Chapter 4

That night Sansa dreamed of the riot again. The mob surged around her, shrieking, a maddened beast with a thousand faces. Everywhere she turned she saw faces twisted into monstrous inhuman masks. She wept and told them she had never done them hurt, yet they dragged her from her horse all the same. 'No,' she cried, 'no, please, don't, don't,' but no one heeded her. She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard. Women swarmed over her like rats, pinching her legs and kicking her. Someone hit her in the face and she felt her teeth shatter. Then she saw the bright glimmer of steel. The knife plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, until there was nothing left of her down there but shiny wet ribbons.

When she woke, the pale light of morning was slanting through her window, yet she felt as sick and achy as if she had not slept at all. Thoughts of what had transpired in the night swarmed her, replacing the lingering images from her nightmare. She just lay there, waiting, not wanting to move in order to prolong this morning. It was the last one in which Joffrey wouldn't know about her flowering. Tears ran down her face. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.

A rapping sound at her door. 'Lady Sansa?' said a muffled voice. Dragging herself from bed, the girl unlocked the entrance for her maids.

***
Cersei Lannister was breaking her fast when Sansa entered her solar. 'You may sit,' the Queen said courteously. 'Are you hungry?' She gestured at the table. There was porridge, honey, milk, boiled eggs, and crisp fried fish.

At the sight of the food the girl realized she had no appetite. Feeling almost nauseous, she said 'No, thank you, Your Grace.'

'I don't blame you. The first day is usually the worst.' She signaled to a maid to pour her water.

Sansa lowered her head, fear rising in her chest. The same maid pulled out a chair for her.

'The blood is the seal of your womanhood, no matter how late it has arrived. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you.'

A pinch in her heart at the mention of her mother's name. 'My lady mother told me, but I... I thought it would be different.'

'Different how?' The Queen held an amused expression.

'I don't know. Less... less painful.' Cersei laughed at that. 'Wait until you birth a child, Sansa. A woman's life is nine parts pain to one part pleasure, you'll learn that soon enough... and the parts that look pleasurable often turn out to be the most painful of all.' She took a sip of milk. 'So now, at six and ten, you are a woman. Do you have the least idea of what that means?'

'It means that I am now fit to be wedded and bedded,' said Sansa, and, reluctantly she added 'to bear children for the king.'

The queen gave a wry smile. 'A prospect that no longer entices you as it once did, I can see. I will not fault you for that. Joffrey has always been difficult. Even his birth... I labored a day and a half to bring him forth. You cannot imagine the pain, Sansa. I screamed so loudly that I fancied Robert might hear me in the Kingswood.'

Sansa did not know what to make of that. She felt something like an intruder. 'The maesters say a girl will usually be flowered by the time she is four and ten,' she said, implying she had gotten hers considerably late.

'Yes,' Her eyes found Sansa's. 'You are either exceptionally good at hiding, or dangerously unhealthy.'

She did not doubt her there. This was not the first day in which Sansa found herself repulsed by the sight of food.

'You're stronger than you seem, though.' The Queen's words were uncharacteristically sincere. Her understanding seemed to come from some horrid place deeply rooted within her. 'You may never love the King, but you'll love his children.'

'I love His Grace with all my heart,' Sansa said.

The Queen sighed. 'You had best learn some new lies, and quickly. Lord Stannis will not like that one, I promise you.'

'The new High Septon said that the Gods would never permit Lord Stannis to win, since Joffrey is the rightful King.'

A half smile flickered across the Queen's face. 'Robert's trueborn son and heir. Though Joff would cry whenever Robert picked him up. His Grace did not like that. His bastards had always gurgled at him happily, and sucked his finger when he put it in their little baseborn mouths. Robert wanted smiles and cheers, always, so he went where he found them, to his friends and his whores. Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?'

'Everyone wants to be loved.'

'I see flowering hasn't made you any brighter,' said Cersei. 'Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.'

Maybe for you, Sansa thought. But not for me. She took a bite.

Later that evening, out past the castle walls, soldiers were working hard as they prepared for battle. It was heard that Stannis was hardly three days away, at most. The racket and shouts of men and women made their way up through her open window. Sansa looked down at the embroidery in her hands; a picture of yellow and red flowers, thin stems and leaves entwined around them against white cloth. Her chair was compacted with extra cushioning to ease her aches. Her mind wandered.

The needle glimmered, appearing and reappearing through the cloth pulled taut along the frame, drawing strings of green in its wake. Would Sandor come to her tonight, as he had promised? She did not know why she'd even want him there with her, or if she'd been subconsciously searching for him every time she went through the tunnel. She kept telling herself she was looking for a way out and found herself in Sandor's arms each time.

Despite his anger, there was something strange about the man in the dead of night. It might be that he was tired from standing sentinel as Joff's guard all day and had not the energy to be as crude as he usually was. Sansa liked that thought, for she liked Sandor Clegane as he was when he wasn't brooding. She could say things to him she wouldn't dare say to anyone else. Not even Dontos.

Her eyes followed the needle as she pulled it from the frame. Unbidden, the memory of having kissed Sandor came to her. She blushed all alone in her room. The feel of his burned skin on her lips was strangely smooth and soft. She even remembered the faint smell of perspiration on his skin.

Her fingers were sore when she finally decided to put her work down. She dressed for bed, figuring Sandor would come later in the night. If he comes at all. Her cold blankets were a haven around her tender body, soaking up her heat. The girl quietly drifted to sleep.

Some hours later, deep into the night, the creaking sound of the trap door opening reverberated through the room, and yet it did nothing to stir the sleeping form on the bed. A figure stepped up from the secret passageway, looked around and then crept silently toward the girl's bed. The room was dark; the moon did not shine this night. But that made no matter to this man, for his moon lay in a sweet sleep only a few paces away. The tall figure stood at the side of the featherbed for a moment. Her chest rose and fell with every deep breath she took. Her long auburn hair was spread across her pillow. He reached out with his hand and silently pulled the blankets away. The girl slept on.

