Sansa XI
As Sansa disembarked from the train, she congratulated herself on her choice to live with Jon and Dany. If she'd tried to leave at the break of day to travel to Austin for Sandor's sentencing, her mother would have forbidden it. And the old Sansa, cowed, would have let her.
This was a different Sansa, however, new and strong and determined. No longer was she going to permit others to command her; she was riding herd on her own life, now. She was doing what she wanted without making the happiness of her mother or anyone else more important than her own.
Unfortunately, none of her new insights could help her with the dilemma with which she was currently faced: she had no idea where she was going.
To her relief, a line of wagon and carriage cabs stood at attention outside the station, just waiting for her to bestow upon them her custom. She hadn't gotten halfway toward them, however, when she heard her name called by a familiar voice.
"Miss Sansa!"
She turned to find Sam Tarly hurrying toward her, his lady friend at his side.
The girl– Gilly, Sansa thought her name was– had dressed as soberly as she could, but there were telltale signs that it was not the costume of a respectable woman. The hem was a little too high, the neckline a little too low. Her corset rendered her figure shapely in such a way as to put ideas in a man's head, rather than to constrain the jiggly parts of a woman. Her gloves were threadbare, her boots worn, and her hat bore too many flowers and feathers for daytime wear.
Sansa dragged her attention from the other woman's attire. She ought not to be so judgmental. Sam was a lovely young man, so it stood to reason that the girl he walked out with would be nice also, regardless of her occupation, unsavory as it might be.
"Hello, Sam," she said warmly, turning her smile on each of them in turn.
"This is Gilly Wilder," he said.
Gilly looked terrified, Sansa realized, probably thinking she'd be coldly rejected. It was something any other woman in Kingsland would do. Catelyn would be horror-stricken to know Sansa was even acknowledging the woman's existence.
If Mother thinks it's a bad idea, Sansa thought with grim amusement, it must be a good idea.
She put out her hand to shake. Gilly's fingers trembled in her grasp, and her smile was shaky, but it was soon over.
"You have business here in Austin?" Sansa asked politely.
"We're going to Sheriff Clegane's sentencing," replied Sam, bouncing on his toes in excitement. Sansa supposed it made sense, he being a law student. She couldn't think of a reason for Gilly's presence, though.
"I was just about to hire a ride to the courthouse." Then, because it seemed rude not to invite them to share the cab with her, she did just that. "Would you join me?"
Their faces lit with pleasure. "Thank you, yes!" said Sam, beaming at her.
The carriage they hired looked reputable but smelled strongly of onions. Sansa was very glad to descend from it at the courthouse, an imposing edifice that loomed larger with each step she took closer to it. Sam inquired with a bailiff and soon they were seating themselves in the second row of the indicated location, Sansa beside Gilly beside her beau.
The courtroom was a lavish testament to the glory and power of law and government, with ten-foot-tall windows and carved mahogany pews upholstered in crimson velvet. It looked more like a cathedral than a courtroom, and she supposed in a way it was: a place to worship the ideals of justice and truth. Though blessed little of either had been shown her brother, Jaime, and now Sandor.
Though, she had to admit, Sandor was significantly less innocent than those two.
And speaking of innocence, or lack thereof… why was Gilly there? As a rule, the law and ladies of the evening did not good bedfellows make.
…perhaps another phrase would have been preferable, because 'bedfellows' might be exactly how Gilly and the sheriff had met.
"Are– are you a friend of Sheriff Clegane's?" Sansa asked, her voice as neutral as she could make it.
Gilly flushed and averted her eyes. "In a manner of speaking," she said, and Sansa knew what that meant.
She did not like what it meant.
"But… but just a friend," Gilly hurried to add. "For the past while, at least. Almost three years, now."
What? Sansa thought. "What?" Sansa said.
"Lately, whenever the sheriff… visited… me, we'd just end up talking," said Gilly. "But even before then…"
She paused, biting her lip as she looked away, seeming on the horns of a dilemma about whether to say a certain something.
"Before then…?" Sansa prompted, a trifle impatiently.
"Before then, he wasn't usually there to…" Gilly trailed off, her gaze darting around the courtroom. It was clear she was uncomfortable discussing the matter at all, but especially in that particular location.
"To what?" Sansa prodded her. I want details.
"Most of the time, he only wanted to hold me," whispered Gilly, leaning in close. "He would have me sit in his lap, and he'd put his arms around me. And we'd just sit there for an hour."
