A/N: Good morning! As luck would have it, I was struck by sudden writing inspiration and have finished an entire story I have yet to post, wrote a one-shot for both of my collections, and got underway on the third part of my main cross-over epic. All during finals week. So, whoops. But what's not good for my grades is good for you guys, cause you get a chapter. This one is the SanSan perspective of my Arya/Jaqen one-shot "Sweat and Steel", which is...ch. 6 I think of A Man and a Girl. You don't have to read that to read and understand this, but I like them both, so if you feel like it, I think you should. So yeah, Roman gladiator AU is the deal for these. Umm...I'll probably have another chapter up pretty soon (like within the next two weeks) because I've been writing so much this past week and am now done with finals. So keep an eye out for that. Also, just a reminder that I will take requests if you'd like to do them, for either new chapters, or continuations of old ones. Even though nobody's outright asked, I'll do one soon(ish) to continue Ch. 1 since a few people have mentioned that in reviews, and while we're on the subject, thank you to Mari88 and magnus374 for reviewing Ch. 9. And that's all, so just read and enjoy!
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin.
Rating: M for strong language, abuse, sexual content, and violence.
When Sansa was young, she loved the excitement and grandeur of Rome. The palace where she lived with her family was ornate and lavish, and she felt like royalty simply walking its halls.
At ten, her betrothal to the emperor's eldest son, Joffrey, was arranged and while her siblings watched the battles of the arena with excitement and fear, she spent her days dreaming of what it would be like to rule as Empress of Rome.
That all changed when Emperor Robert Baratheon was assassinated, and his closest friend, her father, Eddard Stark, spoke out against the claim of his son to the throne. He spoke of incest and treachery, and for such treason, Joffrey had him executed. That was the day her dreams were shattered.
She had seen hints of Joffrey's cruelty before, but had ignored them in favor of his handsome looks and the false charm that he presented. Her father's execution fully awakened it, however, and he marched her to the battlements where his head lay rotting atop a sharpened spike.
"This is what happens to traitors," he hissed. "I expect you to know better than your father did."
When she tried to tear her eyes away, he struck her, and then stalked away as her lip began to bleed. She heard footsteps behind her a moment later and prepared to hear his taunting voice again. Instead, it was Joffrey's sworn shield who stood behind her, and silently, he knelt before her, bringing a roughspun handkerchief up to wipe the blood from her lips.
Slowly, she raised her gaze to meet his, but the horrible burns across his face forced her to look away, and after a moment, he stood and offered it to her. "Keep it. You'll need it more than I do."
Over the long years that followed, she used the simple brown fabric to wipe away the tears that Joffrey caused, and even though he still frightened her, she never forgot the strange kindness of Sandor Clegane.
Sandor had first fought for the Lannisters as a boy hardly older than Sansa, and as his prowess in battle became apparent and he grew into a giant of a man, he was given charge of the young prince. He became Joffrey's shadow, and in time, people began to call him the Hound, for his loyalty to the crown and his ferocity on the field of battle.
He had been burned as a child, and whatever handsomeness there may have once been in his features was marred by the horrible scars across his face. He was feared throughout the entirety of the Roman Empire, and for a time, Sansa cowered when he was about.
They had few interactions, and when they did, he was often too drunk to control his mouth, and each time he barked some awful truth that sent the girl skittering away to her chambers. He watched the way she looked at Joffrey with distaste, and wondered when it would be that she realized the truth of his nature. He had sworn to protect the prince's life, but that didn't mean he didn't think the prick deserved to die.
In the end, it took her family's murder to change her, and she stopped smiling as she once had, growing reserved and withdrawn in her grief.
He didn't know why he gave her his handkerchief, nor why she had looked at him the way she had, but as the years passed, he kept an eye on her, and told himself it was because he felt partially responsible for Joffrey's actions.
Two long years had passed since that day when Sandor intervened again, unwilling to watch Joffrey's cruelty toward the girl.
He had been dismissed from his duties as the newly crowned Emperor's sworn shield, and instead had become a gladiator for Joffrey's arena, fighting beneath a snarling dog's helm and cutting down each and every man he fought. He dreamed that one day he would fight his brother in the high walls of the arena and finally kill him for what he had done.