He slipped in between her sheets. She was warm, a heat he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Settling in behind her, he slipped his hand around her waist. Far too long.

Sansa's eyes opened to darkness; it was late in the night, some more hours still before morning. So tired. And then she remembered what had woken her. Her belly was suddenly cold. She leaned back against someone's hard chest. Sandor, she thought, sighing. She closed her eyes.

The man's hand slipped from around her waist to her face. Cold fingers gently moved the hair from her cheek, caressing her skin there as they went along. Sansa found it is so sweet and relaxing. There was peace in his touch. She kept dozing off accidently when she meant to stay awake to feel him. Images of his mouth on her were bought forward in her mind. The way he had kissed her between her legs, using his tongue. A faint breeze wafted across her bare neck.'My Queen of Love and Beauty.'

Smiling, the girl turned.

And felt the ice cold press of a knife's blade against her throat.

Sansa looked up into empty, depthless eyes. Panic and pure terror ran through her. She wanted to scream. The decaying flesh of his face was almost glowing in its translucence. What was left of his brow slowly turned downward, as if to express anger. His mouth twisted horrendously, voice groaning under a collapsed larynx. 'You are not her,' he snarled. 'What have you done with her?' Sansa began to cry. That only angered him further.

'Where is Naerys!'

Sansa gasped. The dagger he held was her father's. She vaguely remembered having dropped it after she'd seen…Queen Naerys?

The dagger pressed down onto her throat.

'No,' she cried. 'Please…'

A hard thrust downward into her bed and the ghost of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight collapsed above her, wisps of grey mist falling away on all sides.

A longsword impaled her bed not a hands-width away from her body. Sandor's fists held firm the pommel.

Rage and terror filled the man's eyes. He was just as stupefied as Sansa. The young woman was gasping for breath, tears still wetting her face. She sat up and found the dagger lay in her lap.

The bed jumped when Sandor roughly pulled the sword free, dragging little feathers in its wake. Dropping the weapon, he edged onto her bed.

'Little bird,' he rasped, his eyes still wide. His large hand reached for her. 'I'm not hurt,' she reassured him. Her small hand found his, pulling him towards her through the dark. The weight of his huge body depressed the featherbed unevenly.

Wrapping his massive arms around her he lay with her for a moment before talking. 'I should not have doubted you.' His warm hand came up to dry the tears from her cheek. Sansa nuzzled her face into his touch. 'I would never lie to you,' she heard herself say.

Then his lips were on her, kissing her. The girl kissed him back deeply. Her hand came to his, running her fingers over the palm and around the large wrist and down the forearm. She kissed him and his lips parted her own. His tongue felt warm in her mouth. Fire burned in her lower abdomen, right between her legs. Her body moved closer to his on it's own accord. There was a hardness pressed up against her belly. He broke the kiss, breathing rushed. 'You mustn't marry him, my Queen,' he rasped.

'It is my duty, my Prince,' she whispered. 'But you must know I love only you.' Sansa kissed him again, passionately. Legs intertwined, she wriggled over him. Warm hands found her lower back, pulling her into him as close as possible. Her hand moved up past his bicep.

Their lips held each other when Sandor pulled her on top of him, breaking for but two words, 'Only you.'

Sandor's hands gently pushed the silk of her nightshift over her thighs. Sansa's hand found it's way to his neck.

Warmth around her inner thighs. Fingers played with the laces of her smallclothes, pulling, tugging.

She touched his face. The burns, oh, my love.

And then the trance broke. It seemed it did for them both in that moment for the same look of disbelief traversed between them. 'Sandor!' she yelled, pushing herself from him.

The large man sat straight up abruptly. His long legs were tangled in her sheets. Somehow, her blanket was in a disheveled mess on the floor, the dagger along with it.

The Hound's head tilted slightly back towards her, enough for his eyes to catch on her bare legs. Sansa moved quickly to cover herself.

'It's happened again,' he growled, voice brimming with anger. He seemed ready to tear the sheets to shreds.

Sansa placed her hand on his shoulder. 'It's alright,' she said soothingly.

'What is right, little bird? Tell me.' He looked away from her.

Cautiously, Sansa ran her hand across his broad back to the other side of his shoulders. Her arms encircled him as best they could. 'You're all right, Sandor.'

A delicate hand found the man's face, turning him towards her. 'It is us now, I know it.' She watched the fury fade away from his eyes. The tears tickled her fingers. They made for each other.

And kissed once more, long and soft. She withdrew from him and saw the faint blue light of the rising sun on his forlorn face. Her thumb traced his lower lip, felt it twitch. Gray eyes lowered to her thin shift, covering her chest. She knew he desired her; it was apparent in the way he tried to hide from her. Blood crept its way to her cheeks, unbidden.

'You must go,' she said, yawning. 'My maids will be here soon.'

'You have a battle to prepare for,' she added.

With that, he looked at her straight in her blue eyes. Understanding, and something very much like sorrow passed between them. Sandor touched a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. 'Little bird,' he sighed, 'Sansa… I will not let tonight be the last.' She believed him, and prayed to the Seven to save him, for even one more night together. A night she might find the courage to tell him what she really felt.

The man's large weight rocked her bed as he got up. He stood there for a moment with his back turned, looking out towards the window. The sky was a beautiful shade of dark blue, a few stars lingering from the night. Sandor crouched to retrieve his sword and then moved back down into the dark staircase.

Sansa got up after him. The door creaked as she closed it. When she had replaced the rug over it, she crawled back into bed.