"Just most of the time?" Where were these questions coming from? Sansa wondered of herself. But there was a flame of curiosity burning in her belly, a need to know, even as the prospect of Sheriff Clegane with another woman upset her.
"Well…" Gilly flushed again. She looked around the courtroom once more before meeting Sansa's eyes. "When we… did that… he was thinking of someone else. When I sat in his lap, too, I'm sure."
"Why are you telling me this?" Sansa asked through stiff lips. She gathered up her reticule and wondered if there were still time for her to leave before the trial started. She did not want to hear about his affections for another woman any more than she wanted to hear about his escapades with a prostitute.
"Because it was you, Miss Sansa!" Gilly whispered, leaning in close. "Whenever he… finished… he'd say your name. And I've seen how he watches you when you're in town. He's been in love with you for a long time!"
Sansa gaped at her. It was no more than she had suspected, but hearing the extent of it– that he pretended other women were her– made something in her chest pull tight.
"And I've felt so bad since I learned he'd been arrested," Gilly continued. She sounded relieved she'd finally said her piece. "He's told me some things about his past, you see, and… well, he has good reason to be so angry, Miss Sansa.
"But I think he's a decent man, underneath it all. Or he wants to be one, at least… for you. He just doesn't know how. That's been upsetting him for a while, I think. But if he had the opportunity… he'd do it." She sounded very sure. "For you, Miss Sansa. He'd do it for you."
A door opened at the front of the courtroom; a pair of bailiffs passed through and moved to flank it. They looked very impressive in their fine uniforms, a brightly polished tin star affixed to their lapels.
"Court is in session," one of them declared. "Judge Barristan Selmy presiding. All rise."
Sansa doubted Sandor Clegane had even owned a sheriff's star. She certainly had never seen him wearing one. He hadn't needed one; the very enormity of his stature was identification enough.
Her head was still reeling from Gilly's revelation. She had to clutch at the back of the pew before her to steady herself for standing. The tightness in her shoulders, in her belly, rivaled that of the day of Jon's and Jaime's trials. She had just found Sandor, had just learned of his affection for her. She couldn't bear to have him taken away before anything between them even started.
Judge Selmy strode from his chambers to sit behind the bench. He eyed them in a distinctly severe manner.
"This is a closed court," he said repressively, glowering. "Why are you here?"
"I'm studying law, Your Honor," said Sam, a nervous quaver to his voice. "I don't get much of a chance to see a trial in action, so I hoped you might let me observe."
Selmy gave him a curt nod, and he sank back onto the pew in relief.
"And you ladies?"
"The sheriff is my friend," Gilly said, her voice high with nerves. "I wanted to show him my support."
Selmy squinted at her and nodded. She, too, sat with a relieved sigh.
Then it was Sansa's turn to justify her presence. "Ma'am?"
"I…" Why was she there? Words escaped her, at that moment. "I'm here as a character witness," she managed to say at last. "I'm aware that Sheriff Clegane has been involved with some… things, in the past, but he's trying to rectify that, now. He wants to be a better man. He wants to do the right thing from now on."
"And how do you know that, young lady?"
The way he said 'young lady' put Sansa's hackles up, but she kept a placid expression plastered on her face when she replied.
"He told me so, Your Honor."
Selmy's smile was halfway between condescending and pitying. "And he couldn't possibly be lying about that, in order to find his way into your good graces?"
Sansa drew herself up straighter. "He wouldn't lie to me, sir."
The judge's smile slid all the way into pitying. It made her angry.
"I was engaged to Joffrey Baratheon for a year, Your Honor," she snapped. "I know every kind of degradation a man can commit on a woman. I can tell when a man is lying to me. Sheriff Clegane has never been anything but honest with me."
Judge Selmy looked disturbed to hear of her suffering at Joffrey's hands, and opened his mouth to speak, but Sansa forged on.
"But if that is not enough to convince you, perhaps cold logic might," she continued, a touch recklessly, perhaps. "Why would he implicate himself in Judge Baelish's trial, if he weren't committed to doing right? He had nothing to gain from Baelish's conviction, and everything to lose, as our presence here today shows. Why else, besides wanting to see justice done?"
"An excellent question, Miss Stark," said a resonant voice from behind her. She spun around.
Tyrion Lannister walked in front of his twice-as-large client as two more bailiffs led Sandor, his hands shackled, into the courtroom. "One which I shall be asking on the record when I have the chance."
Sansa's face flamed red. She wanted very much to look away, but Sandor was staring at her like he was amazed and shocked and happy and furious and terrified, all at once.