It was as he was returning from a fight that he heard Joffrey's sneering voice from the throne room, and he hesitated for a moment.
"Strip her, Trant," he commanded, and he could hear the sound of the girl's crying over the tearing of fabric. "I want them all to see what it is that I'll have in my bed once we're wed."
Sandor's jaw clenched at the taunt and he strode into the throne room, disgusted by the sight before him. The high lords and ladies of the court were gathered in the galleries and they snickered and sneered at Sansa as her dress was torn from her back. What skin he could see was red with brutal welts, and Meryn Trant still held the sword he had beaten her with in his hand.
Her tears had no effect on the men before her, and when Sandor shouted across the room, she turned her gaze to him, her wide blue eyes rimmed with red and filled with pain and humiliation.
"That's enough!"
For a moment, Joffrey looked as though he meant to argue, but a glance at Sandor's furious expression changed his mind, and he merely dismissed her with a wave.
"Go then," he snarled, and his eyes turned to the older and much larger man, dark with anger. "But don't expect my dog to always come to your rescue."
Sansa's lip trembled as Sandor helped to her feet, and when her ruined dress slipped lower on her body, he tore his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her to cover her nakedness. With valiant effort, he kept his eyes forward, and tried not to think of how her body had changed with her budding womanhood. Soon, she would have her first moon's blood, and then would be forced to marry Joffrey.
"Thank you," she said quietly as he walked her to her chambers.
He shrugged his massive shoulders and avoided her gaze. "A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats."
When he left her at her door, she lingered for a long moment, and after that day, she never looked at him the same.
It was just before Sansa's fifteenth nameday that she woke to sheets soaked with blood, and with trembling hands, she tried to burn them, her eyes wet with tears as smoke filled her room. In the end, her maidservant discovered her frantic attempts to hide the evidence of her flowering, and within a fortnight, preparations for the wedding were being made.
Sansa endured them as she must, but with each day, her heart grew heavier with dread, and when the day finally came, she could hardly breathe over the terror that tightened her chest.
Lords and ladies from all across the empire attended the ceremony, and a fight was held in honor of the new Empress, the Hound against Jory Cassel, one of her father's old men who had spent the time since his execution in the castle dungeon.
The fight was a reminder to Sansa of what became of disloyalty to the crown, and her stomach weakened at the thought of being forced to submit to her husband's cruel whims.
A banquet followed, and Sansa watched as Joffrey's guests drank and laughed. She felt as though they were laughing at her, and not for the first time, she wished that she too had been killed alongside her parents and siblings. Only she and Arya had escaped the sword, and Joffrey had assured her that his men had found her sister and sent her to a similar fate.
"You look like a bloody bird," she heard from behind her, and when she turned, it was the drunken gaze of Sandor Clegane that met her own. "A pretty little bird, always chirping her courtesies."
He sneered and she could smell the wine on his breath as he leaned toward her. "Lions aren't kind to birds." His eyes wandered from her feathered collar to the low cut of her gown, and there was a darkness in his eyes that she found both frightening and exhilarating.
"I'm glad you won the fight this evening," she said quietly, and it was almost true. Though she had once cared for Jory as she had all of her father's men that she had grown up around, Sandor was the only one who had ever tried to protect her from Joffrey, and for that, she was glad he had lived.
He snorted at that, refilling his goblet and emptying it again in one long pull. "That's what I'm made for, little bird." His words were slurred, but there was an anger behind the drunken haze of his eyes. "I killed my first man at twelve. I've lost count of how many I've killed since then. High lords with old names, fat rich men dressed in velvet, knights puffed up like bladders with their honors, yes, and woman and children too—they're all meat, and I'm the butcher."
His teeth bared in a snarl and it harshly twisted the burns across his face. As she once had as a girl, she found herself frightened of him, and she stammered as much as he went straight for a bottle of wine on the long table.
"You're scaring me."
Sandor laughed harshly at that, and his eyes left her to find Joffrey across the room. "It isn't me that should frighten you."
Sansa's heart clenched at that and she looked to her husband, remembering once more what was expected of her on their wedding night.
