Thank you to TopShelfCrazy for a beta read that made what I intended to say much clearer.
Thank you to anyone who may be reading.
xxxxxxx
"The villagers were building a wooden palisade around their homes, and when they saw the breadth of the Hound's shoulders they offered them food and shelter and even coin for work." Arya Stark, ASOIAF, about the Hound getting a job in a village in the riverlands
Twelve
The Hound woke dreaming of tight knots. Of curtains, leather straps with moon and falcon on them, and of building a palisade in a little village. Of brooding over a kettle of boiling broth and two days of unequalled joy.
In the past, he was rarely asked to make things. Even when the Faith sheltered him, his labour concerned death.
The Stranger was the unmaker.
Death was always a possibility. Not now. He rejected it firmly. Some other time. There'll be plenty of new opportunities for it.
He would not be the deathbringer. He would carve a wooden knight for himself, all by himself, with pretty joints which could bend, and move and fight.
Sansa had drifted closer to him in her sleep, plump and soft against the hard planes of his chest. One of her tiny hands brushed Sandor's neck, just under the missing ear. It was… ticklish and it was what woke him. They had both dressed for sleeping, bringing back far too much fabric between them for the Hound's liking.
It is for the better.
He needed, he wanted a clear mind this morning. He had to keep his wits with him. He felt the same with the imminent arrival of a battle or joust. The dead, clear focus on his body as a well-honed weapon.
Rapidly, he realised where Sansa's other hand was; stuck in the laces of his smallclothes. He immediately took it out, resisting a new urge, one he'd never experienced before; to kiss her fingers tenderly and wake her with sweet words… Provided he could think of some. He had never softened his expressions before.
Grey morning brought him fresh determination. He needed no new courage. He had always been brave, and at times more than it was good for him. This truth didn't prevent him from hatefully denying it in Sansa's face on the roof of the Red Keep. He... he had never been brave enough when it came to Sansa. And she... she chirped how valiant he had been when he had saved her in the riot. She did not mean any of it. She did not know what she was saying. She was too young.
She means it now. Every word and every touch by the looks of it. She might not call it love... but it surely isn't hatred. The Hound pushed away fiercely both the inopportune thought and the terrifying hope it contained.
Bravery was unimportant. It did not save him from Gregor as a boy. It could not change anything. Strength could. But a man, no matter how strong, could not hope to best the world. If they stayed in the Eyrie, they were doomed. If they reached the valley floor safely, sooner or later he would lose Sansa.
He had fooled himself into believing he could stay as her guard; two nights with Sansa in his bed taught him better. He would not be able to stand having to watch another man take that place from him. So when this inevitably occurred, it was best if he left.
The Stranger was never far. And the sworn killer served him by nature. There was no telling what he could do if he allowed himself to stay.
Let me lose her much later then, he thought stubbornly. Maybe, in his way, he talked to the absent gods who made both the butchers and the weak. Let me lose her only in a month, in a year. In three years. As late as possible. As late as never.
He wriggled out of bed and dressed warmly, abandoning Sansa to her dreams, tucking her up in linens, blankets and furs that smelled of both of them. The boy… the boy was falling off the bed on the other side. He shoved him back and covered him as well. He did not bother to rekindle the dying fire. Instead, he hurried to the tower where he'd cried, the one overlooking the waterfall.
Today they would leave the bloody castle hung from the sky.
The sun, faultlessly present when it was not needed, decided to betray Sandor, hiding its face behind the flat, overcast sky. The lower levels of the castle were buried in fog. Seven white towers grew out of the sea of silvery mist on top of the Giant's Lance, as if painted over the dark clouds by bold strokes of a skilled artist's brush. He could not see the exact position of the waterfall, only hear it.
Yet the dog's hearing was sharp, confirming his memories of the place, comparing them with the layout of the dungeons in the Eyrie.
If he could lower himself down from that last, extremely slanted sky cell, he might be able to pass through Alyssa's Tears.
But where would he arrive? What was behind?
Sandor was a child of the West. He drew his quaint hope for leaving the Eyrie from the memory of the lands of his youth, where there were plenty of high, craggy cliffs a man could scale. The Casterlys were not the only ones who had had their bloody castle built inside a rock.
With mad luck, it could be the same here. The crag behind Alyssa's Tears might be possible to scale down, tracing a direct way to the valley floor; much shorter than the sinuous steps carved by the Arryns, which ran in great circles up and down the windswept mountain. Besides, the heavy mass of unfrozen, running water might keep some autumn warmth in the space behind it, and the ice away. The stony descent, if accessible, shouldn't be as slippery as the main path to the Eyrie from the Gates of the Moon.
