• Chapter Ten •
It was mid-afternoon. Sandor was in the Great Hall, picking idly at a lump of bread. He didn't dream last night. The uninterrupted sleep was welcome, though he wondered at the reason for it. The hall was mostly empty - Sandor found himself eating outside of regular mealtimes these days. Partly because his new schedule called for it, and partly because it guaranteed he was left alone.
He heard the large doors crack open. He glanced up, but it was only a yard worker come for a cup of water. Sandor felt foolish. His ears pricked up at any sound that could ostensibly be her. They didn't typically cross paths during the day - Sandor slept through most of it and Sansa had her many duties to attend to. It didn't stop his senses from being on constant alert, however.
Things had changed after last night. He'd let her touch his face. He gave away a small piece of himself - something he'd never done before. Sandor's scars were part of his identity - complete strangers knew the story of how he'd gotten them. Once, he had found it humiliating. Now it simply irritated him. He avoided looking at or thinking about his face as much as he could.
She was afraid to look at me, once.
He had been taken aback by Sansa's lack of inhibition the night previous. It seemed she had grown into a woman with more confidence than he had anticipated. He supposed after what she had suffered through, she was entitled to indulge her whims. Besides, notions of propriety seemed rather unimportant with the end of the world fast approaching.
He had to tread carefully. Sansa had clearly taken some kind of interest in him - but it was not yet clear what that meant. She had shown him affection. It was unfamiliar to him, but he was happy to let her pet him, if that's what she wanted. Though it was difficult to ignore the fire she lit in his belly when he was near her, he knew focusing on such things would only cause trouble.
Doesn't need more men laying unwanted hands on her.
Pushing his chair away from the table, Sandor stood to leave. He took a final swig of mead before exiting out the Great Hall doors. It was windy today. The chilled air whipped at his face, snowflakes catching in his beard. The weather seemed to get worse each day, a quiet reminder of the horrors further north. Sandor spared a thought for the men fighting, wondering if they'd ever march back south again.
He let out a shiver, though it wasn't from the cold.
A little ways ahead of him, he heard a commotion. A man, no older than twenty, had stumbled into a horse trough and knocked it over. The stable boy appeared to be having words with him. Sandor moved across the courtyard. He knew how fights started, and this situation looked as though it was about get out of hand.
"Alright lads. Kiss and make up," he stared down the two young men, who looked up at him in surprise. The stable boy threw up his hands.
"Don't want no trouble, Clegane." He turned and quickly left, leaving the other man staring. His eyes were glassy and unfocussed.
"So yer the dog everyone talks about," he slurred.
Sandor looked him up and down. The man was drunk.
"You stink of ale. Go home and sleep it off."
"S'not against the law for a man to have a drink," he swayed slightly on his feet.
"I like a drink. Don't typically do it while the sun's still up."
The man spat at Sandor's feet, his eyelids drooping heavily.
"S'good for you, isn't it," he murmured.
"The fuck you talking about?"
He kicked the snow about aimlessly with his boot, staring downwards.
"Yer in the Stark's good graces, you are. The Snow bastard loves ya. Livin' it up, sleepin' in the Great Keep. Fuck knows what you did to deserve it."
Sandor took a step towards him, a wordless warning.
"Time for you to stumble home."
The man looked up, but didn't manage to make eye contact.
"Heard you was curlin' up at the end of the Lady Stark's bed," he slurred.
Thwack.
Sandor hadn't mean to hit him hard, but the man was sent stumbling, falling backward into a snowdrift.
"Anything else?" He stood above him, casting a large shadow across the cowering man.
He stood up clumsily, brushing the snow from his dirty clothes.
"Yer no fookin' better than me, dog. Just because she got a taste of your bone. I could show her a better time than you could."
The sun danced off of steel as Sandor made a show of unsheathing his sword. He didn't intend to use it, just scare him off. They had attracted a crowd, he realised. From the corner of his eye he saw a woman running to alert the gate guard. Scowling at the drunkard, Sandor sheathed his weapon. He turned on his heel, marching back toward the Great Keep.
Dumb fuckers everywhere.
Sandor had returned to his chambers to collect himself. He had sorely wanted to thrash that little cunt until he screamed for his mother, but he knew he had to behave himself. If he broke the rules, he may have his duties stripped. He was growing fond of his nightly encounters with the Little Bird. He wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize that.
He stared out his window, watching the snowflakes fall steadily. He thought of warmer climates, though he supposed even King's Landing would be feeling the effects of winter by now. He pictured Cersei frozen to the Iron Throne, stuck like a statue. The thought amused him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar blue cloak down below. She was facing away from him, heading out the gate toward the Godswood. He didn't need to see her face, he knew it was Sansa. He frowned. She should have an escort. She had clearly slipped through Brienne's fingers and decided to go wandering. He hesitated, unsure if he should follow her. She was a grown woman, he supposed she could go for a walk if she felt like it. Nonetheless... It made him uneasy.
He watched her disappear out of view. He thought she might view it as an insult if he went after her. I can take care of myself, she'd say. Stubborn girl.
Sandor was about to turn away from the window when his eyes were drawn to something else. Someone else. He squinted, not quite able to make out a face. Whoever it was, they were heading out the gate as well. He moved closer to the window, peering down at the mysterious figure. Sandor recognized the dirty boots from earlier; the same intoxicated stumble.
He's following her.
Sandor's ears were ringing. His heart thumped in his chest, he had run as fast as he could from the Great Keep to the Godswood. The woods were vast, and the steadily falling snow had wiped out any tracks they may have left. His breath came out in icy bursts in front of his face. He considered calling out, but he didn't want to alert the man to his presence.