"He won't be kind to you, little bird," Sandor said darkly, and he spat out the words as though they disgusted him. "They'll call for the bedding soon, and they'll laugh as he fucks you and makes you cry." Sansa's lip trembled, but he merely continued. "Do your duty. Endure what you must and maybe he won't beat you as he does his whores."
Sansa's eyes were wide with terror when they met his, and he left her to her terrible fate as he stumbled away in search of another drink.
Hours later, as Sandor sat in the darkness of his chambers, not even the pounding of his skull could keep the sounds of the cheering crowd at bay. They yelled obscene suggestions through the door and he imagined Sansa within, her pretty dress torn by Joffrey's greedy hands and her face wet with tears as he ravished her. He knew Joffrey would not be gentle, and for a brief drunken moment, he wished that he had fulfilled the darkest of his fantasies and gone to her chambers one night, taking her maidenhead so Joffrey wouldn't have had the satisfaction. Sometimes, he even imagined that she would have allowed it.
When not beneath her maid's watchful eye, Sansa made herself moon tea, and she drank it every time that Joffrey came to her, his hands around her throat as he grunted and sweat above her. She had heard whispers of pleasure found when with a man, but she felt nothing but pain and disgust when her husband took her.
She drank the tea so that his seed would never grow within her, and she hoped that in time, if he believed her to be barren, he would dismiss her and marry another. She would never bear a Lannister child, of that she was sure.
One day, several months after the wedding, Joffrey ordered a fight to honor the visit of a nearby ruler, and he pitted the Hound against Beric Dondarrion. By Joffrey's command, the outlaw turned gladiator fought with a sword alight with flame, and Sansa watched with horror as Sandor was forced to face his greatest fear. Joffrey knew what it was that he had done, and there was a cruel twist to his lips as the announcer called for the fight to begin.
Sandor fought with unparalleled fury, but Sansa could see the panic that shone in his eyes with every shower of sparks from Beric's blade. As the smaller man began to grow desperate, he lashed out, and Sandor's shield was set ablaze. The fire spread to his arm as he cut Beric clean in half with a cry of rage, and Sansa's heart leapt to her throat as he desperately tried to extinguish the flames. She could see where the fire had burned through the cloth beneath his armor, and knew that he would be scarred once again.
Joffrey's laughter grated in her ears as Sandor's eyes grew wet with tears, and she excused herself from his side, hurrying below to where the gladiators waited as the crowd roared their approval.
His arm was being wrapped in bandages when she arrived, and the physicians scurried away when they saw their empress, leaving the two of them alone.
"I'll kill him," Sandor said darkly, but his gaze was still misty and there was fear behind the anger in his deep grey eyes. "I swear to the gods, I'll kill him, little bird."
Sansa shook her head slowly as she met his eyes, and she stepped toward him, her hand moving to his bare chest as it heaved shakily beneath her touch.
"If you do they will only kill you too."
"Maybe that's what I deserve," he growled, and his eyes found Beric's still bleeding body in the center of the arena. "If it isn't his executioner who does it, it will be someone in the arena one day."
She shook her head again, and when he looked back to her, she saw a desperation and agony in his gaze that made her heart rise to her throat. He had been strangely kind to her since her family's deaths, and now that she was a woman grown, she thought she understood why. There was a hunger in his features as he looked at her that she sometimes felt when she thought of him, her fingers brushing experimentally between her thighs.
In the darkened tunnels beneath the arena, she pressed herself against him, and when his ruined mouth fell to meet hers, she felt something that Joffrey had never awakened within her. As his hands tangled in her hair and she sighed against his lips, they succumbed to their desires, no matter the consequences.
It was nearly a half a year since Sansa had been made Empress that a rebellion on the northern edge of the Empire grew to be more than a band of rebels, and Joffrey declared war upon the insurgents. He would march at their helm, and told his young wife that he would return in no more than a few months, victorious.
In his absence, he ordered his former sworn shield to watch over the Empress, and as he always had, Sandor obeyed. A cruel gleam lit Joffrey's eyes as he imagined his wife being forced into the presence of the scarred and ferocious warrior, and he did not see the look that passed between them. In the end, he would be made a fool.
They watched as he marched from the palace gates with an army at his back, and as he receded from view, Sandor moved his arm from the hilt of his sword to the curve of Sansa's waist as she leaned into him.