Maybe they could go down in a single winter day. Maybe Sansa and the boy could walk at least partially on their own, without him having to carry them. He already counted on being a mule dragging food, armour and the best blade he could choose from the ridiculous ones available. If they made it safely down to where the waterfall ended, there could be lairs of wild animals on the lowest, still green and forested slopes of the Giant's Lance.
Without any luck, the rock behind Alyssa's Tears would be polished like a mirror, falling sharply down, smoother than the outer walls of Casterly Rock.
Unusable, except for breaking a neck.
One way to find out, he thought, walking, planning, pondering.
In the cellars, Sandor detached the broken chain from the winch, and hauled it to the doorstep of the last sky cell. He tied one end of it to the flat stone beam above the doorway, hoping his knot was as good as Sansa's. The large, rough blocks of masonry in the lower levels of the castle did look as though they had been handled by giants in the past. Most likely they were not, but the beam should be able to hold the weight of all three of them and a bit more. He let the loose end of the chain fall into the muddy blue depth of the sky, and crawled to the edge of the cell on all fours, to see in which direction it now hung.
Dark grey clouds foamed like tired horses, sinking into the mist where the chain was lost. The invisible waterfall roared, in place where Sandor assumed it was, and not any farther. The metal links dangled in the void. He shook them hard, looked back. The knot was holding. He was tempted to lower himself down immediately, but that would be a foolish thing to do.
The Hound meant to secure his descent by making more knots, out of some bloody hangings the castle was polluted with, and space them evenly over the chain. He counted on having to return up twice, to carry his two charges one by one through the waterfall. He could use more grip for that.
Besides, the girl and the little lord should better be ready to follow or they might waste one more day.
Give a day to Gregor and he will be here. Sandor knew his brother's determination better than anyone. It was the same as his own.
He would not wait for Gregor armed with a metal stick instead of a proper sword.
With thoughts of death and ruin on his mind, he returned to bed and to his previous state of undress, sneaking under the covers next to Sansa, embracing her harder than he intended in her sleep.
He wondered if she would stiffen all over again from being just a little bit under him, once she stopped dreaming.
His mind felt cloyed now, like the dim and foggy morning in the Eyrie. He couldn't help but wonder… Why did Sansa cling to him as no woman had ever done before? And why did she then shy from him, so honestly and so prominently, whenever his passion made him behave as any man would with a willing woman? Lay her down. Have her. There surely wasn't anything wrong with him being on top, what, with her wanting him? He knew where to put his weight, and he had yet to squash a lady by bedding her.
The first night he thought she fretted only because of her maidenhead. Now, he feared it was something more. Whenever he tried to take matters between them into his hands, she was horrified. As if he was about to hurt her. And then she sought him with abandon he had not yet seen in a woman, as soon as he let her do as she wanted.
And let her he would. Because he couldn't do otherwise. Because he always ended up noticing her fear and discomfort even when he'd been out of his mind. Because he was marvelled by the discovery that what she did with him was better than he had ever imagined any touching with a woman could be. He just wished she would grant him the same trust.
No, a lie right there. No one was free of lies. Not even the Hound, or not entirely.
Sandor did not want only Sansa's permission to have her. He wanted her desire for him to be as painful as his own. He wished she would let him do as he wanted because she yearned for him so hard, body and soul, that she could not act any different.
Because she loved him…
But in this, Sansa had been more honest with him than he had ever been with himself. She told him frankly she did not love him. She just wanted to train herself, it seemed, in what every wench of her age and quite a few ladies already knew. The notion made him both excited and wild. Mad with joy that she so obviously chose him for that, and wild with fear he would want to kill her when she left him for someone else.
No one loved the Stranger. No one lit candles to the god of death. But he still took all in the end.
Are you dreaming of handsome knights, pretty bird?
Maybe she did, but she'd come to his bed twice now, and she did it with pleasure. He would not fault her for her dreams.
A blue eye opened and closed.
"Sandor," she said sweetly. Her hand reached for his scars and found them. "It is you. Thank the gods."
Who else? he thought bitterly, before realising it was the first time she called him by his name.
"We should get going," he rasped gruffly, afraid, afraid, afraid. Full of impossible hope. She surely sounded as if she cared for him now, no matter what she'd told him. The delusion was too much. Too believable. "There is another way down. You won't like it, but it exists."
Her eyes filled with curiosity and her body tensed, ready to spring into motion. On a second thought, she stayed where she was, studying his face, blessedly unbothered by his too tight embrace, unlike the morning before.
Suddenly she looked away and complained frostily, "Yesterday you kissed me."
He tilted her chin back. She had to look at him again and she did. Both of her hands were on his face now. He hesitated, torn between his wishes and hers.
"Sandor," she said carefully, as if she was tasting his name. "Are you now the one pretending we did nothing?"
