Chapter Nine
…
It was two more days until the Hound was able to move around freely. Sansa had been making her way back to his chambers when she found him loitering in the main hall with a horn of wine and a plate of spiced venison set before him. One of the kitchen maids had rushed up to her as she left her room, muttering nervously about the huge, aggressive man that had stumbled into the hall demanding to be fed. He made more of an amusing sight then an intimidating one, when she finally found him in the hall, sitting alone at a long table, bent over his plate and devouring the meat with his fingers. He was dressed in a white tunic and brown breeches so short they stopped right below the knees, and wore no shoes or armor. His hair was matted like a mangy dog's, and his beard was unkempt and crawled with grease and bits of meat.
"Sandor, you should be abed!" Sansa exclaimed as she saw him. Sandor glanced up at her irritably.
"I'm sick of that damned bed," he growled, tossing aside a well-peeled bone. "I'm about to puke from the smell of my own stinkin' blood and my legs are stiff as boards from lying around like some crippled dog." Sansa sighed and sat beside him, settling her dress around her legs. Sandor eyed it over his horn of wine.
"Did the good ser give you that dress?"
"He did, actually," she replied, shifting in her seat.
"What, the one I got you not good enough?" Sandor snorted, gesturing at a passing maid for some more wine.
"It was fine until your brother decided to rip it apart," Sansa retorted. "As kind as Maela is, I'm afraid she's no seamstress. I've had to take it apart entirely to mend it." Sandor sucked at a bone, though he wouldn't meet her gaze after she mentioned his brother.
"What for?" he asked. "You're wearing a perfectly nice one now. Just burn the other if it's torn. Patrek looks wealthy enough to afford a dress or two. There don't seem to be too many respectable ladies around here, unless you count those whores he was talking about." The hound grinned and spat out the bone, wiping his hands on his tunic and thrusting his cup up to a girl holding a wine pitcher. She trembled so violently that the pitcher nearly dropped from her hands. Sansa finally took the flask from the girl, who shot Sansa a grateful look and the Hound a terrified one before running off. Sandor snorted. "I must look right more awful than usual to make her scamper that way. Women are generally more disgusted than scared of me, unless I threaten them. Which I don't make a habit of," he added, noticing Sansa's disapproving look. "Women don't make for a good fight."
"I heard tales of a woman who could fight, back at Kings Landing," Sansa said, filling his cup with wine. "Renly made her a knight. They call her Brienne. Brienne the Beauty. An awful name. She's supposed hideous." Sandor barked a hoarse laugh.
"That Tarth girl? I hear she bested the Knight of Flowers in combat. I would have paid a hundred dragons to see his pompous face when she removed her helmet. I'd enjoy fighting her, if she's all they claim."
"Do you like women who can fight?" Sansa asked. The Hound made a face in his wine.
"Women aren't made to fight. Not with swords. You have enough to deal with besides getting gutted. Anyhow, if all the women started to fight, there'd be a whole lot less sons and daughters out there." Sansa looked down at her hands.
"If I could fight, maybe I could have killed those men. Maybe I could have saved Robb and mother. Maybe my father would still be alive." There was a moment of silence, and she heard Sandor push away his plate.
"Don't blame yourself for that, little bird," he said. "There is little enough any of us could have done for them. I couldn't have saved them. The young wolf was surrounded by his own men, soldiers all. None of them survived. Well, except for your little lord over there. Probably turned craven as soon as the blood started spilling and left his good friend Edmure to bleed into the chicken pie."
"How are you feeling?" Sansa asked, ignoring the jibe towards Patrek.
"Better, now that there's real food and wine in my stomach," Sandor replied.
"You should go back to your bed now, rest yourself."
"And wait for that old skinsack to prod at my scars again? Bugger that, I need some fresh air." Sansa gave a resigned sigh.
"Alright, but allow me to accompany you. And you should at least put something warmer on. There's snow outside."
Sansa waited patiently as Sandor limped his way back up to his room, flinging the maester out with a roar and demanding his mail and armor. Finally, after much pleading from Sansa's part, he grudgingly accepted a thick sheep's-wool jerkin, cotton breeches, a pair of hardy leather boots and a fur-lined cloak. Reaching the inner courtyard, they stepped into a strong, cool breeze and almost a foot of snow.
"It's been falling for a week," Sansa declared. "Winter is here." Patrek shook his head. He'd accompanied Sansa when she declared she was going for a walk outside, though was considerably less pleased when Sandor had come hulking through the doorway.
"Winter is only starting," he replied. "The true winter is coming, and it will come hard." Sansa shuddered.
"I can only imagine what it's like on the wall," she said. "I wonder how Jon is faring."
"Jon?" Patrek inquired.
