Alyssa's Tears Chapter 13: Thirteen, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

As always, I have to thank you TopShelfCrazy for helping with the language and the overall clarity of my story.

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"The Hound is dead, Sandor is at rest." Elder Brother, ASOIAF.

Thirteen

The paper gaped empty and pristinely white, more maidenly than Sansa. The quill quivered in her hands. Her mother would know what a true lady should write. How not to promise too little… Nor too much. She began her composition, nervously so.

Lord Varys…

Despite the tremor in her fingers, Sansa's letters appeared orderly and neat. Perfectly shaped and angled, much like her stitches. Maester Luwin would be proud. She wondered how he died when Theon burned Winterfell and if his passing was very painful. She wondered how much her beheading would hurt if she was delivered to Cersei and given to Ser Ilyn Payne. No more lies, she realised with relief, in death there would be no more lies.

But what would there be?

Fear of dying seized her; it always did after a moment. She would never be a noble heroine from the songs, choosing to end the injustice and the unhappiness of her existence. She grasped the quill firmly and thought of a suitable truth.

Lord Varys,

I thank you for your letter and your kind offer. I am honoured by your noble proposition. Yet I cannot provide you with any answer in good faith. I expect I should soon be taken back to the capital as a prisoner of Ser Robert Strong of the Kingsguard. I do not know the brave knight nor how he regards maidenly virtue on his travels, nor what shall become of me once I have reached my destination. I fear you may be too late, my lord. Only an intervention of a higher force at the Gates of the Moon could now save me from that destiny. I have five days at most, before my return journey begins, the duration of the tourney in which gracious Ser Robert is also taking part. I regret not being free to decide about your kind offer.

Respectfully,

Lady Sansa of the House Stark

Every word was hollow. She read the letter three more times. You should say yes if you want help. If you want them to send here the living dragon as they said. She was tempted to write another one, promise to marry this handsome prince and beg for his help. Someone save me. Please.

No. Sansa vehemently denied the notion. She would not promise to marry anyone in exchange for mere words. She was older now and didn't believe she could be saved. Life… life was not a song. But maybe, maybe she could live for a while longer. She would like that very much now.

If this prince is serious about his proposal, he or those who favour his cause should act. She did not know if the thought belonged to Lord Baelish, to her Lady Mother or if it was her own. Tears threatened to flood her eyes from not knowing.

Sansa folded the letter before she could change her mind. She had no seal so she drew a miniature, crudely executed head of a direwolf in its place. I should draw a bird, an empty-headed one. The effort reminded her of another lady's occupation she excelled in when she was only one and ten. She doubted now that this had ever been true. It must have been just another flattery she was told for being a high lord's daughter; compliments were due to her. She would sigh and lower her eyes and believe them all. Talented or not, she had never written poetry since she left Winterfell. As a girl, she wrote about gentle, pretty animals and beautiful, noble lords and ladies exchanging pleasantries.

She took a clean sheet of paper from the maester's supplies, stared at its pure whiteness and wondered if she was soiled or not by sharing a man's bed despite not lying with him. Yet. Every silent memory of her woman's place touching Sandor's manhood at different angles held an exclusive, illicit wish to ruin herself further. There had been pain whenever her opening stretched too much as she moved up and down the sweet hardness probing her folds. It meant she should not go any further, if she did not want to be… properly… No, the ugly word did not bear thinking! Yet she kept wondering what was behind the pain. More pain or something else entirely? A different kind of gratification…

The second time she dared explore the… the correspondence that seemed to exist between hers and Sandor's body, Sansa expected it to end as the first time. In a continuously wonderful and unique sensation she imagined would go on and on. She'd never thought there would be a… an ascension. Most of all, she had never expected to almost fall apart from the extremely brief, ravishing joy she experienced at the end, with their bodies touching there, with her being almost seated on him. She had thought of his large form around her, supporting her, instead of holding her down. She did not dare look down at the place where they touched, but she imagined it vaguely in her head; her pale thighs widening over his… cock. The most improper word she thought of pushed her over the edge. She had to stop. Immediately. She hung on him as a scrap of silk, discarded after a gown was made; too soft and limp. She bit him to stop the keening sound that rose in her chest, wishing to leave. She was too afraid to hear it. Later, she was ashamed about the bite. But always far, far less than she felt she should be.