"Watch me," he said, stirred to action by her demanding coldness, "I will lay over you now," he warned her. She stiffened. Yet she remained in place, not saying anything, holding on to his cheeks. He kissed her hungrily, disrespectfully, once, twice, making her gasp. It was not nearly enough. Her shift and smallclothes were not an obstacle. He pushed one up and the other down as Sansa kissed him back, oblivious to him undressing her. Rapidly, his lips left hers, ran down, found a breast, briefly touched another. They trailed a warm path down her belly and between her legs. She was wet when he licked her cunt and jerked wildly against his face.
"How is this for nothing?" he muttered, doubting she could hear him.
Her nails were on his scalp, his hands on her buttocks. He gave her cunt a good, long look. It was soft and perfect, with just the right amount of correctly coloured hair. He would die happy if that was his lot today; smelling Sansa, tasting Sansa. She might have tried to get away, or change position but he wouldn't have it now. This could not hurt her, nor her precious maidenhead if it still existed. With some luck, it might feel good for her. So he just licked her up and down, and many times on the place that made her shriek and writhe if he lingered on it.
Contrary to his expectations before he started it, he was easily able to ignore his own growing needs out of amazement and admiration for the pretty movements and sighs Sansa began to make. He would never admit it to anyone and let him escape with his life, but it was the first time that the bear, or rather, the dog, tasted the honey of any woman's hair when sober. And how sweet it was… Sweeter than the buggering, awful song some lazy cunt had made out of it.
Sansa must have been hitting his head as hard as she could, and the fresh scratches from her nails on his scalp must have been bleeding when he finally realised he should better stop and release her.
She was up in an instant, flushed and angry, catching her breath. Beautiful.
Have you had your pleasure? Was it better than touching yourself with my cock?
"How was that?" he asked, needing an answer, dreading her answer, unable to chase the arrogance of accomplishment out of his voice.
"Don't you ever do that again," she commanded, all ladylike and splendid in her wrath. Sansa dressed faster than any man and stayed as far away from Sandor as the spacious lordly chamber allowed.
"You didn't like it?" he couldn't shut up.
It was not what she wanted to hear.
"That is beside the point!" she exclaimed. "I was asking for a kiss!"
"And I kissed you," he responded bluntly. "Didn't I?"
"You don't love me," she judged, stunning him, cutting him as no one ever did with either word or steel. "No one does. Probably no one ever will. You are the same like all the others. You don't see me, only yourself. I should have never given in to this… to my imaginings of this."
Sandor's breath hitched and a torrent of words remained stuck in his throat. You imagined this? Have you thought about me when I was away? Did you miss me, Sansa? Did you dream about the drunk killer sleeping in your bed? He would have never thought it possible.
Naturally, what Sansa told him next was anything but pretty. "I am not a child any more," she said with extreme regret, and as though she had to remind herself of that fact all the time. "I should have known better than to trust you with myself."
Her fury was on the rise. Despite that, she restrained herself, paused, made a scowl. Her lovely face turned immobile. Sandor felt a terrible unease. He could understand a yelling angry woman better than the silent one.
"Sansa, I-" he began, not knowing what to say, nor what was so wrong in what he did. His utterance of her name brought her rage back.
"I shall not be going anywhere with you," Sansa proclaimed as her final judgement in the matter. "I'd rather die. I should have died when my father did."
"Where are we going?" the boy suddenly asked from his bundle of furs. The Hound had never noticed, but Lord Arryn had fallen to the floor with his bedding at some point. Now he woke from Sansa's strident string of accusations, bright and eager as only young boys could be.
Sandor had to laugh at Sansa's stubbornness and the boy's innocence. It was the best he could do and much better than crying twice in only three days. And since Sansa wouldn't listen to him, at least he was spared the need for further talking.
Laughter was wrong.
Sansa snorted and stormed out of the room with all her feathers up.
"Why is Lady Sansa so angry?"
"You. Shut up and do as I say," the Hound said matter-of-factly.
He ended up fathering the boy into breaking his fast and dressing up. Then he employed his eager little lordship to help him look for Sansa. A blind man could see that the boy was as much in love with his cousin as the Hound. They searched all accessible places in the bloody castle and found no sign of her.
Cold sweat beaded under the mismatched armour Sandor donned for leaving the Eyrie. Nagging fear overtook his soul. She wouldn't have jumped, would she? Some simpering ladies did such stupid things in the songs when their hearts were broken… He hoped he could not break her heart if she didn't love him.
"Sansa, come out!" he shouted as dispassionately as he was able to. "Please!" he added, uncertain why he thought of that word as necessary.
Nothing.
He had somehow ruined everything himself. Worst of all, he didn't know how precisely, nor how to make it better. He turned to brooding and pondering whether a jump from a tower would be a clean death or not when the boy found her, hidden under one of the remaining dead oxen in the cellars, cold like a corpse and red in her face from tears. The sobs betrayed her to his lordship, it seemed.
