Sandor

Sansa's pretty grey dress was soaked through with the blood of the boy that Sandor had killed.

After her screams and sobs had finally retired to the back of her hoarse, ragged throat, she had mostly been quiet.

She shook, though.

She hadn't stopped shaking since Sandor had torn her attacker off of her body and plunged his sword into his soft, boyish flesh. He truly was soft, that one: he'd a body made of skin and flesh and pillowed, child-like dough instead of the hard slats of overlapping muscle that marked a soldier. Sandor relished any chance he got to use his blade, that was true. As he had told the girl in the Red Keep what felt like so long ago, killing was the sweetest thing there was. The feeling of steel thrusting into skin, bursting vessels and flesh; the remnants of a life pooling out around your ankles; the sound of a man's death rattle curling out through his lips in a final plea for mercy—all of those made up the kind of ecstasy that rushed through him when he took a life. But nothing had ever felt so good as ripping the lifeblood out of the soldier that had attacked his little bird.

Not his.

Stop it.

Sandor had left the body to decay in its pool of crimson. Let the crows have their feast, he had thought bitterly to himself. When her attacker had uttered his last, Sansa had collapsed into his arms, only half-conscious, and cried. He'd had to carry her back to the campsite, and in the process, some of the dead man's blood had smeared all over his own jerkin, but Sandor couldn't have cared less. They would need knew clothes, though. He supposed they'd have to find another village to stop in, but the thought made him frown.

She was light as a feather in his arms. Light as a bird. Little bird. His stomach roiled at the thought of the position she'd been. The position that he'd let her be entrapped in. If he hadn't fallen asleep…

When they'd finally arrived back at the campsite, the girl's howling woke the other Tully solider, Arrel. His eyes had widened as they took in the sight of her, soaked in blood and pale skin already starting to bruise purple-green, and for a moment, he'd opened his big mouth to speak, but Sandor had stopped him.

"Your fucking boy soldier tried to rape her," he'd rasped, but speaking the words out loud made their true meaning sink in deeper and his rage and wrath flared hotly in his chest. "So I ran my sword through him until his guts painted the ground around him."

The girl was curled in a lump, and the lifelessness quality in the way her thin limbs were splayed out around her reminded him of the rag dolls that Princess Myrcella had loved, once. She gave a kind of whimper as he said this.

Arrel looked like a ghost in the moonlight as Sandor approached, blade still drawn. His faced was drained of all semblance of colour and he was as pale as curdled goat's milk. "M-m-my lord," he'd stuttered, open-mouthed and aghast. "I-I knew not… I would never… please, Ser, you must know… he was a foolish lad, truly. He deserved his death, he did, always though himself so cunning, so clever…"

He'd thought that he ought to kill the man anyways, but then Arrel had pissed his pants, the astringent scent of urine rising up and filling Sandor's nostrils, and suddenly the rage went out of him and all he felt was pity and disgust and sadness. He'd sheathed his sword and sat himself next to the little bird and watched as the energy dripped out of her and, covered in the gore of the dead man who had tried to take her innocence, she had fallen asleep.

He watched her as she awoke, red-eyed, the next morning. Arrel had left in the night and Sandor hadn't tried to stop him. He had mistrusted the idea of travelling with the strange men in the first place but had allowed it because they were familiar with the quickest route to the Twins and also because he knew that the girl was starting to tire of relying on only his presence for the shred of human interaction she needed to get by. He had been a fool, and she was the one who had paid the price. Better they stay on their own from now on.

Sandor packed quickly and quietly, stomping out the ashy remains of the fire, and they mounted Stranger. He managed to get the full story out of her in bits as they rode.

"He knew who we were," the little bird said hoarsely at one point. Her night of grief had drained her, and she lay, exhausted and bleary-eyed, against his back without evening attempting to maintain her ladylike demeanor. "He said that you had dishonoured me and so no high lord would want me. He said that if he returned me to my brother, Robb would give him my hand as reward."

Sandor snorted. "He was a bloody fool, then," he said firmly. "You remain a maiden yet, and if even if you didn't, the Northern lords would yet fight over a beauty with your claim. The Young Wolf would never waste you on a foot soldier." He had hoped to make her smile with the compliment, but the little bird remained pale, drawn and still.

"That isn't what I meant," the girl said, and he was alarmed at how emotionless she sounded. "He knew who we were. He figured it out. We aren't being careful enough if he could find out who I was."

