The journey to the small farm that Sandor had discovered on his way to the Gates was over a half a day's ride away and they would not reach the dwelling till late evening. They had remained quiet most of the day, and wanting to put as much distance between them and where they had left Mya and Lothor, the occasional break to make water was all he had allowed. What their future would be once Littlefinger discovered that they had let Sansa slip through their fingers, he could not say, but Sandor hoped that time would be on his side.
The Lord Protector was not set to arrive at the Gates of the Moon for several days, though Sandor was sure that a raven had already been sent. Hopefully Lothor and his wench are still tied up in that cabin, means no one has found them yet. He's a fool, leaving the Bloody Gates with Sansa, he thought, glancing down at her sleeping form resting against him. Though it worked in my favour.
She had been asleep for a while now, having given up her courtesies of sitting prim and proper. She finally leaned her head against him, resting just below his shoulder. Sansa had been tense at first, he could tell, but as her eyes got harder to keep open, she relaxed and fell into a deep slumber. It might have aggravated his wound but he could not help but hold her close. I never thought I would see her again, and she slept here in my arms as we rode. Bugger, listen to yourself, dog, you sound like the fucking Knight of Flowers. He snorted loudly at that thought.
It was dark now and the road to the farm was just within sight. About time. I need to get this stitched up, he thought as he silently winced from the now throbbing pain coming from his chest wound. Sansa stirred under the cloak, yawning. She sat up straight and peered out toward the end of the trail, the warm feeling of her against him suddenly gone. "Are we close?" she asked drowsily.
"We'll stay there for the night," Sandor grunted, pointing to the tiny light flickering in the distance. "You'll have to sleep in the barn, but you'll be safe. And the old woman there, she'll lend you a blanket. Seems nice enough. Wanted me to stay with her and the boy. Even gave me those clothes you're wearing. Said she would feed me and let me stay in the barn loft in exchange for work. Told her these hands aren't made for shoveling shit," he said and flexed his fingers.
"Can we trust her?"
"Can't trust anyone except yourself, little bird. Hells, might be some of us can't even do that. But she's got food. Stew, most like. Caught the stag for them before I left and only took what I needed. Food's worth more than gold or a man's word. They were starving, I provided something for them."
"What if she tells Littlefinger who we are?" she asked quickly. "Maybe we should just sleep in the woods."
"Woods? Have to stitch up this war wound you gave me."
"What should we tell her? Surely she might be suspicious or at least question who I am."
"What, a dog like me can't have a pretty little travelling companion?" he rasped quietly. "We could tell her you're my daughter. Think she'll believe that, do you?"
"I suppose it would make sense to have a story in case someone comes looking for me, but who would believe that I am your daughter?" she whispered haughtily.
My bed warmer then, he almost said, a smirk forming on his lips.
"And you're not a dog," she continued, looking up at him, "Please, stop calling yourself that."
Sandor glanced down at her and could see her eyes glittering in the darkness. Suddenly he felt annoyed by all her questions, and tore away from her gaze. "Tell her what you want, girl," he growled, "makes no difference to me. But it's getting colder and I need something warm in my belly. And sleep." Hurriedly, he turned Stranger down the snowy trail and quickened the horses pace.
Once they neared the barn, Sandor dismounted and reached to help Sansa, placing his hands around her waist. She steadied herself, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Her grip was noticeably timid now, but when he placed her down on the ground, her hands slipped down to his chest, her fingers brushing lightly above his tunic before lowering her hands to her side.
You're still a timid little bird, aren't you? But sometimes you forget yourself.
Sandor tied Stranger to the post and beckoned Sansa to follow him towards the small hut. He stopped in front of the weathered door and knocked loudly. Sansa stood just behind him, so close that he could almost feel her breath on his back. She was shivering and her breath was a cloud around her. Though he could not read her expression due the blackness that surrounded them, he knew she was nervous.
"It'll be fine, girl. Don't worry," he said, trying to sound reassuring. He turned back to the door when he heard the old woman's voice from the other side.
"Aye, who's there? Get on your way, I've nothing here," she muttered, her voice muffled by the closed door.
"Let me in, old woman." Sandor barked loudly and thumped the door with his fist again to accent his demand.
He heard the bar slip with resistance from its place and the door opened slightly with a groan. He looked down and nodded to her wrinkled face, hiding his smirk when her lips pulled back into a toothless grin. She opened the door fully and waved him in eagerly with her thin, gnarled hand. He reached behind and grabbed Sansa's arm pulling her in with him. She stood right beside him, her arm was touching his and she was shaking from the cold.
Sandor pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, leading her to the bright fire crackling in the hearth. He urged her closer to warm herself. He was chilled too, but not enough to stand too close to the leaping flames.
He turned to the old women. She was watching him carefully as she puffed on her pipe, wafts of smoke lazily circling around her, blending in with the white of her hair that was piled on the top of her head. She sucked back on the stem of the pipe and squinted her eyes at Sansa, appraising her silently before turning her attention to him.