The Hound dragged her out.
"Go away," she said hatefully.
"I left you once," he reacted instantly, "I won't do it again." He hauled Sansa over one of his shoulders and carried her straight to the bleeding dungeons, ignoring her heartfelt attempts to free herself from his hold and punch his back.
The boy followed behind like a good dog, beaming at his success in finding his pretty cousin.
The Hound chained Sansa to the wall of the sky cell as if she were a noble prisoner of the Arryns. It was not very courteous of him, but this way she could not run back up to the castle, nor take the slanted, sky exit down from it. She cried softly and never said a word. Sandor did his best to ignore the ache her tears caused in his heart.
"Stay here and don't fall out," he ordered the boy at the cell door. "I'll be right back." His rasp sounded feeble, not his own.
"I am not a bad boy," Robin explained in a trembling voice. "Only bad men are made to fly from the Eyrie." The boy sat on the doorstep and waited, with his back turned to the sky.
The Hound busied himself packing as much food as he dared to carry down on his armoured back in a large leather bag. He added flint and steel and some firewood. Finally, he ripped several pairs of thick curtains from the high, shuttered windows of the castle.
Back to the sky cell and ready to go, he pulled the chain back up from the void, and made knots on it, methodically, every three and a half feet or so. Unbidden, the boy began to help with shaking hands, chirping idiocies as he worked. The Hound could not repeat, nor did he remember a single thing Robin Arryn said. But, to his credit, he never went into a nervous fit.
When the man and boy did as good as they could, the Hound lowered himself down the chain into the grey and blue nothing. He lost sight of the castle when his body descended into the fog. The waterfall slowly came into view. It was not far, but it was positioned at a different angle than he had expected. He would have to rock left and right on the chain in order to gain momentum and pass through it. Armour did not help. He was heavier, which would be good once he caught speed, but he would be that much clumsier in catching it.
I should have gone down in rags.
Aye. And fight Gregor in them. I will have one chance in a thousand to bring him down. Best if I use it properly.
He swung his long legs back and forth, and forth and back and up and down, forgetting everything else.
He was a body in movement and he would reach his goal.
On the first try, he underestimated the water pressure. The torrent was sticky and very strong. It nearly sent him flying across the empty sky, whipping him as a lash with a thousand fingers. He managed to rock back. The second time he jerked his legs and his middle forward much more decisively, swallowed quite some ice cold water and was through! But not yet far enough to reach the rock behind, which was much farther from the fall than he had foreseen or thought possible. The slow work of water must have delved it over the centuries. The top of the cliff high above the Hound, where the fall started, jutted out much farther than the cliff face. He had to go two more times through Alyssa's Tears and back, before he managed to land on it.
The rock was free of snow and ice as he had hoped. It descended sharply, but not that steeply that it could not be braved. A narrow, natural path ran down the side of the cliff, between stones of various sizes, with plenty of hold for hands and feet. If one didn't look down too much, to the dark blue nothing, even a child should be able to take it. Sheep and goats most certainly could.
Sandor placed a large loose stone on the end of chain to keep it in place, and scaled the rock just a little bit down, until he found a deeper hollow where he could take off his armour, and unload the provisions he was carrying. The food had stayed reasonably dry in the leather bag he'd used. He would never climb back to the castle in mail, but he decided to take the empty bag in case he needed to bring more things.
In rags, he went back up, for Sansa and Robin.
Alyssa… Alyssa Arryn had to have too many tears. The water torrent soaked every inch of Sandor's body when he launched himself armourless through the fall, using the rock as a base to push himself off, and spring as far as he could. After the forceful cold bath, he probably smelled better than after his long journey to the Eyrie. Yet every frozen muscle in his body warred against him, resisting the necessary effort to climb up the chain. He was miserable, and cold to the bone.
When he grasped the slanted floor of the sky cell and strove to regain his breath, he knew that this would be his last chance. He'd never climb back another time. He had to carry both Sansa and the boy down in one go.
Down is easier than up.
"Will you please go?" he asked Sansa from a distance, dripping water all over the cell, wringing out his hair and the rags he wore. "Or do I have to tie you to myself by force? Either way, you are not staying here. You may think I am some monster, but so is Gregor."
Mutely, she nodded, but she never said a word to him as he unchained her. There were no marks left on her wrists as he feared, but there seemed to be one in her eyes. Why do we always go back to the beginning? He wanted to laugh madly, thought better of it, and just chuckled.
"Undress, both of you," he commanded, realising what the bag would be for.
