Sandor
"Hound. She's awake." Sandor turned away from the bow of the ship at the sound of Bronn's voice. Bronn stood casually, leaning against the railing while nursing a bottle of rum. Though the man was smaller and leaner than Sandor, he was one of the few aboard this ship who would actually look him in the eye. Though he'd never admit it, Sandor respected him because of that.
Bronn offered the bottle and Sandor took a swig from it, the bitter taste comforting. "How is she?" He asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
The man shrugged and ran a hand through his light brown hair. "Alive. Doesn't look so much like a corpse anymore. But hey, that's all you really need in a woman."
Sandor snorted. "Some men have higher standards than you."
Bronn grinned, his gold tooth flashing. "Aye, and that's why you ended up with beauty queen and I with queen of pigs." This time Sandor laughed, and thought that he was not wrong in his assumption. Many of the men had claimed women from the most recent village and Bronn was one of them. Though while many sought after the young and fair, Bronn went for the first one he saw - large Lollys. "But," he continued, "my Lollys is willing and warm, and yours is cold and ready to gorge out your eyes, so really, who is the victor?"
"True enough." Sandor allowed. With that, he handed the bottle back to Bronn and made his way off the deck in search of the girl.
As he opened the wooden cabin door to head under deck, Bronn yelled, "Try not to snarl at her too much! Girls are much better to bed when they like you!" With a scowl, Sandor shut the door behind him and shut out Bronn's voice.
It truly had been a miracle she had lived at all, this she-wolf turned little bird. Of all the things he had expected her to do - beg, cry, scream, stab him - jumping off the fort was not one of them. For the first time in many, many moons, Sandor Clegane had been stunned. After she dove, as graceful as a swan, with her flaming hair fanning out behind her, he had almost expected her to be true to her word and fly off. But she had fallen. Her bitch of a sister's cry had snapped him out of the shocked silence he had fallen into and pushed him into action.
He had left his men to search for her alone along the beach, wondering if there was any possible way she had missed the rocks below. Why he cared, he couldn't say. There were bound to be other pretty girls in the village, but for some unknown reason he felt compelled to find this one. The brave little bird. Finally, after what seemed hours, though it must have only been minutes, a flame of red hair offset the grayness of the shoreline. Like a child, he ran to her, dropping onto his knees and resting his fingers against her neck to feel for a pulse. She was ghostly pale, the color being even more pronounced by the contrast of her hair. "Come on," he murmured, "don't make me kiss you, girl. You know you wouldn't like that."
But she hadn't moved, and her pulse was faint, so Sandor gave her the mermaid's kiss, drawing her lips apart and breathing life back into her. Once, twice, three times he pushed air into her and she finally responded. All at once, the girl thrust forward, water spurting from her lips with a heavy cough. She gasped and glared at him, eyes filled with confusion.
Sandor smirked. "It's like a fairy tale isn't it? Your prince came to kiss you awake."
The girl tried to push herself up and promptly fainted. And so he left her in the care of the closest thing they had to a healer on the ship and hoped she would awaken once more.
When Sandor reached her cabin, his cabin truly, but for now hers, he stopped to listen at the door. Young Samwell, the unfortunately fat boy, seemed to be attempting to reassure her and they spoke in soft voices.
"I don't understand," the girl croaked, her voice scratchy. "Why would he take me?"
Sam sighed and Sandor imagined him on the verge of tears. Sam had never been good with confrontations, especially with women. How that boy ever managed to end up on a Viking ship he would never understand. "It'll go easier if you don't try to resist, my lady. I know he comes across as...well...you know...but the Hound isn't so bad. He never beats anybody, that's more than I can say for most."
The girl sniffled. "What's your name?"
"I...I am uh...I am Sam. Just Sam."
"Thank you, Sam. Thank you for taking care of me."
