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Chapter 4
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JUNE 9, 2012
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Sansa loved to travel. As far back as she could remember, she had been drawn in by the romance of discovering someplace new, somewhere not the same old quiet life and chilled climate she'd grown up in. She'd been all over the North, seen one of the wonders of the world―the icy grandeur of The Wall―and skied the mountains of the Vale. But, to her frustration, that was about it. Her father's schedule didn't often allow time for extended trips away, and even when it did, his feet seemed to be anchored to the North. According to her mother, he'd done and seen enough in his youth to know where his heart lie.
That was all well and good for him, but Sansa wanted more. Something exciting and different. And she was finally getting it.
She'd never been this far south. Sansa watched in rapt splendor as, outside the window, the old ruins of Harrenhal Castle passed into a vast, green forest. In the distance, a great expanse of approaching blue spread across the horizon.
"Mother?" Sansa peeled her attention from the window to the seat next to her. Catelyn Stark sat with her eyes closed, a pillow tucked comfortably behind her neck, enjoying the soft hum of the airplane's engines. A row behind them, her father dozed quietly while her sister, 15-year-old Arya, played on her phone, aggressively ignoring everything and everyone.
Sansa didn't understand her sister in the slightest. They were getting the chance to spend the entire summer in the capital, in the Red Keep itself with the President and his family, and all Arya did was moan and complain about how unfair it all was. How could she want to miss this?
"Mom," Sansa said again.
"Hmm?"
Her mother opened her eyes, and Sansa pointed at the glass. "Is that Gods Eye Lake?"
Catelyn leaned in and peered over her shoulder. The massive body of water had grown in the window. Tiny ripples on the surface reflected the early afternoon sun like a radiant field of diamonds.
"Looks like it," Catelyn said. She pointed toward a dark shape in the middle of the lake. "That there is the Isle of Faces. They cultivate rare plants there. There's a grove of weirwoods, fields of flowers; some species that don't exist now anywhere else. It's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen." A wistful smile turned the corners of Catelyn's mouth. "My father took me there once when I was young. A bit younger than you."
Sansa smiled. She didn't have many memories of her grandfather, having grown up so far away from him, but it was nice when her mother spoke about him. Hoster Tully had been widowed when Catelyn was barely more than a toddler. He'd raised his only child by himself in a time when a man doing that was practically unheard of. On some level, he was a part of her. He gave Catelyn Stark the same rich, auburn hair and bright blue eyes that stared back at Sansa in the mirror every day. She was a Stark and a Tully, the next link in an unending chain, and Sansa found it gratifying to know that part of her was loved.
"Maybe someday you and I should go, just the two of us. Would you like that?" Catelyn suggested, gently squeezing Sansa's arm. "Perhaps after you graduate?"
Sansa nodded. Elegant and strong, the epitome of all Sansa found good, her mother had always understood her better than anyone else. "I'd like that."
She gazed peacefully out the window again, a new adventure unfolding before her and the promise of more to come. "How much longer until we land, do you think?"
"Oh, we should be crossing into the Crownlands soon."
Sansa couldn't wait. It seemed like she'd been waiting forever.
For the 17-year-old girl, this was the trip of a lifetime, and it was time for her life to finally start.
March 5, 2015 - Present Day
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Strands of Sansa's hair flew loosely in the wind. On the other side of the fence, trees swayed in a strong early-spring breeze. She stared through the long mass of chain link, taken in by the sound of surging leaves as the last remaining chill of winter mixed with warmer air and blew away, kissing her cheeks as it passed by.
The prison exercise yard was a glorified slab of concrete with a basketball hoop, volleyball net, and some gym equipment for those who cared to take advantage of them. Attached was a small field of splotchy green grass where inmates could walk around if they wanted. Lothor Brune was on duty today, supervising along with Lyn Corbray, both of whom Sansa mostly regarded with indifference. Officer Brune was better than most. Though stocky and obviously strong, he was close-mouthed by nature. He had a common face, but an honest one. And unlike Osmund Kettleblack, he never showed interest in any of the inmates, other than what his job required. He wore a wedding band, and Sansa had once heard in passing another guard ask him how Mya was doing. For some reason, that made Sansa like him a little more.
Officer Corbray wasn't interested in the girls either, but Sansa thought it was for completely different reasons.
The guards concentrated on the milling group of inmates around the yard. Among them, Myranda and Chataya sat at the picnic table near the ingate, talking and laughing while Melisandre, a mystic and convicted arsonist, read their tarot cards. Obara and her sisters traded barbs with Val and Ygritte, a common occurrence that usually ended up with someone insulting someone else's mother and the guards breaking them up before anyone needed stitches. A few others were scattered across the yard. Sansa stood on the far side of the field, away from everyone. Safe from their glances and hateful comments. She only wanted quiet.
