. "The world doesn't revolve around you, girl!"
Sansa sighed deeply, closing her eyes and trying to think straight. Another walk to the phonograph gave her a short respite.
"What I don't understand is... what will happen to Evie's child," she explained, sitting on her favorite spot on the bed. "Can a child live in a place like this house?"
"Evie is still here?" he asked. "Baelish didn't toss her out?"
The Hound looked surprised. She nodded.
"It would be so unfair if he sent her away!" she protested. "Luckily, he told her she could stay."
He shifted and crossed his long legs, frowning.
"Luckily?" he repeated. "Do you really think he gives a shit about some whore working for him? Luck or compassion has nothing to do with it. Baelish must have a fucking plan for Evie or for her child."
"A plan?" she nearly shouted. "What kind of plan are you talking about? Baelish can't be that cruel..."
He shook his head, seemingly annoyed by her gullibility.
"Look at you," he rasped. "You were an orphan, you had lost everything and he just took advantage of your situation. Isn't that cruel?"
Sansa pondered on his words and wordlessly looked at her folded hands.
"What can we do about Evie?" she finally asked, setting her blue eyes on him.
"Nothing. If Evie got herself into deep shit, that's not my business. Preparing your flight is my highest priority."
She repressed a chuckle and slightly shook her head; he leaned forward as soon as he noticed it.
"What is it you find so funny, girl?" he growled, his dark hair framing his disfigured face.
"If I'm your highest priority, as you claim, why didn't you prevent all this? It would have been easier to do something before I ended up in this awful place!"
Her high-pitched voice struck her: it was the voice of a girl who had endured many things without complaining before yielding to anger. The Hound stood up and cupped her chin, towering above her.
"Ever heard of Blackwater, girl?"
She remembered the beach on the New Jersey shore where Stannis Baratheon had tried to arrest the Lannister henchmen just before Joffrey sent her away, was called Blackwater. She nodded, despite the strong hand holding her chin.
"I've been a bit busy, lately," he added. "After these scumbags tried to stop us and took most of the shipment, some of the men were wounded. We were on the lam. I kept a low profile until things settled down. When I came back, the Little Bird was gone. End of story."
His detached tone expressed so much resentment it hurt her. Abashed, Sansa let her eyes fall on his broad chest, then on his middle and finally contemplated his shoes. He let go of her and silently went back to the armchair, cursing. She felt so embarrassed she didn't say anything, not even an apology, before it was time for him to leave.
Ignoring her, he walked around the bed in hurried strides and took the overcoat he had left on the console table. She followed him, fighting against a persistent sensation of awkwardness and guilt. His gray eyes darkened when he turned around and saw her in front of him.
"I know there are creases on my shirt, girl," he rasped, anticipating what she wanted to do and stepping forward. "Don't bother yourself with that. I'm just an old dog who visits whores and who arrived too late to save you from all this."
He was towering above her again, his eyes going from her reddened face to her neckline then back to her blue eyes, wondering when she would move aside.
"I want you to come back," she said in a toneless voice. "I want you to come back, Sandor."
She never used his first name when she called him – in fact, she never called him – and she had done it on an impulse, hoping that he would react. He snorted in disbelief.
"I mean it," she insisted hitting the high note and trying to lock eyes with him.
The Hound grabbed her upper arms, made her sit on the bed, then squatted in front of her and bore into her eyes.
"It's late," he growled. "The little girl should get some sleep."
With that, he stood up and left her.
Sansa stayed there for long minutes before raising her gaze and finding the red morocco bindings of the books he had stolen, forgotten on the console table.
"I'll read the books," she said out loud, even if he couldn't hear her anymore. "I'll read the books."
Two days after the Hound's visit, Peitho knocked at Sansa's door to introduce another customer. Despite the man's lateness, Sansa was still in front of her cheval mirror, checking her hair. Her headband didn't stay in place – but with its gossamer flowers and its pearl gray ribbon, it perfectly matched the silvery dress with a pleated skirt she had chosen that night.
She smiled at her reflection – even though she hardly recognized that tall red-haired girl with rouged lips and mascara – and turned to greet her new customer. In the door frame, Peitho gestured and the man stepped in. When he heard Sansa's voice, he turned slightly to his left and she gaped; these droopy eyes and the red beard belonged to another familiar figure of the Red Mansion: Meryn Trant.
Forgetting about politeness, Sansa tried to lock eyes with Peitho and to beg her silently; she didn't want to stay alone with a man who had beaten her every time Joffrey asked him. She could tell from the mad look in his eyes whenever he slapped her in the face, the man loved to hurt people – and especially loved to hit her. However, Peitho quickly closed the door without noticing Sansa's frantic glances and she left the girl alone with her tormentor.
