Being made out as a fool in front of an audience would bruise even the least prideful man's ego, so when a member of the Kingsgaurd knocks on her door early the morning after the debacle in court, Sansa is unsurprised.
"My lady, it is Ser Clegane," Shae pointedly emphasizes the 'ser,' customarily put in front of a knight's name.
Sandor glares at her handmaiden, but says nothing. Time used to be that he used to growl at her for calling him that, but since he's given away that he despises the courtesy, Shae has been determined to use it as often as possible. Sansa knows they dislike each other, but has not yet given up on forcing a friendship between the two.
"Shae," she admonishes her friend with a look.
Shae rolls her eyes, but bows minutely before retreating to Sansa's solar. Sansa turns to Sandor with a grin, and raises one eyebrow teasingly.
"I think she likes you."
Sandor snorts at the same time Shae shouts from behind her 'When pigs fly, milady!' Sansa is beyond amused.
"Yeah, what she said," Sandor retorts.
Sansa huffs but knows for now the subject is done with. She waves him into her room, but he shakes his head.
"Best not, Little Bird. The King is most anxious to see you," he replies.
"Ah, yes. I assume it has to do with court yesterday. He seems to think I'm some sort of monster. He had a vision of some sort, I'm not sure," she shrugs her shoulders offhandedly.
Sandor frowns, "Yeah, if I'd have known you were going to be foolish; I would have declined the day off to keep an eye on you."
She narrows her eyes, "Who said I did anything?"
He just looks at her. His eyes are beautiful enough to get lost in, but she can't let herself get distracted right now so she looks away first.
"Come on, Little Bird," he sighs, "Can't wait much longer now, don't want to make him mad."
"I'm shaking," she replies wryly.
Nevertheless, he's right. The poorer the mood the harder he will have her beaten. At least, that is how it happened in the past. Not today. Sansa intends to show Joffrey that she will not kneel before him any longer. It's about time things started going her way.
"Okay, Shae!" she calls, "I'm off to see our beloved King."
Shae emerges from the solar with a few blankets in need of mending, and a pinched expression.
"Of course, Lady Sansa. Shall I prepare a bath for your return?"
Sansa always desired a bath to soothe the aches and clean the cuts she got after 'meetings' with Joffrey, but it won't be needed today.
"No, that's alright, Shae. I won't need one this time."
Shae looks doubtful, but nods at her mistress before heading over to a chair to begin her work. Sansa turns around and gestures for Sandor to lead the way. He doesn't, but steps aside for her to walk ahead of him.
"For one whom so hates courtesies, you sure extend quite a few of them, Sandor," she grins impishly up at him.
"Only for you, Little Bird."
Sansa's heart thrums like the wings of a hummingbird. Sandor can be downright ugly, but she's always seen his charms. She feels honored that he has chosen to bestow them upon her of all people. When he comes up to her side as they walk, she reaches out and brushes his hand with hers. When he looks down at her from the corner of his eyes, she keeps her head straight forward and pretends it was an accident. He brushes her hand back.
When they come to a stop at the King's private rooms, Sansa is intrigued. Normally the King prefers to meet in the Throne Room with as many witnesses as possible to her humiliation. This is unprecedented. Perhaps, she frightened him more than she originally thought? The guards in front of his door step aside for Sandor as he pulls the doors open and announces her presence.
"The Lady Sansa, Your Grace."
"Well don't just stand there! Let her in!" comes the shrill voice of the King.
Sandor gives her what she assumes is meant to be a comforting look, but she can tell he is worried himself. She smiles brightly at him, before gliding into the large foyer. The doors close behind her and then it is just Joffrey and his squire waiting in the room. Aware of the second set of ears, Sansa decides to play it safe. For now.
"You summoned me, Your Grace?"
Joffrey does not look fooled by her play at ignorance. He waves his hand at the squire and the boy hurries out of the room.
"We may speak freely now, Lady Sansa," he attempts to give her a sneer, but its shaky.
Sansa can tell he has not fared well since their last meeting. He looks pale and sweaty with bags under his eyes indicating his lack of sleep the night before. She wonders if he kept up his raving about her after he left the Throne Room, or if he played it smart and went silent. He's not known for his intelligence though so she assumes the latter.
"You do not look well, Your Grace," she stresses the honorary title disdainfully.
The sentiment is not lost on the boy-King. He scowls at her venomously, but makes no move to admonish her. Probably fearing her, until he figures out the threat level she proposes.
"I saw you. Yesterday, your face-it changed," his tone is accusing.
She contemplates denying for a moment, but then, "Yes it did."
His mouth opens and then closes; he looks befuddled that she didn't deny it. He shifts in his chair, but then decides better of sitting and stands.
As if that would make him appear any more commanding, Sansa scoffs internally.
At nearly five and ten she is already an inch or two taller than him. He must find it emasculating.
"That's impossible."
"I think you will find a great many things possible in this world, Your Grace, many of which would astound you."