Sansa looked at him with fresh panic. "It is improper-"
"Not as on your name days," he interrupted her impatiently. They didn't have all day for this. "Keep the tunic, I mean, the shift, and the smallclothes on. Wrap a curtain around you as a cloak. Fold the rest in here," he pointed at the bag he carried, opened it carefully on the floor of the cell. It was the only chance to keep the clothing of his charges somewhat dry.
Sandor had been soaked before, during the incessant travels of Cersei and her brood from King's Landing to the Rock and back, and he had lived through it just fine. It gave him a fever or two and nothing more. But women and children travelled in wheelhouses. He didn't know if Sansa and the boy could withstand the fury of the elements.
When his charges were done obeying him, he put the bag over one of his shoulders and squatted. "You," he called the boy, "on my back."
It would have been probably easier or more balanced if Sansa went on his back and the boy in front, but then he wouldn't be able to see her. And he very much wanted to look at her while committing this latest act of madness.
There would be no going back.
The boy complained. "I don't want to fly."
"You won't fly," the Hound said. "You will take a cold bath and then you will walk. Do you understand?"
Robin Arryn scratched his head and decided in favour of climbing on Sandor's back. "The maester sometimes gives me cold baths," he justified, more to himself than to anyone, as he sank into place. He weighed less than the bag.
Sansa first glared at Sandor, but then she walked into his embrace, wound her slender arms around his neck and tucked her head under his somewhat dry chin. She shivered, from the coldness of his wet garments, more like than not, or perhaps afraid of looking at the muddy sky at the end of the sharply descending cell. The Hound tied the last long curtain around all three of them before picking up the chain.
Best do this fast.
He ran down the slanted floor as fast as he could with his precious burden and jumped into the fog below.
He was certain that they were falling, flying to their death. He imagined the chain had broken, but none of it was true. The sky was silent and grey, with the whistling of the wind and the beating of his heart as the only sounds. They swung in the air, back and forth, not yet fast enough to brave the fall.
"Look at me," he whispered to Sansa.
Blue eyes departed carefully from their prison on his shoulder and were lifted to his face. She was… less angry. And probably mortally afraid of dying. He looked at her with… love, wondering how she saw him. I wish you well. Can't you see?
"Don't be afraid," he told her.
"I'm not," she murmured.
He could swear she was caressing his bare neck with her thumbs now, more interested in studying his skin, than in the fact they were hung at least seven hundred feet above any ground. He would never understand her.
It was time.
"Time for that bath," he warned Sansa and Robin. "Keep your mouths closed."
In a great, sweeping motion, he tossed his legs back and forth and more forward, until the brutal shower hit his head again. Despite his warning, Sansa shrieked and the boy cried, but the sound of water swallowed it all. It seemed as if the torrent would never stop crashing down on them. Until, just like that, they were through, and far enough by some miracle, on the dry, welcoming rock.
It was impossible, yet they had done it.
On the other side, the Hound let the chain go into the void.
There is no going back.
And his labours would never end that day. First, he carried Sansa down to the hollow with food, not even asking her if she could walk, despite the boy's protesting that he was a lord.
"You are a lord," Sandor told him brusquely, "and she is a lady. That's the same as saying she's a woman. You like knights, don't you boy? They protect women and children, don't they?"
The Hound didn't believe in that wisdom, but it sat well with the boy, much better than anything he'd ever told Sansa. Robin shut up, and to his utmost surprise, walked down after Sandor. In all probability he was more afraid of staying up on his own than breaking his neck by heading down.
They were behind, behind Alyssa's tears! Sandor allowed himself to feel a small measure of satisfaction. Sansa exchanged the wet shift and curtain for a dry dress, a cloak, and the long, warm socks women never had to wear in King's Landing. Sandor wanted her so much to tell him how brave he was, but she chose to ignore him. So be it. He tried not to look. He would be strong. He would be himself again. He would forget.
Except that he would not. He had never been able to forget her. He would be more unable now, knowing the taste of her, the passion in her.
Robin peeked out of the hollow, his gaze studying the narrow descent, avid and curious.
"Will you be able to descend further on your own?" Sandor asked, expecting no for an answer.
The sickly lad nodded. "I think so," he said, to the Hound's surprise. "I still don't want to fly, so I'll have to walk." His lordship's childish logic was faultless at times. Dressing was another matter. The Hound had to help him with the change as his little body shook, and shook and shook. Foam came to his mouth. In the end, Sandor had to undress. Half-naked and half-dry he held the boy in his arms and waited until the fit stopped.
When he was done with all that, Sansa was already ten steps down the crag, without ever saying a word. She had tied the top layer of her skirts and the edge of her cloak around her waist to advance better. Her lady's boots seemed soft and pliable enough to give her a good grip on the stony path. The Hound noticed with approval that she used her hands as well, to support herself when going down. He would do the same, as much as he could, never looking down, into the enticing dark grey depth between Alyssa's Tears and the descent they were taking.
