There were blood stains on the cuffs of one of Sansa's sleeves.
The inky, navy blue fabric of her dress concealed the dark stain fairly well and dust that filtered in through the flaps covering the stagecoach's windows dirtied her clothing and helped further conceal the stain. Nonetheless, its presence unnerved Sansa, leaving her with a roiling sensation of nausea tumbling about in her stomach.
The landscape outside the six-horse stagecoach windows' was rather bland; nothing but miles and miles of open grassland long since turned from lush green to crispy brown by the summer's prolonged heat. The road – though calling it a road was a smidge too generous – was arduous and bumpy. Each time the carriage went over a particularly big hole, jostling its occupants about harshly, Sansa could hear the groan of the wood and metal and prayed to whatever God that might still be listening to her that a wheel did not give way.
While nobody from the life she was fleeing could possibly suspect that she had spirited away from the city in this stagecoach, Sansa vehemently wanted to put as much distance between her and Vale City as quickly as humanely possible. A broken wheel would only hinder this and make it more likely that she would be caught.
With each passing day since the scenery of the cramped, smelly city had faded into the wide open road leading out West, Sansa felt the panic that had laid siege to her heart during her escape start to ebb. With each mile the stagecoach covered and left behind, a tightness in her chest eased slightly and she breathed a little easier than she had in years.
Her companions had not been put out by Sansa's quietness along their travels. Besides herself, five other women and two men were traveling out West.
"It's alright to be nervous," Lollys had said to her the first night the stagecoach had bedded down in the wilderness. "This is like a big adventure we're going on, but you'll see, it'll all turn out right in the end."
The women had been given the stagecoach to sleep in at night, while the male passengers, the driver and the guard camped outside. Shae had cast Lollys a look full of scepticism which was perhaps combined with a small amount of derision.
"And you know this, how?" Shae had asked.
"By the letters, of course. Surely neither none of us would be here if we thought what awaits us at the end of the line would be horrible," Lollys had answered, her plump cheeks lifting in a friendly smile.
Neither Shae nor Sansa had replied.
Sansa had become more adept at reading people in recent years, a skill garnered by necessity. As her and Shae's gaze had met that night, Sansa had seen a steely guardedness in the other woman's eyes that led her to believe that just like herself, Shae would gladly take 'horrible at the end of the line' over whatever she had left behind in Vale City.
She wondered too, a little worriedly, if Shae had seen something similar in her own blue eyes.
Even if Shae had, Sansa took a sliver of comfort in doubting that if the woman, or any of the other stagecoach travellers, were to notice the blood stain on her dress sleeve, that they would surmise that the blood had come from the man she had murdered one week prior.
As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks soon became a month, the end of the stagecoach's long and arduous journey finally came into sight. Sansa had learned a lot about her fellow traveling companions in the last month; more from what they did not share than what they did.
Lollys Stokeworth was still optimistically clinging to the notion that she would find happiness when they reached their destination and she had left behind an overbearing older sister who thought otherwise.
"She said I wouldn't be anything but a spinster. A fat, lonely spinster," Lollys had said, her cheerful demeanour growing sad for a moment. "But I'll show her!"
Joy Erenford was a little mouse of a woman, barely old enough to be out of childhood, and had offered up even less information about herself than Sansa had. Though Sansa put this down to the younger woman's painful shyness rather than her purposefully withholding details about herself. It seemed that the poor girl had a large number of siblings, so many in fact that her parents had given her until the end of the summer to find herself a husband, in order to take the financial burden of looking after her off of their hands, or she would be put out on the streets to fend for herself.
Sansa pitied the girl for her circumstances, but had offered her no kind words of reassurance and had instead let Lollys comfort her when she had started tearing up.
Obara Sand and Shae Lorassyon were not from Westeros, but Dorne and Lorath respectively. From what Sansa could gather, which was not much as Obara was rather unfriendly and Shae was not very forthcoming about her past, it seemed they too were both journeying out West to better improve their prospects in life. Shae was perhaps the most tight-lipped about her past and, Sansa had noticed, rather talented at redirecting the conservation when it strayed towards it.
