"M'lady Lamb Hands," a familiar voice drifted from the other side of the door. "Open up, you lazy lay-a-bed."
Sansa paused in wiping Sandor's forehead, but did not move to answer the door. It was barely morning, yet she had been awake for hours after finally giving up on the hope of a peaceful sleep. She felt weary and hoped Grette would leave on her own.
"I said open up! Are you deaf and useless?" Grette hollered through the door, clearly not intending to leave.
Sansa sighed and rose from the bed. She unbarred and opened the heavy chamber door to find Grette, hands on her hips and glare on her face.
"Lady Margaery requests your presence, if it pleases your highborn arse." Sarcasm thickly laced her words.
"I cannot leave."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Sandor is too ill. I cannot possibly leave him."
"He ain't the first sick man left on his own, won't be the last," Grette shrugged. "That said, I wouldn't mind spending a few hours off my feet."
She shouldered the door open wider and pushed past Sansa to stand beside the bed. Sansa closed the door and crossed the floor to stand beside her.
"What've you been doing for him?"
"I've been packing ice bundles around him to lower his fever, but I'm running short of ice."
Grette nodded. "I'll fetch more from the cellars. How often you changing the ice?"
"As often as it melts. Are you certain of staying here to look after him? Won't the cook miss you from the kitchen?"
She smirked and shook her head. "The castle is in such disarray the cook wouldn't miss her cunt if it fell off and walked away."
Sansa blushed and cleared her throat at the crassness. "I owe you my thanks, Grette. Did Lady Margaery say why she asked after my company?"
"She needs a replacement handmaid, just for a little while. Her Megga is sick with fever and Elinor was crushed when a wall fell last night. She only has Alla left, who ain't much help at all. She's a sniveling little twit who can't change bedding without bawling. I was standing in this morning and mayhap used some..." Grette paused while she searched for the phrase. "...Strong words with the girl. M'lady sent me to find a gentler maid in my stead, said to find you."
She knew precisely what sort of strong words her cleaning partner was fond of, but she held her tongue.
"How long would this be, precisely?" She asked hesitantly and glanced down at Sandor's sleeping form.
"End of the day, most like. They're still sorting through to find the survivors of the collapse. Word is more lords and ladies are missing than servants, so there's sure to be an extra handmaid or two with dead mistresses that they'll send Lady Margaery's way."
Sansa nodded and made to move to the door but Grette scrunched her nose and grabbed her arm.
"Can't say the last time you combed your hair or changed your dress, but you ought to do so before you traipse along to m'lady. She's an awful priss about shit like that."
A short while later, Sansa knocked on Myrcella's old chamber door with her face freshly scrubbed, her hair plaited neatly back, and her dress the cleanest she could find. A small, timid girl opened the door and ushered Sansa in before scuttling off to a half unpacked chest in the corner.
Margaery sat reclining on a thickly cushioned couch, but she stood when she noticed Sansa. Her spotless cream gown rustled loudly in the too quiet room.
"How fares you this day, Sansa?" She asked politely.
"I am well, my lady. I was saddened to hear of last night's accident. I will pray for your family." Sansa chirped and smoothed down the front of her faded dress.
"As will I. Tell me, what do you think of the decor?" She waved a hand around the room, a small, stiff smile curling her lips. "A bit childish for my liking but I fear my sweet Cersei would fall into fits if I changed anything too drastically. She refused the use of this room at first, but relented when she was reminded Tyrell coin would be paying for the repair of the keep. I don't believe another reminder of that would sway her to allow a coat of paint, unfortunately."
Sansa smiled uncertainly and twisted her hands together.
"Where has the rest of your family been placed?"
Margaery's face was a frozen mask. "Not many have been found yet. My father and grandmother were spared and now lodge in the Hand's tower with Lord Tyrion. I can't answer where the rest will stay."
Margaery sat back down on her couch, suddenly looking very young and tired.
"Enough of that, for now. Please assist Alla in unpacking. Later, I may need you to accompany her to our old chambers to fetch more luggage- if anything else undamaged can be found. The storm has relented, but the rain has not and the hole in my ceiling offers little cover."
"Of course, my lady," she said, bobbing a curtsy and joining Alla to do as she was bid.
The work was dull and filled with repetitious folding and smoothing and sorting of gowns, linens, and jewels. Alla kept her mouth in a tight white line, refusing to speak or look too long at Sansa. She did not mind, for her thoughts were too busy to hold a conversation anyway. Was Sandor fairing well? Had he improved or worsened? Had Grette kept her word or had she left? A stone hung heavy in her belly whenever she thought of Sandor lying sick all alone, and so she tried not to think on it. She didn't have much success at that.