"Come Sweetrobin," Sansa called the boy, "it's not as hard as it looks."
It was, the Hound knew. But it was good if the boy didn't. Sweetrobin followed Sansa as if she had invited him for a walk in a manse flower garden of the Red Keep.
The mule turned to take the rest with him. The bag… The bag was neatly packed for him, with the food and firewood on top, and soaked laundry on the bottom. The Hound whistled merrily. The small gesture of Sansa's favour made him feel less cold and wet in his rags as he armoured himself, picked the bag up, followed. He was now the slowest one, the heaviest one, loaded as a plough horse.
It took them less than two hours to reach the large, clear blue pool of crystalline water where Alyssa's tears ended. Sansa paused to observe it with curious eyes.
"It is quite lovely," she said.
Sandor stood behind her back, having to agree. "It is," he rasped above her head. His breath seemed to stir her, but he did not know to what end. Carefully, he placed his hands on her waist and held them there. She released the knot of her skirts and cloak down, before adding her hands to his, never leaning into him, and it was no wonder she did not; he was a looming mass of wet fabric and hard steel. She… studied his fingers now with her touch. He froze, unwilling to move, afraid to speak.
Sweetrobin ruined the moment before Sandor could, by sitting down and yawning.
"No, sweet," Sansa scurried to her cousin. "We will sleep later, won't we?" She turned to Sandor, abandoned by the lake, for confirmation.
"Later," he parrotted in agreement, feeling like a giant bird from the Summer Islands.
The day still lasted and it was best to walk as far as they could. They continued their journey among the first, weak trees, towards the woods and the fertile autumn planes of the Vale.
Sandor still could not decide on the place to make camp when they reached the pumpkin fields he had seen when entering the Vale through the Bloody Gate. The ground was hard and cold to sleep on, despite the absence of snow. On any other day this would be nothing to him, but today he wanted a proper shelter. A cave, a cabin, an empty lair...
When dusk came, they sighted a road.
Abruptly, the Hound discovered he could walk no more. His body decided to betray him. He sat down groggily and discarded the provisions. The dog had done his duty. Now he needed rest.
"Go on," he told feebly to Sansa and the boy. "You will doubtlessly find someone who wants you on that road."
"And you?" the boy sounded worried, sitting next to him.
Sansa, on the contrary, obeyed his command and headed to the road. Sandor felt empty.
Little bird. You've already flown away…
The boy ran after Sansa. They spoke. The Hound could not hear what they said. He was too tired and wet through and through. He was old and the effort had been too much for him. His vision blurred.
A hand was on his forehead before long.
"You have high fever," a pretty voice said and then the bird's touch left him.
"I can't! Damn it!" Sansa was cursing loudly and courteously in his proximity.
"Give it to me, cousin," the boy said.
Was there a fire? Sandor wasn't certain. He was pulled down, undressed, redressed, covered… in another curtain? Did he pack one of those as well? Four hands were on him, than two. There was chatter and discussion, but he couldn't grasp a word.
A warm body snuggled against him.
"Tell me while we are waiting," Sansa said, her voice calm and poised like when she mothered Robin.
"What?" he asked. "Didn't I say enough for today?"
"Tell me," she insisted. "How do you know that you love me? How does it feel?"
"I don't know," he rasped, feeling drunk. "I just do."
"Is that all?" she sounded… disappointed.
"I-" he had to try better, grateful for the fever that took the place of wine in his veins and made it possible to say more. "I- I want you. And I want what is good for you. Even if it is not me. But then I wish it was me. Me being good for you. Some days I believe I am good for you. On most days I know I'm not."
He was being embraced now so he must have said something good.
"And at times it makes me want to kill. To kill you." The hold on him lessened, wavered. "Or me. Or any husband of yours." A hand separated his matted hair, caressing his scalp.
"Oh," she said. "I see. For me love was different."
"Mine is like this," he said, burning. It was the truth. "But I will leave again before I can hurt you. I promise you that."
"What of yourself?" Sandor couldn't fathom why Sansa wished to know this.
"Why do you care?" he asked and received no answer.
"Here, here!" the boy cried out
Sandor was left alone. His body ached in solitude. After what felt like all eternity, a helm was clumsily slammed on his big, ugly head.
There was deep silence and then there were banners, horses, carts.
"They are here!" someone else screamed now, not the boy any more with his peeping voice.
"Who is this?" a familiar male voice grunted with surprise. The Hound must have unhorsed the speaker in some bloody tourney.
"The mystery knight Sweetrobin told you about," Sansa chirped. "The good ser heard there was a tourney but he came to the wrong castle. He arrived at the Eyrie and helped Lord Arryn and myself descend after that terrible accident with the winch which left us alone and unprotected."