"You're free of him, little bird."
She nodded wearily and sighed. "For now."
The gladiator and the Roman Empress had had little time alone since they first gave into their feelings for one another. They met in the dead of night when they were able, in darkened alcoves of the palace, and Sansa forgot about Joffrey's touch in his arms, accepting his kisses and caresses eagerly and giving shyly in return.
With him gone from the palace, they had a freedom they weren't used to, but there were still watching eyes within its walls, loyal to the Lannisters.
By the emperor's orders, Sandor had retired from the arena to watch over Sansa, and she was relieved that he was no longer forced to fight, though each day brought them closer to the dreaded day of Joffrey's return.
One warm summer night, they stood on the castle battlements, and Sansa sighed as she looked at the city below. "I came up here," she said quietly. "The night after the wedding. I stood and stared down at the people in the streets, and I thought of how simple it would be to escape this life."
Sandor's arms tightened around her waist and he bent his head to kiss her neck. "I won't lose you, little bird," he murmured, and she smiled at the address. He had meant it mockingly that night, so drunk he could barely stand. But he had grown to use it affectionately, and she enjoyed how it sounded in the deep rasp of his voice.
"Won't you?" she asked. "Joffrey will return and you will fight again and I will be forced to endure him within me even if it's you in my mind."
Sandor's expression darkened at the reminder that another man shared Sansa's bed, and he ran his thumb across her collarbone, watching as goosebumps rose beneath his touch.
"I wish I could have made things different, little bird," he murmured. "I nearly drank myself to death that night, and still I couldn't shake the thought of him in your bed. For a moment, I even wished I had taken your maidenhead."
Sansa sighed at that and leaned her head back against his shoulder. "Sometimes I wished the same."
Sandor's heart quickened at the confession, and for what felt like the thousandth time, he forced down the urge to take her. She was another man's wife, and though he loved her, he would not do anything that she did not want. Simply being in his arms was enough to name her traitor if they were ever discovered, but if she gave herself to him, they would surely be killed.
Sansa turned in his grasp and looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark in the light of the moons. "How much further is there to fall?" She could sense his thoughts, by either his expression or his body's reaction to her soft curves against him, and there was a wanton desire in her eyes that was grievously tempting.
"I have already given you my heart," she continued, and her hand moved to the laces of his tunic. "And I wish to be yours in truth."
"In truth?" he echoed. "You're the Empress Sansa Lannister of Rome. Even if it were possible, the Clegane name is too lowly for you to bear."
"Then take me," she breathed, brushing her lips against his. "If I cannot be yours in the eyes of the law, then make me yours in those of the gods. I want to feel you inside me and know that I still have a hand in my own fate."
The Hound had earned his name for his obedience, and he was powerless to resist Sansa's command. Their fingers worked swiftly over laces and ties, and her skin shone in the moonlight as she stood bare before him, open to his touch and taste.
Though she was no longer a maiden, she was inexperienced still, for she did nothing more than suffer Joffrey's touch, and knew little of pleasuring a man.
Guided by the whispers she had heard in the servants' halls, she fell to her knees and Sandor's hands tangled instinctively in her hair as he swore. "Fuck, little bird," he groaned. "Where in the hells did you learn to do that?"
Emboldened by his reaction, she shrugged her shoulders and continued the motion of her lips. For a moment, Sandor let her continue, and he found a perverse satisfaction in the sight of the empress herself on her knees before him. She was the most beautiful woman in Rome, and he, a scarred and brutal gladiator, had somehow earned her love and attentions. Even the clumsy movements of her mouth felt a thousand times better than those of the most experienced whore.
When he gently moved her head and knelt before her, her expression grew shy and hesitant, and he kissed her soundly to dispel her worries. "I can't wait any longer, Sansa," he said lowly, and her eyes were dark as he lowered her onto the blanket they had brought, covering her smooth, soft body with his own rough and scarred one.
She nodded and her head lolled back with a sigh as he bent his head to envelop one of her hardened nipples. Joffrey would grope roughly at her breasts when he came to her, but Sandor was slow and as gentle as he could be expected to be, his tongue toying with her sensitive nerves as she shuddered beneath him.