After a time, pounding on the chamber door drew Alla away.
"We have news for Lady Margaery," a gruff voice drifted into the room.
"Let him in," Margaery commanded and rose from her seat. A rough looking man walked in, his fine tunic mud stained and torn at the elbow. He frowned grimly at the lady.
"Cousin Luthor, is there any word of your sister Elinor?" She reached out and gripped his sleeve.
"There is, and of others I know you held dear- But I wish to sit when I tell of it."
"Come along, we have a solar through this door," Margaery led her cousin and Alla through an open door, closing it firmly behind themselves.
Luthor emerged alone after a while, leaving the door slightly ajar. His eyes were puffy as though he had wept. He let himself out of the bedchamber.
Margaery and her handmaid did not emerge.
They could not have received happy news of Elinor. She knew the girl was injured in the accident, and had most likely passed from her wounds. Sansa sidled a bit closer to the solar door, hoping to hear news if a replacement handmaid had been found yet. She truly hoped so.
"Tis the gods punishing us," Alla's frightened whispers carried over to Sansa. "They saw our great sin and struck us down."
"Oh hush now," another voice joined the first, soothing and calm. "If the gods were to strike anyone down it would be grandmother, not us. She thought up the wicked deed; you simply obeyed it. What else could you do? You did as is proper for your station. And besides, no true sin was committed for he lives still."
"Aye, but he ought not to. You'd be free of him if we had used the whole bottle as we were supposed to. That's the worst part," the girl drew in a ragged sob. "We went to such lengths and it was all for nothing. If the gods judge intentions we're all doo-"
"They don't," the calm voice said firmly. "If they judged all men by their thoughts the whole world would be cursed."
Who's to say it isn't? Sansa thought bitterly.
"But they've struck down two of us already! Magga died from the fever this morning, and now Elinor succumbed to her injuries. When will they punish me? What terrible fate have I made?"
"Perhaps this is it. Perhaps living while all the rest died is their own way of punishing. But think no more on this for it shall change nothing. The dead shall stay dead and the king will handle himself. He'll either live on as a crippled, softer man, or he will die from his fever. Speak no more of this to me, or anyone else."
Footsteps neared the door, and Sansa scurried back to the dressing table.
"Sansa?" Margaery's calm voice drew near, and Sansa turned from the table to face her. "You've helped me greatly today. There is little point in sending you to my old chambers for surely it's all ruined. You may return to your regular duties and tell them to send Alysanne Bulwer's handmaid to my chambers tomorrow. The dead have little use of handmaidens, so I shall claim hers for my own."
"Yes, my lady. You have my thanks," Sansa curtsied and walked a bit brisker than was proper from the chambers. She knew she had heard something she was not meant to, but she did not linger on the meaning of the whispered words.
Sandor's face, twisted in agony kept flashing before her mind's eye.
Perhaps living while all the rest died is their own way of punishing. The words rattled in her head, urging her to move faster. She had killed her own family with her foolishness, so why wouldn't the gods punish her as they had Margaery's handmaids? What would stop the gods from taking Sandor away and leaving her alone?
She rounded a corner, running with her skirt hiked up to her knees when a familiar oily voice drew her up short. It drifted closer, joined by a woman's voice. She shuddered and decided she did not have the patience nor time to deal with Petyr Baelish today. She spun back round the way she had come, but she feared she would not be able to put enough distance between herself and Petyr before he caught up. Her gaze darted around the hall, then landed on a dark alcove half hidden by a large decorative urn. She eased her thin frame around the urn and hunched down to her heels, waiting for the pair to pass.
"Why wasn't it repaired when it was first noticed?" The woman's voice demanded.
"The structural deficiencies were not of importance. Winter and her storms were far off from our summer heat and summer worries," Petyr replied smoothly.
"And now? What excuse do you have now?" Their voices drew closer and louder.
"Our funds are otherwise occupied by the war. You do recall the war, don't you?"
"Of course I do!" The woman snapped. "Surely we have enough coins in the coffer to cover the repairs without stooping to accepting Tyrell gold, don't we?"
"No," came Petyr's blunt reply. "There is barely enough to clothe and feed our army. The Tyrells have already vouched the money for the repairs and their interest rate is low. We would be fools to not accept."
"I have that smirking whore roosting in my daughter's rooms, polluting them with her schemes. I'd hardly call that a low interest rate. I don't care if the army must march naked, you will find the funds to repair elsewhere."
"We brought the Tyrells here to secure their manpower and their coin through his grace's betrothal. What was the point of that if we do not use them for this?"
The voices paused right before the urn. Sansa could see the golden skirts of the female speaker tremble as though in a shudder, then swirl to face the urn. The woman, Cersei, glared ahead unseeing.
