Eddard Stark had faced his executioner silently, and with dignity.
Sansa Stark faced her own with trembling hands, but in these last seconds of her life she wanted only to behave in a manner that would have made her father proud to see.
"The choice is mine then," the headsman growled.
And with those words of finality, Sansa felt time and worry and fear all slip away from her, as though fleeing in anticipation of the sword's slash. Her quivering heart was submerged by a sense of peace and clarity. She could be with Lady soon. And father.
"Pack your clothes and jewels, we're leaving," the Hound snapped, and in the same instant he spun her by the shoulder and pushed her through the doorway to her chamber. Sansa stumbled forwards, not entirely sure what was going on.
As she turned back to question him, he pulled her door closed and was gone. Sansa stared at the wood planks, mouth open in shock. What had just happened? Did he not understand her intent? What had he just said?
We're leaving.
Sansa stood just inside the doorway of the now dark room, her mind a swirling vortex. She tried hard to hold on to that single solid point in the centre, the knowledge that she had to pack, now. But what should she take? Her dresses, which barely fit? Her good riding boots, that was certain.
Well, first I must stoke the fire or I'll hurt myself stumbling through the dark, she determined. It was good to have a task to do, to quiet her flustered thoughts. When the fire had begun to come back to life she took herself to her dresser and opened the drawers one by one, determining what she needed.
She looked over her jewellery, combs and ribbons impassively. What would be worth gold to someone? Setting a wide handkerchief on her lap she scooped the entire contents of the dresser into it, discarding the scraps of silk that normally kept the jewels separate and safe. The resulting bundle was larger than the handkerchief could easily accommodate.
She threw a few of the older, chipped combs back into the drawer. They had been given to her by her mother, but she was the only one who would treasure them now. It was a small price to pay to be in her lady mother's arms once more.
There was still too much for the handkerchief to carry. It vexed her to leave anything valuable behind, but clearly she had to choose. Her eyes settled on the small vial of skin oil that she had begun to use since she arrived at the Southern court. Many of the ladies here used a variety of oils, lotions and powders. Her septa had always condemned such things as vain, but it had been so hard to resist when surrounded by the fair beauties of the Red Keep.
She removed the vial from the parcel and placed it back with the old combs. Her skin would become drier if she didn't use it, and and wrinkle like parchment when she became old. She had always hoped to have skin as smooth and clear as Cersei's as she aged. The thought of the queen's beauty now soured her stomach, and she had no more regrets about leaving the oil.
With a jolt of distress, Sansa realised she was dawdling. She could not afford to waste time. If the Hound came back and found her not ready he would be furious; maybe he would leave without her then, just as he had threatened to do before. Her stomach, or something lower than that, ached tremendously from her panic.
She rose and went to her wardrobe, quickly pulling out several dresses; those with the thickest material. With the dresses and bundle on her bed and her riding shoes on her feet, Sansa felt she had gathered all she could. She worried about food, but Clegane had not told her to fetch any, and what if he returned while she was away? If she missed this opportunity to flee Sansa would never forgive herself.
Thrumming with agitation, she began folding the selected dresses neatly. She kept two aside, one to wrap around the handkerchief bundle, which was still too bulgy, and the other to wrap the rest of the folded dresses in. When that was done she sat on the bed alongside her two bundles, unable to keep her hands from wringing together or smoothing out her skirts again and again. How were they to escape? How would they avoid being seized by the guards? Where would they go?
No, I must trust him, and cease thinking about these worries. If he does not know how to achieve them, I surely never would. So it does no good to contemplate it.
To keep her mind clear of thoughts of the future, Sansa looked at the two dress bundles, and tried to picture in her mind some memories of days she had worn those particular gowns. She remembered that she had worn her green dress in the godswood once. She had sat there for a long while on a bench under a tree prematurely shedding its leaves. She had chosen that one as the signs of winter reminded her of home.
She recalled that incident clearly, as much later in the day she had lain down on her bed to rest and heard a crunching sound underneath her. It had been a leaf, caught on the back of her gown. She had been so embarrassed, to think she had spent the better part of a day walking around with a leaf stuck to her. It was something Arya would have done.
It struck her now as being ridiculously trivial, both for her to have been so upset by the incident, as well as to remember it so vividly. If only she could choose which experiences to keep with her, and which to discard as unworthy of remembrance. Then she could blot out this whole evening... and in an instant, a floodgate opened and anguish crashed down into her.
