SANDOR
Two solid weeks of training with no rest period saw little improvement in her. She did not complain as he had expected her to and if she could face the grueling sessions on a broken leg, Sandor had no room to be griping about them either even with his battle injuries, but he was growing impatient in—for lack of a better word—dueling with her when he wanted to bypass the part of their relationship that came between now and whenever he would finally get to stick her with his own flesh sword.
Nearly every day ended in agony for him to have to guide her through the godswood, across the courtyard, through the pattern of corridors, and to her room before he could hurry back to his own quarters and take care of his constant state of arousal for her. The sweat glistening on her forehead, the way her facial muscles tightened when she swung out at him, the curve of her armor over what he had fleetingly felt were firm breasts (and he knew this from pure happenstance rather than deliberately gaining access to them), all were sights that made his breeches uncomfortable to wear as the day wore on so that he found himself tugging his tunic down over them repeatedly to hide himself from her—and the sellsword. All he needed was for that little wanker to see the tenting of his breeches and he would never hear the end of it.
And still, she was as terrible as she had been the first day even with the determination of a thousand soldiers. He had given her the tools to access the anger within, but there was only so much he could belittle her for to make her want to chop his head off. Finally, when she grew frustrated from not being able to bring him to his knees like before, she asked for a demonstration, which both Sandor and the sellsword declined instantly, knowing that the outcome would only lead to neither of them being able to resist taking unsporting jabs at one another. But then the prick had pointed out that Sandor was most likely still too sore in his nether regions to stage a proper scrap, which changed Sandor's mind in an instant.
Sandor agreed to spar against the sellsword if only to give himself an excuse to quite literally shove his boot up the man's arse and such an opportunity came halfway through the five minute battle. Ghost had appeared unexpectedly beside Sandor to watch the fight unfold and the sellsword let down his guard to turn his attention to the direwolf, giving Sandor time to spin him around and deliver a vicious kick to his arse. It had earned him the little bird's amusement as she covered his mouth to avoid letting the sellsword see her smile, but it also earned him the sellsword's disdain and rage, the latter of which was a perfect example to teach the little bird the difference between fighting angry and fighting stupid.
The sellsword had the means to continue sword to sword, but his humiliation at being booted like a squire made him abandon the notion, instead favoring an old fashioned, dirty fisticuffs. He came in hacking, swinging every which way so that Sandor was forced to switch out his sword for a close contact weapon and the two of them swiped daggers at each other with Sandor deliberately missing and the sellsword coming up just shy. He was not boasting when he claimed to be quick where Sandor was strong, but he was also maimed and as he stabbed out with his bad arm, Sandor caught him, trapping it against his side and bringing his elbow down upon it so that the sellsword had no choice but to drop his weapon or risk having his arm broken in addition to mauled.
He then tangled his legs between Sandor's and the two of them crumpled in the snow in a knotted mess of limbs. Somehow, the sellsword had found another knife and went to put it to Sandor's jugular, thus forcing him to yield, but Sandor chopped him across the throat in favor of sparing his already broken nose. His left hand held the sellsword down by the neck and the other pressed into the sensitive flesh right above the man's eyeball.
"Alright, enough, I'm done!" the sellsword shouted in panic, throwing both arms above his head in surrender.
Sandor stood up, going to collect his fallen weapons as the sellsword lay in a replica of his body's silhouette, pushed down several inches into the snow by Sandor's weight on him.
"Stupid or angry?" Sandor asked the little bird, leaving the sellsword to help himself up.
"Angry first. He should have kept to the sword instead of coming in closer because that's where he made a mistake."
"You're learning," said Sandor and the little bird beamed.
"What the fuck were you doing just now?" called the sellsword once he had finally sat up. "Trying to get some sort of Mountain-worthy confession out of me before you crushed me skull? This was supposed to be a friendly match."
"I made clean misses, you tosser. You were going for the wound." Sandor threw the shackles to the man, which the latter donned for the first time with some reluctance, obviously ardent on continuing their unsettled skirmish. "You're being given an opportunity here, sellsword. Walk yourself back to the castle."
The sellsword gave an indifferent shrug at this freedom, still moping over his loss, and went on his way, carrying the sound of clinking chains with him until it died out completely. Sandor then tended to his own armor once again and began to unlace the little bird from hers.
"What did he mean when he said the Mountain's confession?" she asked presently.
