Chapter 10
Far behind him, an owl hoots, disturbing the stillness of the night. Knelt by the flames, all he had to do for hours was observing the fire die down, leaving only ashes. Ashes seemed to fill his mouth as well, each time he would peek at her lying form, recalling their kiss. Among all the women he met, he chose one he can't marry. And among the noble women he can't marry, he chose the one who is both as innocent and as cruel as a child. They should be lying together under his cloak, forming one hole in the grass, but he's there, miserable and useless. North wind makes him shiver now that he gave her his cloak. And he can't even drift off to sleep.
When he remembers how the evening began, he sees her as the late afternoon sun was shining with spendthrift glory: she was standing up in the knee-high grass, very straight, her back to him, just like in his nightmares. But she wore her blue dress instead of the bloody one of his dream. She observed the clearing for a while, then turned her head and glanced at him. Her expression was unreadable: her lips slightly parted, she seemed to wait for him. Then she walked away. He felt like the hunter in front of a doe, without knowing if she's unaware of his presence or taunting him. He felt excited and maybe overconfident. But I'm a terrible hunter. He should have kept that in mind.
All of a sudden, she rolls over and gives a cry of surprise.
"Sandor!" she calls. "Where are you?"
She sits up, pushes his cloak and sighes when finally seeing him by the fire.
"I thought you were gone," she says, walking towards him and kneeling by his side. He can feel reproach and concern in her voice, but decides to ignore it.
"Gone?" he repeats. "Would it really bother you?"
She stares at him, shocked first, then ashamed.
"I'm sorry about all I told you," she says in a repentant tone. "I feel so stupid. I mean... Don't ask me to agree with what you did, but I realized you wanted to protect me."
Is she honest with him? Is she toying with his heart? She comes closer, allowing him to see her bright eyes and enjoy the smell of her skin. Sooner or later, he won't be able to think properly.
"I was unfair," she adds. "Forgive me. You know how I was raised. What I was told by my septa. I'm supposed to react like I did in front of an act of violence. My education was supposed to be an asset in King's Landing. It only made me weak when Joffrey revealed his true nature. I'm fighting against it, but..."
She stops, nearly out of breath after her confession. An anxious wrinkle distorts her domed forehead as she reaches out and takes his hand.
"You're cold!" she cries out loud. "Why did you stay here?" She stops short once again, realizing she's the reason he spent the night by the fire.
"Forgive me," she says, squeezing his hand and coming even closer. Her voice is smooth, tantalizing. "I should be grateful for what you did. For all your efforts to keep me safe. But the foolish Sansa is always here, ready to spoil everything."
She goes on, but he doesn't listen to her. All he can think about are her curves and especially her breasts. They must be cream-white, round and firm. He could just hold out his hand and touch them.
"... why I wanted to apologize. I'd do anything to get my fault forgiven," she whispers.
"You shouldn't say that in front of me, girl," he rasps.
She ignores his warning. "It's still pitch-dark. Sun won't rise before two hours. Come with me and get some sleep," she begs.
He sighs but he can't say no. He rises on his feet and follows her. When they lay down at the place where she was sleeping, they both feel ill-at-ease. First lying flat on her back, she rolls on one side and so he does. She takes his hand and puts it on her waist. He stares intently at her. Don't want to make any mistake. Don't want her to think I'm a dickhead, only wanting to sleep with her. Even if I do want to sleep with her.
"Don't worry," she says softly. "I'll stay awake and make sure we don't get up too late."
As he keeps on looking at her, she raises her hand and gently brushes his eyelids to close them.
"It's time," she whispers.
At first, he feels the warmth of his cloak, except on his feet, freezing in his boots. His left arm is numb because he didn't move for too long and her breathing tickles his neck. She stares at him with a fond look, in the dim light of sunrise.
"'Morning," he says, after clearing his throat.
Maybe he should get up now, before letting the things drift. Before acting like a jerk. But when he sits up, she nearly protests "There's something I want to say to you."
He runs a hand over his face and turns to her.
"I've been thinking and... I don't want to go to Riverrun," she says.
His heart skips a beat and he curses in disbelief.
"What... what do you mean?" he mumbles. "Why?"