It was almost physical; her whole body spasmed and she fell to her knees before the bed. She hadn't let herself think about the dull pain inside her.It was just another beating, she repeated to herself helplessly. But it wasn't, and there was no Queen, no Hound, no task present any longer to distract her.
She bit her hand to stop the howl coming out, but the tears were remorseless. It struck her as foolish to weep for the loss of this final thing, after so much of her family and her people had been lost to her already. She should be acclimatised to having anything she cherished torn from her. But normally it was not quite so visceral...
Her torment was blessedly interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, and her sobs were cut short by ease of ready practice. The memories scattered, but instantly a new anxiety appeared. Sansa was at the door within a heartbeat, opening it with shaking hands, but just enough to peek out of and no more.
There was no light at all in the hallway. Had the lanterns been snuffed out? Blinking, she was able to make out a dark shape that was at once both distressing and comforting. It made a muffled hiss.
"Open the door."
Sansa stepped back, swinging the door with her. Clegane slipped in as noiselessly as a shadow, unnerving her. Was he wearing no armour? She peered at him now he had come into the firelight and saw he was wearing only a few pieces of his darkened plate; mostly just boiled leather and no mail. Lacking the components that protected the joins was preventing the normal clamour of plate, but leaving much of his vulnerabilities exposed. She knew he was a formidable fighter, but whether or not he would be able to avoid injury with such inferior armour was added to her already considerable list of worries.
"Here, put this on," he rasped. Sansa grappled the cloth he thrust at her, then opened it for inspection.
"A septa's cowl?" She asked.
"Put it on," he repeated with obvious lack of patience. She glanced at him, worried he was angry with her, and saw he had an expression of frightening distress. It didn't quell her own to realise he was just as troubled as she was.
Sansa hurried to her mirror and awkwardly tried to wrap it around her head and tuck all her hair away. She had never donned one herself nor seen it done, and the result was obviously unsuitable. She made to undo it when he snapped again.
"Don't bother fixing it, no-one will notice. Put this cloak on and pull up the hood," he passed her another armful of cloth. The cloak was coarse and heavy, and the pin almost stiff with rust. When she fumbled with it the Hound nipped it from her grasp and settled it for her. "Where are your things, girl?" he demanded.
Sansa fled to the bed and tried to pick up a bundle under each arm. She struggled for only a moment before one of them was wrested away from her abruptly.
"Now, follow me, keep your head down and say nothing to anybody, even if they address you. No buggering foolishness about being impolite. You understand?" He rasped. Sansa nodded, then followed it with a demure affirmation.
"Yes, I understand."
Without saying another word Clegane turned on his heel and left, Sansa scrambling to catch up. He set a pace so vigorous she had to limp in a halting run, sure beyond doubt they would be obviously noticeable in their haste. She soon found she needn't have worried, as when they reached the main thoroughfare it was bizarrely full of activity.
People were running, everyone with determination or worry on their face, but all in seemingly different directions. In the distance, Sansa could hear men shouting. Was it coincidence there was turmoil just as they made their escape?
"What is happening?" Her dread of capture was transformed into alarm for what would be causing such calamity.
"A distraction," was the growled reply. Sansa was prompted to wonder again about his haunted countenance and agitation. Had he killed someone so they could flee without notice? Someone important? She was surprised that the thought of the King or Queen dead caused a heavy worry in her belly rather than joy. But it would serve the Queen right for what she did to me.
Fleeing as they were now, they would be hunted by the crown already, but if they were fugitives from the death of royalty there would be no end of attempts to track them down. She prayed silently to the Father that Clegane knew what he was doing. She had to place her trust in him. She had already placed her life in his hands once tonight. What does it matter now if I lose it due to his folly? She told herself, but it didn't quell her concern.
The kingsguard at the gates of the Holdfast were not stopping the flow of human traffic. In fact they looked as though they wished desperately to join it, but were compelled to stay at their posts. Sansa began to realise there was no likelihood of sudden capture as they climbed the Serpentine in great painful leaps that left her panting and practically clutching at the Hound's cloak to not be left behind, nor swept up in the mass of people running alongside them.
They made their way towards the stables, the Hound easily making a path that Sansa could follow. She ran so close behind him she half stumbled into him several times when he paused, but he never made a complaint or even took notice, despite her timid apologies.
The stables were not immune from the confusion, as many of the horses were making distressed-sounding noises and prancing about in their stalls. Sansa was at a loss as to why the horses would be as agitated as the people of the keep, when she realised that the usually overpowering smell of the stables was overlaid with something else.
Smoke.