"I wasn't there, but trial by combat travels faster than the raven flies. Gregor confessed to Oberyn Martell before he squashed his skull that he had raped the prince's sister. Confessed it in front of dozens of lords and ladies but none of them cared about what sort of crimes he had done in the past. He fought to avenge the fallen King Joffrey, so he could do no evil in sight of the gods because he was a knight. A man admits to killing and raping a woman and is given a knighthood for it but a man is put on trial for poisoning a butcher king and is not guilty of it, but the people demand his head. That's why I refuse to say the vows."
"Because knights can do horrible things and still be praised as heroes?"
"Because my brother's been a rapist all of his life and I don't want to be a fucking thing like him. He gave knights a bad name just by breathing because of what he is. My father gave lords a bad name by defending him after he'd tried to kill me. I want nothing to do with any of that shit."
He pulled harder on her armor than he meant to and she stuck her hand around her back to still his as she turned to face him.
"All of his life?" she repeated.
"Aye, since he was a boy no older than you were when I first laid eyes on you. Not even ten-and-two. And his first victim didn't survive the assault."
She was a smart girl; she would get the answer without him offering it and by the look of horror that suddenly claimed her face, she got it a lot quicker than he had anticipated.
"How old was she?"
"She was seven. I was five. I didn't understand how she had died when I heard the maester explaining to my father that she had suffered and then fallen victim to wounds down below but with my brother being my brother, I figured out what had happened soon enough."
"What was her name?"
"I'm not certain I remember. My father forbade us from mentioning it, had her erased from our history. My mind tells me it was Elinor, but I don't trust that much anymore."
Her hand rested upon his arm, not because it was the proper thing to do in offering condolences for a sister long-dead, but because she knew perhaps better than anyone what sort of irreversible pain came along with that.
"How could your father erase his own daughter from the history of your house?"
"It's different here in the North. You were born to parents of a noble house, Warden of the North. They rang the bells all day and into the night when you were born, I hear. The daughter of a lesser house of the West, even a bannerman to House Lannister did not merit celebration when she was born. No one cared that House Clegane had birthed a second-born daughter and they gave even less of a shit when I was born, the second son and youngest child. If we both had died, no one would have cared, but only she did, so she was the one who was forgotten. I was remembered because my bedding caught fire."
She was tactful enough to pretend that this was news to her but he gave her a small shake. "Come on, girl, you know that's a load of pigshit. Won't ask who told you, but you've heard me say it half a dozen times that my brother was responsible, and he didn't set the bedding on fire either."
"I know. Littlefinger told me, long ago at the Hand's tourney."
The Hand's tourney, years past but not forgotten. The death of that green knight, Gregor's unprovoked attack on Ser Loras, the roar of the crowd as Ser Loras lifted Sandor's hand in the air to share in the championship, the uncomfortable feeling of so many eyes on him in a victory he did not want. And the little bird chancing momentary looks over at him, stationed behind Joffrey. He watched the tourney without interest, his thoughts far away, but he could feel her eyes on him between every changing of the riders.
Yes, he had noticed the little bird just as often as she had turned his eyes to him.
"So Littlefinger told you how my brother tried to murder me over a stupid toy and what did my father do about it? How did he handle the sadistic tendencies of his eldest son? By claiming that my fireplace had spat sparks upon my sheets. The servants who pulled Gregor off of me were given silver to silence themselves and promised that their tongues would be removed if they ever spread whisper of what had occurred in the Clegane keep. If my father was willing to do that to protect the reputation and future of his house through Gregor, it would not have given him one less second of sleep to bury my sister's remains with her memory to prevent the truth of her demise from spreading. Gregor Clegane, the boy who raped his little sister to death and then attempted to murder his little brother over a toy, the pride of House Clegane, a knight, a warrior, a fucking lord."
"And that's why you became a sworn shield, to do for others what you couldn't do for her."
"Partly. I don't remember her much. I don't remember her face or her voice, but she was my sister, and she deserved better, even in death, better than what she got from our father. That's why it's got to be me who kills my brother, not because it's the right thing to do, but because the fucker got away with it for too long. So I'll do what needs be done."
He saw a flicker of uncertainty cloud her face as she contemplated his words and what they meant, but she didn't ask when he planned to leave. She didn't want to think of tomorrow when today was not yet over.
"Will you take your evening meal with me again?"
There were so few opportunities to be alone with her now that his days were numbered until his leave of Winterfell, and so he accepted before he considered that that might not be the best idea, given how their last meal together had gone. He didn't give a damn, though. Any chance to have her on her own had him leaping at the prospect.