The remaining woman, Melisandre, was married to one of the men, a preacher by the name of Beric Dondarrion. Traveling with them was Thoros Myr, a friend and colleague of the holy man.
"Kennel Keep, ahead! One mile to the Keep!" the stagecoach driver cried out above the noise of the horses' hooves.
"What do you think yours will look like?" Tyrion Lannister asked his close friend as they waited in the saloon for the stagecoach to appear.
The stagecoach was three days past due and people had started to worry. Such a delay was not unheard of; bad weather, a broken yoke or a lame horse could all reasonably account for it. However, robbery by highwaymen was another equally possible reason why the stagecoach might be running behind schedule. With the precious cargo the stagecoach was bringing them, the men gathered together awaiting its arrival were growing increasingly angsty with each hour that passed without nary a sign of its coming.
"Don't care. Not as long as she's got nice, big tits," Bronn replied, miming burying his face in the aforementioned bosom.
Sandor tapped the wooden bar top, indicating he wanted his shot of whiskey refilled. Podrick, the barkeep, quickly hurried to comply. Sandor did not want to get too deep into his cups in case the stagecoach did arrive today, but the inane prattle of the men waiting with him for its arrival was made more tolerable with each gulp of golden liquid that burned its way down his throat.
Not that Sandor would admit to it, but the whiskey also helped to calm his nerves. Three days was an awful long time to be waiting on a woman, all the while grasping to an almost non-existent hope that she would not turn tail and run after getting one look at his disgusting, mangled face. Melisandre Dondarrion, the so called 'Matchmaker Melisandre', had assured him that the woman she had put him in touch with would not balk at his appearance, but Sandor was far too long in the tooth to take her word for it.
"Suppose if she ain't either, you can just turn her 'round and take her from behind," came the croaky, old voice of Walder Frey.
It was something any of the other men present might have bantered about, but coming from Walder Frey the joke fell flat. He had been telling everyone who would listen to him about the young, young bride he had sent off for. It seemed most folk hoped the poor girl would take one look at the old lech and get straight back on the stagecoach. Payment for a return ticket for the women, should they not find the men to their liking, was in Melisandre's matchmaking contract after all.
'That'll be at least two women headed back to Vale City then.'
What a bunch of sorry, old bastards they made. The only good man among them, the only man who would make a decent husband to the poor women journey so far to reach them, was Ray Brothers.
'It was fucking Ray who talked you into this mess.'
Sandor was not sure what he was more afraid of: that his mail order bride would take one look at his face and either be so horrified or terrified that she would demand to be put on the next stagecoach leaving the Keep; or that the woman would stay and bind herself to him in holy matrimony. In his mind, any woman that would be willing to do the latter would have to be blind, half-witted, or completely and utterly desperate. He had been honest in his description of his countenance, manner, and financials, but words on a page could hardly prepare his potential bride-to-be for the true horror that was his face.
"Where's Brothers run off to today? Not left you with two lovely brides, now has he?" Tyrion called over from where he was sat.
Sandor grit his teeth, not bothering to turn around to the saloon's other patrons. "He's got business over at the Greyjoy Ranch today, but he'll be back for supper time."
Tyrion sighed loudly, looking out the saloon windows at the darkening sky. "I suppose the stagecoach will stop for the night now; it's getting rather late. Perhaps it'll reach us tomorrow."
There were a few disappointed murmurs of agreement, followed by the scrapping of chairs being pushed back. Someone's back popped as they stretched it and one of the other men let out a yawn. Waiting around doing nothing but drinking and playing cards all day could sure tired a man out.
"They're here! They're here!" Lommy's excited cry could be heard before he and Hot Pie burst through the saloon doors, sending them swinging in their wake. "They're here, Mr Lannister. Coach will be pullin' up on Main Street any minute."
Tyrion had paid the boys a few pennies each to sit on the highest hill outside of town and keep an eye out for the stagecoach.
Bronn clapped his hands together and rubbed them excitedly. "Let's go boys!"
Sandor cursed Ray under his breath as he followed behind the other three men as they headed to Main Street. He had not even wanted to send off for a wife in the first place and he sure as shit did not want to be meeting her for the first time without Ray by his side. Ray might actually be able to talk to the poor woman, while at best all he could is grunt and growl at her.