What he did to himself with his hand, for his pleasure, he said, well, it was unseemly, but it didn't repulse Sansa as she feared. It merely disturbed her, in a very peculiar way she could not describe. Later, when they lay in bed together, Sandor was instantly asleep. Sansa remained alert for long hours, feeling very good and very awake, utterly unable to close her eyes.

And yet, every time she found herself lying under him, Sansa's wish to feel Sandor's body on hers vanished as if it had never existed, as though he had never visited her dreams. Cold and stiff, she waited, for any intrusion to be inflicted upon her to end. She closed her eyes and was twelve again, reliving her most horrible memories.

Her golden prince was a cruel tyrant and she did not want to have his babies. She did not. She was pinned to her bed by a huge, drunken man. She had never done anything to displease him and yet she felt his knife twisting on her throat. She sang weakly, waiting to die. She could no longer remember their first kiss. Sansa wanted to disappear and let her mother comb her hair. But Mother was dead and could not help her. No one could.

On an instinct, Sansa began filling the empty paper with new words, carefully avoiding her past memories, considering only her brief time with Sandor in the Eyrie.

Too short a stay. The regret was unfamiliar and pungent, hurting her differently than any of her previous losses.

They hung together on a chain from the sky. Sandor's eyes were of the most intense, memorable grey in existence, and Sansa wanted to smile at him forever. She had forgotten her anger at him for giving her that most unwanted kiss on her most secret place. She never looked down into the mist, never thought of falling. He was soaked from passing through the waterfall, yet she welcomed his warmly wet embrace.

We are beautiful together, Sansa decided on a whim, writing on. Her letters became less well shaped. The line they formed curved slightly up from left to right. As a child, Sansa had preferred a strict form in her attempts at poetry, regular stanzas and verses where every syllable was counted. Not so now. Swiftly, she wrote.

You challenged the wind and the mountain;

You braved the mist and the fury of water.

Yet I ran from you into the past,

I hid in the valley of my losses,

frozen in ice, chained in a dungeon;

a bastard, a servant, a noble slave

I could not love you.

I could not stay.

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Golden and soft, the autumn is at the end,

The day is dwindling into a long night.

I shall not run now, no, I shall wait.

So wake up, do not leave me,

Put your arms around me,

Tell me what love is,

Let me remember,

Let me forget.

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She was so engrossed with finishing the last two verses that she did not see Yohn Royce's maester coming to her, or, rather, entering his own tent, carrying a platter with his supper.

Sansa rapidly folded her attempt at poetry and hid it in her bodice next to Varys' treasonous letter and her clumsy answer to it. The Hound… Sandor would laugh at her if he knew. And she would hate him if he mocked her for this. It was only a poem, in a free style from Essos, invented by the runaway slaves from old Valyria. Sansa did not comprehend it as a child. She found both the form and the emotion too simple. The former slaves lamented for their family members who had stayed behind. They sang about waiting, about running, about loss. At times, they had hope. The sad intensity of it all frightened Sansa. Now… the style came to her naturally… and a man had inspired it. She didn't want to hate him.

She…

"My lady," Maester Gurn asked with suspicion. "How can I be of any assistance if I may ask?"

"I would need a raven, my lord. To carry a letter."

"I was not told," the maester was very brusque.

"Lord Royce is busy supping with Lady Waynwood, surely he forgot to mention it," Sansa would not yield easily when she wanted something. She needed to send that letter to Lord Varys now.

"I'll ask him about it later."

Sansa had no time for this. "I shall go and ask him now. For the second time. I am sorry to have troubled you. You can expect me back with Bronze Yohn in a moment," she stressed the familiarity with the nobleman she did not possess at all. She turned to leave.

"No, wait."

"Yes, my lord?"

A black bird was violently pushed into her hands, claws digging into her palms. Sansa grabbed it at its feather-covered black back, keeping the restless raven away from her gown.

"Do as you wish. I haven't helped you. But I'd rather you not disturb his lordship in case you are telling the truth." Sansa had never met a more mistrustful or a more imprudent man. For all he knew, she could invite an army of savage northmen to his lord's doorstep. And in the time he was away, Sansa could read twice Lord Royce's letter to Runestone, asking for more men, left open on the table.

"You are wise, my lord, as your chain shows," she said as seriously as she could. "May I ask how the Winged Knight fares today?"

