Sandor looked down at Sansa in confusion. His jaw opened even more when she stepped around him and closed the door quietly behind her.
"I'm glad you're still up. I didn't want to wake you."
Sandor gawked at her, his brain fumbling. "I'm awake."
"We need to talk. I couldn't sleep."
This did not illuminate the situation for him. Sansa Stark did not show up in the bed chambers of men in the late hours of the night dressed in little more than her small clothes. But apparently she did, for here she was. That this was, must, and had to be so against her normal behavior as a proper little lady both appalled Sandor and made his mouth water.
She was looking at him as though expecting some kind of response. Sandor's mind was whirring but not gaining any traction. What had she just said? "It's the middle of the night," he commented, sure that that, at least, was relevant.
"I know. And I know my being here isn't proper, but we need to talk."
Sandor cringed inwardly. Talking was not going to do either of them any favors. Much as he wanted to avoid that, he also knew it would be better to just get it over with. If she wanted to lecture him about his poor treatment of her, better to do it here than somewhere more public.
"What about?"
Sansa looked a little frustrated. "About . . . " She gestured abstractedly with her hands. "About you! I mean, us. We can't seem to get along lately. Doesn't that bother you? Things have been so weird since you came home!"
Great, Sandor thought. She comes to my room, in her nightgown, in the middle of the night, somehow doesn't get caught on the way, and it's all to tell me I'm weird. "No, they haven't."
Sansa pulled her head back in surprise. "Yes, they have."
"I haven't noticed anything." Except your teats and your lips and your hips and . . .
"Sandor, that's because it's you that's changed."
Sandor turned away and picked up the flagon, hoping to buy himself a moment.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" Sansa went on, her voice growing shrill. She dropped back to a lower volume. "You never used to drink so much!"
Sandor put the flagon down without taking a sip. "You came here to lecture me about drinking? Maybe I should remind you that ladies don't scurry through the halls in their night clothes . . ."
Sansa flushed and tightened her grip on the neck of her cloak. She looked down and guilt oozed over Sandor. He was half afraid she would cry again and half afraid she'd leave. Now that she was here, he wanted her to stay. After a moment's struggle, Sansa seemed to get herself in hand. Frowning, she looked up at him. "Don't you feel it, too? How things are different?" She seemed to be willing him to understand whatever it was she wasn't articulating.
Sandor tossed out a hand palms up and shrugged. "Different how?" Maybe if he kept her talking, she wouldn't cry.
Sansa looked up into his face. "Ever since you came home . . . it's like . . ." She looked down and to the side as though the words she wanted could be found on the floor. She took a breath. "You came back and it was like you didn't want to see me or talk to me."
"We talked."
Sansa shot him a look. "Yes, we did. And then we didn't. And then we did. And then you bit my head off about the song tonight. If I've done something to offend you, I wish you'd just say so because -"
"Sansa."
"Yes?"
"You haven't offended me. If that's what's keeping you up, put it out of your mind and go to bed."
Sansa was clearly not satisfied with that. "I'm glad to hear it but it's not just tonight. Things haven't been right between us -"
"There's nothing between us."
"You know what I mean."
Sandor opened his mouth but found he had nothing to say.
This seemed to frustrate Sansa even more. "I was worried about you while you were gone and then, with the awful news about Jory and the others, and how you didn't want to tell me what happened and now you're in your cups more often than not and . . . you've changed and I'm worried about you."
Her words flayed him. He said as calmly as he could, "Don't worry, little bird. I haven't changed."
Sansa grabbed onto that. "Then it's me. Something about me has -"
"It's not you."
"It must be."
"Sansa, you're -"
"If it's not you, then it has to be me." She pressed her lips together. "Just tell me what it is."
"It's what it's always been. You're still Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Hand of the late king, descendants of the First Men . . ." Sandor trailed off with a shrug.
For a moment, Sansa was quiet. "That's what changed."
Sandor didn't know what she meant. "Nothing changed. That's what I'm telling you."
"I used to be Sansa to you."
"You still are."
"No, you just said I'm Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark -"
"That's true."
"That's my lineage."
"I know."
"That's how you're thinking of me now. As a highborn girl."
"I've always known that."
Sansa was looking at him as though some mental clouds were lifting. "You may have known it but now you seem to care about it."
Sandor shook his head in confusion.