She found it. In the trees and the wind. In the turn of the seasons and the appeal of getting lost in something larger than herself. However, she wasn't alone. Alayne had followed her this morning. She'd been keeping closer to Sansa over the past few days, and a very large part of Sansa was glad of it.
Alayne's fingers were twined around the metal links holding them captive, her face upturned toward the sun and her plain brown hair surrendering to the swirling wind. She looked so serene, her eyes closed as she basked in the light. Sansa envied her. Day or night, whether for a moment or to spend the next several hours dreaming, she was afraid to close her eyes. She worried what she would remember and what she might forget, as though things would literally slip away in the blink of an eye.
Her memory was scattered these days and she didn't know why. There were things she'd forgotten, gaps where she knew something should be yet … The month after Sandor … the month afterward offered only darkness. Sometimes she would walk into a room and not remember where she'd been, and the things she did recall were so real. So real she could almost reach out and touch them.
Shouting. Pain. The recollections of someone long dead inhabited the empty space between heartbeats. The sound of glass exploding filled her ears and she was there again, bruised and beaten with no way out.
"Joff, don't … no …"
Thump thump.
A shard of glass caught the light and glittered in his hand.
Thump thump.
He cut deep, carving into her arm, and too weak to fight back, she barely mustered a scream.
Thump thump.
He slapped her hard across the face, whipping her head around. Her vision fractured into an agonizing burst of white, and before she could recover, his fingers dug into her skull and held her head down, her chin pinned to her chest.
Thump thump.
"… Little bird … Gods, Sansa, wake up."
Thump thump.
A hulking shadow loomed over her, shaking her.
Thump thump.
The taste of blood coated her mouth and her eyelids were nearly swollen shut. Listless, she started to make sounds that could barely be classified as human. "No … get off … Joff, stop …"
"Sansa …"
Thump thump.
"Please ... don't ..."
Sandor wrestled with her, trying to quiet her fumbling hands, which had begun to push him away. "Sansa … shit! Don't move. Just let me―"
"No ... no, please. Let me go … Let me go!"
Thump thump.
"No, little bird. Fuck, it's me!" He snatched her wrists and gathered her quick against his chest. "He's dead. You're alright, he's dead. Fucking piece of shit got what was coming to him."
She burst into broken sobs, and he hoisted her up into his arms. "Come on, little bird. We've got to get out of here."
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Sansa didn't remember what happened in between or much about the days immediately after that. Only that there was blood. There was blood everywhere, and Sandor had been there to wash it all away. He'd made it stop, all of it. He'd cleaned up her mess. It seemed wrong that the world hadn't stopped without him, but time ticked on. The planet kept on turning. A spent heart kept on beating.
"I can hear you thinking from here, you know?" Alayne cocked her head toward Sansa in mild annoyance. Her crystal blue eyes dazzled with unspoken humor.
Yes, Sansa knew. She always knew.
Alayne smiled, the disturbance to her reverie apparently forgiven, and her focus gravitated back to the world outside the Black Cells. She stared peacefully into the trees. "Why don't we come out here more often? Why do we stay inside so much?"
"You know why," Sansa replied without emotion, as grey as the prison walls.
"Hmph. I forget." Uncaring, Alayne pointed her face to the sky, closed her eyes and blissfully inhaled. "Birds, Sansa. Can you hear the birds?"
Sansa shook her head. She refused to listen. She turned away and checked the guards' positions. If they loitered in one place too long, especially so far removed from everyone else, Brune or Corbray would saunter over and make them move on. She had to stay vigilant. Keep her head down and avoid making waves. That was how she lived, how she survived.
"They won't come. Not yet. There's time." A particle of need reached out in the timbre of Alayne's voice. "Sansa, look up."
Hesitant, Sansa swung her gaze through the fence toward the trees. Limbs undulated in the wind. Blue sky and rays of sunlight peeked through fleeting breaks in the leaves.
"Just try it," Alayne said softly. She looked as though she could fly away from here; all she had to do was spread her wings.
Sansa closed her eyes.
Light shone through her lids, creating abstract patterns that floated and traveled slowly across her eyes. Absorbing the sun and its heat, her skin seemed to open up and breathe.
"You're alright. That's it, little bird. You're alright." She heard Sandor's rasping voice in her head comforting her again, and she inhaled long and deep.
Her stomach fluttered and then settled. It was a taste, a small sip of freedom, and for a moment, she almost felt whole. Alayne shimmered and faded, and Sansa was at rest.
They were one and the same. There was only an ephemeral idea of Her.
A her Sansa had long forgotten.
June 9, 2012
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"Welcome to the Red Keep, Mr. and Mrs. Stark. Ladies."
The driver smiled over his shoulder as they cleared the last security checkpoint and the gates opened before them. Ned returned a polite smile and Arya shot him a dark glare.