"He sleeps. Lord Arryn requested he be accommodated in his lordship's pavilion for the night."

Since they met Bronze Yohn and his party two evenings ago, Sandor only slept and sweated, not knowing who or where he was. A few strong men helped the maester clean him and change him. Sansa gave him water. He thrashed against any other hand that tried to open his visor and touch his face. The occurrence made Sansa feel… needed. Important. She relished every cup of water she gave him as a small victory.

On the first day of travel, Sansa was made to ride some awful, stinky horse. She remained sleepless at night, fretting about her fate, in a miserable tiny tent put at the disposition of the Lady Stark. It smelled of stables. On the second day, she pleaded being sore and journeyed on the wain with Sandor. She daydreamed about when he spoke to her of his love... It was so unlike him to do so, yet he did it when she asked… ill as he was. Moreover, he accepted her care in his weakness, instead of sending her away as a silly bird. But he was out of her reach now, in the clutches of fever. Exhausted, Sansa drowsed, postponing any action concerning their predicament until Sandor woke. He never did.

Now, she had to do what she could. On the next day, they would arrive at the Gates of the Moon before the midday meal. This was her last chance to write to Varys and speak to Lord Yohn about her precarious position.

"How do you tell the bird where to go?" she inquired from the maester.

"You just do. They go. The children of the forest taught them the language of men," the chain-adorned man informed dryly, ending the conversation.

Sansa was pushed out of the tent with the bird of ill omen, and without any further instruction. Outside, exposed to the noise of the setting of the camp, she had difficulty to believe in the raven's wisdom. She tied the missive to its leg with a brown ribbon from her gown, and whispered to the bird where to take it. Dark wings fluttered, disappeared.

Lady Waynwood was not the only one visiting. Sansa was to share her own supper with Myranda Royce in the smelly mockery of a tent she was awarded. She was still not able to call her Randa to her face, as the older woman wished.

The meal was dried beef and hard black bread tasting of nothing. Myranda turned it over on her platter and left it untouched. Likewise, Sansa lacked any appetite.

"My father sends his regards," Randa finally began. "He was devastated when the servants returned without you. Such a dreadful accident with the winch. He hasn't stopped praying for you and Robin since then, to be sure-

Yes, Sansa thought, he prayed for our death.

"-it's not the first time this has happened in winter, that the basket falls down-"

So he thought we didn't even reach the Eyrie. Nestor Royce apparently had a soft heart. He had planned for Sansa and Robin to die from the consequences of the fall, and not from hunger.

"Dreadful accident indeed," Sansa was forced to agree, not lying. "Lord Arryn understands," she offered.

"Good," Randa said with palpable relief, "for if he spoke to Bronze Yohn about any of his misgivings…"

"He has nothing but words of love and respect for your father," Sansa reassured her and changed the topic of conversation. "How are the knights who will fight for a place in Robin's guard? You must have seen the rest of them coming."

"Handsome," Randa was happy to inform. "I had a different one in my bed every night. And out of it. I even tried to talk to this… Ser Robert Strong. But he never said a word."

"Wouldn't that hurt terribly? A man of his size?" the words flied out of Sansa's mouth.

"Why now? If a woman wants it, and knows what she's doing, Ser Robert Strong can prove quite delicious with his size. Though at times smaller men are better lovers. They try to make up for what they lack in nether regions."

"How?" a whisper left Sansa's lips unbidden.

Myranda laughed. "You were married, Lady Stark. Or should I say Lady Lannister? Why isn't anyone using that name? Didn't you learn how to use the dwarf's finger to your satisfaction?"

"My lord husband did not lack for anything in nether regions," Sansa gave a courteous answer to the unseemly question, suppressing the disgust at her memory of Tyrion.

Randa talked on, undeterred. "I surely know how to help myself to a man's cock to have my pleasure…"

Was that what I did to Sandor? Was I… helping myself?

The notion seemed terribly ugly and shameful while everything she and Sandor did in bed had been beautiful.

Except...

She never wanted him to kiss her down there, ever again. That sensation made her wild. She squirmed and squeezed her legs to resist him, but she could not, not when he kept them open. His attention was too overwhelming, almost to the point that it hurt her. Yet it was not bad, it was… Her thighs began shaking, and she just knew that her entire body would follow. She was about to experience something strong, and she could not let herself go. She would not know herself anymore if she allowed this. She would burst. She could not control the movement of his lips on her woman's place as she had done with her own body when sliding over his manhood. Out of her mind, she hit Sandor and scratched his head until he thankfully stopped. Sansa barely preserved the last shreds of her dignity. She had been so furious with him.