There was a flicker of silence between them. Then, "We're almost there, girl," Sandor said quietly. "In five days you'll be Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell again instead of Melessa the fisherman's daughter. We'll just need to last until then, little bird."

It proved harder than he thought.

On their second day after the incident, they were waylaid.

It was only four men, all of them bone-skinny, with collarbones and wrists pressing against hallowed, greyish flesh. Still, they were each armed and armoured in the familiar boiled leather common to foot soldiers. One even had a bow and a full quiver of arrows. Sandor had no need for the bow, as he'd taken along the dead boy's finely-carved one after he had killed him, but the arrows could be useful. They had a horse, too: a spotted palfrey that one of the men was leading along by a thick leather cord.

At first, Sandor had meant to ride them by and say nothing. Four men was still plenty, and though he knew he could kill them all, he knew that the little bird was still recovering from her endeavor and wouldn't like the sight. He would do what he could to avoid a fight, no matter how much he wanted those arrows.

But the foolish men called out to them before they could pass them quietly.

"Good day, ser," one of them spoke up. The path they were travelling on was narrow and they were unavoidable.

Sandor's jaw set. "I'm no bloody knight," he snapped.

Usually when he said this, the person he was speaking to would shrivel up in fear and apologize profusely. This time, the man seemed intrigued, and his ugly face perked up. "Oh?" he said wryly. "A man of your size, and in armour yet?"

Sandor grunted. He said nothing.

"Pretty girl you've got there," said a second man. This one had an usually large, stubby nose in contrast to a pair of cramped, beady little eyes that honed in on the little bird as he spoke. "Your sister, friend?"

"My wife," Sandor growled through clenched teeth. "Bugger off now, friend."

"Easy, now," the man said. He seemed unperturbed by Sandor's anger, which annoyed him to no end. This man was less than half of his size. He had no reason to be so cocky, and yet, he peeled open his lips into a snake-like smile, revealing blackened teeth. "Pretty wife for such an ugly man. How did such an ugly man end up with such a pretty wife?"

Remembering at how the Tully men had balked at his story, Sandor kept it simple. "Won her," he told them. "And we'll be off now."

"Hold on," the man said, and his smile widened terribly. "Been on campaign for many moons, haven't we? Haven't known a proper woman in a long time. We'll pay you well for a taste of your pretty little wife. Pay you better than you'd know for a whole year, if it's true you ain't a soldier."

Against his chest, the little bird started to cry in earnest anguish, and the too-familiar sounds of her tired sobs sent a bolt of pain to his chest. He wanted to comfort her again and wondered if the circumstances had changed enough from the inn to allow it. He decided that they hadn't.

"Fuck off," he told the soldiers hotly, and started to rear Stranger forward past them, already knowing that a fight was growing inevitable. His hand itched toward the blade at his hip. His chest flared in annoyance. He hadn't said that he wasn't a soldier, only that he wasn't a knight, and the man's misconception angered him further.

The buggering fool of soldier didn't even blink twice. "Now you'll be respecting your superiors, won't you, friend?" he said instead, eyeing the girl with the kind of hunger that Sandor was growing tired of seeing in men's eyes when they looked at her. "We'll give you one last chance to give her over and if you refuse, we'll kill you and take your girl all the same. No use in fighting, is there?"

Sandor's growl rumbled from deep within his throat, rough and almost animal. There was a moment of pregnant silence.

Then, so quickly that a blink of the eye would have missed it, he swung himself from the horse and brought his sword down into the man's chest. The soldier's eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he took in the blade in his belly, but in the next he was dead. Sandor was quick for a man of his size, he knew. It was an uncommon trait in a such a large fighter, but it was perhaps his uncommon combination of skills that had helped him amass the reputation he beheld throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

The other three soldiers unsheathed their weapons at the sight of their companion's corpse, but Sandor was too quick and strong and they were too frail-boned and weak. His blade flew through the air in a deadly arc and soon there were four bloodied corpses lying scattered on the ground and one snivelling, trembling girl on a horse. It was not a fair fight, but though it didn't give him the same satisfaction that had roared through him when he'd killed the girl's attacker, he still relished the feeling of steel through flesh, killer as he knew he was.