"My brother has sent you up for your own safety, I hear. But how could you possibly wind up here and not at the Gates of the Moon?"
"I would not know, my lord," Sansa feigned being empty-headed, with great mastery. "The gods must have shown the good ser a different way. Lord Arryn and I merely followed his lead in our need for protection."
The Hound was picked up by rough hands, belonging to men, not to a woman, nor a child. He regretted this, more than he thought possible. He was hauled on a palette, loaded on an open wain like a dead pig.
"And stay covered," the unknown manly voice bellowed at him.
The good dog pulled a coarse woollen blanket they gave him to his chin and listened. Where is she now?
"Yes, Lord Royce. Thank you so much," Sansa chirped, happier than ever. She is still here. The boy was apparently taken somewhere else. He waited, drowsing.
A while later, a flagon with…. strongwine was put into his mouth, and removed as soon as he had a good pull from it.
"Tell me more," she commanded from above.
"Of what?" he rebelled. Why couldn't she let him in peace?
"Of your love for me. Please. Tell me how it feels. I want to hear about it."
It was the most cruel demand. It would be easier if she asked him to kill for her.
"I never wanted to love you," he growled, "it is torture," he kept rambling, "but I don't want to be free from it. From you. I was empty, before."
"I know empty," Sansa said very seriously, sliding under the blanket with him. Her legs nested over his laying body, but she remained seated.
"Is this wise?" he asked.
"Why?" she sounded confused
"Can't they see us?" He couldn't believe he was the one indicating the limits of propriety. They were back in the society, in an open wain. He wished they could have stayed up on the mountain.
"The queen's army is in the Vale," Sansa explained with soft bitterness in her sweet voice. "They may have no love for her, but she is still Queen Regent. No one sees the traitor's daughter now, nor her claim. They are happy to leave her to the mystery knight and see what tomorrow brings. They only took their lord."
"I am no knight," he said on an impulse.
"I know," she said, "thank the gods." And then, weaker, curious, bleeding honest, "What you did this morning, wasn't it… It must have been awful for you… I was… I was so dirty down there… I didn't have a bath in three days… Or is it something men do all the time?"
"I don't know. I never asked other men about it," he said with pointed disgust. "I did it because I wanted to. I did think of myself, you were right about that part, but also of you."
The thick silence urged him to go on.
"Women like it," he muttered. "If well done," he was forced to add for the sake of the truth. Men liked their cocks to be sucked properly. He supposed it had to be the same for women
He didn't know with any certainty how he fared on that battlefield. The first time he licked a cunt he was young and very drunk. The wench he ended up with in the alehouse smelled good and was almost pretty. When he visited the place after a week, she was not there, but a few other hens whispered to each other and pointed at his face. He downed his wine, laughed at them, left, never came back, never asked. After, he did it rarely. Kissing was not his lot. His face was probably not what any woman wanted on her lips, up or down. Until…
Sansa, you did it so freely.
She was both accepting and bold with her kisses. She had almost made him forget that his face was not like any other.
Fever brought more babbling nonsense to his tongue. "I- I thought I might try a different kiss when you asked for one. I am-"
"No," Sansa put her hand on his mouth, "I should be sorry, I think."
"But you are not?" he inquired very carefully.
"No," she shook her head. "It was… It was good to show I was angry instead of pretending I wasn't… But I… I… I ought to tell you something. I… You…"
"Just say it, Sansa," he demanded.
"It is just that when you… when you lay over me … I remember you as you were," she finally managed. "Spiteful, with your eyes full of rage, before I ever said or did anything to you. You pinned me to my bed and it was horrible… And then I remember all those others… Joffrey, dancing with me, saying he will put a bastard in my belly… Tyrion, climbing into my bed with his horrible swollen manhood... Marillion, the singer, who would have raped me if Ser Lothor did not come… Petyr and his kisses stinking of mint… I remember and I hate men... I hate you. I turn rigid and I wish to close my eyes and disappear on the inside until it is over. Until whatever has to be done to me this time is done, without me taking part in it. I don't think I'll ever be able to do my duty and lay with a man as my mother and septa taught me I should. It will always be forced," she paused.
Sandor did his best to deliberate over her words. He did not know all the bloody men she mentioned, though he already wanted to kill them all. Unfortunately, he knew himself better than anyone. What he did, what he could have done... He could very well understand… hatred. The impotence of being held down... Except that he wanted to lash out from his pain and she wanted to… block it? Pretend it did not exist? He could not understand this.
"I won't touch you again," he said, meaning it, tempted to swear it to her.
"It's not that!" Sansa protested.
Is it not? His sick heart galloped, hoping.
