They spent two more days getting their bearings around the city. Sansa and Shireen went out walking again, with Davos and Gendry beside them. They explored more markets and the harbour, finding the boat and Mendrel and Kelvin on board. Averey had already found a bit of work with a large fishing vessel. Sansa's jewels had turned into enough coin to keep them in the house for a while and fed for perhaps two weeks, Davos had said, and talked about looking for work at the harbour, using his ship for trade.
No one claimed to be any good at cooking, though Ser Davos had shown Sansa how to light the oven, and she had begun to tentatively make simple boiled vegetables, and heat everyone's water up so that they could wash. For now, they ate lots of cold food – meats, cheeses, sharp pickled vegetables that made Shireen turn her face into a walnut – washed down with juices and ale and the tart green nectar that could be bought cheaply everywhere. Sandor had made a low sputter of disgust when he'd first tried it, and then become very used to it, very quickly.
Sandor. He still hadn't left the house, except to sit outside in the yard. He drank wine faster than she could buy it. She had watched him glower as Ser Davos had talked about getting work with their stolen ship. Watched him sleep, heavily, as he did after the wine, and rub his hands over his eyes in the morning, as if he hoped it was all a dream, before feeling for her to find out if she was awake. She had watched Shireen drag him around inside, making him touch things, and though he growled at her a lot, he let her help, as long as he didn't think that Sansa was watching. She realised that he hated her seeing him as needful and so much of the time pretended not to be there, even though she felt guilty about tricking him.
The only time she found him relaxed was at night, when he was half-asleep. She would stand at his bedside in her sleeping shift, and he'd hear her and move over and pull back the covers. His fingers had begun to explore her again, catching her earlobe, thumbing a mole on her neck, tracing down her spine. She would lie very still, trying to ignore the wine on his breath. Neither of them would say a word, and she'd wake up at dawn with her back turned to him, tucked up into his waist, and slide out, back to Shireen, still feeling his warmth.
*S*S*S*S*S*S
I'm at the table with the smuggler, drinking the warmest, weakest ale I've ever had the displeasure of swallowing. An old man's piss would taste better. He's trying to tell me what he's seen, as if I'm council and he's giving a report. There are sellswords about, he says, as there always are, but no more, as far as I can see. Stannis hasn't wind of us here yet. He talks on, about soldiers, and the magisters here, the ones that run the city, and that we should stay low for now. He begins to talk about getting work with the ship, and I bristle up, thinking, alright, I realise I'm a useless fucking bit of steakmeat, you don't have to rub it in. But I don't say anything.
Sansa's there, a little noise in her throat like a bird's trapped there. You alright there, my lady? says the smuggler. I thought we could go out, she says, hesitant. I know she's talking to me. If I'd have been on my own, I would have said no, but no way in the seven hells do I want to look more fool in front of him. He says he'll stay here with Shireen, and not to go far. I nod and rise, and her hand's in my elbow, the other hand on top of my forearm.
We step out, onto the street, and the sounds change, bit by bit. Shipwork, far off, and voices, in two or three different languages, none of them mine. Voices that slow and quiet as footsteps pass us.
I might as well be walking on air, or water. Stones are no more sure. Each step could be a step into a bloody canyon, an abyss, roaring sea beneath me, or one of the seven hells that's going to get me one of these days. I'm as good as a fucking cripple – Sansa's lost brother. She's telling me everything she can see, what's in front, to the side of us, and I'm half-listening, and half-trying to work it out for myself, learn the sounds. She walks me into a bloody wall, and I curse and hear her breath hitch. You should put your hand out, she says, very quiet, feel things. I swallow down a breath, do as I'm bid, feel the smooth stone – a high wall – suddenly turn into a rougher one, the height of my waist.
I feel fucking naked without armour on, without a sword hanging at my hip. But what use would they be? I can't fucking defend her. She'd do better to learn some swordplay, start guarding me. Gods.
She squeezes my arm. Gendry, she says, which is just as well, as the footsteps come right up to us, and I'd have at least had a go at trying to floor whoever it was. He tells us he's got work, in an armoury, sounds bloody smug about it and all. No doubt looking right at me, wondering what use I'm to be. I look away from them, over towards where I think the harbour is, try not to listen.
