The sun is falling, and dusky shadows are creeping over the lands, purple and blues melding into the darkening horizon. Sansa, though exhausted from another full day of riding, sits up straight in her saddle, her body complying with the steady rhythm of the moving horse. Ahead of her is Sandor. He also sits straight in his saddle, but his head is constantly moving side-to-side, ever aware of new sounds or disruptions in the forest. He's a black-cloaked figure. An apparition. A shadow of a memory.
They've been riding together for three days now, and in those three days, no more than a hundred words have passed between them. Sansa, startled by his reappearance into her once cloistered life, was able to say no more to him than relay a promise of gold when they reached her family. In guarantee, she offered him a golden bracelet lined with diamonds, an old gift from Joffrey that she thought too pretty to part with when she threw away most of his bequeaths. But, surprisingly, Sandor rejected the bracelet, saying Sansa's word was enough.
Is it possible he still has feelings for me? After all of these years? Memories of their one shared kiss- fast and harsh, yet impassioned in such a way that even as a girl - no, a young woman - something was aroused deep within her. It was the last they saw of each other, and now four years later, he is back in her life, yet seemingly uninterested in her. Did he even know, or at least suspect, that I was the lady in need of an escort from the Eyrie? Sandor came into her life at such a delicate age. It's impossible for Sansa to know what his intent was then or even what it is now.
She bites her lip. They'll be stopping for the night soon, kindling a fire, eating a meal, settling to sleep, all in silence. But not tonight, Sansa thinks, tonight we will talk. It's a long road to the North, and I don't plan on making my trip in a nun's silence. Half an hour later, when the sun is just peeking out from the tip of the mountain Sansa escaped from just days ago, Sandor suddenly heels Stranger, his horse, and jumps off. He leaves Stranger, as always, untied, letting him wander off and graze in the neighboring grass with no fear of his animal running away. And then he begins to set up camp.
Sansa also dismounts. She has to say something. Silence is not her nature. Looking at her own smaller horse, who she named Beauty, Sansa is able to think of something. She turns to Sandor and asks, "How do you know he won't run away?"
Sandor who has already started to gather wood for a fire, looks up, startled. He pushes his long, black hair out of his face, revealing questioning eyes and scars that have haunted Sansa's dreams. "What?" He asks.
"Stranger," she continues. "How do you know he won't run away when you let him go off and feed like that? I have to tie Beauty up if I expect her to be there in the morning."
"Humph," he grunts, turning away and continuing to gather wood. "Maybe you should trust your horse a bit more. Trust your horse, and it'll trust you."
"Maybe, but I think I'd be in a bit of trouble without a horse out here. Perhaps trust isn't something to start in the middle of the woods."
"Perhaps."
More silence. Conversation has never been hard for Sansa, whether with her enemies, her friends, or her family. Talking was natural, a quick wit something she was born with and coveted. She did not with the strength of her older brothers or the courage of young, Arya, but she did have her wit, and it's always been something she could rely on. Until now. Too nervous to trust Lady, Sansa ties up the horse to a nearby oak tree, the rough bark reminding her of home, of the many days she would spend curled up against trees, some fantasy book clutched in her hands while her siblings played and splashed in chilly rivers.
Her memories are fading, just one of many reasons to go home. And yet, every now and then, she still has these vivid recurrences of home, of life before King's Landing and the War and Eyrie. She had to grow up too fast. Everyone had to grow up too fast. Sansa pets Beauty's soft mane and watches Sandor. His movements are quick and sure. Despite his burned body, he's obviously in good physical condition, his clothing stretched under strong muscle and broad shoulders. It's all so surreal how they are here together.
Again, she feels compelled to say something. "Do you think it's strange," she begins. "That we haven't run into any trouble yet?"
"No."
"But don't you think Petyr has sent people after me? Or don't you think these woods are filled with thieves and knaves?"
"You live in fantasies, girl. This isn't some storybook where there's a man behind every tree waiting to rape and pillage. The war is over, and most people are finally settling into some form of prosperity. Enjoy the peace while you can."
"I'd rather you not call me girl," Sansa replies. The short words feel belittling. After all, Sansa has had her moon blood for many years now; she is nothing close to a girl.
"Why? It's what you are." A satisfied grin breaks across Sandor's face as the branches take light and the small fire is kindled. Smoke begins to raise and waft through the forests' branches.
"I'm a woman. I'm eighteen."
The grin widens. "Ah, eighteen years. I've spent almost double that surviving in these filthy lands."
Sansa bites her thumb. His comment reaches her somewhere tucked away. How old was he when he kissed her? How can she, no how could she have, been interested in a man so much older than her? Perhaps when Joffrey was her only other option, the decision was easy. She didn't know any better. But now, tucked away in the woods, alone with Sandor, the familiar feels of want, of curiosity are still rising within her. No, despite his age, there is something about this man that makes Sansa constantly yearn for more, more contact, more words, more anything.
"Would you like some help?" Sansa asks. For the past three nights, Sandor has prepared and cleaned all of their meals. She knows that she's paying him, but that doesn't mean he has to do all of the work. "After all, what else is there for me to do?"
"I'm fine," he grunts and then peers out into the dark woods. "I'll have to start hunting though. These provisions will only hold out for another day."