"Seems that you're stuck with me, now," he spat, leering at her.
Smirking, he walked towards her, stopping at arm's length of her shaking form.
"Good evening," she mumbled.
"Good evening to you, doll."
Sansa observed his broad shoulders and long, powerful arms. Any mistake, any sign of weakness could have disastrous consequences with a man like Meryn Trant. Breath deeply and act as if everything was alright.
"Please sit down," she said, managing to smile shyly and pointing at the armchair across the room.
Trant chuckled and sat on the bed, eying her greedily. With his legs open and his fixed grin, he was the image of the future customers she feared so much. But I'll never become a whore, the Hound promised me. I'll fly away before it happens. And if it ever happens, I'll be so expensive the likes of Trant will never pay for a night with me. She shivered, realizing she couldn't even think straight in front of the man who enjoyed to beat her.
"I'm sorry, Sir, but the armchair will be much more comfortable to sit in and watch me dance."
"Did I say I wanted you to dance, girl?" he asked, but he stood up and walked to the armchair nonetheless.
Just a stupid joke, but it's alright. Focus on the music, focus on your dance, and he'll be gone within an hour.
Sansa felt ham-handed with the records and she had to have a second go at it, before the 78 rpm was correctly placed on the turntable. The music flooded the air and she walked towards the man slumped in the leather armchair. The cheerful brass wind of 'Ain't We Got Fun' encouraged her, but she decided to keep her distance with Trant. She began to move, slowly at first, trying to release the nervous tension in her limbs. Closing her eyes and trying to forget about him, she swung her arms in rhythm and swayed her hips.
In the winter, in the summer
Don't we have fun?
Times are bum and getting bummer
Still we have fun.
Still dancing, she tried to find solace in the conversation she had had with Baelish and Peitho, a few days before. Baelish said it: what he sells to these men is an hour spent with me. I dance and I dance only for him. Baelish sells him the illusion that he could end up in bed with me, but it is an illusion-
Her arm brushed against something and she immediately opened her eyes. Meryn Trant had left the armchair and now stood only inches of her. She froze.
"What- What are you doing?" she stammered, terrified.
"I thought of jerking off in front of you, but why would I do that when we can have some fun?"
She stepped back, trying to calm down in spite of the panic overwhelming her senses.
"Please sit down, Sir," she said with the best smile she could give him.
"Sir? Come on, we know each other, you and I. We already had fun," he answered, using the song's catchphrase.
"Please. Walk to the armchair and sit back. You won't regret it; I'm a good dancer. One of my customers says I'm gifted."
Sansa understood her desperate attempt to reason him was a failure when he caught her wrist.
"No," she said, wriggling away from Trant. "Please!"
She frantically retreated to the bathroom, hoping she could lock herself inside, but before she reached the door, he managed to grab her around her waist and carried her to the bed, where he unceremoniously dropped her.
When I first saw you,
I had but one thought
And then you chased me
- oh, until you were caught.
Screaming, Sansa kicked him until he let go of her; on her hands and knees, she hurried to reach the other side of the bed – the door side. He caught her by the ankle, dragged her across the bed and slapped her. She shouted even more, clutching to the faint hope that someone would hear the noise. Changing his mind, he walked to the desk, took the chair where Sansa sat down to read the newspaper everyday and he positioned the chair against the door, to delay those who may rescue the girl.
In the meanwhile, she stayed by the console table, trying to find something – anything – that might help her. There were no scissors, no paper knife in her room. As he walked back to her, she grabbed the bronze statuette on the console table, but before she could hit Trant with it, he grasped her around the wrist and made her drop her makeshift weapon. In desperation, she tried to find something else and seized one of the books the Hound had given her; a blow on Trant's head elicited a low growl.
Out of control, he hit her so forcefully she collapsed on the floor, her back hitting the table feet. Sansa was so weak after her fall she didn't flail when he scooped her up and carried her to the bed again. When she felt his hands on her, she nevertheless tried to thrash about, and she even managed to scratch her attacker.
"Stupid bitch!" he spat. "You'll be sorry for that."
Trant straddled her, leaning on Sansa with his full weight, his face distorted by rage. Holding her wrists above her head with one hand, he tore her dress from the left shoulder to the hip, despite her protestations. Now that most of her body was exposed to his eyes, she sobbed and cried even more; he shushed her with another slap. She felt woozy as he ran his hand down her neck.