Author's Notes: Here comes the second chapter, a slight deviation from the original 700-word ficlet I wrote about the topic starting to emerge.
I am well aware that most readers may not want the sadness this story conveys and that is absolutely fine - this was just something I felt strongly pulled towards. As much as I too love happy endings and joyous fics, sometimes reading/writing sad is beautiful in its own right...
"I am so sorry!" she repeated over and over again, stooping across the partition. Her hands sought to reach him through the bars, fluttering around like mad butterflies when she couldn't make the contact.
Sandor refused to look at her, holding on to a denial while his broad shoulders shook from the effort of trying to gain control over his emotions. No they can't. They fucking can't. He hated himself for showing weakness in front of the one person who deserved more. He willed his tears to stop and cursed his helplessness all the while a rage as he had not known before grew inside him. He had lost it, had become a weakling who deserved to be culled. Just as well they were going to kill him.
Finally Sandor won the battle for his self-control but it was a bleak victory. After regaining a sliver of his composure he stared at the girl in disbelief, a life-long habit making him to register what his eyes told him even if his sight was still shrouded by the sheen film of his undoing.
Her face was an image of terrible sorrow and regret, and pale – so pale. Dark shadows under her eyes told their story of unslept nights, and sharp collarbones and hollow cheeks that of uneaten meals. Her hair was matted and dishevelled but not all shine had left it, and the rays of sun streaming through the window caught it in a brilliant flash.
Finally her words stirred Sandor and he realised he had to say something, anything. To his surprise his voice was strong if somewhat coarse.
"Fuck that, little bird. I am sorry that I failed you," he croaked.
"No, you didn't fail me. You saved me." Sandor had still not moved closer and she gave up, her arms falling helplessly to her sides. She was beautiful still, almost ethereal in a way that he had thought only fairies could be, when he had been young and naïve and had still believed in fairies. And in honour. And in knightly values. All that had drained away from him in the relentless tide of times but he still remembered the fairies.
One of them was now standing in front of his very eyes. She looked at him straight and the sight of his burned face clearly did nothing to deter her. She sought his gaze and demanded his attention in a way she had never done before. Yes, she had looked at him squarely before, but this was more than that. She commanded him.
"You deserve better. If you have to die, you earned to do so in the battle, killing your enemy." As he talked Sandor understood that he might have saved her life, but at what cost? She had been ready to sacrifice herself gladly for a chance to avenge her father and remove the threat to the rest of her kin. She had been no brainless little bird although Sandor had first judged her so. There would have been no reason for her brother to seek to free her if she, too, was dead. And Joffrey fucking Baratheon would not have been able to wage a war that was as stupid as it was futile. She wanted to prevent all that.
He knew how it was to prepare to die in a battle; he had done it himself many times. Sought solace in meaninglessness of life and how it didn't matter whether he lived or died, only cleansing his mind and focussing on what lay ahead. Sworn that should he fall no enemy would get him alive, as he would keep on fighting until his last breath. Had the wolf-girl done the same, this unlikely warrior? And he had destroyed it by allowing her to be taken a prisoner to be tormented and humiliated by her enemies.
"You were ready to die that day, and you should have been free to do as you wished. Enter the other side like a warrior you showed yourself to be. Not on a block like this." Sandor gestured in the direction of the scaffold trying hard to control his despair and his rage. "I took that away from you, the only thing you had left. I am sorry, little bird."
Without realising he had stepped closer to the bars and she reached for him once more and clutched his clenched fist between her hands. Her hands were cold but their skin was soft. Sandor studied them; how her slender fingers twined between his, forcing his fist to open when he reluctantly yielded to her. Absurdly he noticed that her fingernails, previously so neat and clean, were now ragged and lined with dirt.
"But you gave something to me. You let me know that I had at least one friend here, someone who cared whether I lived or died. Someone who thought I was worth something." She pressed her fingers under his chin and forced it gently up. It was the second time she had laid her hand on him and the touch sent shivers through Sandor's body; like little sparkles from embers shooting out of the fireplace. Yet unlike real fire this did not terrify him but on the contrary; he leaned to her touch and slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. Her expression was pleading but she also looked strangely radiant as she regarded him. Sandor could have submerged himself into those eyes and never come up again – and a part of him did just that.
"Little bird," he rasped.
Sandor knew they wouldn't have too long before it was time for the block. At noon, the man had said, and from the angle of the sun he deduced it to be already at least mid-morning. Heavy footsteps going back and forth as well as low voices from outside told him that at least two guards had been placed outside the door. Besides them there was nobody else and unlikely to be until they would be escorted to their last walk. It was customary to leave the condemned to atone their sins, so he knew that they would be left alone until then.
Looking at her the time he had spent in darkness dreaming of her disappeared into nothingness and yet filled him to the brim. All his thoughts of her. The serene; assured in the knowledge that she would be safe and live a long life surrounded by the blood of her blood and that of the North. The twisted; fuelled by a sick drive that saw his mind roam freely in the curve of her hip and that of her breast while remorselessly stroking himself.
In either incarnation the girl he had remembered had been a mere girl-child innocent of the ways of the world, but the one in front of him now was a woman, forged in the fires of pain and suffering.
Sandor played with her thumb, stroking it with his own thumb and forefinger. "But why? What the fuck is Lord Tywin about? You are a Stark."
The girl shrug her shoulders almost imperceptibly. "Queen Cersei wants me dead. She offered him something he wanted more than he could get from me."
She hadn't withdrawn her hand and seemed content to let it rest in Sandor's grip. It, like everything else in her, appeared so small and fragile against his calloused skin.
