DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin. No copyright infringement intended.
As a note, I forgot to mention that I definitely made up Captain Dougan. I thought long and hard about using a character from the series, but as much as this is an AU storyline I somehow didn't feel "right" pulling, say, Davos or Saan into it. So…I didn't.
And again, thanks for the positive reviews, you are all so encouraging and it's just great! I will say its easy for me to post these shorter chapters much faster right now, but there may come a time when it takes me longer than a day or two to update.
Oh..Merry Christmas :)
SANSA
Once the Hound left her alone in the room, Sansa put her head in her hands and cried - though she didn't quite know what she was crying over. The anger in his eyes, the painful pinch of his fingers on her chin, the utter exhaustion that flooded over her from having been up since dawn and then the stress of her escape...but what did it matter? As frightened as she was of the Hound, she knew he would keep her safe. She'd known it since he left her at the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Probably she'd always known it. And anywhere, anywhere, was better than King's Landing and the Red Keep and Joffrey and Queen Cersei and yes, even Tyrion...as kind as he'd been to her, he was still a Lannister.
Sansa sighed and stood to remove her gown. Originally she'd though to sleep fully dressed, but the fabric was damp and smelled of the ocean. That was likely why the Hound had changed as well. Though his back had been to her she'd still been shocked to see him remove his shirt right then and there - she'd tried to look away but her curiosity got the better of her and from the corner of her eye she saw the chords of muscle tensed in his back. His skin was criscrossed with scars and something was wrong with one of his arms as well, but his broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist and she could see how under his clothing and behind his walls he was a strong, fit man.
With a sigh, Sansa folded her dress neatly and placed it under her bed along with the Hound's Kingsguard cloak before climbing between the coverlets and falling into a fitful sleep.
And she dreamed. She dreamed of her family's heads, removed from their bodies and displayed at the Red Keep. She dreamed of Queen Cersei tearing at her face with perfect fingernails and screaming, "My son, my son, you've killed him, you little wolf bitch! I'll have your head!" And Tyrion pointed and laughed as her clothes were torn from her back and she was dragged into the middle of the hall screaming. Ser Ilyn Payne appeared at her side with Ice in his hand as all the court chanted for her to die, die, die and she knew that soon her head would be on a spike next to those of her honorable father and her lady mother, of Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon. And though she was frightened of death it seemed that likely death was better than living afraid and silent in the Red Keep or tired and lonely and constantly on the run...
The door to the cabin swung open with a bang and Sansa woke with a start. She heard a thump and a curse as the Hound came stumbling inside, obviously drunk. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to breathe deeply. He won't hurt you, he won't, he promised Varys he'd keep you safe, she told herself. She partly believed the words, but then there was that memory of the last time he came to her drunk and stole a song and a kiss...
The Hound had stopped just inside the door, standing still and breathing heavily for a long moment, but when he moved again Sansa knew immediately that he was coming to her bed. I'm asleep, I'm asleep, I'm asleep, was the chant inside her head. When he sat next to her on the narrow mattress, his weight caved it in and her body slid toward him, bumping against his hip and thigh. She kept breathing deeply and willing him to go away, leave her be, but instead he leaned over her. Sansa could smell the sea in his clothes and the sour wine on his breath and she was afraid, so afraid...
But nothing could have prepared her for what he did next.
SANDOR
He'd meant to be quiet when he returned to the cabin, so as not to wake the little bird - but instead he'd slammed the door, stubbed his foot, and swore. Loudly. Still, when he'd gathered himself enough to stand still for a moment, he saw that somehow she was still sleeping. He paused just inside the door, knowing he should go to bed, but there she was, so pretty and peaceful in the moonlight...all night she'd been pale and wan and frightened, but right now he could look at her and not see her cringe away from him.
Sandor walked unsteadily across the cabin and sat down heavily on her bed.
When Sansa's small form slid into him, he had to pause again. She was curled into a ball and the only parts of her that were resting against him were her knees and her left forearm, but in his drunken state he ached to take her in his arms and cradle her in a protective embrace.
Protective? That's not what you want, man, he realized as his manhood strained against his breeches. Some guard he was. But then, hardly realizing what he was doing, he leaned over Sansa and brushed a thick auburn lock from her forehead. "Little bird," he murmured, and his own voice sounded foreign to him. He kept his hand cupped around the back of her head for some time, watching her sleep, the moonlight highlighting her pale young beautiful face...and then he forced himself to stand, to go to his own bed, and to collapse on top of it fully clothed. Even as drunk as he was, Sandor stared at the ceiling for a long, long time until the rocking of the boat finally lulled him to sleep.
The next morning, the skin under Sansa's eyes was bruised with exhaustion as she sat beside him on the deck, staring at the horizon, sadness stamped on her face like a shield. He handed her a hunk of bread and some bits of cheese, but even when she took a bite and chewed it was methodical, no enjoyment in it at all. Though the sun was glaring at him, making his pounding head hurt even worse, Sandor couldn't leave her. He still didn't trust the other men on the ship, and besides that something wasn't right about her. When she finally spoke - still without looking at him, which brought a flash of anger that he quickly tried to stamp out - she merely asked, "Where are we going?"
"North," he said, because it was the only thing he knew for sure.
"Thank you, but that's obvious," Sansa snapped, looking up at the sun. "I meant where, specifically."
This time Sandor didn't hold back. "You know as well as I. Varys kept our destination a secret. You could ask the captain where the ship will put in, but he likely won't tell you. And even if he does, my guess is that it won't be our final destination...and that the people who know where that is are waiting for us wherever we're to land."
Sansa said nothing in reply, only looked down at her hands. He tried to ignore her, but from the corner of his eye he saw her shoulders trembling, and when she sniffled he knew she was crying. He stiffened, unsure how he should respond, but finally he couldn't bear her sad noises any longer and knelt before her, once again taking her chin in his hand - but gently this time.
"Little bird. Look at me."
He felt her tense at his words, which brought the usual rise of anger, like bile in the back of his throat. He didn't allow his fingers to pinch her as they'd done yesterday, but when he spoke again it was a command - "Look at me" - and she did. Her wide blue eyes were shining and red-rimmed from her tears, and she set her jaw and kept her eyes on the smooth, unscarred half of his face.
"I told you once that if you came with me, I'd keep you safe. That no one would ever hurt you again. But I couldn't take you against your will. I didn't take you against your will. And this time you chose to come. I will not hurt you, little bird. And neither will anyone else."