"So, you needed the boy's clothes for this one. Aye, but not a practical disguise at all. She's right ready to burst out of those pants. And no cloak? You won't make it far." she croaked at him, smacking her lips together. "Who is she?"
"Nevermind that, woman. She'll be fine. Might need a cloak from you when we leave though," Sandor said as he glanced back to the fire and the pot that was bubbling away.
"Hmm. Well, no sense in freezing to death, I say. But girl," she said with another puff of smoke, "come here and sit down. A nice warm bowl of stew should fix you right up." The old woman pointed her crooked finger toward the two chairs that looked as old as she. "You two sit down there, and I'll fetch some food for you." she said shuffling to the fire and picking up a poker to lift the hot lid off the pot.
Bloody well smells like the seven heavens, Sandor thought as he watched her. His belly rumbled in agreement to the old woman's words, not having much to eat in the past few days. Sansa walked past him and sat at the table looking too prim and proper again. You're supposed to be playing the bastard, not a pretty little lady. He clenched his jaw and walked over to her, giving her a stern look as he sat down beside her, and leaned in close.
"Remember your place, girl. No highborns here, got it?" he whispered. When she turned to him and nodded slowly, he pulled away. Good girl. Just do as you're bid and we might make it.
Soon, he and Sansa each had steaming bowls of stew in front of them. Though it was a simple, the stag and bits of assorted root vegetables made it hearty meal. And it was hot. Sandor grabbed his spoon and wrapped his large hand around the bowl and ate eagerly. A nice, thick piece of warm bread and cheese would be perfect. And a skin of wine, he thought as he wolfed down his food.
In between spoonfuls he would glance over to Sansa and watch her as he leaned his forearms on the table. She sat with her back straight, her hand held the spoon delicately in her fingers as she brought it up to her mouth without bending her head. Her other hand sat proper on her lap. Stop eating like a bloody highborn. He kicked her foot under the table and glared at her when she looked at him, her eyes startled. Sandor nodded to the food, scooped up a bite, and shoved it into his mouth, nodding back at her as he chewed noisily. She turned away and stared at her bowl, swallowing hard, then scooped up a spoonful and tried to do the same.
Sandor shook his head. It's like she's never seen a bloody peasant eat, he thought as he watched soup dribble down her chin and onto the cloak she was still wearing. He watched her look around for something dainty to wipe her face.
"Use your sleeve, girl. This is no bloody high table," he growled under his breath, ignoring the old woman observing the two of them, a small flask in her hand, the pipe hanging from her mouth.
Sansa looked at her sleeve and hesitated for a moment, but nodded and wiped her chin clean. She took another spoonful, this time she shoveled the food in hungrily and when she caught Sandor smirking at her, she just grinned, baring her teeth. Don't grin at me like that little bird. You get too bold, might be I'll nip at that pretty little mouth of yours.
Sandor was soon distracted by the old woman who had pulled up a low stool beside them. He watched as she took a seat and a long haul on the flask. Her eyes were slightly guarded, but he knew she was trying piece together a story. She set the flask down and crossed an arm about her chest and slowly puffed at the pipe in the other hand, her whiskered chin bobbing up and down.
"The girl," she finally said with a scratchy voice, a cloud of smoke escaping her mouth as she spoke, "she wasn't with you the last time you ate at my table. How is it she's sitting here now?"
"Spare me your questions, old woman." He looked around the room. "Where's the boy?"
"Aye, he's asleep. Been working all day on getting the cart ready so we can go to Gulltown." She took another puff, her cheeks hollowing as she inhaled. "The boy and I have been holed up in this cabin for too long. His father went to fight in the war and never came back. Dead most likely. His mother was taken by the fever. Life's not been easy for the lad," she explained shaking her head. The woman settled her gaze on Sansa and observed her. "Well, that's the nature of things, as they say."
Sandor watched as the woman's eyes darted back and forth between him and Sansa. She gestured her pipe toward him.
"Attacked, were you?" She said nodding to the rip in his tunic.
"Oh, it was terrible," Sansa suddenly piped up. Sandor and the old woman turned their heads abruptly. "Some mountain tribesmen had him surrounded, seven to one!" Sansa said quickly, laying her hand on his arm. "My dear husband fought so bravely."
Sandor arched his eyebrow. Husband? That's a loud chirp now. He pursed his lips together into a frown and looked at her pale hand on his arm. So smooth and clean.
"Your husband, you say?" The old woman said with a smirk. "He said he was not from these parts when he came through here last."
"Oh, he has never been. We were separated in the war. He went to battle and while he was away, I was taken by the Mountain Clans. I thought I would never seen my love again," Sansa said, her voice suddenly high pitched.
Sandor peered down at her as she lifted her eyes to meet his. Such a pretty little liar; terrible liar. Little bird, close that mouth of yours. He was about to speak, but was stunned into silence when Sansa removed her hand from his arm and turned toward him, gently ran her fingertips over his scarred cheek.
"Oh, how I missed you, my love. I thought I would never see you again. The Seven led you to me, and now that you've found me, we will never be apart. You have such a strong faith, so much stronger than mine." She slowly let her hand fall, lowered her eyes, and picked up spoon, taking another huge bite.