Where would she go?
He remembered the day she came to him in the wood. They had talked sitting atop a felled tree.
I'm happy you're here, she'd said.
He set off in that direction, one hand on the hilt of his sword. His injured thigh protested with every step he took, but Sandor ignored it. He pushed broken branches out of his way as his feet pounded hard against the snow. His sides ached and his mouth began to taste like copper. It didn't matter. He wouldn't stop.
The trees thinned out into a clearing, and Sandor slowed. He could see them, about two hundred feet in front. The man had his back to Sandor and looked as though he was struggling to stand. Sansa was facing him, though he couldn't see her properly. They appeared to be talking. He could make out their voices, but not the words.
Sandor crept closer, unsheathing his sword as quietly as he could. The man wasn't hurting her, yet. If he was alerted to Sandor's presence, he might lash out. As he approached, Sansa came into full view. Her expression appeared calm, but her hair and clothes were disheveled; as if there had been a struggle. Her body was stiff - she was scared. If she had noticed his presence, she wasn't showing it. He took another few steps forward, bringing him close enough to hear their conversation.
"Yer fucking brother said I was unfit to march with the others. Little bastard," the man's speech had improved. He was sobering up.
"I am sure your Lord was only acting in your best interests. You can be of help to us here in Winterfell," Sansa's voice was steady, wavering only slightly.
"It's because I like the drink too much. Wouldn't be able to trust me, he said."
"When we are victorious and my brother returns, I will make sure he knows of your unfailing loyalty to our house."
The man grunted. He fumbled around in his breeches, before pulling out a small knife.
"I don't give a pig's arse about loyalty. I'll show your brother that he shouldn't have crossed me. Now I'm going to fuck his little sister til she screams."
Sandor was upon him before he could even take a step forward. He shoved him to the ground, the knife flying out of his hand onto the snow.
"Remember me, cunt?"
Sandor drove his boot into the man's face. Blood poured from his mouth, his hands moving to wipe it away. He landed another kick in his stomach, causing him to curl up in pain. He raised his sword, ready to bring it down on his neck.
"Stop."
He looked up. Sansa was standing across from him, a strange look on her face. She wasn't looking at Sandor, but at the man lying on the ground. She seemed to be studying him.
"Little Bird, some men don't deserve your mercy."
She didn't take her eyes away from the man. It was as though she hadn't heard him.
"... Sansa?"
The man writhed slowly, the blood from his mouth painting the snow beneath him.
When she finally spoke, it was whisper quiet.
"Will you show me how?"
Sandor stared at her. He'd heard the words, but he could not discern their meaning.
"How to what?"
Sansa looked up at him at last. Her eyes had a faraway look about them. She extended her arm towards him, slowly unfurling her hand. She was holding the knife that the man had dropped.
He met her eyes with his own. He felt as though he had a thousand questions, but he could not make himself speak. Instead, he simply held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. He was not certain what his questions were, but he could see the answers in her icy blue eyes.
The answer was yes.
Wordlessly, Sandor reached under his cloak and unfastened the dagger he carried on his right hip. He took the knife from her hand, replacing it with the dagger.
"Quick or slow?" He murmured, so that only she could hear. He heard her take in a sharp breath.
"Quick. I don't want to get it wrong."
Beneath them, the man was attempting to sit up. He groaned loudly. Sandor drove his foot into the side of his head, knocking him back down. He turned to Sansa, placing a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, her breathing ragged.
"I'll hold him. You take that dagger and run it along his neck. Use more force than you think."
She stared at him for a moment, before nodding once. Sandor raised his hand to her face, running a thumb across her cheekbone.
"I'm here if anything happens," he said, his voice low.
Sandor crouched down, forcing the man into a kneeling position. He spluttered in protest, but was too weak to fight. Sandor wrapped an arm around his torso, pulling his head back by the hair. Sansa stood before them, her eyes landing on the man's newly exposed throat. He writhed halfheartedly, but Sandor held him firmly in place.
Sansa took a step forward, her hand shook as she held the dagger in front of her. The man saw it and began struggling harder. Sandor held him still like a freshly caught, wriggling trout. He pressed his lips against the man's ear.
"You made a poor choice today, friend."
He looked up at the redhead, now a mere few feet away from the man. Her face looked serene. Sandor watched intently. She was beautiful.
Without warning, Sansa moved the dagger across the man's throat. Sandor could hear the skin tearing, the sound of blood spurting. Somewhere beside him, he heard the dagger fall to the ground. He dropped the now lifeless man - a blanket of red spreading out from his head like a blooming flower.
Sandor wiped himself off and stood. He turned to the girl beside him. She was staring down, taking in the picture she had painted in the snow. They stood in silence for a few moments. He watched her, unsure how she might react to reality of her deed. After some time, she turned to look at him.
"It happened more quickly than I expected. I saw it happen to Littlefinger, and he took much longer to die."
Sandor blinked. It seemed the Little Bird had seen more death than she had let on.
"You're getting a taste for it," he said. "Seems cruelty excites you."
"It's not cruelty if they deserve it. It's justice." Her breathing was still heavy.
They regarded each other for a moment. Something was different. Doing this had changed things between them, though Sandor was at a loss to explain how. He watched Sansa's eyes search his face. Her eyes had turned almost black. He knew that look, though he never expected to see it on her face.
"Come with me," she murmured.
She took off back toward the gate, a new resolve in her step. Sandor stared after her.
Gods.