Sansa went on, though she sounded like she was talking to herself more than to him. "You avoid me and argue with me. You bring me gifts and say you like my dress . . ."
She met his eye with a look of surprise and Sandor felt exposed, like he'd been stripped of his armor mid-battle, and angry with himself for not catching the direction of her thoughts sooner so he could deny them vehemently. As it was, he could only stare back at her, waiting for her to react to the realization of his feelings.
After roughly an eternity, Sansa mumbled, "I've imposed on you too long." She turned to the door and opened it. She looked back at him and said, "Good night, Sandor," and slipped silently into the hall.
EARLIER THAT NIGHT
Sansa slammed her door shut and cuffed away the tears in her eyes. Then she dropped down onto a chair and cried some more, though she tried to be quiet about it. She thought maybe Sandor would come talk to her, seeing how upset she was, but when there was no knock on her door or approaching footsteps, she realized he wasn't coming and cried over that as well.
Sansa didn't know what Sandor's problem was lately, but she felt ruffled by his mood. Her mood. His mood was upsetting her mood and she didn't know what to make of it. Sandor, whatever his reputation was with others, had nearly always been at least civil to her. He snapped at her now and again but Seven help the one who bothered her in his presence. She'd grown used to his protection and felt content to have him as her shadow. Lately, though, they couldn't seem to exchange two words without some kind of dust-up. And she didn't like the drinking. He usually had small ale or wine like everyone else but, ever since he'd come back from the capital, he'd been in his cups with disturbing frequency. She worried about her friend. And how could he not like the singer? The man had a voice like warm honeyed butter. She didn't think Sandor disliked music - he'd always listened to her performances attentively enough - so why should he be so surly? They were lucky to have the entertainment. They were only beginning to recover from the shock of her father's hasty return home. Jory was dead. The king was dead. The seven kingdoms were unsettled, and handsome King Joffrey was doing all he could to keep his throne. Travel was increasingly unsafe so, again, she wondered why Sandor should so object to the novelty of not only a singer but a very skilled one. Since it made no sense to her, she assumed his ire must have another source.
Maybe it was her. She didn't usually take his arm (her mother's words about propriety forever ringing in her ears) but she'd been so swept up in the relief of the music that she wanted to share her happiness with him. To make him happy, too, because sometimes she felt like he needed her. He had companions, she supposed, but had not been connected to a woman in a very long time. Though she thought, with a frown, that she hadn't known what went on when he was away. The thought of him being with another woman rankled her, though she couldn't say why. She just felt certain he would settle for a woman who didn't deserve him and that he would suffer from his poor choice. He used to tease her for having silly ideas, crowning her with the nickname of Little Bird, but she thought she knew the sort of woman who would appeal to Sandor, not that there were any of those around. She couldn't imagine him without someone boisterous, someone who could make him laugh and take his ribbing. She'd need to be a hard worker with a well of inner strength. Sansa didn't see Sandor's scars as a detriment. She'd been looking at them all her life and they were simply a part of him like some men had grey eyes or dark hair or a hooked nose.
Sansa, she thought to herself, you should really mind your own business. She didn't want to acknowledge that it stung a bit to think that she wouldn't appeal to him. People said she was beautiful, but she also sang and played the bells and the high harp, and she really, truly enjoyed sewing. After his invective about the song tonight, she didn't think Sandor really felt she had anything to offer. Well, she had her name and her looks but he didn't seem to care about those. Her mother told her that she was highly desirable, but didn't all mothers say that of their daughters? What about her was so unacceptable to him? What had she done to offend him?
"I enjoy you in that dress," he'd said. What had he meant by that? She was no stranger to his pointed jokes, but she'd never been the butt of one. Maybe he actually liked her dress. Well then why couldn't he have just said so without being mean about it?
There was a knock on her door. Sansa hastily blotted the rest of her tears and walked to the door, certain Sandor would be on the other side of it, ready to apologize. Her disappointment was keen when it was just her maid.
"Are you ready for bed?" Lucy asked.
"Yes, quite. I'm very tired."
After she was attended to, Sansa lay in bed awake for a long time wondering what had happened to make Sandor so different.
The more she thought about it, though, she realized he'd always been different. Most of the men in her father's direct employ had families, some going back generations just as hers did. Her mother was from the Riverlands but she had been the Lady of Winterfell for so long that she didn't seem like an outsider. Sandor had lived here longer than he had not, but he'd somehow retained a sense of 'otherness' about him. Her mother had said more than once that he could be a loud-mouthed jerk, especially when he was in his cups, but Sandor was also surprisingly quiet when it came to himself.