Love is poison, the queen had said and maybe she was right. The sensation of the dry flesh of his scars and the wet circling of his tongue on her bottom lips was worse than Sansa imagined any poison to be; sweet and yet unbearable at the same time. Sansa never wanted to experience it again.

"Lady Stark, you surely look as if you have never seen a man's cock. Have I given offence?" Randa inquired almost chastely. She would have never asked Lady Alayne, the bastard, if she minded such remark.

"No," Sansa said primly, "not at all. But I was married only for a little while. I have not yet grown fully accustomed to the duties of a wife. May I be excused, please? I am exhausted from the day's journey."

Sansa didn't wait for the answer. She left Randa and the stinky tent, needing to find Bronze Yohn. She pulled the laces of her bodice too tight so that her dress seemed too small. As a result, the shape of her breasts became better visible. The guards predictably leered at her and said nothing when she slipped into Bronze Yohn's tent. Sansa carefully loosened her dress again before approaching his lordship's table. It wouldn't do to let it fall down, and she could not tie it back so very well by herself. Lady Waynwood was still there.

"Lady… Sansa," Anya said. "I am pleased to see you. And sad about the order for your apprehension."

"I am happy to see you here together with Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood," Sansa said pleasantly. "Let me assure you that I had nothing to do with King Joffrey's death. I loved the king. A just trial in the capital will surely prove my innocence."

"But surely, if Lord Baelish hid you from the crown for the love of Lady Lysa, you-"

For the love of my mother, Sansa thought, and for his own purposes. She never knew what they were exactly, but she was glad that they died with him. "Late Lord Protector trusted me because he suspected who was involved in this heinous crime, not because he knew I had any part in it," she stated calmly. She did not kill Joffrey. Not on purpose.

"Who?" Bronze Yohn asked as a hawk.

"Alas, Lord Baelish died prematurely," Sansa said, "he didn't find it necessary to burden a young highborn lady he was protecting with this sensitive information."

"Harry cannot shield you by marriage against the king's will, you must be aware of this, sweetling," Lady Waynwood said in a motherly tone. "The knights of the Vale shall not challenge the crown."

"To be sure, the Vale is loyal to good King Tommen," Sansa said, full of understanding for Harry's trouble. "And you must be aware that I am already married." She wanted to marry Harry much less than this unknown prince Varys was offering. At least she had never seen him, and she already knew Harry was horrible. Deep down, she didn't want to marry. But her choice in the matter would probably be limited, so it made no sense to dwell on her wishes in that regard.

Sansa did not come to Lord Royce to discuss her marriage prospects. She reminded herself of her purpose and continued speaking with caution. "Also, the safety of my cousin Lord Arryn is foremost on my mind." She allowed a calculated tremor in her voice and lowered her eyes.

"Yes?" Bronze Yohn was irritated. "What do you mean?"

My lady, Sansa added inwardly. Would it cost them that much to offer the queen's prisoner a simple courtesy? Quietly, she poured half-lies into their avid ears. As far as she knew, she could be telling the truth. "They say that this knight, Ser Robert Strong, is as tall as only one other knight in the Seven Kingdoms who is dead now."

"Who?" Lord Royce thundered.

"Ser Gregor Clegane, honourable bannerman of the House Lannister of whom many t… tales are told. I… I heard from my father that Aunt Lysa, that is, late Lady Arryn, accused our gracious Queen Regent of poisoning her husband, Lord Jon Arryn." In truth, Sansa had heard of this just before Littlefinger pushed Aunt Lysa through the Moon Door. Later on she frequently wondered if her real father knew any of it.

She dared go on, into the area of pure suppositions. "It is possible that the queen knows this. With that in mind, would it be beyond imaginable that the queen had sent Ser Gregor to the Vale under the disguise of the white blazon of the Kingsguard, not only to bring me back, but also to make Robert answer for his mother's treason?"

"Robert is a child! He committed no crime! She can't accuse him for his mother's ramblings," Lady Waynwood protested more than necessary. Sweetrobin's demise would favour Harry and herself.

