Sansa Stark was seventeen years old. She seemed both much older and much younger at that moment, though, wise beyond her years and yet somehow fragile and childlike. Maybe it was her vulnerability, her terrible circumstances that made her seem this way to him. Her hair was auburn in soft light, and red in the sun. Right then it could be black, though, as she slept in the dark with her head on the passenger door of the Lannister car Sandor stole. Her eyes are what is known widely in the prominent families as Tully Blue, but then they were shut, and one was likely to stay that way until the swelling went down.
They passed under streetlamps, high orange lights, about one every fifteen seconds, but they thinned out as the interstate goes farther north, when the rolling green of Northern California passes into the rockier roads of coastal Oregon.
Sandor didn't know for sure the vehicle wasn't being tracked already, and he was only counting on the chaos and madness that happened hours before at the Red House to keep any pursuers at bay a while longer. Once he crossed state lines, he would find another vehicle for them. He had stolen a dozen cars in his day, and the thought did not phase him in the least. He was good at it. He knew what he was doing. He knew how to smuggle people, how to throw off pursuers how to cover his tracks and not leave a paper trail. He knew where he could go so that he will not be found for a day or two, until he can smooth out a plan to get his cargo three thousand miles away, back to Maine and hopefully a hefty sum of money.
What he didn't know is what to say to the sleeping girl when she wakes.
He turned the radio on, fumbled with the dial, turned it back off. He discarded his cellphone, his pager, threw the GPS onto the highway already. He extracted as much cash as the ATM would let him at a gas station off the interstate headed south before looping back and heading north. That would be their last traceable record of him. He also bought a pack of Marlboros, and cracked a window to smoke one. The night was clear, cold. The air kissed the good side of his face and he accelerated to eighty on the empty highway.
He drove the rest of the night, and stopped in a little town to steal a new car. Sansa was awake but he said nothing, and she said nothing, and he motioned for her to wait while he got out, popped the lock to an old volkswagen, and came back to move their bags. He took the plates from the car, scratched the vin number from several places (he couldn't remove the one on the engine, regrettably, but it would slow them down when the owners of the pizzeria they were parked at found the vehicle never left the parking lot and had it towed), and grabbed his and Sansa's bag, stuffed it in the back. He filled the gas tank with cash since he could no longer use his credit card, and they were headed north again as the sun was rising on their right.
"Put your hood up next time we stop someplace, girl." He growled. She looked at him.
"You don't fit a whole lot pf descriptions except Sansa Stark if anyone comes through after us asking, for starters," He explained, lighting another cigarette.
"And your bruises are bound to make people look twice at you. They'll think I did it."
She raised a shaking hand to her face, glanced in the sideview mirror. Her non-swollen eye filled with tears. A perfect lady she looked now, she thought, with her sweatshirt and unkempt hair and bruised face.
"Don't cry, girl. Be grateful. You got out of that clusterfuck alive, and your wounds will heal." The way he said it made her look at his scars, and she understood, sheepish.
The night previous, he'd been awoken by gunshots. He'd sprung from his bed, in his boots and pulling his own weapon in a matter of seconds. By the time he was down the hall, people were shouting , running. More gunfire, and then it happened. The explosion. Someone stuffed a gas-rag into every vehicle gas tank in the front and lit a match.
He'd fought at first, there were men in dark clothing like his own, it took a moment to distinguish who was who in the chaos, but the fire spread to the house... he could feel the heat of it on his face. He didn't see Jaime or Cersei or Joffrey, but other guards like himself fighting and shooting.
Servant girls were running, screaming, coughing as the smoke started to curl around the burning house. The men were headed up the stairs, kicking in doors. Probably looking for the Lannisters or their children.
Sansa, he had thought suddenly. He ran away from the fire, throwing two intruders off the side of one marble staircase as he took the steps three at a time. He'd kicked in her door, found her perched at the window, trying to approximate the drop. It wouldn't have been wise, it had to be twenty feet to a stone pavilion below.
"Throw your valuables into a bag, you have twenty seconds." He had roared at her, and she obeyed, crying, shoving things into a backpack and rummaging for documents in a drawer. He grabbed her arm and as they were leaving her room, ran into two if the intruders. The entire house was aglow with the fire now, and he could still hear shouts and breaking glass and shrieking on the main floor. He shot one man in the chest and used his body to shove the other off the balcony before he could get off a round.
He reeleed and grabbed Sansa by her wrist, dragging her to the stairs and to the main floor. He had to get away from the fire... Just away from the flames and everything else would be fine...