"First of all, I don't know anyone in Riverrun," she explains, sitting up and smoothing her skirts. "Even my great-uncle is a stranger to me. And I've been thinking about what you told me. You're right: he'll find a husband for me as soon as he can. I can't handle the thought of being married to someone I don't like and I don't even know."
She looks so miserable at this point he's sure it's a matter of time before she bursts into tears.
"You must think I'm selfish and deprive you of your reward," she sighs. "But you can't blame me for refusing to go to Riverrun if you don't want to stay there either. You told me I was free to go and... you know I can't make it by myself. So I'm asking you to come with me."
"Where?" he says.
"Home. Winterfell."
He gasps.
"That night, when you came to my bedroom and offered me to run with you, you said you wanted to head north..." she says in a high-pitched tone.
"I was... drunk. I never promised you to go to Winterfell. Seven hells, it was months ago! Everything changed: your brother's dead, most of your lord father's bannermen bent the knee... and there's the Boltons! The North is a bloody mess."
Suddenly, he wishes he could take back his words. Maybe she's going to believe he's more craven than he is. Is the disappointment on her face caused by what he said about the North or by the coward she thinks he's become? She frowns, pondering on his words.
"So you think it's impossible to go to Winterfell?" she asks.
"Of course not. It would be a very difficult and long journey, and I'm not sure you're ready for it. Every morning I wake up wondering how much time you will be able to go on."
"I'm stronger than you think."
He takes her small hand in his, squeezes it. "I know you're strong. But what's your plan once we are in Winterfell? If we are lucky, your lord father's castle is a deserted ruin. But if it's too late, we could find a ruin occupied by Lord Bolton, who is already Warden of the North. Trust me, you don't want to see that. And you don't want to meet Lord Bolton either."
When she looks up at him, all he can read in her eyes is dismay. She clutches to his hand.
"If we find any of my father's bannermen, he would help us," she says.
"Not if they bent the knee in front of the boy king. I heard people talking about hostages. Some of these bannermen already lost sons during the Red Wedding and they're waiting for their remaining sons who are Walder Frey's or Roose Bolton's guests. As soon as they try to help you, crows will fly in the northern sky announcing their sons' death. I'm not saying they're bad people, but they have all reasons to be scared. Some of them may be tempted to bring you to Lord Bolton to prove they're faithful. Or to the Lannisters, which is nearly the same. We're at war and you're a prey. Don't forget that."
She sighes, thinking about his revelations.
"The thing is, we don't have enough information about what's going on up there," he adds. "I don't know whether it is possible or not. If I could spend the night in a tavern..."
"If you had to put yourself in my place and decide," she cuts him off, "where would you go?"
"Riverrun seemed safe," he starts, after a while. "But you don't want to go there. And Winterfell is not a good idea."
"What about your place?"
"My place? Like the place where I am born? My brother owns it and I left some fifteen years ago. I'm not welcome at Clegane's Keep. Forget it."
She gives him a begging look. "Where would you go?" she insists.
"You're not going to like it, girl. What you need is a place where you can hide from the Lannisters. And Essos could be this place. But you're not ready to go into exile in the Free Cities."
"Would you help me in such a case?" she asks.
"Of course. I'll do anything for you."
When she meets his eyes, he's suddenly afraid to be too frank and to embarrass her, so he adds "You could stay as long as you want. You'll be free to choose a husband when the time comes."
"When the time comes," she repeats, thoughtfully.
But please choose me. His heart starts beating really fast as her hand escapes his. She sighes, once more.
"You need time to make your decision," he states. "So we're going to cross the Green Fork. Find some inn where you can have a rest. And I'll try to learn more about what happened in the North. Is that fine with you?"
She nods, but soon takes his hand.
"There's something else I wanted to tell you," she whispers. "I got angry last night mostly because you lied to me and treated me like a stupid little girl."
"I'm sorry... I won't do that again." It seems that he told her the same damn thing a thousand times.
"If we are to spend some time together, I want to make sure you won't choose for both of us," she says in a determined tone. "We have to make common decisions from now on. Do you agree?"
Holding her hand, he brings it to his lips and kisses it gently. He feels clumsy but she lets him do.