Catelyn observed her younger daughter with a disapproving frown. "I realize you're less than thrilled about being here, Arya, but President Baratheon is your father's friend and we are here as his guests. You will mind your manners."
The luxury town car pulled forward through the security gate, the engine purred, and they started up the long cobblestone drive.
Sansa stared appreciatively out the window. The lush, wooded landscape seemed to go on and on. It was purposefully engineered to separate the Red Keep estate from the urban atmosphere of the rest of King's Landing and succeeded magnificently. The city on one side, with all the rush and excitement, blended with the natural beauty of the forest, made richer by the briny tang of sea salt in the air, blown in from nearby Blackwater Bay.
Catelyn lifted her wrist to check the time and pursed her lips. "It's almost 4:00. I was hoping to call and check on the boys before it got too late."
Arya rolled her eyes. "We've only been gone six hours."
Catelyn's demure bearing scarcely wavered. "And when you become a mother, Arya," she said calmly, "then we will discuss what is the appropriate amount of time to space phone calls to your children when you're 1,500 miles away."
Arya's mouth flapped open, ready for a fierce retort, not at all to Sansa's surprise. She couldn't possibly, for once, let something go.
"Arya, that's enough," Ned stated firmly. "You've had more than enough time to speak your piece. We discussed it, and a decision was made."
"You discussed it, you mean," Arya snapped, glaring daggers at both their parents. "You didn't listen to a word I said."
Their father's long features went harder than stone. "You'll apologize, and that will be the end of it. I'll not hear one more word of disrespect toward your mother. Am I understood?"
Even though it wasn't directed toward her, Sansa felt the sting of her father's rebuke as surely as if it had been. In all her life, Sansa couldn't recall Ned Stark ever having lost his temper. He was patient and fair with everyone. Sansa knew her father had a soft spot for Arya and always had, but Arya had been pushing her luck all week and apparently even he had reached his limit.
"Am I understood, Arya?" he reiterated with force.
Arya screwed up her lips and mumbled a petulant "Yes, Dad" under her breath. "Sorry."
Catelyn sighed, and Sansa shook her head. Honestly, Arya, what did you expect?
Bran and Rickon, in the absence of their parents, were both spending the summer at Last Hearth Adventure Camp, which they'd been begging to do since Bran brought the flyer home from school two years ago, when he was 11. Now a strapping 13-year-old, and Rickon already a hellion at age 9, they were ready to go out and conquer the wilderness with a pocket knife and a pup tent. However, since the camp didn't start until next week, Robb was home with them. Robb. A 21-year-old guy freshly home from his third year of college, who'd probably subsisted on a diet of bologna and peanut butter when he wasn't calling up the pizza man. Robb, who, while a good son, wouldn't know what to do with a vegetable if it walked up and said, "Eat me."
Not only that, he had come home with a new girlfriend in tow.
Jeyne. Who was introduced to their parents with an entirely too relaxed smile on her face and a suspicious glow in her cheeks.
Bran and Rickon were definitely not spending the summer alone with Robb.
And neither was Arya, not since their parents had found out she'd been sneaking around with an older boy. Arya had screamed until she was blue in the face that she and Gendry were just friends, but there was no way she wasn't going to be on the plane this morning.
There was a kernel of jealousy on Sansa's part for her younger sister. When had she ever met a boy, friend or otherwise, worth getting in trouble for? A childhood infatuation with Theon, Robb's best friend, had only been worth the peck on the cheek he'd given her, and the boys at school were just ... eugh. Overeager, dull conversation, and sloppy kisses. No, thank you. Not one of them was worth the risk of disappointing her parents, especially her mother. Sansa didn't think could stand seeing that look on her mother's face or how small it would make her feel.
Arya had no idea how strong she was. It was yet another reason Sansa was envious of her.
They spent the next few minutes in silence, Sansa looking idly out the window. But the tension in the car was soon forgotten. A kaleidoscope of butterflies swarmed in Sansa's belly as they neared the mansion.
When Sansa was a little girl, she had always imagined the Red Keep as a giant castle with stone walls, parapets, and towers that stretched into the heavens. She was a fair maiden imprisoned by an evil dragon―Arya was happy to play that part if it meant raging and burning down the couch cushion fort and pummeling her with pillows―and Sansa longed for a great warrior to rescue her. Enter Bran and his mighty steed, Robb. Robb carried around his then baby brother on his back while he clomped around on all fours, only occasionally getting his hair and ears pulled for his trouble.
In reality, the sprawling mansion wasn't a castle, but her younger self wouldn't have noticed the difference.
The Red Keep was exactly that: red. Two wings and three stories, all made of turn-of-the-last-century red brick. The facade was offset by white lined windows with black shutters, and a gorgeous white portico entrance with four imposing columns in the central section of the manor. There were 187 rooms inside, according to the driver, who'd doubled as their tour guide through King's Landing on their way from the airport, along with an underground level exclusively for authorized personnel. There was a library, a gym, indoor and outdoor pools, and lush gardens all around the estate.