"I'm goin' to get me a wife," Ray had said to him one evening almost a year ago as they were both nursing a coffee and overlooking the ranch they shared.
Sandor had raised his one good eyebrow at his friend's sudden proclamation, more than a little surprised at the news. "And just where are you gunna find you one of them?"
Ray took out a folded up newspaper cutting from his shirt pocket and handed it over to Sandor.
"'Melisandre's Matchmaking'?! The fuck you want to do this for, Ray?"
"For the government's new grant for married couples out West. Marry a girl from back East and they'll double the spread you own. Produce two children in the followin' five years and they'll double it again. With the way Tywin Lannister is buyin' up land all the way from here to Casterly Rock, I think it would be a smart idea to expand the ranch… Lest it be taken from us," Ray explained, taking back the advertisement from Sandor. "Besides, I loved my first wife dearly. Taking a second might not turn out the same way, but I'm sure I could find a good companion and helpmate. You're all well and good, Sandor, but I don't particularly want you keepin' me warm on those long, cold Winter nights."
Sandor huffed. He was not a fan of the idea of bringing a woman out to the ranch he and Ray shared, but the Lannister patriarch was starting to look like he might become a very serious problem.
"Suppose it'd be the smart thing to do," Sandor mumbled and took a drink of his coffee.
Even with the ranch doing well, there was no way Ray could double the portion of land he owned any time soon without this new government grant, so Sandor could begrudgingly see the sense in Ray's plan.
"I'm glad you agree," Ray smiled, then added, "'cause I think you should take a wife too."
Sandor choked on his coffee.
Some of the dark liquid escaped out of the ruined side of his mouth as he coughed, trying to clear his throat. When he had recovered sufficiently, he turned his angry glare on his friend.
"That's not funny."
"I'm not laughin', Sandor. I'm serious. I think you should take a wife too. Between us we would quadruple the ranch and if any little 'uns come along, then it'd grow even more. Tywin Lannister would have a mighty hard time turfin' us out then."
"No," Sandor ground out. "Absofuckinglutely not."
Sandor put the mug of coffee aside and reached for the hip flask he kept with him. If he was going to have to listen to his friend's hare-brained, loony, and downright idiotic idea that he marry, then he was not going to suffer through it sober.
"And why not? Never mind the government grant, a wife would do you good. She could iron out some of your surly edges," Ray replied, unphased by Sandor's mounting displeasure.
"Oh, aye," Sandor laughed bitterly, then brought his hand up to his face. "I'm sure there's some poor woman out there just dyin' to have my 'surely edges' on top of her for the rest of her sorry days."
Ray was silent for a moment, before quietly saying, "Sandor Clegane, if, in all the years we've known each other, I've not taught you that you are much more than just your face, then I haven't taught you very much at all."
Sandor had clenched his teeth together so hard that they had hurt, before storming inside the house and slamming the door.
He had thought the conversation about wives forgotten, but Ray had broached the subject with him again a week later. He had refused.
He had refused a month afterwards too when word had reached town that Tywin had taken over the Umber Ranch.
He refused again two months after that when Ray told him that Tywin had also acquired the Hornwood and Reed ranches.
Similarly, he did not acquiesce when two months after that the Marbrand ranch mysteriously burnt down and Tywin bought it from the bank after they had foreclosed on it.
Tywin's reach was creeping closer and closer to Kennel Keep and the ranches surrounding it, but Sandor still refused to consider taking any woman as his wife. Clegane women did not fare well, their fates seemingly more tortuous and worse than the last, and Sandor was not about to subject any woman to being forever bound to the ugly dog that he was.
It was not until news reached Kennel Keep about the Mormont Ranch that Sandor's answer changed.
Mormont Ranch was one of the largest and best established operations in the area. Jorah Mormont had turned down an offer from Tywin Lannister not three months beforehand. Subsequently, after a drawn out court battle, Jorah had been forced to forfeit all his land by a local judge. Neither Sandor nor Ray doubted that the judge had been bribed with Lannister gold, but the bullshit reason given for the forfeiture of the ranch was 'railroad safety', despite the fact that no railroad ran anywhere near the town of Kennel Keep.