"My half-brother. Bastard born. He chose the wall when my father marched south with King Robert to become hand." That day seemed so far away now, Sansa mused. A time that felt simpler, when her dreams were still a plausible reality. Dreams that were cut off alongside her father's head.
"I see. We have gotten a few reports from them. Tales of wildlings marching south, assembling under some pretender king, making for the wall."
"Did you send any men?" Sansa asked.
"No, all able men were needed for Robb's army. The need was more dire here."
"I see," Sansa said. Patrek coughed softly.
"I could send some available men down, if it pleases you," he offered. Sansa looked up, smiling.
"That's very generous of you, my lord, but there is no need to send off the men protecting your lands." Sandor snorted.
"If he sends any men, they damned well won't be any knights or soldiers," he declared. "They'll be whatever's rotting in the dungeons at the moment. Freys, I hope." Patrek scowled, but said nothing. They walked across the courtyard, and at Sansa's request, Patrek guided them to the stables. Sansa greeted Mule with a rub on the nose, whom she had been told had been picked up at Sandor's request as they had ridden south. Stranger whickered eagerly when he caught scent of his master, and Sandor seemed quite pleased to see his loyal horse again, rubbing his neck and inspecting the healing cuts.
"We had our horse master attend to the wounds himself," Patrek said. "Said Stranger would be ready to ride within a few days."
"Good thing," Sandor grunted. "If you'd let my horse die, you'd have a dagger in the neck that would need immediate attending to." Sansa slapped Sandor's arm and glanced apologetically at their miffed host.
"Don't apologize for him," Patrek said as she opened her mouth to do just that. "He may be coarse but at least he's honest. Either way, I won't say I like him. And clearly he feels the same way." Sansa bit her lip, forced to silently agree. Sandor was behaving even more aggressive than usual.
"It's probably because he's been cooped up for so long. Sandor doesn't much enjoy lying about uselessly," she said. Patrek nodded, but his contempt for the deserter lingered until he was pulled away for another war council. Before going off, however, he pulled Sansa aside, well away from Sandor's ears.
"My lady," Patrek began hesitantly. "I would like to make you an offer. It is a tragedy about your family, and I cannot grieve enough for them all. However, if it pleases you, I would welcome you into my own home, in Seaguard. I'm sure my father wouldn't mind, and I can send him a raven if it would make you more certain. He is due to return any day. And if you find Seaguard too cold or dreary, we can certainly find you suitable accommodations. Joffrey is not a popular king, and I am sure many would be honored to protect the last lady of Winterfell, and I am certain they would be eager to help you rebuild it as soon as this war is over and a better king is crowned." Sansa stood, reeling from the unexpected offer.
"My lord," she stuttered. "I… how would you know that Joffrey won't prevail in this war?" Patrek shook his head.
"The boy king has made far too many enemies in this war. Cruel kings rarely last before someone rises up. His young brother is far more gentle than him."
"But it is Cercei who rules, truly," Sansa whispered.
"She won't last long either, I pray. And if she does, you will be perfectly safe here. Your mother's sister, Lysa Tully, inhabits the Eyrie, a near impregnable stronghold from what I hear, if you wish to stay with the last of your family. The Tyrells harbor enmity toward the Lannisters and are sure to offer you protection in Highgarden. Otherwise, I am sure the Martells will welcome you to Sunspear."
"You would have me go to Dorne?" Sansa exclaimed. "I thought the Martell's were loyal to the Iron Throne?"
"Only in appearance," Patrek said. "The Martells harbor a very deep enmity towards the Lannisters after years of slights on their house by Tywin. The attack on Princess Elia and her children by Gregor Clegane and other lannister men during the Sacking of Kings Landing only fueled that hatred. I am sure they would willingly protect you from the Lannisters. You may even be married to a highborn dornish lord who will rebuild and rule Winterfell when the war is over." Sansa bit her lip, looking down.
"This is much to think over," she said.
"Of course, it is an important decision. I will await your decision patiently." Patrek bowed and headed across the courtyard.
"What did he want?" Sandor asked. Sansa spun around and shrugged.
"Nothing of importance," she lied. "Would you like a bath? Your wounds seem to be healing well enough." Sandor snorted, barring the stall door after him.
"I bet I've started to look worse than I smell," he muttered, and leaned into her ear as he passed. "And you're still a terrible liar."
Sansa sent a few of the castle's serving girls to heat up a bath for Sandor. In the meantime, she finished sewing up the front of her red dress. There was still an obvious crease where the Mountain had ripped open the front, but she had sewed it up as best she could, stitching along the crease with red thread in a vine-like pattern. When she finished, she began adding the vines to other parts of the dress for décor, thinking over Patrek's offers. If she stayed in Seaguard, she would be surrounded by men once loyal to her brother. They would surely protect her, but against the might of the Freys and the Lannisters, there was little chance of them lasting so long. She had never met her aunt Lysa, and she had little desire to. Her mother never had much to say about her, and the isolation of the Eyrie sounded less than inviting. A life in Dorn sounded far more appealing if the Martells would indeed have her, but the trip all the way south would be long and perilous. The main roads were crawling with Joffrey's soldiers.