The sylvan landscape along the wide cobblestone driveway opened up, and they circled a wide, grassy courtyard decorated with manicured bushes and trees, all centered around an elegant stone fountain. The luxury town car rolled to a gentle stop and parked adjacent to the main entrance. The driver got out and opened the door for her father. Men in crisp dark suits stood sentry at front doors and watched as they filed out of the car, one of them muttering into his radio, an earpiece installed in his ear. Sansa could only look up in amazement at the size and scope of the historic building.
The southern sun was warm and bright. The sky was crystal clear. The wind whistled through the trees, and birds were singing.
A stubby-looking older gentleman with a bulbous nose and courtly manner came out to greet them, his hand extended to her father long before he was actually in reach. "Governor Stark, it's so good to see you've finally arrived."
Sansa's father was an important public figure, but naturally reserved. Some saw him as reticent or downright taciturn, but the truth was he had never been comfortable with small talk. Ned granted him a stiff, close-mouthed smile as he shook his hand.
"It's good to be here." He gestured toward the family. "This is my wife, Catelyn, and these are my daughters, Sansa and Arya."
The man tipped his chin toward Catelyn and cordially grasped her hand. "Mrs. Stark, you and your daughters are most welcome. I'm Orton Merryweather, Chief Usher here at the Red Keep. I manage the household staff and coordinate the day-to-day operations. If there's anything you or your family require, I hope you'll let me know. I'd be happy to provide you with anything you need."
Catelyn smiled and graciously accepted the handshake. "Thank you very much, Mr. Merryweather. That's very kind of you."
"No, indeed, Mrs. Stark. It's my pleasure. I trust your flight was uneventful?"
"We couldn't have asked for better."
On Sansa's left, Arya heaved an impatient sigh. Sansa elbowed her in the ribs.
Mr. Merryweather's mouth curled into a cheerful grin. "I'm so glad to hear it. Shall we get you and your belongings squared away, then?" Behind them, the driver had begun to unload their suitcases from the trunk of the car. A pair of men emerged from the house. "Mattias and James can get your bags and show each of you to your rooms. I think you'll be quite pleased. President Baratheon insisted on nothing but the best for his oldest friend."
Ned and Catelyn traded a knowing glance, and he answered with a tense smile. "Aye, I'm sure he did."
"NED!" A booming shout carried across the courtyard. "Ned Stark, you old codger, where the hell have you been?"
Sansa's butterflies returned in full force as she and her parents spun toward the new voice and saw the President himself striding toward them, flanked by two of his Guard. With a head of dark hair and a beard liberally striped with grey, Robert Baratheon was every bit as big as his voice, which came as a queer sort of surprise since Sansa had seen him on TV more times than she could count. He was tall and broad, more so than her father, and when he spoke, he seemed to use every inch of it.
President Baratheon took her father affectionately by the shoulders. "Ned."
"Robert," her father replied, looking almost as glad to see his old friend.
"It's about damn time you got here. Only took you fifteen years. Surely, the North isn't so bad off they couldn't have spared you before now."
"As a matter of duty, there's invariably something to be done, Robert. You ought to know that well enough by now."
"And don't I," Robert said with chagrin. "Around here, it's forever 'Sign this. Save the education system. What do we do about healthcare? Xaro Xhoan Daxos is a prat, and his Thirteen are a pain in the ass. Let's invade Qarth.' Utter nonsense. I haven't the faintest clue how I deal with it day in and day out. But you, Ned ..." Robert adopted a studious frown, comically out of character for one so boisterous. He looked him up and down. "You've gotten fat."
Sansa's father held an impassive expression, a slight furrow to his brow as he returned his friend's scrutiny. "One of us has."
Robert snorted. "Good gods, Cat. Don't tell me in all Ned's puttering about in the North, he's finally gone and unearthed a sense of humor."
A modest smile tickling the edge of her lips, Catelyn sighed. "Honestly, you two. You're worse than children."
Robert's bellowing laugh shook his ample midsection. "As it should be. As it should be." He threw his arms around Sansa's father in a hearty embrace. "Ah, Ned, it's so good to see you again!"
"You too, Robert," Ned said, a relaxed grin settling on his face. "It's good to see you, as well."
The car having been unloaded, the driver closed the trunk. Near the doorway, Mr. Merryweather and his valets stood politely by with their bags. Taking notice, Sansa's mother lifted her wrist to recheck the time. "Ned, if you and Robert need a few more minutes, I can take the girls up and get them situated."