"We are leaving Westeros, there is too much war," Sansa continued with her mouth full of stew. "My husband has suffered enough and surely if we stay, a man of his size and strength will be needed once again. We will leave and go far away from this place. Right, my darling?" She looked at Sandor and smiled sweetly.
Seven hells, girl, you're laying it on heavy. Only a bloody fool would not recognize this mummer's farce. Well, two can play this game.
"Aye... the gods," he rasped heavily, holding Sansa's gaze, "They spoke to me in a dream and I listened alright. 'Go to the Bloody Gates, your wife will be there,' they said." Sandor reached over and quickly pulled Sansa off of her stool and onto his lap. He smirked as she gasped loudly. You started this chirping. He grinned at her and held her tightly against him, ignoring the pain from his chest. He buried his face into her hair that was braided to the side. Bloody hells she smells good. He felt Sansa squirming on his lap. Suddenly she went still and rigid. What do you expect me to do?
"The gods led you to your wife?" the old woman asked incredulously. A burst of laughter filled the room. "Aye, I've heard some good stories in my day, but she is your wife?" The woman cackled louder, coughing and wheezing, when she was overcome.
Sandor lifted his head up from Sansa's shoulder and stared hard at her, a frown on his face. Of course folks would think a man with my face could never have a wife like Sansa. "Are you quite alright?" he heard Sansa ask the woman. Sandor reluctantly removed his arms around her as she made to stand up in concern.
"Aye, I got this cough that comes on when I laugh too hard. She hacked a bit more and cleared her throat. "Might be the both of you should come up with a better tale. The look on your 'husband's' face gave it all away, my dear girl. He has the look of a starved man, and it weren't my stew he been eyeing, that's for sure.
Sandor just snorted and eyed Sansa as she blushed. She's like a fucking maid.
"Besides," the woman continued, "why would he have asked to take some of my boy's clothes? Surely the gods would have reminded him of his wife's long legs." She wiped the tears that were rolling down her face with the back of her hand.
Sansa, who was wringing her hands together frantically, shot him a quick look and Sandor just shook his head at her.
"Listen, old woman, we just need a roof over our heads for the night, a cloak for the girl if you have a spare, and a bedroll. I've got a few coins." Sandor rasped quietly, his face turning hard and his jaw tightly clenched. Don't want to have to tie you up too, old woman. Though I will if I have to. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.
The gesture did not go unnoticed by the old woman. She puffed on her pipe and appeared to be thinking.
Sansa looked at Sandor's hand and her eyes opened wide. She shook her head at him, a pleading look in her eyes. "No, you can't," Sansa cried and she grasped his hand tightly.
"Don't worry, little bird. The old woman is smart. She knows I won't think twice about protecting you."
"Grandmother?" A cracking voice called from above.
Sandor turned around and peered up. Bloody hells, boy, get back to bed.
The old woman just nodded to the boy. "It's alright, lad. Back to bed now." She looked back at Sandor and puffed on her pipe. "No need for that, ser. Her story means naught to me," she said nodding her head at Sansa. "You gave us food when we were at our worst. I've not forgotten that. I think you're a good man, an honest man, but your story has more holes to mend than my winter stockings," she laughed dryly. "You can sleep in the barn. And girl, you can have whatever contents you need in that trunk."
She pointed to a worn trunk. It had seen better days. The bindings were worn and the latch was broken. "I lost my daughter, all her things are there in that trunk. You'll find some suitable clothes to wear and blankets to keep you warm. She was shorter that you girl, but you'll find something."
The woman quieted then, Sandor noticed, and she seemed to have a sad, faraway look in her eyes. He swallowed hard, reaching to his belt to remove a small pouch of coins, and placed it on the table in front of the old woman, though she hardly seemed to notice.
"Here. For your silence and your kindness. And I'm not a Ser," he muttered crossly. He never knew what to say when someone was kind to him, even after all this time.
The woman shook her head, "No, you take it. Might be you'll need it more than us. She stood up slowly and patted him on the arm, "Go, find your ship, leave this land and find some freedom and happiness with this young girl."
Sandor stared down at her, as she turned to look at Sansa. "Go ahead girl, take what you need. Take some extra things. This man you got here, he looks like he might need some fixing up."
"Thank you," Sansa said kindly.
Still the ever the courteous little bird, he thought with a strange sense of pride.
"Have you ever stitched a man back together before?"
Sandor looked over to Sansa.
She shook her head. "No, but I'm sure I can, I'm very practiced in stitching clothes."
The woman smiled her toothless grin. "Good. As long as you know how to thread a needle, that's all you need to know. And how to keep the needle clean." She handed Sandor a small flask.
"What's this brew?" he questioned her.
"Its very strong. Just dip the needle in and it will be safe to use," she explained. "Take a few swigs for yourself before hand. It'll numb the pain."
Sandor looked at the flask, and then at Sansa, who was rummaging through the trunk. She turned as if she felt his stare and flashed him a quick smile.
My pain is already numb.