Tywin Lannister had been awarded the Mormont land by the very same judge shortly afterwards on the grounds that his business dealings had strong ties to the railroads.
"If Tywin can just take Mormont Ranch like that," Ray snapped his fingers, "then he could easily take our smaller ranch from us too."
Sandor had hated to admit it, but his friend was right. He hated the thought of taking a wife, but he despised the very real possibility of losing all he and Ray had worked so hard for even more.
The final push Sandor needed, the final nail in the coffin, was when a letter arrived at the ranch from Tywin Lannister. Inside the envelope contained an offer to buy their ranch.
"Fucking fine," Sandor had spat, the letter with its fancy writing and delicate paper scrunching up into a ball in his fist. "I'll take a fucking wife."
As the first woman got out of the stagecoach, aided by a man with a preacher's white dog collar around his neck, Sandor once again cursed Ray Brothers to every god he had ever heard of. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he took his place besides the other men.
The first woman to exit the stagecoach was a pump blonde. She might be pretty in a home-grown sort of way, Sandor supposed. She was looking around her new surroundings and chatting excitedly to the next woman to exit the carriage, a slip of a girl in a dress that looked like it had been patched dozens of times over the years and who kept her eyes glued firmly to the ground. It was with no small amount of consternation that Sandor, Bronn and Tyrion hoped that the second woman was not the "young, young bride" intended for Walder Frey. The girl could not be a day over fourteen, if that.
Sandor glanced over at Walder, a man at least double – if not triple – his own age, and saw how his eyes were eating up the girl as his tongue snaked out over his yellowed teeth to wet his cracked lips.
The third woman clocked the men as soon as she stepped down from the stagecoach. She was quite the looker, this one. Her brunette curls bounced around her heart-shaped face as she promptly left her companions behind and marched over to the awaiting men.
The men immediately stood up straighter, even crusty, old Frey.
The alluring woman stopped in front of them and seemed to quickly size up each man in turn, before her gaze lowered and stopped at Tyrion Lannister.
"My Lion?" she all but purred.
Before Tyrion could open his mouth to reply, Walder interrupted him. "Surely a pretty morsel like you doesn't want to be spendin' her days and nights with the Halfman?"
The old man's beady eyes dropped to the woman's chest and his tongue darted out again to lick his lips.
The woman narrowed her eyes at Walder Frey and tutted. "If his cock is half the length he says it is in his letters, then I do not care about his height."
Bronn guffawed loudly besides Tyrion and the dwarf looked pleased as punch as he extended his hand towards his bride. The foreign beauty placed her hand in his and smiled at him as he kissed it.
"Miss Lorassyon," Tyrion greeted her. "Oh, we will get along just fine."
Even Sandor felt the muscles in his good cheek twitch upwards slightly at the woman's cheeky boldness. It seemed Walder Frey was the only one among them unimpressed by her response.
"Mister Blackwater?" the plump blonde asked, coming up behind the other woman.
The relief on her face was palpable when Bronn tipped his hat to her and she realised her groom-to-be was neither Walder nor Sandor.
A vibrant flash of red behind the plump blonde caught Sandor's eye. He lifted his gaze to meet the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen in his entire, sorry life. Sandor took in the woman they belonged to and found that any woman he had ever laid eyes on before her paled in comparison.
Shock registered across her expression as she took in the sight of him, but Sandor saw how she quickly schooled her features to appear as if she were not aghast by his disfigured face and menacing stature.
Brave little thing that she was, she walked forwards and came to stand right in front of him. Sandor was transfixed, his eyes never leaving hers, as she did so.
"Are you Mister Brothers?" the redhead asked, offering him a tentative smile. "I'm Ros Turnippe."
Understanding came upon him like the agonising crack of a whip.
'Fuck.'
Sandor continued to stare at the redheaded woman before him for several long moments and watched as she frowned slightly and fidgeted nervously with her sleeve.
A whole new vitriol of expletives involving Ray flooded his mind as he slowly shook his head.
"No, girl, I'm not your groom."
.
Mwahahaha...Did you think Sansa was going to be Sandor's bride?
Please leave a review and let me know what you think so far! This is the first fanfic I've written in over five years so I'm rather nervous about it :)