He could get away without washing his clothes as long as he did not have to tend to her privately, but supper with her meant that he had to come back out to the godswood to strip, give himself a quick scrubbing, and try to both wash and dry his clothes in a timely manner. He decided that since she would also need time enough to wash, he had the same amount of time to hack away at some of this wild beard he had sported for far too long. It was starting to smell, and not just with the scent of whatever he had last eaten.
His dagger made quick work of most of it and he judged that he had taken off enough to return him to the length it had been when he had last cared to trim it, more than stubble and less than a wildling-worthy tangle.
Deeming himself mildly appropriately dressed and groomed, he set off for the all-too familiar destination of the little bird's chambers. He found his way barred by Lord Varys long before he had even gotten close to the first staircase. They were in a deserted and not often used corridor which did not bode well for the conversation likely to follow.
"Good evening, my lord," said the eunich, bowing deep enough as would befit him if he were addressing an actual lord. "I wonder if I might have a word with you?"
"We're already alone," said Sandor.
"Quite right. I can see that you are not one to stand on ceremony or formality, so I will be as brief as I can. I would like to discuss Lady Sansa Stark with you."
Sandor was none too ready or interested in discussing the little bird with anyone except her and certainly not with the Master of Whispers. "I'd just as soon not."
"I'm afraid that your presence has led to—complications with the young woman. You see, Lady Stark holds a prominent title with the coming of Queen Daenerys. Jon Snow forfeited his claim to the Northern throne and though he and his sister share the title of Lord and Lady of Winterfell and Warden and Wardeness of the North, he will most assuredly give up those titles as well when the queen sits the Iron Throne, leaving Sansa Stark alone to attend the North. Whether or not the North will become an independent kingdom or continue as it has remains to be seen, but rest assured, Sansa Stark will hold the titles to it regardless of its affiliation with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. She must therefore be focused on the task at hand, dedicating all of her energies into the victory that must be procured in the South."
"You call all this prattling on brief?" asked Sandor in annoyance.
"Perhaps not as brief as we both would prefer, but necessary all the same. Sansa Stark was utterly attentive to the needs of her people and what is best for them, and by that token, what is best for the queen and the realm before your arrival here in Winterfell but that is the case no longer. Queen Daenerys will need undivided attention and council from Lady Stark who has not been undivided in her attentions as of late."
"You're saying the Hound is a distraction to the Lady of Winterfell because I carry her from room to room and then fuck off?"
"Only you don't, my friend. You and I both know where you spend your nights and why as well as what the two of you and Ser Bronn do all day in the godswood. And she lies awake at night wondering about you and all of your puzzling attributes quite often."
"And you'd know that how? Because if you're going to tell me that you sneak into her room at night to watch her, I'll gut you right now."
"As noble as that intention may be, I have never once stepped foot in her chamber, though the same cannot be said for you. I simply see it in her face, the tired circles under her eyes, and the way she looks at you. And I tell you that you are not befitting of a consort to her."
Sandor let out an unseemly snort at the word. He had never had the intention of being anything so presumptuous as a marriage partner to the little bird. He could warm her bed and see that nothing as vile as Ramsay Bolton ever got within ten leagues of her, but to even consider that someone had fathomed the idea of him being more to her than that was not only impossible, but laughable. But then he realized that once he had her—if he managed to have her—he would not be willing to share her, and that could lead to complications if she was required to marry a prominent lord to further her claim and house.
Still, what business was that of the eunich's?
"There would have to be some sort of relationship there to reach that step—"
"Not necessarily. Arranged marriages often occur without the man and wife ever laying eyes on each other before the ceremony, but that would be preferable to this situation. However much you may like to deny it, you have spent more time with her here than you ever did in her years at King's Landing and before you ask, you know better than to ask how I knew about all those times you happened to stumble upon her in the corridors of the Red Keep."
"The Imp found the need to point that out to me as well and it holds the same water now as it did then: none. It's not your fucking business."
"One could make the argument that it is the duty and the privilege to know the business of everyone in this castle because everyone capable of acting to defy Cersei Lannister resides within. Sansa Stark is a vital part of the battle to come, but her attentions have been elsewhere instead of on the impending threat in the South. I would hear nothing but complaints about this or that and all centering on how Sansa Stark stands firm on liberating the North entirely from the Seven Kingdoms once Queen Daenerys rules but those complaints have been few and far between since the Lady of Winterfell had her accident in the courtyard. Now, the only whispers I hear of her are those surrounding her involvement with the tall, brooding stranger with the scarred face."