"Please," she breathed, wrapping a hand around his neck and sliding the other across his back. "I need you."
Her body thrummed with desire and she felt a surge of moisture between her thighs that surprised her. When it was Joffrey within her, her body did what it could to ease the discomfort, but she felt no arousal. The mere brush of Sandor's hands across her skin sent her muddled mind spinning and she longed to feel him with an urgency that startled her.
Her back arched as he did as she asked, and a moan left her lips as he found his place deep inside her. Suddenly, she understood the giggles and whispers she had heard as a girl. Never before had she felt so utterly and completely alive.
On the roof, beneath the stars and the watchful gaze of the gods, they gave themselves to each other fully at last, and as they shuddered and cried in unison, Sansa's life was changed forever, no longer simply following the whims of Fate.
Joffrey's men, though victorious, did not return home as soon as they had hoped. Two months passed, and then three, and four. Sansa began to hope that he would never return, and with each day, she fell deeper in love with Sandor Clegane, though she knew that it was foolish and rash to feel such for a man who was not her husband.
When she couldn't sleep, she walked through the halls on bare feet and let herself into his chambers. Though he did not complain, and wanted nothing more than to spend every night with her, he feared for her life, and his own, and knew that they could not be so careless when Joffrey returned.
Eventually, news of their impending arrival reached the city, and though Sandor tried in vain to distance himself from Sansa in preparation, she came to him on the night before they were due to return.
"You shouldn't be here, little bird," he murmured as she slipped into his chambers. She wore only her thin nightshift, and the curves of her body through the sheer fabric made his mind grow muddled.
"I know," she said quietly as she dropped the shift to the floor and settled atop his lap. "But I needed to be with you, if only just once more."
Though he sighed, he understood, and when she kissed him, he moved his hands to her hips. They felt fuller in his palms than he remembered, and he admired her for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut momentarily as she took him inside of her. Her breasts were full and round and bounced enticingly as she moved above him, and he tried to memorize the sight of her.
"I love you, Sandor," she whispered, and he brushed the tears from her cheeks as he responded in kind.
"I love you too, Sansa."
They savored the feel of each other as they made love, and when Sansa lie slumped across Sandor's still heaving chest, she whispered something quietly against his shoulder.
Sandor's eyes opened and shut slowly and he rubbed a hand across her back. "What, little bird?"
There was fear and longing in her gaze when she lifted her head, and his heart clenched as she repeated herself.
"I'm with child."
Sandor's eyes fell to her stomach and he stared for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "Are you sure?"
Sansa nodded, and he let out a shaky breath at the motion. "Gods, Sansa...a baby. My baby."
A slight smile tugged at her lips and she nodded again. "Yes."
As the initial surge of pride faded, he thought of the consequences, and he swore under his breath. "What are we going to do if you give birth and the babe looks like me?"
Sansa shrugged slightly, running her fingers through the long strands of his dark hair. "My father and sister had coloring akin to yours. Though I inherited the Tully look, the Starks were of the North, like you."
Sandor nodded absently and leaned forward to kiss her, slowly and deeply. When he pulled away, he saw tears in her eyes and he swore to her on his life that he would protect her and their child, no matter what it took.
When Joffrey returned, Sandor spent much of his time in the city. He could not bear to witness what he would do to Sansa, and he did not trust himself around her any longer, particularly in the Emperor's presence.
He was eyeing a jeweled brooch at a vendor along the street when a man approached him, dressed in fine clothes and with hair dyed a garish shade of red on one side and a stark white on the other.
"You are Sandor Clegane, are you not?" The man asked, and Sandor sighed heavily before turning to meet his gaze, arms crossed over his broad chest.
"Aye. What of it?"
The lord appeared to be of an age with Sandor, if not only just younger, and he looked the larger man over for a moment before responding.
"My name is Lord Jaqen H'ghar. I am looking to sponsor a gladiator for our Emperor's arena."
Sandor snorted at that. "I don't fight anymore. Bugger off."
A street rat ran across his path in pursuit of a pigeon as he turned to leave, and when he swore irritably and stalked away, Jaqen H'ghar's gaze followed him for only a moment, before turning to the girl in the alleyway.
Perhaps, Sandor thought bitterly. She can be his champion.
