DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)
SANSA
Everything about this was worse than a nightmare, perhaps even worse than her final night in King's Landing. The only thing that brought her any sort of relief was the knowledge that these men thought her a boy; surely if they knew her true identity at best she'd be packed up and sent back to the Lannisters for a reward, at worst...she shuddered at the thoughts of what they could do to her. When they shoved Sandor into the cage and he was knocked unconscious with a rock she thought she would faint herself. What would she do if they decided that as the Hound's squire, she was "for the cages" as well?
Just then two men approached - a Tyroshi with a beard of grey and green and a large, fierce-looking man wearing a dirty yellow cloak. "What a prize you've brought us, Huntsman!" the man in the yellow cloak boomed.
"Brought you?" their stocky, weak-chinned captor - apparently called the Huntsman, Sansa noted - scowled.
"The lightning lord will have this one, Huntsman," the Tyroshi announced. Sansa pushed herself to her feet, finally, and backed away as the Huntsman's dogs prowled around the newcomers, sniffing and snarling so that she thought they'd tear the men apart - until the sound of a harp and a sweet low voice distracted the animals long enough for a woman to appear and throw them handfuls of bones and fatty meat. The Huntsman opened his mouth to protest again, until the man in the yellow cloak pointed to an archer, standing in the window of a white-washed inn at the edge of the square, arrow notched and bowstring drawn.
"Seven hells, you lot are a bunch of lickspittles," the Huntsman cursed. "I will get my due for this, Lemoncloak - you'll see to that. Take him, then, and I suppose you'll have his squire too?" At the mention of herself Sansa started.
"His squire?" the Tyroshi asked, and one of the Huntsman's men shoved her forward. The two men of this "lightning lord" eyed her with raised eyebrows, as if they could see straight through her lie. Now that the dogs were called off and the Huntsman was resigned to losing his prize, people were spilling from the ruins but most of all from the inn. First a passel of crudely-dressed women, whores most likely, followed by a tall and handsome young man with a shock of black hair and eyes as blue as her own, then a dirty mousy little boy, and finally the archer - and when he appeared Sansa's heart jumped into her throat. She knew him! A skinny young red-haired fellow; he'd won the archery competition at her father's tournament...and gods, there was Harwin, Harwin of her father's guard, a man of Winterfell! Surely she could tell them that Sandor had done nothing wrong, they would understand, they would let them go or maybe even escort them to Riverrun...
The Huntsman and his followers were pulling Sandor from the cage now, shaking him awake, and Lemoncloak approached them and Sansa thought for sure that they would unbind his wrists, give him a chance to explain himself...until Lemoncloak pulled out a noose and strung it around Sandor's neck. Sandor struggled for a moment, but Lemoncloak twisted the noose tight and brought his face close to that of his captive's. "I suggest you save your strength," she heard Lemoncloak growl, but Sandor only stopped struggling when they pulled a sack over his head.
"NO!" Sansa shouted. With a strength she did not know she had, she broke away from the man who was holding tight to her arm and ran to Sandor, inserting herself between him and Lemoncloak and trying to reach for the sack, crying, "He won't be able to breathe, you'll suffocate him," wondering who these men were that Harwin, a man of the north, and that talented young archer would let them do such things when Sandor had only been caught sleeping. Her tears were flowing freely now and her hood had fallen back to expose her red hair but she did not care if anyone recognized her, not if they meant to choke him to death for no good reason.
And then someone else was yelling. It was that dirty little boy and he was rushing toward her, darting around the men like a cat and calling out, "Sansa!" and then Sansa realized that it wasn't a little boy at all.
"Arya?" she breathed as her little sister barreled into her.
SANDOR
Where in the seven hells am I? he found himself wondering. When their captors had pulled him from the cage and shaken him awake it was obvious that things had changed somehow, yet he still could think of nothing but escaping - with the little bird in tow, of course. Before he could do much in the way of fighting, though, he had a noose around his neck and a brown-bearded man nearly as large as himself was in his face and pulling a sack over his head. The world went dark and he heard Sansa Stark scream; moments later her feather-light hands were on him and she was scrambling to reach the sack but before she could remove it there was another shout, and it was someone calling "Sansa!" and his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach like a stone. They know who she is...what have I done...
Sansa's hands fell away from him and he heard her say her own sister's name, Arya, the little wolf-bitch who was more boy than girl and more fierce than his little bird could ever hope to be and Sandor felt a strange mixture of confusion, relief, and fear as he thought Who are these people?
"What are you doing with him?" he heard Arya ask, disgust plain in her tone.
"He saved me, Arya, saved me from the Lannisters and King's Landing...he was taking me to Riverrun but that Huntsman found us...Arya, can't you make them remove that hood, make them untie him? He's done nothing wrong, he savedme..." The little bird's voice was desperate, pleading, but her sister merely snorted in reply.
"I'm their captive too, Sansa, and besides, I'm not doing anything nice for him. Come, you'd best keep away from him too...who knows what they're going to do with him...or tohim." Sandor heard the little bird's gasp of fear, but he could tell by Arya's tone that her comment had been meant to rile him rather than upset her sister. He felt Sansa's fingers brush over his hand.
"I'll not leave you, not really. I'll make them see you've done nothing wrong," she whispered fervently, and then her touch was gone and he was being pushed forward. Someone sat him on a horse with his hands still bound and they rode and rode and rode, rode for so long that when his hood was finally removed it took several moments of blinking for him to get used to the strange red glow that filled the cave where he'd been brought. The Mad Huntsman was beside him and the man before him - the one who had removed Sandor's hood - wore awful pinkish robes and there was far too much skin hanging from his tall, lank form. Sandor quickly cast his eyes about the cave, noting as many tunnels as he could and passing over the fire and the weirwood roots and the strangers surrounding him until he saw her, there, standing with her sister and a young man and the green-bearded Tyroshi. Sandor tugged at the ropes that were binding him and they bit into his tender skin.
The man in pink was speaking to the Huntsman and Sandor suddenly realized that he knew him. The red priest, the one with that cursed flaming sword who had paraded about with a shaved head and bested Sandor in at least three melees. Bit by bit Sandor began dragging their story from Thoros of Myr and the other louts, but when Beric Dondarrion himself stepped down from amongst the weirwood roots, a bag of bones covered in scars and missing an eye, for gods' sakes...talking of the dead king Robert, personifying a realm that was mere rocks and trees and rivers...it was all too much. He spat the only name he could find to describe these fools: "Brave companions."
They were outraged at that, he could tell, but still they persisted in calling themselves knights and throwing meaningless names at him. Sandor Clegane had committed unspeakable atrocities; he knew that better than anyone else did. Hells, there were things he'd done that only himself and the dead could speak of now. But he'd had nothing to do with the crimes these people were accusing him of, and he sure as seven hells wouldn't die for them.