"Her involvement with the tall, brooding stranger with the scarred face is her—fucking—business. And if I catch you or any of your little birds nosing into it when you don't belong—"
"You and I both know you would not harm a child and as for myself, you have no reason for dispatching me other than my interest in your affiliation with her. I cannot confess to caring deeply for her happiness, though the gods know she has earned it, but I do care that she be brought to awareness of her actions and how they may hinder the war effort if she continues to let her association with you consume her."
Sandor knew how this little game worked. He had never been privy to it directly in all his time in King's Landing, but he knew that the Spider had earned his name for a reason and that his heavily weighted persuasions were nothing more than veiled threats promised to be carried out by better men. If Lord Varys wanted someone removed from their position or disposed of because they interfered with the little weasel's plans, he would have no problem following through with it. Which meant that every morsel of food could now potentially carry poison, every step Sandor took down the many castle stairs could end in an unexpected fall. The Spider would ensure that Sandor would not become a problem unless Sandor took himself out of the equation.
"I wish you happiness, Sandor Clegane, I truly do, but for the foreseeable future, it is not with Sansa Stark," said Lord Varys, nodding as he saw that Sandor understood.
Sandor seized him by the front of his silken robe and threw him against the rough stone of the wall, lifting him upright so that his slippered feet left the floor. "You've never dealt with a man like me before, eunich, so let me explain to you how it works. You're a clever little bastard, but you have others do your fighting for you whereas I don't need anyone or anything but my own hands to crush your throat and leave you for dead right here. You'll leave me alone, you'll leave her alone, and you'll let us decide what's best for us, damned if the realm suffers for it. If anything happens to me, she won't be of any use to anyone because she'll be lost to her own misery. You can try to touch me, but you said it yourself: I've spent ample time with her and she wants me with her. So you stay the fuck away from both of us, you puny bald prick."
He dropped the eunich unceremoniously on the floor and barged through a series of doors, corridor after corridor all leading straight with a door on either end. He stormed through another and found himself in the Great Hall which was empty apart from the roaring fire in the hearth and the boy in the wheeled chair before it. His head rotated slowly in Sandor's direction, eyes blank and uninterested, but still unexplainably eerie. He watched Sandor, unblinking for a time and Sandor considered that he might just slip right back out the way he came to avoid any interaction with him whatsoever, but he would have to march straight back into Lord Varys and his pride would not allow him to do such a thing.
Sandor remembered this boy when he was just that and nothing more, an adventurous little lad peering down at him with keen interest from trees and battlements as his direwolf pup circled below, unable to go where its master led. No introductions had been made then, for Joffrey did not associate with the Stark children other than to shoot rather hungry looks at the little bird who returned them with much battering of her eyelashes. It sickened him to recount those events now when he considered what those glances between young people eventually led to, but the boy before him had never interacted with the prince and so Sandor did not care to know his name until after he had taken his fall.
Brandon Stark, second youngest son of Eddard Stark, a cripple, now some sort of magical being who was able to do much the same as Varys except he didn't need children to do his job for him. He regarded Sandor, clearing waiting for him to speak first.
"Stop looking at me like that," said Sandor uncomfortably.
"How would you prefer I look at you?" asked the boy.
"I'd prefer you didn't."
"I can't help what I see when I look at people. I see everything they've ever done, every action and word. I saw the path that led you here and every detail of your past that made you into who you are. Had your brother not shoved your face into the fire, you would have become a knight serving Tywin Lannister. You would have fallen in battle during Robert's Rebellion at the Battle of the Trident, felled by my father, Eddard Stark. But because you hated your brother for what he did to you, you were determined to be nothing like him, and that set you on the path that led you here instead."
Sandor did not believe in the Lord of Light. He didn't believe in the gods or if there were any, he believed that they were a bunch of cunts. But in a world of dragons, direwolves, wights, resurrected knights, and visions in the flames, he believed that something other-worldy was at work. If this boy claimed to be able to see the past and the alternative pasts that might have been but for one decision that changed the course of the future, Sandor believed him. He didn't know how the boy knew, but the boy definitely knew. And he was telling Sandor that having Gregor press his face into the kitchen coals was the reason Sandor was alive today. The Red Woman had said the same, that Sandor was blessed by the Lord of Light in having half of his face burned off.
"Do you see the part of your future where I break your chair and leave you to piss yourself on the floor, boy?"