"Yes, an innocent child", Sansa said sweetly, hating herself. "Just like the little son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen… What was his name? Aegon?"

"Cleganes are specially ruthless, I'll give you that," Bronze Yohn said thoughtfully, considering Sansa's words. "Ser Gregor's younger brother is leading a band of outlaws now, after deserting from the Kingsguard. They turned to ashes the city of Saltpans. The Hound raped a girl of twelve there. He crushed her with his armour as he did that. His men cut off her nose and nipples later on."

Sansa's breathing stopped. "When was that? I have never heard about it," she observed. "How dreadful," she added weakly. She painfully remembered being twelve and alone in a lion's den. He pinned me to the bed wearing full body armour…

"My pardons," Bronze Yohn finally remembered Sansa was a lady. "The story is not fit for the ears of a young lady such as yourself. It is no wonder that it was never told in your presence. I should have expressed myself more carefully. It was some months ago, I'd say, maybe a year. The girl lived to tell her story. She saw that helm of his, with the snarling dog's head, all too well. Most likely she'll never forget it…"

Nor will I. Sansa felt as if she had crossed an abyss almost unscathed. Sandor did not have his helm with him now. Anyone could have it, couldn't they?

"I have seen Ser Gregor ride in the Hand's Tourney, my lord, my lady," Sansa said gravely, setting Saltpans aside for the time being. "And I… I wonder if I shall reach King Landing's alive and with my body intact in his custody. In that tourney, he wanted to cut Ser Loras Tyrell in two only for being angry about losing a joust, and that with Ser Loras being the son of the powerful Warden of the South. What will he not do on queen's command?"

"His little brother stopped him then, I remember," Lord Royce eyed Sansa with shrewd eyes. "I shall think on everything you said. Good night to you now, my lady."

"I would not expect anything less from you, my lord," Sansa said haughtily, hearing the finality in Bronze Yohn's voice. "My father, Lord Stark," she suddenly stressed her house name, possessed by the need to affirm who she was, "he held your wisdom in highest esteem."

Sansa had never heard what her father thought of Bronze Yohn, but a small flattery might help her cause, or so she hoped. If the knights and the high lords truly protected the weak, I would not have to be lying.

She bid Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood good night, nearly curtsying as a bastard should, remembering to stay straight at the last moment. Once out, she hurried to Sweetrobin's tent, very nearby, feeling more soiled by the game she was playing now than from the entire day on horseback or from sharing Sandor's bed.

She hadn't seen her boy cousin since they had came down from the mountain. His guards were more serious than Lord Royce's; young, tall and handsome. The best of the Vale, she hoped. Robin might need them before long. She prayed to the gods that what she just said about Ser Gregor and her cousin was only a lie, and not a truth Sansa had accidentally guessed.

As a downside, the two exemplary knights were not leery at all. They stood straight and looked out for any sign of trouble as young falcons. And Sansa… Sansa did not look her best. She looked like a bastard or a servant in a simple brown dress and cloak. She hadn't combed her hair properly or had a bath in almost a week.

Except in the waterfall. She nearly laughed hysterically at the thought.

"No one sees his lordship," the taller guard declared.

Sweetrobin had been ill just like Sandor, with the exception that he did talk and annoyed everyone around him. Maester Gurn was probably giving him sweetsleep now or leeching him for bad blood.

"I just want to tell a story to my cousin," Sansa spoke much louder than usual at the open flap of the tent.

The effect did not tardy. The maester came out, giving Sansa a look full of hatred, and allowed her inside. "Suit yourself," he said. "Tomorrow the boy will be out of my hands. I'll be happier for it."

Perhaps the good maester still didn't eat his supper and that made him pesky, Sansa mused, thrilled to see him leave.

"Alayne! I mean, Sansa," Robert exclaimed with tears in her eyes. "Please, help me" He had leeches on his arms. "Please! I can't pull them out myself. It hurts so much! Please, I can't sleep with them one more night, I can't…"

Sansa suppressed the impulse to retch on an empty stomach. The worms were already full of blood. "How does the maester do it?" she asked. "Could you show me?"

Robert whined and pointed at the glass jar on the floor, next to a very lordly sleeping pallet. It seemed that Bronze Yohn gave his travel bed to Sweetrobin. This bode well. Maybe he didn't favour Harry the Heir as the new Lord of the Vale, or not as much as everyone believed.

