Chapter VIII

Sansa

While I still feel sorrowful about my family that I've left behind, the sadness has retreated deeper in me, it's quieter for now. Also, I had felt the same things at the Red Keep, I had known then that they were lost to me. My father's execution had started a war, the hold on the Iron Throne had become unstable, attracting all the pretenders and jackals that had sniffed the weakness, and nothing would ever be the same again. I had a lot of time to grieve, and the rawness of it had left me.

And I don't miss anymore the rank that I had in Westeros; I know that I'm a lady and that I always will be regardless of circumstances. That's why I haven't let myself be bothered by all the cursing and swearing that goes on when the captain and the Hound play. I had thought at first that I wouldn't give Sandor the satisfaction of letting it touch me; then that a lady had to and could arise above these things. And I had heard swearing before at King's Landing; a lot of the men swore, even the highborn sometimes did when they thought that no lady was present. And in a way, what does it matter? Some people speak in a more refined way but act a lot worse.

I find that I've enjoyed seeing Sandor gamble; he brings the same fierceness and sense of competition to the game, wanting to win and crush his opponent. The captain is more insouciant about winning or losing.

But just when I had thought that I could start to feel at ease with Sandor, he's started to act hatefully again, insinuating things, mocking me, like in King's Landing. But this time I'm not sobbing my heart out on my pillow; I'm pacing in the cabin and huffing. When I get tired of it this, I sit down on the divan and find myself feeling calmer. As I sit I'm filled with disbelief at what I just did.

Somehow, without realising it or the why of it, I had lost my fear and revulsion of his disfigurement after the escape, but I still feared him. While he had never beaten me like the others, sometimes I feared that he would do it; thinking that the depth of his anger would lead to it. Now I feel wonder that I got angry and struck him in the face. Wrath as I had never known it had filled my entire being, and suddenly I didn't care anymore about what he would do; whether he would shout threateningly, beat me or even throw me overboard. At that moment, I was feeling so sick of being terrified all the time that it had burned the fear out of me.

At the Red Keep I had been trying very hard to please, to be good and nice so I wouldn't be mistreated, to say words which I had thought that they would want to hear from me, but what good had it accomplished? I was still beaten regularly and treated with scorn by the King and others. Today I have acted differently, finally daring to say exactly how I felt, and his reaction had been totally unexpected; instead of jumping on me like I had expected, his face had turned white, in sharp contrast with the red imprint of my hand left on his skin and I thought that I saw for a moment a spark of bewilderment in his eyes. He hadn't moved at all.

Yes, I had thought that he could be kind when he had comforted me after the attack and the nightmare, helping me by thinking that I would probably feel safer not sleeping alone. And I had felt safer. In the early morning, when I had found myself nestled against his back, and remembering who this was, it had shocked so that I had turned on my side fast, my heart thudding in my chest.

But after all this care on his part, I had not expected him to turn brooding again and lash out at me with his anger. But I should have known better: this is the way he's always been with me. Acts of kindness followed by a flood of anger. Except for the knights, I seem to be the one that he's always been the angriest at.

There must be a reason. Had I hurt him because I hadn't been able to bear looking at him in the face for so long? I know that this was something that he had wanted me to do and then had often reproached me for my being unable to do it. I haven't considered this before; being so afraid of him; my fear had overwhelmed any other thoughts or feelings I could have had. I had not considered that somebody this terrifying could be vulnerable like any other person, or that he was bothered by the look of his scars. I had even thought that he had enjoyed having them so that he could scare people even more. Was I wrong? If I had been, then indeed I had hurt him deeply.

While I'm sure that I'll eventually feel remorse at this, for the moment I'm experiencing satisfaction, a sense of retribution, and pride at being brave for once. And I realize that I don't even feel resentment at his words; I feel free of the sting of them!