"I can hunt!" Sansa says, realizing her high voice sounds too enthusiastic.
"Really?" Sandor shoots her a doubtful look. "Shooting arrows in Joffrey's garden doesn't count as hunting, girl."
"I know that," Sansa says, defensive. "I started hunting in the Eyrie. Only in Petyr's private woods- he wouldn't let me any further than that. But I've learned to shoot my fair share of rabbits."
"Rabbits are snacks."
"They're better than starving."
Sandor, after finishing fashioning a spit, throws some old venison over the fire and begins to roast it. "Fine," he says. "I'll give you my bow for an hour tomorrow, and we'll see what you can do."
Satisfied, Sansa smiles. "That's all I ask."
They get an early start the next morning, rising when the leaves are still damp with dew and a grey mist covers the forest. If they keep up this pace, they'll reach Winterfell quickly, but Sansa may be dead with the effort. But she bites her tongue as Sandor saddles his horse. After all, he's her guide, so it's his rules.
After riding for a few hours, Sansa calls out, "Do you think I might hunt now? My legs could do with a bit of a stretch."
He takes a minute to respond, but then finally calls back, "Fine."
Sansa is excited, yet nervous. She hasn't hunted much in the past year. Her captivity has drained her of energy, of desires. Most days she sat listless in her room, sometimes reading and rereading the small collection of books she's allowed. But the skill should come back to her quickly. Hopefully. Sandor walks over with a large, dark bow in his hand and quiver of handcrafted arrows. He looks down at Sansa, towering over her by almost a foot. His vicinity, as always, puts her on edge. She never knows where to look when he's so close to her. His body, too lewd. His eyes, too intense. The woods, too distant. She settles for looking just below his dark eyes, settling on a familiar patch of raised, scarred skin just above his cheekbone.
"Here," he says, handing her the weapon. "It might be a bit big for you, but it will have to do." Hesitant, he looks around the woods. "I don't want you wandering off too far. We're well away from the Eyrie now, but -"
"I thought knaves were for storybooks," Sansa chides.
"Well, the stories come from somewhere. Here," he says before whistling a simple, three-note melody. The sounds are clear, smooth, surprising noises to come from such a tough man. "Just whistle that out every few minutes, so I'll know you're all right."
"Glad to know you care," Sansa says, smiling at him, trying to soften some of his rough edges.
"Well I won't get the money if I come to Winterfell carrying a dead carcass, will I?"
The words cut Sansa sharply. Every now and then she forgets that Sandor is only with her because of the promise of payment. Sometimes, when they're travelling hour after hour, she likes to think that he's there because he cares for her, because he wants to be there. "Right," she replies, eyes downcast. "I'll get going." She begins to turn around, but then she says. "And will you whistle back? So I know you're all right?"
The words sound insecure, childish, but Sandor rubs a hand over his stubbled chin and says, "Of course," in a softened voice. Satisfied, Sansa nods and begins her solo trek into the woods.
The forest is alive with creatures. There are only small villages surrounding this part of the woods, which means there's plenty of wildlife. It doesn't take Sansa long to spot a rabbit nibbling at a few tufts of dried grass. Smiling, she quietly approaches and strings an arrow. The bow is large and awkward in her small hands, but at the close distance, she thinks she can make it. She pulls the string tight, her weak arms struggling under the bow's tension, and then lets the arrow fly. It sticks the rabbit straight in the bell.
Sansa lets out a squeal of happiness. A kill, and on her first try! She claps her hands over her mouth as soon as the noise escapes. She wouldn't want to scare away the rest of the game. At this rate, she'll be able to bring Sandor a string of rabbits within the hour. Maybe he'll stop calling her a girl then. She hurries forward towards the rabbit, and tugs the arrow out of its bleeding belly.
She allows a moment of grief to quickly flow through her. She knows that rabbits are there for her to survive on, but it still feels wrong it kill a living creature. She shakes away the feeling and leans down to tie up the rabbit onto a string, but just as she is finishing the final note, she hears leaves crunching behind her.
"Sandor?" She asks quietly.
Her heart starts racing when there's no answer. She should get up. Grab the rabbit and run without looking back, but the curiosity is too strong. She turns around, and finds herself crouched in the ground, facing two tall, skinny men. They're covered in dirty clothing, and she can smell them despite the distance. She scrambles onto her feet. Her mouth is dry, but she manages to say. "What do you want?" Run, Sansa, run you silly little fool! She can't make her feet move.
The taller man, one with blonde stringy hair, smiles. "Well, I don't know. Thomas, what would you like to do with this pretty young thing?"
"Oh, there are just so many options." The shorter man, Thomas, rubs his hands together, and a disgusting grin settles on his face. "I think we could have a lot of fun with her. Look at that soft skin. Let's get a look at it without so much clothing."
Sansa is shaking. She tries to scream, but she can't. She tries to run, but she can't. Stupid, weak girl, she thinks. You're better than this. Don't make it easy for them. She only has one hope. Controlling her rapid breaths, she calls out, "Sandor!"
But there's no need. He's already there, coming up behind the men, his sword trained right for their vulnerable necks.
A/N – Here's the second chapter! Let me know if I should continue or not. How do you like my Sansa? She's one of my favorite characters, so I want her to be believable.
Thanks for the R&R !