"Of course her rooms would be the least damaged. I couldn't be granted the mercy of her pretty head crushed by a fallen wall. No, of course not," she sounded half mad, as though hysteria was only a single wrong step away. "Fine. Take their filthy money. I want that whore out of my daughter's rooms as soon as the Northern section is repaired, do you understand?"
"Of course, my lady."
The voices began moving away again. Sansa did not raise until she was certain they were both gone. She ran the rest of the way to her shared chamber, not slowing even when a stitch formed in her side. She threw open the chamber door, panting and sweating.
"Oh!" Grette leapt from the room's only chair in surprise.
"How fares he?" Sansa demanded as she crossed to Sandor's side.
Grette's thin mouth relaxed into a small smile as she moved to stand by Sansa's side. "Fine enough. His fever spiked an hour ago or so, but he's been cooling since."
"He grew iller while I was away?" Sansa bristled. "Why did you not fetch me?"
"What difference would have it made if it were me or you bundling on ice? And besides, I couldn't hardly go running into the lady's chambers and drag you back here. The nobles don't give a rat's arse about us servants, and not one of them would give you leave for a thing like this."
Sansa lowered her shoulders and nodded in understanding.
"Point is," Grette continued. "The worst of the fever is over now- once it spikes like that it'll only get lower from here on."
Sansa sagged in relief at the edge of the bed. She gripped his warm solid hand and saw Grette was right; while still feverish to the touch he was no longer as scorching as before.
"Thank you, Grette."
"Bah, I didn't do nothing any other friend wouldn't."
Sansa turned watery eyes up to the thin girl and smiled warmly.
"I'll see you in the kitchens once he's well again. Oh, I had nearly forgotten- Lady Margaery requested Alysanne Bulwer's handmaid to be sent to her tomorrow. I know not who to tell this request to..."
"I'll pass it on, don't worry yourself."
Grette left Sansa clutching Sandor's hand like a drowning woman to a raft. Sansa barely noticed her leave. She gazed down at Sandor's face, but it swam before her. She swiped the moisture from her eyes impatiently, but more followed. She took in a shakey breath and lowered her forehead to their joined hands.
He'll be fine. You're behaving like a bawling babe, she told herself but the tears would not stop.
"Little bird?"
"Sandor? Oh, Sandor!" Her head shot up as she gasped. His gray eyes were open and his thick brows were knitted in concern.
"Little bird," he rasped tiredly. "Why are you weeping?"
"I am glad," she looked tenderly up at him while he squinted down at her with sleep blurry eyes. "You have been ill for some days and I am glad you have returned to me."
"Of course I did. Where else would I go?" He rumbled and squeezed his long fingers around her slender hand.
"Of course," she repeated and smiled so widely she feared her face would split. Grette was her friend, sure enough, just the same as Sandor. Yet why did her heart pound and her stomach flutter when near Sandor yet not for Grette? She was glad enough to see Grette, but she never felt the same rush of warmth and content as she felt around Sandor.
She had no word for Sandor other than friend, but it seemed to fit poorly, too small and jagged to fit his shape.
She swallowed thickly and lifted her free hand to his face, cupping his darkly stubbled cheek and rubbing her thumb along his cheek bone. He leaned into her hand, his gaze never leaving her own. She slipped her hand from his cheek and pressed the back of her fingers to the ruined side of his face. It was smooth, ridged, and just as warm as the rest of him.
"Can you feel this?" She whispered.
"No," came the raspy, sleepy reply. His eyelids looked heavier than before, as though a weight was slowly dragging them down.
She dragged her fingers down his cheek, tracing a line from his temple down to his jaw, and then over to the stubble on his chin. Grasping his bristled chin, she paused in thought, then leaned in suddenly and pressed her lips against his.
She felt the ridged, rough half of his lips, and the smooth, soft half too. She ghosted her lips over his in a chaste lady-like kiss, then returned and pushed harder, wanting more. His lips remained still beneath hers.
She shifted her body closer, lifting her other hand to wrap around the back of his head, threading her fingers into his thick black hair. She traced the line of his bottom lip with her tongue, then sucked the lip into her mouth. Still, Sandor did not respond.
She pulled back as abruptly as she had leaned in. A sudden wave of self-consciousness washed over her. What if she was terrible at kissing and that's why he hadn't returned it? Perhaps he had no interest in her at all and he was repulsed by her. She studied his face and found his eyes closed.
"Sandor?" She whispered.
Sandor grunted in a queer way, then snuffled, then grunted again. It took her a moment to realize he was snoring, having fallen back into an easy slumber.