"There, girl," he said roughly, turning to her. Her dress was still so bloody. He'd need to do something about that. The only body of water clean or large enough to wash it in would have been where the boy's corpse lay now, so it would have to be a village. Her eyes were wet and wide, her nose rimmed with red, and she looked exhausted. "I promised you I wouldn't let anybody hurt you and now I've proved it to you five times over. You'll do well to stop your crying."

When they left the bodies to fester in the sun, they took the spotted palfrey, the quiver of arrows and two fresh skins of water. Sandor noticed, with relief, that the girl had stopped with her pitiful sniffles and was sitting a little straighter in the saddle.

Their next village was not nearly so big as the first, and much dirtier. Sicker, too, Sandor noticed uneasily as they trotted down the main road, which was really no road at all. Here, there was only a collection of small huts, and no inn at all.

Sandor managed to buy them shelter in the home of a wary-eyed soldier and his family. The man was cautious but starving and when he was offered their coin, he accepted without much thought. His cottage was at the fringe of the little village, and it was just as small and cramped as the rest of them, but there was a crackling fire in one corner and enough space for them to spread out their pallets over the hay sprinkled hazardously over the ragged stone floor. Sandor was uneasy so close to the flames and knew he wouldn't sleep well, but he appreciated the warmth that started to seep into his bones as he sat near them anyway.

He couldn't recall the farmer's name, though he knew he had said it. His wife was small and mousy-haired and they had a litter of sickly-looking children. Not just sickly-looking, Sandor realized in alarm when one of them sneezed. They were all runny-nosed and crusty-eyed, wallowing in the sickness of the poor, even the dark-haired babe still at his mother's breast.

They stayed only the night. There was a warm, thick pottage shared with them, and it went hot and tasteless down Sandor's throat, but no words were spoken as they ate. After their meal, the girl set about unrolling their bedrolls while he went to tend to the horses. The girl had proven a mediocre rider at best, but her new palfrey was mild and did not put up much of a fight. He brushed down the both of them until he was satisfied with his work, and left them tied to the bony fence around the hut with a trough of water and a handful of oats each. The farmer had no horse of his own but two grey goats and several thin chickens scrambling around the yard. The oats would be no strain on their resources.

When he returned indoors, cheeks flushed from the chill, the girl was dressed in a clean, plain frock that must have belonged to the farmer's wife, and she had the woman's youngest child balanced on her lap. For a moment, mesmerized by the way her face was filled with warmth when she smiled, which she hadn't done in what felt like weeks, Sandor thought to let her enjoy the babe's presence, but then the child sneezed, mucus dribbling out of its nose, and he yelled at the woman to take care of her own children. The little bird protested fervidly but abandoned her campaign when the child began to suckle at his mother's breast a moment later.

At night, soothed by the faint flickering of the fire, casting shadows on the wall, Sandor was almost asleep when she spoke, her scratchy whisper just barely audible.

"I…" she started, and then stopped. Pause. "I'm tired of being attacked."

Sandor turned in his pallet to look at her. The girl was staring at him with an intensity that he wouldn't have matched to her mild, girlish looks. Her eyes were huge and glassy in the firelight. He didn't speak.

She pushed on. "Everyone always wants something from me," she said, and her voice was heartbreakingly childlike. "Everyone wants something and there's nothing I can do about it and I'm tired of it, Sandor. I cannot defend myself."

He looked at her. "That's what I'm here for, little bird," he said, but she merely shook her head.

"And what if you die? What am I to do?" Her tone was grim. "I want you to teach me to defend myself."

Sandor remembered his earlier reluctance to put a weapon in her hand and felt his desire to preserve her purity surge through his body again, but she was right, he realized sadly. If he died, she'd have nobody and nothing. A sword would be too heavy for her to even wield, but a dagger would serve nicely. She would never be a good warrior, but perhaps she would be able to defend herself.

He nodded mutely and turned his back on the faint outline of her body in the night.

When they rode the next morning, pockets lighter by a silver stag, the girl had grown sullen. The farmer's wife's dress was ill-fitting and ugly on her, but it was far better than the blood-soaked highborn girl's gown. Sandor had meant to purchase new clothes for himself, or at least a cleaner jerkin, as well, but the village had proved smaller than he had hoped and he supposed he would have to make do. Their journey had grown exhausting and he could tell that the girl was growing weary. Hold on, he wanted to tell her. Not much longer yet. We'll get there soon. Just hold on.

The little bird's sneezing started the next morning.