"Now, now," the President said. "There's no need to haul them off right away, is there? I've hardly gotten a chance to look at the girls yet. This one, for example." He inclined his chin toward Arya, hands cocked on his hips. "All fire and spit, I'll bet. Not a care in the world, because no one would dare stand in her way, am I right?"
Arya stared up at him with those grey eyes she'd inherited from their father, all flint and steel, openly resentful of him and everything having to do with her being in King's Landing.
Robert let out a low, rumbling chuckle and then a marked degree of sadness descended over him. "You remind me of someone I used to know," he said, then glanced at her father. "Don't be too hard on her, Ned. You can't buy that kind of spirit. It'd be a shame to see it crushed."
Sansa's father didn't respond. He eyed the pavement, a brief contraction in the muscle in his cheek.
Determined to shake off the abruptly somber mood, Robert then slapped on a smile and took Sansa's hand. "And you, dear girl. The last time I saw you, you were a shy little thing still grasping at your mother's skirts. Now, look at you. A rare beauty."
Blushing at the compliment, Sansa dropped her gaze. "Thank you, Mr. President. I hardly know what to say."
"Nonsense. There's no need to say anything." Robert glanced toward her father on her left and exhaled emphatically. "I swear, Ned, having all these young people around is good for the soul. Keeps old warhorses like us young, isn't that right?" His gaze swung back to Sansa, a slight huff beneath his breath. "Myrcella and Tommen will be glad to have a few people closer to their age around the old place. They get almost as bored as I do having to hang around all day. And Joff's just back from university in Lannisport for the summer. Maybe he could take you out, show you girls the city."
Heat seeped into Sansa's cheeks with a furious rush. "That … that would be lovely," was all she managed before her tongue tied into a hopeless knot. She hadn't realized Joffrey would be here. The handsome older son of President Baratheon was hardly ever in King's Landing since he'd gone off to attend college in the Westerlands, where his mother's family was from. His exploits were often splashed all over the tabloids; where we was, who he was seen with, parties and events he'd gone to. He was practically a celebrity. Sansa (along with most of her friends) had had a crush on him for years. The thought of meeting him was overwhelming.
Robert brash, jovial demeanor had completely returned. "Good! That's settled, then."
"Speaking of settled …" Catelyn interjected, her pointed gaze aimed in the direction of the valets still waiting for them.
"Of course! Go on, ladies. Do your worst. Meanwhile, we men will make our way to the lounge and pour ourselves a drink. A toast to the good old days, eh, Ned?" Sansa almost expected him to thunk his chest like a big, hairy ape. Instead, Robert threw his great arm around her father's shoulders and led him toward the entrance without delay.
Arya watched them go with a scowl, Robert already reminiscing loudly in their father's ear and Ned glancing back with a resigned smile. "Unbelievable," she mumbled under breath, before turning her gaze on Sansa and Catelyn, somehow sadder than before. "An entire summer stuck here, and we're not even going to see him that much, are we?"
"I'm sorry, Arya," Catelyn said. "Robert asked your father for his assistance with a sensitive matter. You know he couldn't refuse."
"Whatever."
Arya marched up the driveway, and Sansa was left next to the car with her mother. She sighed. "She's not going to be like this all summer, is she?"
Catelyn wove her arm around Sansa's shoulders and they followed idly along. "It will be alright. The longest Arya has ever been angry was when I made her dress up for the Saint Maeson's Day Festival. Robb told her that she looked like an eggplant wrapped in cotton candy, and for a week she made her feelings about it quite clear. To everyone," Catelyn said. "She'll calm down sooner or later."
"Can you promise it'll be sooner?"
Sansa's mother gave a soft, lilting laugh. "When it comes to your sister, I wouldn't tempt fate."
Sansa nearly smiled, but the deep roar of an engine carried in behind her. She quickly spun her head around, as did Catelyn. A gleaming black truck was advancing up the driveway at a much less sedate pace than they'd come. The steel-rimmed tires crunched and rolled against the cobblestone as the driver sped in and steered around the town car. The truck pulled off to the right and skidded to halt, brake lights flashing in Sansa's face before the massive engine died and the driver flung the door open.
He was huge.
From twenty yards away, Sansa could tell he eclipsed even the President in height, and where Robert Baratheon had gone soft, this man was all muscle. Carved out from granite, he was easily the largest man she had ever seen. He was dressed head to toe in black and wore an earpiece identical to the ones worn by the President's Guard. It peeked out from behind long dark hair that hung past his shoulders in thin strands. A beard neatly framed his jaw and a series of tattoos decorated his right arm to disappear beneath his sleeve. Paying no one any mind, he reached into his truck and resurfaced with a gun in his hand, which he promptly shoved into his thigh holster. He clipped it secure and, again, reached into his truck. The second gun he tucked into an under the arm holster, situated over the intimidating Kevlar vest that he wore over his t-shirt.