The bailiffs led Sandor up the aisle, seeming like a bizarre imitation of a father giving away a bride, and positioned him beside Tyrion at the defense's table.
"Court is now in session," said the judge. "Counsel?"
"Tyrion Lannister on behalf of Sandor Clegane, Your Honor," said Tyrion. "Since my client has already pleaded guilty, this is not a trial, but a sentencing conference. I had a statement prepared to request leniency in sentencing, but since Miss Stark has so ably argued my case–"
He turned and winked at her, the cheeky scoundrel.
"–I will just briefly summarize, to wit: Mr. Clegane is the only reason Judge Baelish's corruption was brought to light and able to be prosecuted. It's certain he'd not have been impeached without Mr. Clegane's testimony. It was entirely his idea; he approached me independently, with the idea of investigating Baelish, fully knowing that his participation means the end of his career as sheriff as well as likely incarceration. A corrupt judge would still be on the bench were it not for Mr. Clegane's development– albeit tardy– of a conscience."
"That's what I want to learn more about," said Selmy querulously. "How does a man suddenly develop a conscience, after ten years happily taking payoffs and looking away as justice is subverted?"
Tyrion gave a delicate cough. "His development of a conscience may have something to do with the eloquent lady who spoke before."
Silence. Selmy drummed his fingers on the pulpit, staring at Sandor with single-minded intensity. Sandor stared back. Between the tight angle of his jaw and the rigid set of his shoulders, he looked as tense as a guitar string.
"So what is your motion?" the judge asked at last.
"I have several, Your Honor," Tyrion said. "First: in light of my client's altruistic surrender for the greater good, I move to dismiss."
"Motion denied. Next?"
"In light of my client's altruistic surrender for the greater good, I move for a suspended sentence."
"Motion denied. Next?"
"In light of–"
"Mr. Lannister."
"…yes, Your Honor. I move for the sentence to be reduced to time served."
"…he was in jail for a week, Mr. Lannister. Are you seriously asking the court to accept a week's incarceration for a decade of collusion, while in a position of authority as an officer of the law? Surely you jest."
"Your Honor–"
"I see what you're trying to do, Mr. Lannister. And I am not insensible to or unappreciative of Mr. Clegane's newfound commitment to lawful living." He turned to Sandor. "Mr. Clegane, when did you take your post as sheriff?"
"1878, Your Honor."
"And when you took that post, were you aware it had been granted for you with the specific intent that you would provide favors for Tywin Lannister?"
"Yes."
"Were you unaware that this was illegal?"
"No. I knew it was illegal."
"And every time you subverted the law for the gain of Tywin Lannister, were you aware what you were doing was illegal?"
"Yes."
"For how long did you serve as Tywin Lannister's agent and fail to uphold the law as you had sworn to do?"
"Seven years."
"When was the last time you acted as Tywin Lannister's agent?"
"Three years ago."
"And what inspired you to stop?"
No answer, but Sandor's jaw-muscle ticked.
"Sir. You must answer."
Tyrion elbowed Sandor in the thigh.
"Miss Stark." Said reluctantly, sounding as if the words were being dredged from the depths of his soul. "I– she– is good. I wanted to be good. For her."
Another elbow to the thigh.
"…Your Honor." Grudgingly added.
Sansa, still standing since addressing the court earlier, dropped abruptly to the pew with a thump, her legs gone too weak to support her. Sandor whipped around, shackled hands out, and took a step toward her before realizing she had only sat down. He thought she had fallen, was instantly ready to catch her. She lifted dazed eyes to his face.
"That long, Sandor?" she asked, her voice soft, but it carried easily through the quiet acoustics of the room.
He nodded, a tight and short little nod; it was clearly uncomfortable for him to speak of gentler things at all. In front of witnesses, it must have been excruciating. But he still did it. He stilltold her the truth, even though lying might have spared his dignity. His gray eyes were honest, piercing, diamond-bright, in the ruin of his face. In that moment, she'd never seen a man more handsome. Jaime Lannister paled to insignificance in comparison.
"This is the most romantic thing I've ever seen," Gilly breathed, almost inaudible. Sansa thought so, too. But since she was the one in the middle of it, and so much was at stake, she did not quite appreciate being the heroine of this particular romance.
Judge Selmy coughed to regain the attention of the court, and Sandor dragged his gaze back around to the front of the courtroom.