Sansa frowned. She'd known him forever and yet, she realized, she didn't really know him at all. He was familiar, yet foreign.
After some more tossing and turning, Sansa got up. She threw on her cloak and made her way to Sandor's room. She knew where it was, though she couldn't say how she knew. The same way she knew where everything at Winterfell was. The knowledge was just part of her. Funny, she'd never been inside his room before. Chances were good she wouldn't be inside it tonight, either, but she'd made up her mind that they needed to fix whatever had broken between them and the sooner, the better.
The keep was quiet, and her bare feet were silent, and she made it all the way there without encountering anyone who might question her actions.
She stared at the door for a moment, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. She assumed Sandor would be cranky if she woke him up. She knew he wasn't working tonight but that didn't mean he wasn't out drinking or gambling or, ick, engaging in some other unworthy activities. Sansa gathered her courage. It was this or go back to bed and spend the rest of the night tormented by her thoughts.
As she raised her hand to knock, the door opened, and Sandor stood there looking as surprised as she felt. Before she lost her nerve, Sansa ducked into the room and shut the door.
"I'm glad you're still up. I didn't want to wake you." She hoped being polite would encourage him to do the same.
"I'm awake."
Her heart fluttered in her chest. She spat out, "We need to talk. I couldn't sleep."
"It's the middle of the night."
He was right, of course. Sansa felt regret lapping at her. "I know. And I know my being here isn't proper, but we need to talk."
"What about?"
Isn't it obvious?! "About . . . " She gestured abstractedly with her hands. "About you! I mean, us. We can't seem to get along lately. Doesn't that bother you? Thing have been so weird since you came home!"
"No, they haven't."
Sansa pulled her head back in surprise. How could he deny it? Was he in his cups again? "Yes, they have."
"I haven't noticed anything."
"Sandor, that's because it's you that's changed."
Sandor turned away and picked up the flagon, confirming Sansa's fear. "That's exactly what I'm talking about!" she cried. Realizing her voice was carrying, she forced herself to take a more moderate tone, though she was still overstimulated. "You never used to drink so much!"
Sandor put the flagon down without taking a sip. "You came here to lecture me about drinking? Maybe I should remind you that ladies don't scurry through the halls in their night clothes . . ."
Sansa flushed and tightened her grip on the neck of her cloak. She looked down and inhaled slowly. This conversation needed to happen. More bickering wasn't going to resolve anything. Frowning, she looked back up at him. "Don't you feel it, too? How things are different?" How could she put it more plainly than that?
Sandor tossed out a hand palms up and shrugged. "Different how?"
Sansa looked up into his face. "Ever since you came home . . . it's like . . ." She looked down and to the side, trying to find the words that would make him understand. Evidence wasn't enough. She wanted him to understand the effect his behavior was having on her. She took a breath. "You came back and it was like you didn't want to see me or talk to me."
"We talked."
Sansa shot him a look. He was being obtuse on purpose. "Yes, we did. And then we didn't. And then we did. And then you bit my head off about the song tonight. If I've done something to offend you, I wish you'd just say so because -"
"Sansa."
"Yes?"
"You haven't offended me. If that's what's keeping you up, put it out of your mind and go to bed."
Sansa was not going to allow him to dismiss her. "I'm glad to hear it but it's not just tonight. Things haven't been right between us -"
"There's nothing between us."
"You know what I mean."
Sandor didn't respond so Sansa plowed on ahead. "I was worried about you while you were gone and then, with the awful news about Jory and the others, and how you didn't want to tell me what happened and now you're in your cups more than not and . . . you've changed and I'm worried about you."
"Don't worry, little bird. I haven't changed."
Sansa had known it all along. "Then it's me. Something about me has -"
"It's not you."
"It must be."
"Sansa, you're -"
"If it's not you, then it has to be me." She pressed her lips together. "Just tell me what it is."
"It's what it's always been. You're still Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Hand of the late king, descendants of the First Men," Sandor said in a tired voice.
It was like a candle suddenly ignited in the darkness. Here was the cause of the distance between them. "That's what changed."
"Nothing changed. That's what I'm telling you."
"I used to be Sansa to you."
"You still are."