We go on. I put my hand on her wrist, find no dress there. I move my hand up further. What are you wearing? I say. It's the fashion, she says. I thought I should try and fit in. I stop and slide my hand up, past her elbow, feel her gooseflesh rise up. The thin shawl she's wearing comes with my hand, up to her shoulder, the little bone there. The dress starts at her neck. It's more skin than I've ever felt of hers before. Seven hells, little bird, I say, thinking, I'm definitely not going to walk straight now.
*S*S*S*S*S*S
Sansa almost fell apart when Sandor touched her arm, trying to work out what sort of dress she was wearing. They were right there, in a shaded part of the street - the odd person walking past carrying baskets of silks, a small pane of clear glass, bread loaves – and he was feeling her in a way he hadn't even done in his bed. Maybe he'd forgotten that other people might be able to see. Maybe he didn't care.
She tried to gather her senses, and pull him onwards, towards the market, trying to point out every landmark he might be able to hear or feel, her skin still tingling. He still wasn't saying much, but he was walking a little less slowly. She wondered whether she should get him a stick – rembering Gervase at Winterfell – and thought that she would never dare ask him in a thousand summers. She stood closer to him, feeling his shirtsleeve on the bare skin of her arm.
At the near edge of the market, something made her stop, and pull Sandor to her. In a dark corner, a man, very small and slight, and dressed only in a bright green robe with bare legs, was holding the rapt attention of a small girl. For a strange moment, she had thought that it was Shireen, but the girl was much smaller, darker-skinned, a local.
The man, who had much lighter skin, wrinkled as old parchment, was making strange, dancing movements with his hands in the air.
'What is it?' Sandor said.
'I'm not sure,' Sansa said, and felt him tense up next to her. His hand instinctively moved to his hip, and, finding nothing there, he flexed his fingers and stood very stiffly.
The small man tipped a bottle of bright, purplish liquid that seemed to have appeared from nowhere into his hand. Time seemed to slow. He put his palm up in front of his face, his cool clear eyes fixed on the girl, raised his eyebrows, and blew. A small, curling ball of fire rose from his hand, into the air. The man blew at it again, and it rolled, up and sideways, and then he leapt up into the air and clapped his hands around it.
The fire vanished. The girl stood rooted to the spot, astonished, and then clapped very tentatively and ran away.
'If you don't tell me –' Sandor's voice was taut.
The man caught Sansa's eye, just for a sliver of a moment, and smiled very gently before turning away, folding himself up in long green cloths and disappearing into the shadows.
'It's alright,' she said. 'I think it's alright.'
She led him onwards, through the outskirts of the market, which seemed enough for Sandor, whose shoulders had risen, and jaw tightened.
A sorcerer. Sandor had been blinded by one sorcerer. Maybe he could be cured by another.
*S*S*S*S*S*S
I'm at the table and the boy comes in, coughs, lays something down. A dull ring. Metal.
What's this? I say, though I know perfectly well what it bloody is. A sword, the boy says. I think I got the size right. It's probably not as good a one as you're used to, but – I stop listening, moving my hand along the cold steel, feeling it warm under my palm as I grip it. I test the point with my forefinger, and I feel like running my whole hand through it.
And what in the hells am I supposed to do with this? I say. A pause. Damned gulls bleating outside. He says, I thought you could train me - and I'm up before he finishes that sentence, my chair clattering on the stone behind me, finding his neck easy enough, slamming him into the wall. A nice crack of his skull. Train you how, I say, slow. His throat rises up against my thumb. Sansa says you're – you were – you are – the best fighter she's ever known, he says. Were, I growl, wondering what half-princes taste like.
You've got a bloody nerve, sticking this in my face, I say. I hold him up a bit – he's dangling, toes just on the floor. But his voice stays calm. You're still going to know more than me, he says. I want to learn. How to fight. So if – she comes again, I can defend myself. I let him go and he slides down a bit, dry sounds in his throat.
Don't ask me again, I say. You're taking the fucking piss.
A pause. You managed that alright, he says.