He glanced sideways at Sansa and her mother, his smoldering gaze raking her over the coals before it migrated past them to where Arya stood, and their father, the President, Mr. Merryweather and his valets beyond her. He looked at the town car and a scowl set his hard features ablaze.
He slammed the door to his truck and stalked menacingly toward them. His stare found Sansa again, but this time, as he turned, his left side came into view.
Sansa gasped.
Catelyn's hand squeezed tightly around her arm, and Sansa realized too late what she had done. He huffed, his eyes narrowing on her, a hateful smirk on his face as if he'd expected as much. Withering under his gaze, Sansa's insides twisted with guilt.
Then, the behemoth removed his gaze from hers. His lips―the parts unmarred by scar tissue―contorted into a loathing grimace as he zeroed in on their driver and shouted. "You!" His voice was rasping and full of grit. "You got their shit unloaded?"
Leaning against the hood of the town car, the driver gaped and startled to attention, nearly dropping his keys in the process. "Yes. Everything's on its way in." He gestured toward Mr. Merryweather's valets and the glowering President directly beside them.
Whoever he was, he didn't seem bothered in the slightest. He rounded on the driver again with malicious intent. "Then, what are you still doing here?"
The driver seemed frozen in place.
"The First Lady and her precious prince are going to be rolling in here in about thirty seconds," the man snarled, getting uncomfortably close to him. "If you don't have this thing out of here by then and into underground parking, they're going to find you with my big fucking boot up your ass. How does that sound?"
"Hound!" Robert Baratheon's tone was angry yet oddly tolerant, as though he were actually calling a dog to heel. Sansa's brow furrowed, wondering why anyone, no matter how … unpleasant, would ever want such a horrid nickname. "I think that's more than enough for the time being," Robert continued. "Why don't you come over here and meet the Governor of the North, the man whose 'shit' you're so concerned with?"
The Hound ignored him for a moment, preferring instead to stare down the driver. A bead of sweat trickled down the driver's brow, and he grinned, if one could call it that. The burned skin on his left side stretched and contorted the muscles of his face into ugly angles, making a mockery of the simple motion. A deep, gravel-laden chuckle slowly issued from the Hound's throat, and the driver, thoroughly unnerved, shot into action.
Seconds later, the town car was in gear and pulling away. The Hound's eyes flickered toward Sansa's and caught her in a hard stare. Sansa snatched her eyes away and hurried toward her father.
"Ned, this is—" The President began, though Sansa's father looked none too pleased to be making his acquaintance. Catelyn watched them cautiously.
"The Hound. Sandor Clegane," Ned finished for himself. His handshake was brusque and quick and over practically before it started. "You have quite a reputation in certain circles."
The Hound shrugged. "People talk. Doesn't mean much."
"Are you suggesting that what I've heard in regards to you isn't the truth?"
The corner of his mouth twitched and formed a subtle smile. "Didn't say that."
A shudder ran down Sansa's spine.
"The Hound is head of private security," Robert explained. "Cersei brought him in after that Greyjoy business to protect the children. Apparently, the entire President's Guard wasn't good enough for her."
Arya's arms were folded across her chest, toting a bemused smile as she eyed the Hound up and down. "How good can you be if you need two guns inside the most secure building in Westeros?"
He turned his ashen stare on Arya and looked down his nose at her. "Good enough to know better than a know nothing pup," he rasped. "At least I can count." He lifted the hem of his cargo pants to reveal a third gun strapped to his ankle. "For a rainy day."
"And how does the weather look for this evening, Clegane?" Robert asked as if he'd asked the question a thousand times before.
The Hound glanced over his shoulder down the driveway, then Sansa found herself inside his gaze once more. "Fine enough."
His eyes were grey. As grey as a storm.
Sansa blinked as two armored SUVs with the Lannister Corp. lion emblazoned on the side appeared from within the trees and rumbled onto the main driveway. Between them, there was a silver-grey Cadillac. Catelyn tugged her back further off the stony drive as the Cadillac and its escorts circled and pulled up in front of the house.
The Hound jogged out to catch and hold the Cadillac's door as it was flung open and the First Lady emerged, her reputed beauty on full display in a sleek white pantsuit. A stunning gold pendant hung on a long chain around her neck, matching the gold of her hair.
But Sansa's breath stopped as a second person stepped from the Cadillac.
It's him.
Oh gods, it's him.
March 5, 2015 - Present Day
.
Sansa suddenly yanked away from the fence, gasping for air. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as she staggered, fumbling like a newborn foal as she tried to keep her feet.
He's dead. He's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead.
Sandor's voice came back to her. "Fucking piece of shit got what was coming to him."
I know. I know, she replied, bent over and braced against her knees, her only foundation. Just because she couldn't remember didn't mean she didn't know that much. How could she not? There had been blood smeared all over Sandor's shirt and hands. It didn't seem important whether it was hers or Joffrey's. She was alive and Joffrey wasn't.