"You have my word. We'll take our decisions together."
She looks at him intensely and smiles shyly.
The rise of the Green Fork is worse than he thought: he tries to remember his last autumn, but he never saw anything like this. Their horses squelch on the waterlogged path: an unpleasant sucking noise ponctuates every step. But their slow pace is nothing compared to what they see: riding along alders and poplar trees, they notice a pontoon almost destroyed by a strong current, and a mile farther, it's a cabin, collapsing in the river, as the muddy water of the Green Fork swept away everything in its path. She becomes nervous, as they come closer to the ford a peasant indicated them. The mare feels her anxiety and begins to show her own apprehension, snorting and whinnying. The ford doesn't seem safe: current is too strong and high water prevent them from crossing. After two hours trying to find a better place than this ford, they're back. They finally stop on the bank of the river.
"I'm not sure I can make it," she says. "I'm sorry for complaining, but..."
"Don't worry. I'll show you."
There are moments like this when he's both pleased and annoyed by Stranger's personality: he gets into the water without uttering a sound whereas ordinary horses would make a fuss. Every step he makes in the riverbed, the stream is faster. Before reaching the middle of the ford, his boots and breeches are wet and water comes up to Stranger's neck. The horse begins to whiny in surprise, then in distress, when realizing how far is still the bank. But he holds tightly the reins and leads Stranger using his heels. When the horse hoists himself on the other side, they're both dripping wet. He dismounts, turns to her and sees the relief on her face.
"Thanks be to the Seven," she says. "You're safe!"
"The Seven have nothing to do with it, girl. You can do it."
She shakes her head, transfixed by fear. He tries to reason with her, but she gives him with an appealing look. "I can't do it alone. Come with me," she begs.
He ties Stranger to the closest alder and strips his cloak and mail, which can only impede him, then gets into the water. It's cold and mud gives it a yellowish-brown color. He begins to swim, even if she protests and wrings her hands. He doesn't pay attention, until she screams for good; he stop swimming and raises his head early enough to avoid a tree branch as thick as his arm.
"It could have killed you!" she cries while he reaches the riverbank.
She goes on, apologizing profusely, as he climbs up on her mare. It would be wiser to place himself in front of her, but it's already done when he realizes it and, above all, it allows him to hold her in his arms. She leans against his chest, indifferent to his soaking wet clothes.
"Don't move and don't talk," he commands. "Never show how much you're afraid when you ride your mare. She could throw you to the ground."
She nods and gladly gives him the reins before they begin to cross. The mare's apprehension becomes obvious as soon as water comes up to her flanks. She snorts and makes strange noises, then refuses to move when they are half way. The stream seems even stronger than it was when he crossed. They're both immersed up to the waist while only the animal's head and upper part of the neck are visible. The mare doesn't move in spite of his heels pressing her flanks and he's thinking about dismounting in order to lead the horse, when it happens. In panic, the mare rears up and unhorses them; he falls into the river and a taste of mud fills his mouth. The Green Fork's depth, even in this spot, doesn't allow an adult to move unless he swims. When he realizes he hardly touches the bottom, anxiety overwhelms him. Where is she?
"Sansa!" he shouts. The only answer he gets comes from the mare, whinnying and unsuccessfully trying to reach the riverbank, her hooves scratching grass and willow switches. He looks around and begins to lose his head, when he sees her cloak floating on the surface. He hurries himself and finally lifts her in his arms. She seems unconscious and he barely has the time to wonder how much time she stayed sunken before she starts to spit out the water she swallowed. He lays her down on the grass while she opens her eyes and asks where is the mare. He jumps into the river and helps the animal hoist himself on the bank, then comes back to her. Leaning over her, as she catches her breath, he feels relief and soon becomes aware the water rolling on his cheek doesn't come from the river. However, he wipes his face and can't help taking her in his arms. She clutches at him, freezing in her wet clothes.
"I'm sorry," he says, cradling her.
"Don't be. You saved me, once more."
He gives in, rubbing her back and embracing her, even kissing her forehead, only stopping when he realizes that what was supposed to give her comfort looks more and more like a lover's caress.