"I just… I just don't want you to be the one forcing me," she hammered down; her very last, seemingly important thought that the Hound could not understand at all. Would she hate it less if it was someone else raping her? Someone handsome?
Somehow, Sandor knew that was not what Sansa wanted to say.
"You have no duty to me," he murmured slowly, hoping he was not shooting too far off the target.
"No," she said, "but can you still love me a bit if I am… If I am not a real woman? If I can never lay on my back and be one?"
"What? Did you think I can just stop?" he asked, bewildered. She was a fool if she believed that. "You are as you are," he said, pointed at his face, "As am I."
"Thank the gods," Sansa said for the third time that day and gently kissed his forehead, showering him with her damp tresses as she did so. Smelling of waterfall high up in the mountains. "We are three days ride away from the Gates of the Moon. If that knight is your brother, you should rest as much as you can. I will take care of you."
He both craved that Sansa would nurse him to health and loathed it. He didn't want a mother's love. Besides, there was no time. They had to go.
"No, Sansa, listen," he had to make her see it this time. "We should leave when we next make camp. I will be as good as new after a good night's sleep," he said bluntly. "I'll steal horses and we'll go. I might be able to kill Gregor for you, but then what? As if men will ever leave you alone, even if that is your wish. They will find you some husband and he will take what is his by rights."
"Go where? To do what?" Sansa asked, frowning. A tiny, vertical, tight line appeared just above her nose and between her eyes, adding a touch of life to her perfect, chiselled beauty.
He had never thought that far. He supposed he would take Sansa somewhere safe. But now that she was asking, he had to admit that the list of good places for her was painfully thin. Winterfell was taken from the Starks. Their former bannermen would probably betray her. Essos was far and not a better place than Westeros. From what Sandor heard first hand, it offered more opportunities for a sellsword than for a lady.
"How far before we are dead of hunger or illness, or caught? No, Sandor," Sansa killed his hopes of them travelling together with a simple truth, but she also said…
"Say it again," he demanded, giddy, feverish, happy as he was in the morning.
"What?"
"My name," he was not ashamed of asking for it now. Fever and strongwine together took away any humiliation he had ever felt about demanding love.
"Sandor," she said warmly, and smiled as if she had never been angry with him.
"It's the best thing I've ever heard," he said, "you saying my name."
She pulled a loose hair out of his eyes, beamed, pursed her lips.
"Wait," he remembered something else, "was I hearing voices or did you just tell Yohn Royce that I was some bloody ser?"
"Sandor," she repeated for the third time, taking his hand. "We had to tell him something. I do not know how he thinks of you, but you have to forgive me if I doubt that he has high regard for your person. You… your reputation is what it is. As a knight who rescued Lord Arryn and myself, you have good reason to travel with us, rather than be left here with a little gold for your trouble. Robin was most adamant that you should go and compete as his champion, you see," she was very nervous now, spying on him for reaction.
"Don't tell," he interrupted, "he told them I was-"
"The Winged Knight, yes," Sansa exhaled. "That you were coming down for the tourney, from the top of the Giant's Lance where you normally dwell with his ancestors, the true giants, and that you saved us on your way. The Winged Knight… It's his favourite bedtime tale and it's all my fault. That one always calmed him down when he wanted to suck on my breasts, mistaking me for his late lady mother. I couldn't stand that. So I told him stories."
Sandor would laugh if his head had not hurt. "Will you tell me a pretty story, to stop me from doing the same?"
Sansa blushed. "It is not the same," she said weakly and looked away.
He was tempted to ask how that felt for her, if he sucked and bit her breasts. Why not, if he had to answer questions about love! Better not. The dog was back into Sansa's good graces for the day and his heart was at ease.
"But please, let me finish," she recollected herself. "The tourney…It seems that… it seems that Ser Robert Strong announced the tourney would go on as planned and that he would take part. He said that.. that he was told to do so by the Seven."
"Now that is ridiculous," Sandor said gruffly, coughed, and found his usual rasp back with difficulty. "Gregor never believed in any gods. Much like I. We should leave."
"No, Sandor," his love disagreed with him in a most tender way. "You may call me a stupid bird, but I don't think we should go. We have to stay and be cleverer than the rest… and find a place for us to spend the winter if we can… If we cannot…"
"We will die," he finished her thought.
"But not just yet," Sansa said firmly, squeezing his hand.
"Not yet," he was forced to agree.
"Sleep, please," she asked.
"If you'll ask me to kiss you when I wake," he could not help adding.
Sansa grabbed his ugly head and cradled it.
"Shhhhh!" she hushed him, mothered him, caressed his face.
"This is… quite lovely," he said cautiously, repeating her words from the lake in the mountains, not having his own for a moment like this.
The dog was content to rub his mug in Sansa's pretty hands, while being nursed into much needed sleep.