"Lay still, please," Sansa said. When her cousin was shaking as little as possible she put her fingers daintily on the fattest leech and closed her eyes. Petrified, she pulled. It felt as awful as it looked. She looked again. No amount of pretence will make this any better, she rightfully concluded. She dropped the animal into the jar. There were three more and they came out easier.

Robin exhaled as soon as he was free of the blood sucking vermin. Sweetsleep lay untouched on a small table.

"I am shaking," he said accusingly, petulantly, not lying. "Why won't he hold me again?" He gestured at Sandor who lay immobile on a very simple cot in a corner of the tent. His too long legs dusted the floor. Sansa's presence next to him on the wain had not been enough to stir him awake.

"Keep shaking," Sansa said, illuminated. Today she had thought of so many things she could do. Or she was merely very afraid to die.

"What?" Robin asked, perplexed. "I can die if I don't calm down!"

"Please," Sansa said. "Trust me."

Robert looked at her with apprehension, gazed at the sweetsleep he didn't drink, pursed his lips, shook. When the spasms became uncontrollable Sansa half carried him, half dragged him into Sandor's immobile arms and wrapped them around the boy as an armour. Sweetrobin writhed and foamed.

"Will I die, Sansa?" he choked on his words, barely able to speak.

"No," she said, hoping she was right and not just wishful. "You didn't die from this on the mountain."

The boy's eyes turned glassy when the Hound's arms closed around him as they should; flexing independently, muscles rippling of their own accord. Sansa's heart skipped a beat.

The Hound straightened himself, with Robin in his arms, staring at Sansa; a living man, a very dangerous man.

"How long?" he said dryly after a while, taking in the change in his surroundings.

"We have travelled for two days," she informed flatly, wearing her lady's armour. "Tomorrow we'll arrive at the Gates of the Moon."

Robin trembled and shook and shook and shook. Sansa thought of asking the Hound about Saltpans, but she could not.

"Your dog's helm," she said in the end, unable to keep it in.

"So you know," he said darkly. "I already wondered when that would come out. I was wounded, if you have to know. A bugger saved me, wanted to make a better man out of me, so he buried the Hound, or rather, his helm. Another bugger found it. I can't tell you more. Go find someone else to kill Gregor for you if you don't believe me."

"I've only heard about Saltpans today," Sansa said quietly. "Was it so difficult to just… explain it to me nicely?"

"You don't… you didn't believe it?" He must have seen something that reassured him in her, because his rasp changed from angry to… dazed.

"I was afraid it might be true," Sansa said honestly, "but I did not believe it was true, no. I'm glad I wasn't wrong."

"I could be lying to you," he suggested.

"You said you wouldn't. Are you?" He also said he would die for her, but Sansa felt unable to remind him of that. She hoped he had forgotten that part.

"I wish I was sometimes," the Hound muttered. He was wide awake and healthy, if his initial anger was any indication of it. Sansa was certain he would never talk to her about his love right now, no matter how much she begged him. But…. Robin was very quiet now, breathing deeply in the Hound's arms. They could…

"Come," she said, tugging at one giant fist with slightly hairy knuckles. Together, Sansa and Sandor put the boy to his lavish bed, well-practised in it after only two days of playing at being his parents.

"There are watchful guards on the outside and they are not drinking," Sansa squeezed out, with her heart slowly climbing into her throat. Sandor was up and looked as menacing as ever. He would not pretend to be asleep for her every night when she wished to… feel his body. "We should be silent," she clumsily finished her thought.

"I can do that," he provoked her, "Can you?"

With shaky legs Sansa went to the cot where the Hound had been lying and began undressing. Soon she found that her laces were stuck in a hopeless tangle, from her earlier efforts to adjust them to fit her purposes. Sandor was naked before she was, approached her from the back, hugged her, kissed her shoulders and her back, helped her untie and step out of her filthy dress, manhandling her with both ease and great care. Unlike the handsome guards, he didn't seem to mind that she was barely presentable. Sansa paid good attention to keep the bodice away from him - terribly ashamed that he might find her worthless poem about… about how she felt and where it involved him.

"I am nervous tonight," she said, trying to define the laws of this… game. "I can't… I can't…" She didn't feel up to helping herself to his manhood after hearing Randa's rude remarks about women who knew what they were doing.