Sansa was so distracted by her thoughts that the two heavy knocks at her door caused her to drop her needle in shock. She set down the dress and went to open the door, and was surprised to see the Hound standing there. He was dressed in a fresh tunic and breeches that actually fit him, his beard had been shaved away from the unburned side of his face, and his hair still dripped wet around his face.
"Sandor, come in," Sansa said, stepping back. She fidgeted as the man stepped into her room, glancing around suspiciously and shooting a wary glance at the cracking fire. "May I ask why you're here?"
"I just came to make sure they weren't keeping you in some cold dungeon somewhere. I can see you're plenty comfortable though."
"Patrek has been a very gracious host. I've not felt myself wanting since I awoke. The bed is even stuffed with real goose feathers," she joked. Sandor grunted and made to turn back when Sansa reached out to grip his arm.
"Please, stay," she pleaded. "Sit down. I can fetch some wine. I can brush your hair, too," she offered. Sandor looked startled by her last suggestion and narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not a doll," he growled, but then barked a small laugh. "Though I suppose my hair must be a right mess. I considered chopping it off with a knife, but then I suppose all the maids would run screaming from the castle." Sansa led him over to a table and pulled up a cushioned chair well away from the fire. She knocked on Maela's door – the woman had been moved into the room adjacent to Sansa's chambers since she'd arrived – and asked for a flagon of mulled red. While waiting for the wine to come, Sansa picked up her brush and approached Sandor. He shot her a look before resigning himself with a grumble.
"So what did ser longlocks really tell you at the stables?" he grunted as she worked through the knots of his newly washed hair.
"He made me an offer," she said after a short pause. "He offered to keep me here at Seaguard, or to send me to my mother's sister in the Eyrie. He also said the Tyrells and Martells would take me in."
"The flowers?" Sandor spat. "Not while the court holds Loras Tyrell. The Tyrells are far too treacherous to be trusted. They've switched loyalties too many times for my liking. I doubt they would hesitate to ransom you if any one of their precious petals were plucked away. The Freys are marching for Seaguard as we speak, and somehow I doubt your mother's sister would want to harbor a fugitive. The Martells are far enough from the Lannisters to offer some protection, if they offer it that is. Snakes, the lot of them." Sansa tugged at a knot irritably.
"I don't see you offering any better ideas," she retorted.
"And you sound awfully ready to get rid of me for someone who's braiding my hair."
"I'm not getting rid of you!" Sansa exclaimed. "If anything, you would be coming with me." Sandor turned around to look her in the eyes, his welted red scar flickering in the firelight. It was not so frightening, Sansa realized. Just sad and angry. The sad wound of an angry man.
"And what about what I want to do, eh, little bird? What if I would rather go my own way? Travelling alone would bring me far fewer troubles anyhow." Sansa flinched, gripping her brush, and looked down.
"If that is what pleases you, it is not my place to stop you," she mumbled. Sandor stood up and approached her. He tucked a finger under her chin and raised her face to his.
"Stop hiding behind your courtesies, little lady. Tell me what you want, and tell it true. I'm not a knight, I'm not your father or your king. Don't lie to me – I'll know if you do." Sansa looked up into his dark grey eyes that were somehow comforting in their familiarity. She blinked back rising tears.
"I… I want you to stay," she croaked hoarsely. "I want you to stay with me always. I don't want to be alone again. There's no one else I can trust." She threw her arms around his back, burrowing her face into his chest. Sandor hesitated, and touched her back. She could feel him shaking his head.
"I don't understand you, girl," he rasped. "Of all people, you trust me? I could sell you to a knight of my choosing for a bag of dragons, or snap your little neck with nigh an effort." Sansa pushed away and smiled up at him with dry eyes.
"But you won't. I know it. That's why I want you to stay with me."
"I will, little bird." Sandor said. He chucked softly. "Not that I have much of a choice. My head's as wanted as yours anyhow."
…
.:Author's Note:. Firstly I would like to apologize for the long break between this and the last chapter. I just returned to university and the work load is insane already. So many papers! On the other hand, I would like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed my story. Over 10,000 views and 50 reviews! This is by far my most popular story yet!
This chapter isn't too exciting, I know, but it will start up again soon. And as you can tell, the Sansa-Sandor relationship is slowly becoming warmer, so you can expect some development over the next few chapters.
ps. I need to outline a critique speech for next week but I'm debating two topics -an analytic comparison of The Hunger Games and Battle Royale, or a critique of the adaptation of ASOIAF books into the Game of Thrones television series. Let me know what would be more interesting!
- Kerrigas