There is an inn close to the ford: the timber frame house seems to sag, the dark beams of the façade holding the wattle and daub walls and preventing them from collapsing. A wooden sign, swaying above the front door, shows the thistle giving its name to the place. Every time he turns to her, he sees her shivering: by a stroke of luck, she won't have to wait a long time before washing herself and resting. As they come closer to the inn, they can hear men laughing and see some of the customers coming and going from the stables to the hall.
"It seems crowded," she says. "Is it good or bad?"
"We'll figure out soon," he answers, jumping from the saddle.
He helps her dismount, as a stable boy runs towards them and takes the reins of their horses. She hides behind his massive chest, as if the lad could do her any harm.
"Don't worry," he whispers, when the boy is gone. "Hood raised and quiet."
Her pale face nearly disappears and no one can see her auburn hair, protected by the muddy wool. But something in her attitude reveals her anxiety. Standing on tiptoe, she combs his dark hair in order to hide his burnt cheek.
"What are you fucking doing?" he rasps, taken by surprise.
"I don't want you to be recognized," she explains, stretching to reach his hood and placing it on his head.
She sighes, both ill-at-ease and concerned, while he swallows hard. It always seems that she does something very kind and tender before toying with his heart. What is it going to be, this time? You already hurt me in so many ways...
"You're my sister Willa and we're traveling to Saltpans, to see our uncle," he says, trying to regain his composure. "If you must call me, what's my name?"
"Jon. Like my brother Jon."
"You give me the bastard's name. A bastard's name for a man carrying a bastard sword. Fine," he says, frowning.
"Would you prefer 'Robb'?" she asks. "Since we're supposed to be common people, 'Jon' seems proper. It's an ordinary name..."
He shrugs, takes a good breath and leads the way to the door. Inside, a merry gathering of merchants and travelers would make someone believe war is over and summer is back. He feels a small hand grabbing his arm. This is better. There are two dozens of men, sat on every bench of the room, but none of them armed and none of them as tall as he is. Besides, they seem half-drunk. He turns to her, briefly.
"Wait for me here. I'll be right back."
She sits on the only bench left, her back to the door and he tries to find the inn-keeper. A dirty-blond girl of twenty makes her way through the customers, regularly stopped by some bawdy merchant. She finally shows him the kitchens, where he finds a plump little man and a scrawny white-haired. He looses time mistaking the plump one for the inn-keeper, then explains he wants a room, food for two persons and their horses. The skinny old man frowns at him, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at his filthy breeches. He shows a silver coin to coax him. The inn-keeper finally calls the blond girl and they both go back to where he left her. Before he's done four strides, he sees her with a middle-sized man, wearing a gray and blue cloak. She doesn't say anything but his manners seem way too bold: he's almost leaning over her, and offers wine. He hurries himself to her and she jumps on her feet as soon as she can, escaping the man's advances.
"... but where are you going to, little dove?" he says, unsteady on his feet.
She's already next to him and he feels her grabbing his arm, her fingers nearly scratching him through his wet tunic. That's when he hears another voice behind him.
"Is she so precious you hide her features with this stupid cloak?"
He turns around and sees a merchant of forty, clad in furs, sat on a bench and pouring wine in his cup. He's not drunk like the other one, nor dull-witted. He stares at them and makes him feels uneasy. He doesn't know, but he could figure out who they are.
"Stop making a fool of yourself," he tells his drunken companion, "and have a sit."
The merchant doesn't lower his gaze and even gives him a wry smile. He'd like to unsheathe his sword and set things in order right now, but they would have to fly away. And she needs to warm up and rest.
"Come on, sis," he rasps, glaring at the merchant. Wrapping her shoulders with his arm, he follows the blond maid in the staircase, still looking daggers at the two men sat on the bench.
When I was writing this chapter, it seemed that every river around my place was in spate: I guess the description of the Green Fork comes from the consequences of the long, rainy winter in Western France... Thank you for reading, following or reviewing.
To AncolieRose: Thanks for your message and your encouragement. Your comments and reactions count a lot to me, so please keep on giving your opinion!
To Alexandra: I can't promise there will be no more arguments between them but when they do argue, they always make up afterwards... and that's the part we prefer, I guess. Hope you liked their reconciliation!