They exited through the back door, the cool night air on the west side of the house, still unburnt, coming as a welcome reprieve He saw several Lannister servants with the same idea, running into the vineyards from the west side. Instead he pulled the Stark girl along the side of the house, heading for the garages. He had a key on his belt for one of the company cars, if he was doing an errand or business or something awful like playing chauffeur to Joffrey.
They made it to the garage but were met by three men, one of which The Hound snapped his neck before the others began to react, and he had to combat them more messily. In the fight, one grabbed a fleeing Sansa, struck her, and threw her to thr ground. Sandor felt rage build inside his chest. Rage at the fire, at the man, he didn't know, but it gave him strength to overpower the first man and use his head to knock the second unconscious.
"Little Bird." He said, pulling her to her feet. She was losing consciousness, so he threw her over his shoulder and made his way to the car, layed her down on her side in the back with the bags next to her, and ducked low as he peeled out of the Lannister grounds, shots ringing off the body of the vehicle more than once.
He got them a hotel in Washington State. He was exhausted from driving twelve hours after that miserable fight, and he could see she was as well. He payed cash and used a false name, chose a seedy small town hotel over a chain, which would require a photo ID and credit card. the modern world was conducive to paper trails. This was advantageous if you were doing the finding, but not if you were the one who didn't want to be found.
He pulled the car to their room, got both their bags, opened the door for Sansa. She stepped in and waited for him to turn on the light. She stood still, as if awaiting instruction. There were two double beds, a table and lamp between then, a pad of paper, tissues, a phone book and pizza delivery pamphlet. A small TV with rabbitears sat opposite the beds and one dirty window looked toward the highway. Sandor locked the door behind them, set their bags down, closed the blinds. Sansa took it all in but didn't seem to want to move.
"Girl." The Hound said gruffly. She looked at him, face a bruised mess, hair tangled and lank, clothes smelling of fire.
"Clean yourself up and get in bed, why don't you."
She nodded, moved stiffly to retrieve her bag, movied into the bathroom. He heard the lock on the door click and the shower turn on. He hated leaving her even for a moment. If he was going to do fucking anything it was keep her safe and deliver her to her family for a nice little ransom. He knew the Lannisters would have his head for taking her, but he didn't much care. Fuck the Lannisters. The Red House had been burning.
He grabbed ice, ibuprofen, bottled water. When he returned she was still in the shower, and he ordered a pizza over the phone, turned on the TV for white noise. He sat back on the scratchy coverlet, rested his head against the headboard. He was weary.
Sansa emerged from the shower feeling a little bit less like death. She'd felt numb for hours, having to turn the thoughts in her head off. She kept seeing the burning house, the men who had attacked her, the way The Hound had fought them off, smashing them like dolls, swatting them away like blackflies that used to plague her badminton games every summer at camp.
She tried to sleep in the car but dreamed of Joffrey, on fire, reaching for her, screaming her name, rage in his eyes as his skin melted from his bones. She dreamed she was in a car with Meryn instead of Sandor, and he turned to her and laughed while she screamed, tried to get out but some invisible pressure kept her inside the car with him.
The shower woke her up, helped lift the nightmare-veil from her eyes. She fetl clean, too and toweled her hair off in one of the white hotel towels, wrapped it up into a big beehive and dressed in a white cotton v-neck and silk indian pajama bottoms. She turned the nob carefully, as if expecting a Lannister raid in the hotel room, but just saw Sandor Clegane sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the television like they weren't on the run from one of the most powerful families in the United States. She supposed he was used to danger, though. He lived his life by it. What was it he had told her once when she first had come to the Red House? The world is built by killers, so you'd better get used to looking at them.
She still did not know entirely what to expect from The Hound. She wanted to trust him, like that moment when he had said he wouldn't hurt her, when he was cleaning her wounds... but she knew people lied all the time.
She wanted to trust the look in his eyes, the one that wasn't rage and hate, the one she had glimpsed when he looked at her. She didn't know who in the world to trust, though. Everyone she thought she could had turned out to be a lie, or else a bitter disappointment She was at his mercy though. He had rescued her, but for what? She had been too afraid to ask in the car. Did he bring her here to rape her? To kill her? No, he would have killed her outright. Why would he have gone through the trouble to save her? Maybe he did want her for himself, and it was the only reason he had been so interested in her before.
What did trained killers, hard cruel men like The Hound who made their name on their viciousness want with a stupid little girl like her except to rape her? She felt afraid, suddenly, and sure she had been wrong about him. She almost bolted out the door, barefoot and penniless. But where would she go? She was in some town in Washington state with no one to help her. Her head hurt suddenly, and she wanted to lie down.