It's alright, Sandor, I promise. Sansa nodded to herself, surety covering her like a warm blanket. He had always tried to protect her. This time, at least, she could reassure him.
She knew what happened.
He's dead. He's dead.
Supporting herself against the fence, Sansa managed to straighten herself out, her legs only slightly feeling like jelly. Across the yard, someone was kicking up a fuss.
Lysa Arryn had wedged herself up against a section of the fence. She was screaming at Officer Corbray and throwing clumps of grass at him while he advanced toward her, pissed off but hands up and open, as nonthreatening a posture as he could manage under the circumstances.
"Arryn, it's time to head back to the dorms," he said in a sugary sweet, contrived tone. "You want to go back to your room, right? Your nice, cozy cell?"
"Get away!" Lysa screeched as she pitched another wad of grass at him. "I know what you want. I see more than you think. You're trying to keep me away from him!"
"Come on, you unbalanced loon."
"You can't speak to me that way. You have no right! He won't let you!"
Sansa sighed. It wasn't unusual for Lysa to start something with the guards, the inmates, or anyone unlucky enough to be passing by. The prison staff had labeled Lysa a "habitual pain in the ass", but it wasn't entirely her fault. She walked around the prison like a ghost, a gaunt specter with pointed features and hollowed out cheeks, usually trembling and raving about one thing or another, unaware of who she was talking to. It was frightening how far from the real world she seemed to be. It made Sansa self-conscious sometimes. She wondered if people ever saw the same look in her eyes, void of direction, completely adrift in a sea of … nothing. That's all memories were in the end. Inconsequential echoes that might have meant something once, but now …
Sansa shook her head in attempt to clear her mind. What was Lysa doing here? Anyone with eyes could see there was something wrong with her. She needed a hospital, not a prison cell.
Alayne snorted behind her. "Yeah. She needs help."
"Stop it," Sansa hissed, casting a harsh glare her way.
Out of the corner of her eye, Officer Brune left his post with most of the inmates, pausing only for a moment when he realized one of them had followed after him. "Gilly, don't even think about it," he warned. He whipped his head back around and dashed toward Corbray and Lysa, right about the time it was clear Office Corbray had decided enough was enough.
"Alright, that's it," Corbray said. "It's time to go, fruitcake."
Corbray was thin and lean, but in excellent condition. He grabbed the much smaller woman by the collar and roughly snapped her to her feet.
Lysa's anger turned to fright, and she wriggled desperately against his grip. "Let me go! Let me go!" Her screams dissolved into terrified sobs as she clawed at his hands, looking down at the ground as if it was a wide open mouth, ready to spread its gaping jaw and eat her.
"Corbray, take it easy!" Officer Brune shouted. He grasped Corbray sharply by the shoulder and jerked him backward. Corbray's grip on Lysa slipped, and the woman tumbled to the ground, crying. Brune and Corbray grappled against each other, Brune holding Corbray back and getting the brunt of his anger for it. The brief struggle, however, came to an abrupt end when Gilly shot past them both and knelt down with Lysa, quickly taking the weeping woman in her arms.
"There, now," Gilly said, clutching her close. "You're alright. It's alright."
An overflowing cauldron of emotions spilled down through Sansa's being as she listened to Gilly's soft words of comfort, and she was paralyzed in its wake, another voice alive in her mind.
"You're alright. That's it, little bird. You're alright."
"Why? Why would he let them do this? I'd do anything for him," Lysa cried piteously. "I put the tears in Jon's wine, I wrote the letter ..."
"It's alright now," Gilly murmured. "Nobody's going to hurt you."
Nestling into Gilly's body, Lysa's unsteady gaze went downward, where Gilly's rounded belly pushed against her orange jumpsuit. The distraught woman drew a shaking hand to hover tremulously over her pregnant form. "I-I would have given him a son, too," she said with a stutter. "But they murdered him. I didn't know … I didn't know …"
Gilly nodded, compassion flush across her face. She patted Lysa's head and rocked her as she would a baby. "It's okay now. Shh … shh ..."
"My boy ... my sweet boy ..." Hysterics subsided into mournful, racking sobs. All fight appeared to have fled as Gilly continued on, gently humming words of comfort like a soothing lullaby.
When she had calmed down enough, Officer Brune sent Corbray off to mind the other inmates, who were watching the entire scene from the concrete yard like a pack of vultures . Then, he crouched down next to Gilly and, speaking in tones too low for Sansa to hear, coaxed Lysa's hand into his and pulled her carefully to her feet. Sansa couldn't imagine what he might've told her to get her to come so quietly with him, but she did. She walked as docile as a lamb toward Main Housing without another word.