"No, you just said I'm Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark –"
"That's true."
"That's my lineage."
"I know."
"That's how you're thinking of me now. As a highborn girl."
"I've always known that -"
Sansa's mind was racing. How had this not occurred to her before? "You may have known it but now you seem to care about it."
Sandor shook his head.
Sansa went on, though, in her mind, she was remembering an incident from her childhood. There had been a boy, the son of some nobleman or other, she couldn't remember now, who had teased her and chased after her and upset her so much that she'd gone to her septa, her mother being busy with her duties as hostess. Septa Mordane had agreed that the boy's behavior was inappropriate but added that he probably behaved that way because he liked Sansa and wanted her attention. It had made no sense to Sansa at the time (why would you tease someone you like?) but she was older and wiser now and had seen similar scenarios play out between other boys and girls. "You avoid me and argue with me. You bring me gifts and say you like my dress . . ."
She looked at Sandor with new, wide eyes. He stared back.
Overwhelmed by what she now realized must be true, Sansa mumbled, "I've imposed on you too long." She turned to the door and opened it. She looked back at him and said, "Good night, Sandor," and slipped silently into the hall.
Sansa dashed back to her room, flung her cloak at a chair, and dove under her covers. Despite being quite alone, she felt the need to sort out her feelings beneath a mountain of down. Sandor likes me?! It didn't seem possible, but all the pieces appeared to fit. Maybe you're just thinking too well of yourself. But Sansa felt deep down that she was right. Her lineage had never impressed him. That he was reciting it to her now gave the lie to his thoughts. Sansa realized she was smiling. Her heart was in bloom. Someone liked her! Sure, there were men who wanted to marry their sons to her one day, but this was different. There was nothing for Sandor to gain by liking her, and much to lose, but he did anyway. Sansa's mind flashed over their every encounter since he'd come home. When seen through a light of infatuation, she could sympathize with his moods. She giggled to herself over how they'd misunderstood each other. Happiness bubbled up inside her. She was liked! For herself! She fell asleep feeling lighter than she had in forever.
Morning, though, brought with it a different sensation. Do I like him? She'd never thought about him that way before. She'd always liked him but did her feelings run deeper than that? They shouldn't, but could they?
When Lucy came in to help her dress, Sansa waved her away and said absently that she'd break her fast in her room. As Lucy left to get her a tray of food, Sansa curled on to her side and clutched her blanket under her chin. She'd always appreciated Sandor's protection. If he treated anyone at all delicately, it was her. Sansa knew he could be gentle; he certainly doted on his horse enough, even if he thought she didn't notice. His looks were what they were. The one side of his face was handsome. Some people found his scars frightening but they didn't faze her one way or another. He wasn't lacking for muscle, that was for sure. He was all male yet had somehow been attuned to her moods, even when she'd been a child. Sandor had many fine qualities, when she thought about it. It made her feel a little sad that she'd never fully appreciated them before. It also struck her that they'd shared an intimate kind of relationship of which she'd been completely unaware. Though she didn't know what his dealings with other women had been, Sansa felt reasonably confident that his softer side had been reserved for her alone. She hoped so, anyway.
She blushed as she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Joffrey had nearly kissed her once. She'd regretted the interruption for a long time afterward but kissing Sandor, she knew, would be something entirely different. She suspected he knew how. It was a fascinating dichotomy. Sansa knew Sandor to be capable of rigid control, but she'd seen it give way in an instant, usually in a gush of temper. She knew she'd be perfectly safe with him – he'd never force himself on her – but the idea of inspiring a loss of control in him was too delicious not to dwell on.
A memory suddenly came to her. Sansa recalled how her mother had told her once about kissing games she and her sister had played with their father's ward, Petyr Baelish. Sansa's eyes narrowed. Her mother had shrewdly not mentioned those in years. Sansa knew well how ladies were supposed to behave, and she held her mother as her model of feminine perfection, but knowing Lady Stark had had a little fun in her youth made Sansa's inappropriate thoughts a little less troublesome to bear.
As though Sansa's thoughts had summoned her to action, at midmorning Lucy came to inform her that Lady Stark was worried Sansa was ill and, so, Sansa got out of bed and allowed herself to be washed and dressed. Her thoughts on the advisability of having a romantic entanglement with Sandor Clegane were still unsettled but she'd reached one conclusion: she was willing to give it a try.