She sat on her bed in defeat, crossing her legs.
Her situation hit her full force. God, she was on the run with the Hound. What would her etiquette teacher think of that? She imagined her purse lipped teacher, with her tight bun and her impeccable British accent. What would she say? She imagined her tutting, running a finger along the tabletop to inspect for dust and grimacing. Keep your chin up, Sansa, straighten that back. Do you want to look like a ragamuffin? Well-born girls always keep their head intact and their wits about them.
What about when they're on the run with their fiance's bodyguard and he is more than likely going to force her to do something unspeakable? She straightened her spine, folded her legs beneath her and tried to keep her chin up and keep her lips from quivering. She felt her eyes fill anyway, against her will.
Would he make her come into his bed or would he just force himself on her over here? She was a virgin. Although she felt some relief at getting away from Joffrey, she knew if he raped her he would kill her. She supposed that would be better, in a way. He was looking at her, and she wished she wasn't crying. She must look so pathetic, so childish. It would anger him, she knew. He hated her weakness.
"Little Bird." He said, and she flinched.
"Here." He said, reaching to the nightstand and pushing a few items towards her. "Take some medecine and drink some water. It will make you feel better."
His tone sounded gentle, and the ibuprofen was in a sealed package. There was no way he could be slipping her anything else. She checked it for perforations before she took it. She caught her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall and flinched.
A knock on the door made them both jump. Sandor made a motion with his hand for her to stay, and she did, trembling. He looked into the peephole and grunted, opened the door two inches till the chain-lock caught and shoved a crisp ten dollar bill through.
"Keep it. Leave it there on the ground." He growled, and the delivery boy left. Only when his footsteps died off did Sandor open the door and retrieve the pizza box.
Sansa felt her stomach growl, even at the greasy pizza she normally would have turned her nose up at.
"Eat." He said, setting it between them so they could grab. She folded hers, trying to keep the grease from spilling into her blue indian pajamas, and ate the cheesy, hot food with as much relish as a trained lady dared, licking her lips when she was sure he wasn't looking at her. If he was going to hurt her, he didn't do it then. He just finished his food and flicked the channels. Despite herself, Sansa dozed off, overcome by her exhaustion.
She was struggling, trying to get away, but iron hands held her down. Joffrey was laughing, ordering the men to strip her bare in front of a mass of people, beat her with poolsticks and riding crops. Then Meryn approached her, grinning, grabbing his manhood through his pants. He meant to take her... in front of everyone. She was whimpering and thrashing, wanting to scream but too afriad...
She woke herself up screaming.
A hand clamped over her mouth and she panicked, thrashing like a cornered animal. Only when the light came on and she saw The Hound above her and the hotel room about her did the nightmare dissipate, retreating back to her sleep world like smoke.
She stopped struggling and he released her.
"It was a nightmare, girl." He growled grumpily. "You'll wake half the town doing that."
She felt tears sliding down her cheeks to the pillow. "I'm sorry." She tried to say, and found her voice hoarse, her throat dry. Sandor handed her some water, and she drank shakily. He turned the light out without another word and crawled back into his bed.
"Mr. Clegane?"
"Mmph."
"Why did you take me?"
"To save your life."
"Those weren't my brothers men, then?"
"No, Little Bird. Those were Stannis men, most likely."
She thought about that a moment. Stannis wanted Joffrey's claim to the Baratheon fortune. Next of kin...
"I dreamed he was here. Meryn. Joffrey too. "
The Hound was silent. She suddenly didn't believe her wild theories anymore. She wanted to trust her instinct about him. She knew he wouldn't hurt her. She knew it in her heart of hearts. It was cold, and she began to cry anew. The nightmare felt like it was waiting for her on the brink of sleep, where she would fall back into it, relive it again.
"It's alright, girl. No one's going to hurt you tonight."
It was the best promise he could make, but that's all she really wanted. The assurance of tonight. She wanted to be held, but was too afraid of him to go to him. She imagined he would be solid and warm, that his arms would feel heavy and his fingers calloused. She imagined him telling calling her Little Bird in her ear, with his scratchy deep voice and the whiskers of his beard on her smooth skin. She blushed in the dark, pushed her thoughts away and shivered without warm arms around her.
She tossed and turned until the room turned grey with dawn and Sandor got up, cuing her to get up and start to prepare to leave.
He was in the shower, and she dressed quickly, brushing her hair and braiding it back so she could throw up her hood and not be recognizable as anyone, least of all Sansa Stark.