"You told my sister that you suspected what your brother had done to your sister, but in actuality, you saw what your brother did to her and you repressed it. And that is part of the reason why he burned you, not just because of the wooden spinning top you borrowed from him. He meant to silence you, but you lived with both the fear of fire and of him. And now you are torn between killing him to end the sufferings of all those he wronged and staying to protect the woman who nearly met her end the same way as your sister."
The wooden spinning top. Sandor had told no one which toy of Gregor's he had borrowed. Not even his father had known the cause for the Clegane boys' quarrel. Only Sandor and Gregor knew…and this boy. This boy who was not the first to tell him that his interest in the Lady of Winterfell had been noticed.
"Don't tell me what I'm torn between, boy. There's no decision there to be made. I'm going to kill the bastard and be done with it."
"And you will die."
It wasn't a question. The boy could see the past at will, but he had uncanny skills at foreseeing many possible futures and if he had seen Sandor's future, seen his death in combat with his brother, then so be it.
"Aye, that I will."
"And you don't fear it."
"You have to love life to fear death. You've got to have something that tethers you to the world to not walk so calmly to your death."
"Are you so empty-handed, then?"
"You're the one with foresight; you tell me."
"It's not for me to determine another man's future. You must make your own decisions."
"I did, a long time ago."
His respite within the walls of Winterfell did not quench or quell his thirst for his brother's blood. This place was not his home; no place was. Home was where his mother had been, his sister, his unbroken family. And he had not had that since he was a boy, younger than Brandon Stark had been when he fell from the broken tower. A home could not be made by a wish of something he did not yet have and though his time here with the little bird had made him content, it was not enough to make him stay. Waking to gentle snowfall, knowing that he would see her face in short order and be able to touch her was a luxury he had grown accustomed to having, but he wanted more—to taste her, feel her, go inside her, and claim her. And he could not have that—yet.
He could, though. He could if he dared to be so bold and take her for his own. It would not be a surprise to her, for she knew what he wanted and now that he had come to know her better and spent ample time in her company, he deserved her. She might even be willing now. Gods knew it stirred up feelings of confusion and arousal within her when he touched her as he had been with a hand to her waist, the brush of his thumb across her lips, and his many caresses over her abused skin. She could not fully comprehend it, but a part of her desperately wanted him and if he was to abandon his current fate, he would need reciprocity on her part first.
Time was running out until the Dragon Queen took her army to liberate King's Landing, time that Sandor had spent building a wall and clashing steel with two people who would not be fighting the front lines. The time that remained had to be dedicated to making her his, if she would have him. He had to act and offer himself to her and if she turned him away, then he would take his leave of her, but he had to know.
"You would have me leave my brother's fate to chance so that I could stay here to protect your sister, is that it?" asked Sandor when he realized he had been silent for far too long, giving Brandon Stark enough time to guess his reason for being so.
"I am not only Brandon Stark anymore, and so that makes her another being's sibling She is Brandon Stark's sister, and he loved her very much. He would have wanted the best for her, the best man to protect her, love her, and give her all that she was denied in life. You know that man, but it's your decision if you want to bring him to her."
His decision. This unnatural boy knew how badly he wanted to fuck the Lady of Winterfell and had nothing other than encouragement for Sandor. The Spider had forbidden it, the boy supported it, which left Sandor and the little bird herself to choose how they would go about it.
Still lost in the possibilities, he did not notice that the boy was still looking at him, seeing right through him or perhaps right into him, trying to guess which of his many futures he would choose for himself.
"Sandor," said the boy. "Her name was Elinor, as your memory serves you. She saw you watching, as did your brother. She asked your brother not to hurt you. Your name was the last word she spoke before he killed her. She loved you."
Sandor ventured closer to him enough for his shadow to completely cast itself on the lad, but did not dare lean closer, for looking too closely into those blank brown eyes was not something he wanted to experience and he wanted to stay well out of range of the fireplace. "You stay out of my head and my history, boy."
"You have allowed your brother's actions to fashion your whole life and that has led you here, to what you want most. But you wonder if what you want most is worth setting aside your revenge."
"What I want most is for you to shut the fuck up."
"You have lived by your own choices, Sandor Clegane. Not the right or wrong ones, but yours. Your decision is what will shape your future, not by anything I can tell you."
"I'm deciding that I've heard enough magical shit out of you."
Praying that he would have no more chance encounters with anyone who told him what they believed to be his future, Sandor ran the rest of the way to the little bird's chambers and admitted himself in without a knock, bolting the door behind him to avoid interruption for the conversation to come.