"What are you?"
Sansa purses her lips and gives him a patronizing stare. He seems to understand she will not deny what he saw, but she's not going to make it easy for him. She can see his fists clenching and unclenching nervously by his sides before he crosses them over his chest.
He gives her an imperious look down the bottom of his nose- quite a feat considering their height difference- and demands an answer.
"You will tell me, or I shall have the guards beat you until you do."
"Your Grace, if I may," she stalks slowly towards him, "as it stands now, you are the only one who saw anything. And regardless of any beatings you may wish to give me, no one will ever believe you. They'll think it was coerced."
Joffrey opens his mouth but she holds up a hand, and he looks incredulous that she would interrupt him.
She smiles sweetly, "but don't worry. I won't let them believe you mad, as they did at court yesterday. I intend to reveal my nature in good time."
Joffrey looks mildly relieved but then after a moment wariness crosses his face.
"Don't think that because of whatever you are that anything changes around here."
Sansa laughs loudly at that. Joffrey looks affronted. When she has recovered, Sansa turns her smile feral, and wills her fangs to descend. The usual flush of heat and the look on Joffrey's face tells her she has succeeded. She steps forward and leans in so they're only an inch or so apart. Joffrey freezes under the stare of her pitch black eyes. She can hear his heart thumping wildly in his chest; his natural aroma smells sweeter to her senses, due to all the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream.
"Sweet, stupid little Joffrey," he doesn't notice the insult, so frightened he is.
She lifts her hand to his face, running her fingers over his cheekbone and down to his neck. She rests the flat of her hand against the skin above his jugular vein and can feel the pulsing of the viscous liquid beneath it. She licks her lips and tastes the stagnant odor of fear in the air. It is very arousing, and she can feel her own skin tingling with the anticipation of an imminent kill.
"Oh, the things I'm going to enjoy doing to you."
He swallows loudly, and she can hear the walls of his throat sticking together indicating his dry mouth. Sansa's hand leaves the side of his neck, and drops down to her side; she shifts her eyes back to blue and retracts her fangs.
"But I'm not going to. Yet. I still have need of you."
"I-I can call for m-my guards, right this second, and they'll kill you," he squeaks out weakly despite the monster being gone from her face.
She cocks her head and turns her eyes to the ceiling in mock contemplation. She 'hmm's and taps her chin before looking back down at him and winking.
"They could try. How do you feel about a little game? You call for your friends, and I'll see if I can't rip your throat out with my teeth first, hmm?"
He snaps his head from side to side like a child whose parents just accused them of doing something bad.
'What a pity. All that macho bravado for the masses, but when faced with a real threat, he's nothing but an overly conceited little boy,' Sansa thinks in disgust.
"That's what I thought," she smiles beatifically and then turns to head back to his doors, "we are finished here, correct?"
When she turns back to face him for an answer he coughs out a 'yes.'
"Good. Oh, and I know I don't have to tell you to keep your mouth shut, now do I?"
He shakes his head, and she smiles once more before exiting. Sandor is still waiting for her on the other side, and looks confused- happy- but confused. He is well aware of how these meetings usually end and is obviously wondering why she's one-smiling, and two-not limping.
Sansa shakes her head infinitesimally to show that she can't say anything yet, looking at the other two guards stationed in front of the King's doors. He nods and gestures for her to lead the way back to her room.
They walk in silence until they reach her rooms, and then he stops her with his hand on her arm.
"What's going on, Little Bird?"
Sansa just looks up at him silently. He looks back for a minute but then shifts his feet, uncomfortable with her attention on his face for so long. Smiling sadly at this, Sansa lifts a hand to his face, the scarred side, and palms it gently. He turns away slightly, unused to a kind touch. She uses her other hand to turn it back so that she is holding his head in her hands and staring into his grey eyes.
"I can't tell you, Sandor."
His brow puckers, and he brings one of his large gloved hands up to rest on her smooth, bare forearm. The strength in his arm is enormous, but the touch is as lighter as a feather. The expression on his face can only be described as stone. She can tell he is offended.
"Sandor, I'm sorry. Just, not yet. Okay? I need you to keep looking at me the way you always have...like I'm this delicate 'Little Bird,' because I'm not-I'm really, really not, and I'd like to keep pretending for a little while. Do you understand?" She pleads, caressing his face tenderly.
"Only for you, Little Bird," he rasps.
Sansa's eyes sting with tears as she digests what exactly he is telling her. He trusts her, when he has never trusted anyone in his life before. She smiles brightly through her tears, and he smiles tentatively back. Giggling shyly she takes her hands off of his cheeks, and nods before turning to go into her rooms.
"Hey," he calls just before she shuts the door.
She turns, eyebrows raised.
"You'll always be a Little Bird to me."
She watches him walk away until he's out of sight, the blush that bloomed on her cheeks lasted for hours, but her trust in him would last the rest of her life.