"Tonight after all this is over," she turned and her eyes lingered at the window where the shadow of the scaffold could be seen, "there is going to be a big celebration in the Great Hall. Lord Tywin will announce the betrothal of Queen Dowager Cersei to Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden."
Sandor winced, remembering how besotted the girl herself had been with the bloody Knight of the Flowers.
"Is that it?"
"Tomorrow King Tommen releases Ser Jaime from the Kingsguard and he leaves for the Casterly Rock. There is talk about another grand marriage, to House Martell. Prince Doran's eldest daughter Arianne is a worthy prize."
Sandor understood it now, too well. Two grand marriages into powerful houses who were likely to join Lannister cause – against one forced marriage where the kinship had already been broken beyond repair. Cersei had played her cards well. For a brief moment he wondered how she had made Jaime to do her bidding, but then shrugged it out of his mind. The Queen had always had her way with the bloody Kingslayer.
"How do you know all this?"
"Oh, people talk. My cell was close to the kitchens and many times the kitchen maids set themselves up right outside my window to peel potatoes, shell peas or to do other such chores. They like to talk when they work, they really do."
They had frozen on their spots, she leaning against the iron curtain separating them with her thin hand pushed through the bars, Sandor standing as close to her as he could, holding it.
All this time when I thought she was resting on a featherbed, she was kept in a cell at the back of the keep. The thought seemed sacrilegious – it was sacrilegious. His anger returned even though he knew how futile it was.
"They talked about many things. Even about you." Sansa stared at their joined hands when she spoke. "And me."
Sandor could guess the gist of idle gossip after having lived in the court for so long. Too bloody long. He didn't want to ask her about it, hoping that she hadn't paid any attention to whatever had been said. It was sure to be nothing pretty if it involved him. The little bird didn't seem to be too perturbed though.
"They said the dog wanted something that belonged to his master. And that it was the reason why he bit the master's hand." Her words were matter-of-fact, not scandalised as he would have expected.
"Is that what they say? Tongues wagging, nothing more. Pay no heed to that," he muttered.
Her grip on his fingers tightened. "But I know why you did it. It was not because of the… things they said."
Gods, a bunch of kitchen wenches sharing gossip…more likely than not most of the talk had stayed firmly under skirts. Sandor knew that women, when left on their own devices, could use just as coarse language as men. Perhaps even worse. He found himself hoping that the talk had not put her off too much. Not a bloody shining knight any longer if she thinks that all I wanted was to get into her smallclothes.
He didn't really want to know. "Well that makes one of us who does. I don't have a bloody idea why I did such a stupid thing. A moment of insanity, mayhap."
She raised her hands to his face, one on either side, and held his head firmly between them forcing him to look straight at her. Sandor couldn't turn away although it would have been easy for him had he wanted; her grip was not strong, only soft.
"You did it because you are a good man. You saved me because there is inherent goodness in you, although you try to deny it."
Sandor didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In the end he did neither but snorted loudly. "A good man? You don't know what you are talking about, girl. I have never been good and never will. I am a killer and my soul is as black as there is."
She didn't let go of him and took his bark in her stride, smiling softly. "You think you are bad? I have seen evil and it is not you."
Sandor pushed away and cursed. "You don't know me, girl! You think a few kind words make me good, or an act of mindless insanity virtuous? Well, you are wrong! If you'd know what I have thought of you in the dark cells and the filthy dirty notions in my head, you'd turn away screaming."
He strode back and forth in that narrow space, fuming how the stupid girl could still be so naïve. After all she had gone through she should have learned to let go of her belief in goodness in people.
"Did those wenches say why they thought the dog wanted his master's toy? To fuck her bloody, to take her as his own plaything? I am sure that's what the chatter is around the court. Does it shock you? Does it, little bird!?"
She only stood there and watched her quietly, and after a while Sandor started to feel silly about his outburst.
"I don't care what people say. I only care about what I see, and know." There was no mistaking it; she smiled at him. It transformed her gaunt face to the one he remembered; lovely, full of life.
Sandor stared at her defiantly but when she signalled him to come closer he followed her lead blindly. Her presence drew him towards her like a harvest feast pulls a starved beggar in hope for some scraps from the table. That was more or less how he felt, hoping for scraps of her kindness – but yet protesting against his own need.
Once facing her again Sandor lifted his hands towards her face, but a sharp pull and a clank of metal reminded him about his fetters. The highest he could reach was to her collarbones, and frustrated he gave up and let his hands drop.
Reading his intentions perfectly the girl kneeled on the dirty floor allowing him to reach her, not minding the least the indignity or the grime and soot under her knees. Her eyes looked up at him and Sandor's hands found her, lingered on her cheeks and drew the line of her jaw with his fingertips. It was like touching finest porcelain, much too fragile for the likes of him who was more used to hold sharp steel in his grip. So fine, so delicate – he could see the shadow of the vein on her throat through her skin.
Sandor didn't care why she was doing this, whether it was pity or some foolish notion of a fair maiden granting a favour to her saviour – what a bloody fine saviour he had been! She would get up soon and he would never have this change again so he better use the opportunity to its fullest.
Her lips… full and red, slightly chapped. He had seen them a hundred times, curved into a shy smile when her heart had yet been full of hope and excitement. Later they had been pressed into a thin line, or when her self-control had betrayed her, into a sad frown. Sandor drew his thumb over her lower lip and was stunned when she opened her mouth and let it slip between the neat row of small white teeth. The sight stirred him and woke the beast within, bringing back the endless hours he had spent thinking of this – and more.
Her position right in front of him, on her knees, was much too suggestive and Sandor's cock stiffened even before the thought had fully formed in his head. She was so close, all she would have to do was to lean down a bit and open that sweet, sweet mouth of hers…