She was dressed in the same simple gown she had worn the evening of the victory feast, slender, dark, and mysterious. She sat at her desk again with a goblet already poured for him which he went to and drained. Contemplation was thirsty work.
"Did you get lost on your way?" she ribbed, but her face fell when she saw what had to be confusion on his. "What happened?"
Now, to tell the truth as he always had or to fib his way into her bed. If he revealed that Lord Varys had threatened him, she would launch an investigation, a trial of treason, and a whole mess of shite that he didn't want to participate in. If he told her how her own brother had all but asked Sandor to stay for her sake, she would demand to ask the boy herself and then have the decision forced on her rather than letting it come naturally. If he told her outright at this very moment that he was through with the niceties and waiting games and that he wanted her naked or he would leave, the outcome would result in him finding the best rested horse from the stables and setting out well before first light. If he said nothing and pretended that all was well, he would be prolonging his cock's much-needed fix.
"Sandor, something has happened."
"Nothing so pressing that you need worry about it, little bird. Rumors, more than anything."
"Rumors about…?"
"You," he said carefully.
"And what do these rumors say?"
"That you have put your commitment to the North on hold to train with a dog and a sellsword. The people know what we do in the godswood and think you have become distracted by—other things."
"But why should that bother you?"
"That doesn't. The rumors circulating about me making my home here where I don't belong are what bother me. They remind me that I've grown too comfortable here and that I've let myself become distracted to my own goal, too busy fucking around to remember what I've been waiting for. So I'll be leaving by week's end."
He had shocked her into silence, but it was not to last. She stood up, not needing the support of any desk or crutch to hold herself.
"You will not," she said firmly.
"You and your newfound deadly skills with the blade going to stop me, girl?" he asked, though he did not commit to the joke.
"I can command it."
"And you think that'll give me incentive to stay?"
"If I command and you refuse, if I ask and you refuse, what else is there to do?"
"Nothing. You can do nothing, something you should be used to by now."
He poured himself another full goblet of wine but should have known better than to expect that she would take that news lightly. He had wanted a she-wolf, and he had one as she bristled, all but showing her teeth to him in a manner akin to the sigil of her house. "I will never do nothing when I have the power to do anything. You will not leave, Sandor Clegane, I forbid it. You will wait until my brother is prepared to lead the foot-army and then you will travel with them to King's Landing."
"And just where the fuck do you get off thinking I'll follow your orders when I don't owe it to you or anyone else to stay?"
He knew she might take his hostility the wrong way, but as with her training, he had to egg her toward the side of anger to access the truths she was so reluctant to give in to.
"This is your home now," she insisted. "You have been happy here—"
"Is that what you call it? You call it happiness, what I've been doing for you when I'd be just as happy taking a shit in a proper privy instead of in some damn bush? No, you ignorant child, I have not stayed here because I call this place home. I told you before that I would remain for as long as my wounds forced me to and they're sealed up well and good now, so I've got no further use staying here."
"What is there to be gained in parting on your own? You could travel in safety with the army and arrive with Daenerys. She could make the path to your brother much easier by eliminating everything that would stand in your way before she actually got there."
"By the time she's done with the place, it'll be ash and blood and Cersei will have had my brother lead her out so that the two of them can live happily across the Narrow Sea. She'll be long gone before the Targaryen woman ever gets close and my brother will go with her. I'm not going to lose my chance just to travel with you in a carriage like you want."
"I don't ask you to stay for me."
He pointed at her, his long finger solid in its accusation. She had been truthful with him up until now in their exchange but he knew her lies well and this was the most transparent one of all.
"You know damn well why you want me to stay, girl."
She chewed at her lip, stubbornly refusing to say what he was determined to hear. "Yes, for reasons I have already told you."
Willful girl, he thought as they stood at odds with each other, neither refusing to back down. I'll hear you say it before I leave. One way or another, I'll hear you beg me to stay. I'll have it from your own lips that you want me.
/ /
|AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't put many of these in because I don't have much to say and I don't have enough readers to address them all in one place. But I wanted to thank all of you who have shown interest in this story. I figured that it would be a quick little fanservice to myself and other SanSan shippers, but eleven chapters in and we're past that. I'm happy that those of you who have reviewed are happy with how things have gone so far and hope to do the characters and the story justice in what is to come. Deathbringer374, you demanded more, and I live to serve (though don't expect another update in the next 24 hours this time because outside life calls and I must return to it for a short while). Love you all.|