Much to Sansa's delight, and Sandor's frustration, Joffrey commanded the former Hound to continue his watch over the Empress. Some scrawny boy by the name of Arry Snow had begun to fight in the arena, and had proven to be a surprisingly able fighter. In light of his rise through the gladiatorial ranks, Joffrey thought he would prove to be a great entertainment, and dismissed Sandor from returning to the arena in favor of the new champion.
It was as Joffrey watched the fights in the arena that Sandor and Sansa were able to slip away, and they spent much of their time on the battlements, far from the prying eyes of the court. Beneath the blue of the sky they imagined what could never be, and Sandor watched his lover's body grow with equal measure of pride and fear. When he was able to see her bare before him, the growing swell of her belly was evident, and he was afraid that Joffrey could see it too, and would soon realize the nature of her condition. When that day did come, he only hoped that the emperor was foolish enough to believe the child was his.
After a string of impressive victories by the young gladiator Snow, Joffrey invited he and his sponsor to the palace. Sansa agreed to attend the dinner held in his honor, but paid little attention. The sponsor was a charming and handsome man, and the gladiator a scruffy looking teen. Joffrey listened to them with interest, but Sansa couldn't find it in herself to care.
The night before, Joffrey had come to her chambers and told her what he had planned for young Arry Snow. He would return the Hound to the arena and pit the boy against him, to kill Sandor, or likely, die trying. Either way, it would be a battle for the ages, for Sandor was the single most renowned fighter aside from his brother, and Arry Snow was growing to be a favorite of those who gathered to watch and bet on the fights.
The thought of losing Sandor had been troubling even before she had realized and acted upon her feelings for him, but now, she feared that he might die without ever being able to meet their child. She knew he was an able fighter, but Arry Snow had proven to be the same, and she could not shake the fear from her mind.
The meal stretched on for hours, and Sansa tried to hide her relief when Joffrey finally rose and invited Jaqen H'ghar back to his solar to discuss the upcoming fight. As soon as he left, Sansa hurried away, unaware of Snow's gaze on her back.
She found Sandor pacing the hall outside her chambers, and her eyes welled with tears as he caught sight of her. She made to run toward him, but he shook his head sharply, his gaze searching the surrounding halls with deep paranoia. As much as he wanted to hold her and feel her against him, he would not condemn his child to death for the sake of his lust.
"You've heard then," he said warily, and Sansa's tears fell to her cheeks as she nodded.
"Must you return?" Her tone was desperate, and afraid. "I thought your fighting days were over."
Sandor sighed at that and his guard dropped slightly as he ran a hand across his face. "I thought so too, little bird, but after that new whelp killed Joffrey's favorite, he's gotten bored. He wants me back, to either kill Snow or die trying. Either way, it would be a good show for the bastard."
"How could you say such a thing?" Sansa replied, her voice rising in anger. She strode to meet him and placed a hand against his chest, her eyes filled with fear and hopelessness. "You know I couldn't live without you. And what about..." She moved a hand to the swell of her growing belly and Sandor gripped her forearms to stop the motion.
"Hush, little bird," he hissed. "Do you want them to kill us both?" He sighed heavily as her lower lip trembled and he held her against him for a brief moment, only allowing himself to give her the comfort she needed.
After a moment, she tilted her head to look at him and spoke quietly. "Just promise that you'll come back to me. To us. Don't let him tear us apart."
Sandor's expression softened at her plea and he nodded wearily, meeting her lips in a tender kiss. When he pulled away, he gestured for her to go before they were discovered, and reluctantly, she obeyed, hurrying away around the corner.
He watched her go for a moment before following. A slight young man turned the corner just as he approached and Sandor stopped short, glaring down at the lad. Arry Snow, he assumed, for he still remembered the flamboyance of his sponsor from the market.
"Do you know the way to the Emperor's solar, ser?" he stammered, an awkward smile gracing his young and boyish features.
"I'm no ser," Sandor snarled. "And get the fuck out of my way."
He brushed past angrily and stormed off down the hall, furious at Joffrey for returning him to the arena to fight such a pathetic looking bastard boy.
If he was to die, it would not be at that whelp's hands, he would be sure of that.