After watching them go, Gilly glanced at Sansa. Her whole body seemed to sink, her face heavy as she took a deep breath. It was sad. The entire situation was sad. And nothing would be done about it, which made it so much worse.
Sansa walked took her time approaching her, dragging her fingers along the chain link, her steps unsure. Sansa wasn't on particularly friendly terms with anyone in Black Cells, and wouldn't have been, even if they had deemed her worth their time. She preferred being alone. There was little point to anything else. But she didn't mind Gilly. Gilly was quiet, kept to herself, and didn't expect different from anyone else. If Sansa could have liked anyone in here, it might've been her.
When they met, the corner of Gilly's lips nudged into a wan smile.
"You're good with her," Sansa said, peering off into the distance.
Gilly shifted a little and glanced toward Lysa and Officer Brune's retreating backs. With a resigned exhale, she looked again at Sansa. "It's not hard, really. Just have to take your time with her. Some of the guards forget we have all the time in the world here."
Sansa's mouth ticked upward at the corner. As if on cue, Officer Corbray whistled loudly through his fingers and yelled at them from across the yard, where the other women were already filing inside. "Let's go, ladies!"
They started slowly across the field, letting the silence sit.
"I wonder what happened to her. To make her like that," Sansa mused aloud, although she could probably take a guess.
Gilly shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not sure I want to. Some things out there you're better off not knowing, you know what I mean?"
Sansa nodded.
"Right. I nearly forgot." Gilly smirked, her slight overbite on display, her almond-shaped eyes veering off awkwardly to Sansa's left arm. "I expect you do."
The breeze kicked up, and Sansa found herself pinching at her sleeve, making sure it was still in place.
"It helps, though," Gilly said after a moment. "She seems to have a soft spot for this one."
Gilly smoothed a hand over her swollen belly, and Sansa followed the motion with hesitance. Generally, she ignored Gilly's obvious condition. The mere thought of it was difficult for Sansa to handle and remain focused. Alayne liked to look, but Sansa couldn't. A baby. Happiness. Light. She was as good as dead. What was she supposed to do with dreams of a home and a life dancing in her head?
Still, she couldn't help but sneak a few glances. The bump was the size of a volleyball. Longing curled along her insides. She wondered how it would feel.
"How …" Sansa started, her curiosity getting the better of her. "H-How far along are you?"
Gilly smiled. "About six months, so they tell me. He started kicking a few weeks ago."
"It's a boy?"
Gilly nodded. "It's good. Sam will be glad to have a boy. I can't imagine he'd know what to do with a girl, although there's not much difference to start out with. Just the parts. Men get rattled over the smallest things, sometimes. Things you'd never guess."
With a sentimental ache in her chest, she remembered how Sandor had looked the first time she'd gotten her period while they were on the run. There were other moments when she'd seen him truly shaken—it was the worst after one of his nightmares—but even now, Sansa couldn't help smiling at the memory of the big, gruff giant frozen stiff at the thought of having to buy tampons. How would he have handled a baby? Probably no better than this mysterious Sam.
"Sam's the baby's father?"
"That's what it'll say on his birth certificate. It's what Sam and I want, and as far as the courts are concerned, that's all that matters."
Sansa furrowed her brow at her reply, but didn't get a chance to inquire further. They both clammed up as they neared Officer Corbray, and his hawkish eyes followed them as they moved past. Once inside, Officer Kettleblack was stationed in the corridor, doing a head count and directing the flow of traffic. There was a long yellow stripe that ran the center of the hallways of the Black Cells. It was a strictly enforced rule: guards and civilian personnel on the left, prisoners on the right.
"I'll see you in the laundry later?" Gilly asked, trudging along while, up ahead in line, Myranda gave Officer Kettleblack a suggestive wink.
"Yeah," Sansa said. She was assigned there at least until her trial date, assuming she lived that long.
Gilly bit her lower lip, pensive, a thought nesting on the tip of her tongue. "Sam ... He's different. Than most boys. He's shy, kind of awkward that way. But cute, you know?"
Sansa nodded, believing that he was. Gilly's face lit up just talking about him.
"When I met him, I was in trouble. He could've walked away. I expected him to. But he didn't. I could have gotten five years for what I did. Lawyer got me a deal, bringing my sentence down to two, but that still means Sam'll be raising this baby on his own for almost another year before I get out."
"He must love you," Sansa said, envious of a heart left unbroken.
Gilly smiled. "Yeah. I think so. Have you ever met someone and just thought, 'He's the one'?"
Sansa shook her head. "No."
It was a lie.
Author's Notes: I have a board on Pinterest exclusively for pics that I'm drawing inspiration from in order to write this fic - characters, places, etc, that help me form a mental picture. If anyone's interested in taking a look, shoot me a PM and I'll forward you the address.
And for your general information, Sansa is 17 when she first arrives in King's Landing. Joffrey is 20, and Sandor is 31.