"Come, now," he extended his hand in invitation to her, almost courteously. "Just like this. I'll show you." He seemed to… understand her hesitation.

Like this meant that they lay together face to face, not flushed. There was little space left between them and four hands fighting to reach the other's body; tracing the contours, caressing the skin, gently and less so, skirting, pressing, circling their prey like little falcons before visiting the most unlikely, if not the most improper places. The armpit, the bellybutton, the middle of the spine, the neck just under the ear… Sansa felt… loved.

"What will they do with you in the Gates of the Moon?" he rasped as he touched her everywhere except on her woman's place, and as she strived, studiously, to return the favour; torn between wanting to feel his hands on her body or his body under her hands. She finally gave into all the sensations and was somehow able to feel… both, and more. He was that voice hidden in the shadows that had spoken to her years ago, in the Red Keep. She didn't fully understand half of what he told her, and she hated the other half like everything else in her prison, but there had always been something just between him and her. Something different. He was so very warm now and she could caress him, be caressed by him, forever.

"Will they give you to my brother?" he growled very quietly. "Don't expect me to stand by and watch them this time. I've seen enough of them beating you in the past."

"I don't know," Sansa preferred not to think about her immediate future beyond here and now. "I guess they will keep me guarded, at least until the end of the tourney. The same as ever."

"And you want me to do what? What does the little bird think of as clever?"

"I tried to tell Lord Royce that Ser Robert Strong… that Ser… that Gregor could be here to kill Sweetrobin." Sandor's brother did not deserve the knightly title, Sansa decided, not even as an empty courtesy.

"Isn't that what they want?"

"Bronze Yohn is not his cousin." Like you're not your brother. You should be able to understand this. "He has both more honour and pride. He will not wish for the Vale to appear weak in the eyes of the crown even if they are, nor for Robin to be killed by the queen. He may seek to confront Cersei's army and send them away… He is bringing men now and I've heard he has sent for more… Maybe you could… make Gregor angry. Make him commit an atrocity like when he almost killed Ser Loras. Maybe that could help me. Maybe the brave knights of the Vale would then turn against him."

"It could also help me kill Gregor in full respect of the laws, without losing my ugly head for it," Sandor surprisingly agreed.

Sansa impulsively grabbed that ugly head with both of her hands for reassurance that it was there, kissed the top of it, felt the familiar hardness against her stomach as she did that, pressed herself decisively against it, not thinking, sighed.

"Will you ever let me have all of you?" Sandor rasped into her ear, marking a path from under it, over the top of her shoulder and along her side with one finger, ending between her legs, but just not yet on her woman's place, never continuing any further. "Or will you just tease me every night?"

Sansa had no answer for him. She did not know herself. Besides, he was doing his best to tease her tonight by his tender touch. She wanted to spread for him like a flower. She knew she could not by now, and not only because of the demands of propriety. I'm not a girl anymore, nor a woman. I'm a cripple. At least he didn't tell me he would visit brothels if I never lay down for him willingly.

"Maybe," Sansa said very weakly, answering both of his questions.

She didn't dare straddle him, afraid of how far they would go this time and worse, if she would hate him for it. She didn't want to accidentally invite him, by her inexperience, to do to her anything else men did to women, something unknown she would hate him for. She wanted to… touch and see, not only feel this time. There was one place on him her hands hadn't visited yet.

Curious, she placed her hand on his manhood. Blush crept slowly on her cheeks. The tent was dark. He would not see it. It had felt better between her legs, but it didn't feel unpleasant in her hand at all. She couldn't possibly tell him that. She caressed him tenderly up and down, and all the way down to the little piece of skin between his front and behind. Unpredictably, he jerked from that.

"Tickles," he muttered.

He guided her hand back up until she gripped his manhood firmly into her fist and then he moved against her palm, pushing into it. As he would in… Sansa coloured profusely, imagined him inside her, crossing forever the gates of her pain, felt herself wet from it… His other hand jumped to her cheek, felt it warm from blushing. Instantly, he stiffened, stayed her hand, down there. "Stop," he said, "you don't want to do this. You are making yourself do it."

Maybe he was right. And yet he wasn't. Sansa didn't know.