Two months passed in preparation for the fight, and with each day, Sansa's worries grew. Sandor assured her that he would survive the battle, but she had frequent nightmares of his body in the arena, and could not shake the images from his mind, even in the light of day.
Finally, on the day before the fight was to be held, she decided to take matters into her own hands, and she took a carriage to Lord H'ghar's manor, determined to speak to Arry Snow.
A servant met her at the door with wide eyes, and when she asked to see the gladiator, and recently named knight, in mention, she scurried away.
A moment later, the young boy met her in the hall, and he bent into a low bow when he stood before her. "My lady."
"Ser Snow," Sansa replied with cold courtesy, before glancing nervously about for any sign of listening ears. "Is there somewhere more private that we could speak?"
The gladiator hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yes, my lady. This way."
He led the way to his private quarters, and when the door was closed, Sansa spoke, far too nervous to think of the impropriety of the situation. "You are fighting against S..." She faltered and hastily corrected her error. "The Hound on the morrow. It is imperative that he wins."
Arry stared at her with an expression of incredulity before narrowing his eyes and taking a step toward her. "Do you realize what it is that you're asking of me?"
Of course she did. As frightened as she had become, she understood that if anyone knew what she was asking, her secret would be discovered and she would be sentenced with high treason and condemned to death.
Sansa nodded slowly and rested her hands on the curve of her swiftly growing belly. "I'm asking you to die."
"And you expected me to just roll over and accept this?" His voice rose in anger and Sansa flushed, her resolve broken in the face of the gladiator's sudden aggression.
"I told you," she stammered. "You must. There is no other option."
"Did the emperor send you here?" he spat. "I thought Joffrey wanted to see a battle, not a slaughter. Gods damn it, Sans, I can't just give up my life like that!"
"You don't understand!" Sansa wailed, stepping toward him and taking one of his hands desperately between her own. "You must! I can't—he can't die!" Overcome with emotion, she burst into tears and fled the room, leaving Arry to watch her go, alone with his choice.
"Lords and ladies, knights and paramours!" The arena's announcer began as he always did, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. Sansa sat to Joffrey's right, her heart pounding in her chest. "Allow me to welcome you...to...the...arena!"
The crowd roared their excitement, and Sansa felt her stomach turn.
"Today's battle brings you two able warriors. The first is a monster of a man, brought back to the arena for this very…special…occasion!" The far gate began to rise, and he shouted over the crowds applause as Sandor stalked into the arena. "I give you...The Hound!"
Foolishly and impulsively, she had gone to him the night before, and though he had warned her against her actions, he did not dismiss her. They had moved together with a desperation that only served to fuel her fear, and when she returned to her chambers, she left him with a ribbon from her shift, a favor to wear in the battle. She could see it now across the arena, fluttering about the hilt of his sword as he met her gaze.
"His opponent is the man you've all grown to know and love, the bastard turned barbarian beneath his sponsor's tutelage." The second gate began its ascent and Sandor's opponent emerged a moment after his name was called. "I give you...Ser...Arry...Snow!"
The arena fell silent and still as the two fighters eyed each other warily across the blood-soaked field.
"Let the battle...begin!"
When the call was made, the bastard boy stalked toward Sandor, who drew his sword and planted his feet in the dirt. He was only a few steps away and Sansa's heart was in her throat when he stopped suddenly and threw his sword to the ground.
In the shocked silence that followed, his voice echoed, and every man, woman, and child in the stands leaned forward to hear him speak.
"I forfeit."
The silence continued for a few seconds before shattering in a torrent of shocked murmurs, one voice rising above all the others with a childish petulance. "He can't do that! I'm the emperor and I say he can't! Fight, damn it! I came here to see a fight!"
Joffrey stood and swore viciously at her side, but before anyone could think to move, Snow lifted a hand and removed his helmet.
Sansa stared down at the man—woman—before her with dawning realization, and her eyes filled with tears. Sandor had been spared, her child would know his father, and now her sister stood before her, covered in dirt and blood, but alive.
A dead silence reigned again and gave the woman below the opportunity to speak once more. "My name is not Arry Snow. And I am no man." She met her sister's gaze with blazing grey eyes, and her lips curved into a grin of triumph. "I am Arya Stark."