"I recognize that a sea change has occurred in respect to Mr. Clegane's adherence to the law. However, I cannot and will not ignore that his actions were undertaken with full knowledge of their illegality, and the consequences of the same."
Sansa reached blindly toward Gilly, who obligingly gripped her hand as they waited for the judge's next words.
"But instead of the recommended penalty of fifteen years in prison, I instead impose a sentence of seven years, one for each year he performed his duties in a corrupt manner."
Sansa's breath went out in a whoosh. Sandor's head bowed, just for a moment, but then he stood straight and tall, shoulders back.
"That's fair," he rasped.
No, it's not, wailed Sansa internally. It lent strength to her legs and she leapt back to her feet.
"In that case," she warbled, sheep-voiced from trying to control her emotions, "I invoke the rule of court that says any sentence may be commuted if a woman marries the convicted."
Sandor whipped around again, staring at her, looking very fierce. "No."
"No?" said Tyrion.
"No?" said Judge Selmy.
"No?" said Sam.
"No?" said Gilly.
"No?" said one of the bailiffs.
"No?" said Sansa, and two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She slid past Gilly and Sam to exit the pew and walk forward until she reached Sandor. Sansa slipped her hand into his jacket, fumbling over the hard slab of muscle until she found what she sought and drew it out: a very familiar fountain pen of tortoiseshell, with a gold clip. He gaped at her while he came to understand the significance of it: she knew he was her admirer.
"Is this that 'I don't deserve you' nonsense again?"
Sandor jerked back, surprised or offended or both, and scowled. "I don't deserve you."
"No one deserves anything," she said, stuffing the pen back in his pocket and then wiping off her cheeks. "But we get it anyway. I don't deserve you, either, but I still have you, don't I?"
He gazed at her, silent, impassive.
"Don't I, Sandor?" she prompted gently.
After an agonizing pause, he replied, very quietly, "Yes."
"And you have me." She offered him a watery smile. "You've already waited three years, and now you want me to wait seven?"
"You'd wait for me?" His voice was low, soft, tentative in a way that did not suit him at all. She was used to him being so brash, so sure. His face wore an expression of such desperate hope that Sansa felt her heart break and mend itself in the space of mere seconds.
If he kept looking at her like that, she'd wait a hundred, but she only said, "Yes."
But still he just stood there, an immovable granite sculpture, Atlas with the weight of the world upon him.
So she said, "You'd better hurry up and accept my proposal, because it's very humiliating to have witnesses while I try to persuade you."
And, yes, it was manipulative, but Judge Selmy was starting to look testy and she really was embarrassed. She ducked her head and moved her features into what she thought might seem sad and wounded. It didn't take much effort to muster up a few more tears, either.
"I'm starting to think you really would prefer prison to marrying me," she said, pleased that she sounded the right degree of puzzled and hurt. She let her head droop further, and turned to walk away.
Gilly pushed past Sam and met her in the aisle, putting her arms around Sansa and glaring past her at Sandor. Sansa towered over petite little Gilly, but still did a credible impression of wilting tragically.
Don't peek, she chanted to herself. It would spoil everything, if he caught her peeking.
When Sandor gave in, it was with the lack of graciousness that typified most of his interactions.
"Fine," he snarled. "But if this ends up being a disaster, don't come crying to me."
Translation: if I'm a terrible husband and make you miserable, remember that I tried to save you from yourself.
Sansa left Gilly and floated back down the aisle to him. She placed a hand on his forearm and gazed up at him.
"I won't," she said tenderly.
His huge hand, when it covered hers, was trembling. He turned back to the judge, who was waiting with poorly veiled impatience, and nodded his agreement.
"Finally," grumbled Selmy. "Bailiff, release the defendant."
Shackles removed, Sandor idly rubbed his wrists while staring at Sansa.
"Sansa!" shout-whispered Gilly. "Here!"
She had removed her hat and plucked half the flowers from it, bunching them together into a hasty bouquet fastened with one of the too-many ribbons bedecking the headgear. They were artificial posies, bedraggled from their speedy transition from hat to hands. It was more festive than Sansa had expected, though, when she had boarded the train that morning, having made her decision to claim Sandor as her own in the event of his receiving a prison sentence.
"Thank you," she told Gilly, who dimpled at her before taking Sam's hand.
Sansa turned to face the court, catching Tyrion's eye on the way. He shot her a smirk, clearly amused, but there was a suggestion of kindness, of genuine pleasure on her and Sandor's behalf, at the edges of it.