"Kiss me, will you?" she asked. "On my mouth," she added, not leaving any room to the misunderstanding of her wishes…

His tongue invaded her mouth, deeper than he had ever dared before. After the initial surprise, she found that she didn't mind, kissed him back, kissed him some more, returned her hands to his sweet, ugly head. His scars were scratchy against her skin and his tongue battled with hers. They were flushed now and she thought… she thought he might have been helping himself as they kissed, but she didn't dare look or check it out with her hands. Kissing was good enough for the night. More than good. It was… beautiful as the two of them together. She felt no need for more. She let him do until he stilled, kissed her gently, revisited the curves of her body with that teasing finger of his.

At some point, she was very weary. "I haven't slept that much, you see, not much at all," she complained.

"Did you fret about me?" he asked, sounding as drowsy as she felt, though he had slept for two continuous days.

"Mmm," Sansa mumbled, and then she dozed, naked, in Sandor's giant arms.

xxxxxxxxx

In the morning, Sandor was fully armoured and helmed.

"What do you say?" he asked with discourteous mocking, pacing up and down, but he didn't sound angry. "Do I look a pretty knight?"

Sansa laughed quietly. "You will fool them all," she said, "You are not fooling me. You still hate it, don't you?"

Sandor shrugged, clinking. "An armour is an armour. This one could fit me better, but it will do as it is. And I'd call myself anything if I can kill Gregor without being trialled for it."

His rasp sounded different through the visor; deeper, more threatening somehow. It is what everyone saw and heard when he donned the Hound's mask. Maybe only Sansa knew the whisper in the darkness, the man who spoke about his scars. The notion was… very special.

Robin stirred.

"The watchful guards are asleep," the Hound grated almost kindly. "I think you should go to wherever you were supposed to be staying last night."

Sansa dressed rapidly and waited. "I do not think anyone here cares where I stayed," she said and sat in a corner of the tent with her head down; a perfect, obedient lady. It was as she thought. No one was surprised to find her with her cousin when two men-at-arms turned into his servants for the journey barged in to help him dress.

Sandor was bid to ride next to Robert, and Sansa between Randa and Lady Waynwood. Both noblewomen kept a prudent distance from the traitor's daughter. Lord Nestor waited in front of his castle. Four of his house guards came forth to seize Sansa.

"Accompany Lady Sansa Stark from here on," Lord Nestor commanded. Sansa dismounted, walked between them. It was more guards at once than she had ever merited in King's Landing.

Will they behead me now? Save Cersei some pain?

But they only let her tread in their middle, directing her respectfully to the lower levels of the castle. At the end of the corridor, a heavy door was open. The room was small and had no window. It smelled vaguely of both the contents of a chamberpot and of lye soap, as though it had been scrubbed clean very recently, or it would have smelled much worse. Lord Nestor did his best to make one of his dungeons suitable for the lady.

A chain hung from the wall. Sandor had chained her in the Eyrie so that she wouldn't run away from him again. He had made sure that the bonds were not too tight. The knights manacled her with far less care for her delicate hands. Sansa remained half standing and half seated.

She wondered if the seeds of what she tried to do would give any fruit and if she was going to be able to see the tourney or simply rot here until it was time to go with Ser Robert Strong.

I am well caged now, she thought bitterly. She breathed in the stifling air of the dungeon and thought of verses. Of strong and gentle hands on her body. Of deep kisses and a voice rasping with fever. Pity he was never ill in King's Landing. Only drunk. Or I might have known sooner that he had love for me.

Or if only Sansa was a little bit older, if she had already had her red flower before she left Winterfell! For it was that same rasp that had told her the story of his scars, that same man. It was just that she couldn't see him, for as much as he forced her to look. Her body could not yet recognise his as good for her, perhaps. It was a wild guess, as all her other thoughts concerning Sandor.

Sansa abandoned her failed thoughts of romance and waited for her destiny to take a new turn as so many times before. She wondered if that's what Father had done as well, only to meet Ice at the end of his days. Did Father know that they murdered him with his own sword? Ser Ilyn obeyed so fast, and the gold cloaks tossed Father on his knees when Joffrey asked for his head. Did it matter? She supposed not.

Sansa couldn't stop thinking about Father now. She could hear the hiss of Ice being drawn, see the blade going down. Her eyes glistened. All her efforts had been in vain. She had never felt more alone.

She didn't think anyone would ever bring her a much needed bath.