It went quickly, over before she knew it. Sandor flatly refused to kiss her to seal the deal, but she understood it was because he didn't want an audience for their first kiss. The prospect of what he intended once he got her behind a closed door had her pulse thrumming in anticipation.
Outside the courthouse, he flagged a cab and bundled her inside.
"Get your own," he grumbled at Tyrion, Gilly, and Sam.
"Please don't gush so much gratitude," Tyrion drawled, tipping his hat. "You're embarrassing me."
"Go fu–"
"Thank you, Tyrion," Sansa interrupted with a restraining hand on Sandor's beefy forearm, leaning past him a little to see the others still out on the sidewalk. The muscles flexed under her palm in a way that made her breathless, made her skin feel too small. "I expect we'll see you back in town soon."
"Probably not too soon," Gilly replied impishly, clinging to Sam's arm.
Sandor banged his fist against the roof of the cab to signal the driver to go. With a clatter, they were in motion. The cab's interior was shady, though not much cooler than the exterior. Still, it was their first moment alone as husband and wife. The strangeness, the newness, of it had not yet worn off entirely; Sansa still felt a little lightheaded.
"Sandor–" she began, but he spoke over her.
"I don't expect anything from you," he rasped, staring straight ahead. "I won't– I'll leave you alone. I'll get a job on one of the ranches, or leave town to find work somewhere else, if no one will hire me."
"The hell you will," she said, indignant, surprised into profanity for the first time in her life. "You just spent several months wooing me. You just admitted, in a court of law, that you have spent three years pining for me. You even risked prison just so you could be worthy of me. If you think I'm letting you go gallivanting around Texas instead of being a proper husband to me, I'll… I'll…"
He stared at her, miserable expectance shifting slowly into agonized hope. "You'll what?" he asked, sounding dazed before blinking and seeming to recover his usual cynicism. "Hit me? You'd hurt your pretty little hand more than you'd hurt me."
Sansa lifted her pretty little hand to his face, cupping the ruin of his cheek in her palm, making sure he was looking into her eyes so he could believe her.
"I'll miss you," she told him softly. "I'll miss you, and probably cry a lot. And I'll wait for you to come to your senses and return to me."
His hand came up, hesitantly, as if she were a thoroughbred he was expecting to spook and run at any moment, and covered hers. His palm was rough, callused, warm. The thought of his touch on her skin, the skin under her clothes that no one even saw, let alone put a finger on, had Sansa distinctly overheated.
But then he began to speak, and his words were a dash of cold water over her nerves.
"I don't know where we'll live, what I'll do to support us. You might have to work, too. We won't live high, not like you have until now. Could have to move around until I find solid work. You need to understand how hard it will be. You need to believe I'm worth that kind of sacrifice."
"I'm–"
"So are you sure?" he asked roughly. "Really sure? Because if you tell me you are, and then change your mind… when you realize what a bastard I am, and that you made a mistake… if you send me away, it'll kill me."
She gaped at him. "I'm–"
But he kept doggedly on. "I haven't had anything in my life, Sansa, not one thing, until now. I got by, I managed, because I didn't know what I was missing. But if I come to know what it's like, even for a short while, to be– to be–"
"Loved?" she supplied, tears starting to fall, heart aching for him.
"Yeah." He stared straight ahead, eyes burning, face rigid. "How am I supposed to go on without it?"
She threw herself into his arms as best she could while seated next to him, packed so tightly into the small interior of the cab. "You won't ever have to know," she mumbled against his neck, pressing her wet face to his skin. "I'm sure, Sandor. I'm sure."
She lifted her face to him, wanting him to see the truth written upon it. His eyes were wide, apprehensive, but there was dawning acceptance there, too. He swept his thumb across the arch of her cheek, brushing away the tears. His head lowered and he touched his lips to hers.
Sansa had been kissed before. A Greyjoy had snuck a smooch behind the school a few years earlier. And, of course, there had been Joffrey. His technique had consisted of clumsy, drool-filled jabs of his tongue, and teeth sunk into her lips hard enough to bruise.
Sandor kissed her lightly, slowly, carefully, like he was sipping a fine wine, wanting to enjoy every nuance. But there was no rush, was there? They had the rest of their lives, now.
The cab juddered to a halt, and the driver reached down to knock at the roof of the vehicle. A train whistled in the near distance.
"Let's go home, Sandor," Sansa told him.
"Yeah." He didn't smile in return. She doubted he knew how. But the usual tautness of his mouth, around his eyes, relaxed until he looked… happy. He looked happy, and it was because of her. "Let's go home."