Sandor could practically feel the boy blushing. "Of, of course my lady. It is only what is expected of me. Why else would they have someone like me here?" The boy laughed nervously and continued rambling. "You'll be just fine now, yes, just fine, I'm sure."
"Sam, where are we going?"
"Home my lady, town called Askrow. Don't you worry, it's a very nice sight. Green as far as the eye can see. You'll grow fond of it, I'm sure. And there's nowhere you'd be safer, that's for sure."
This conversation was becoming a tad too familiar for Sandor's taste. It wasn't the boy's job to get friendly with her, he seethed. He threw open the door and gave the fat boy a glare that would've sent children screaming. Sam squeaked and practically ran from the room, leaving him alone with the girl. Her eyes went wide when she saw him. He shut the door behind him and took the seat previously occupied by Sam, across from the girl who was still lying in bed. Now that she had some color in her cheeks and wasn't trying to jump from any ledges, Sandor took the time to appraise her. The girl's red hair was wavy around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were as deeply blue as the ocean on a sunny day, and her lips seemed to be in a constant pout. She was all cream, from her cheeks down to her breasts peaking out from her dress.
If Sandor had had doubts about the trouble it had caused him to retrieve her, they faded away now. She was utterly the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on, and she was his.
Realizing he was scaring the girl by his silence, he cleared his throat and leaned back in the chair. "What's your name?"
She kept her eyes firmly on her hands when she whispered, "Sansa."
Sansa. "And how old are you, Sansa of House Stark, of the First Men, and blood of the wolf?"
This time she blushed, embarrassed by her previous addressing of herself. As the red spread across her cheeks and down her neck, Sandor felt his own rush of heat though it wasn't centered on his face. Stop acting a green boy, he chided himself angrily. She's not but a slip of a girl.
"I am seven and ten, sir."
"Don't call me sir. You're aboard a Viking ship girl, your bloody courtesies won't get you shit."
The little bird flinched as if he had hit her and clutched the sheets of the bed, his bed, tighter around her. He knew if he wanted her to ever have any semblance toward affection for him he would need to be gentler, but right now the only thought he could entertain now was that she still hadn't even glanced at him.
"Look at me." He commanded. The girl refused to move and instead stared at her lap. He reached over and grabbed her chin, forcing her face toward his. "Go on. Where's the brave little bird that tried to fly away?"
At that, she turned her gaze toward him. Her eyes were full of fear, and something else too, something close to malice. Though he tried not to, he couldn't help but wonder what she thought of his face. "Do you hate me, girl?" He asked.
She stared for awhile longer before responding with a question of her own. "Why should I not?"
"I saved your life."
"You burned my village and slaughtered my people." She shot back, anger rising in her cheeks.
He shook his head. "They were the ones that brought the fire. As you can tell," he said, jabbing a finger toward his face, "I like to stay clear of fire. Are you trying to think of a way to kill me?"
Her brow furrowed. "How could I possibly harm you?"
He nodded. "Keep that thought in mind, little bird. You can't. You can't escape. And even if you did, there's no home to go back to. Everyone left has cleared out and moved on to the next village, most like. With winter coming, a burned home and burned crops aren't ideal."
Tears began streaming down her cheeks and he felt an unexpected jolt of pain in his chest. She was crying because of him. He had made a hundred girls cry before, this one shouldn't be any different. She tried to say something but instead she began to sob. Heavy wracking sobs filled the confines of the small cabin and Sandor was at a loss for what to do. Give me a hundred swords any day over one crying woman, he thought.
"Why?" She asked, glaring at him with all the strength she could muster. "Why are you so hateful?"
He answered with a truth. "You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when I'm all that stands between you and the rest of my clan. You'll be glad of it when another clan comes and attempts to drive us out. Most Viking women have exchanged hands half a dozen times. Lucky for you, I won't let you go that easily. I'll be your only cage, little bird."
The girl returned her stare back to her lap and twisted the sheets of the bed nervously between her fingers. "I don't even know your name." She muttered.
"Call me Hound."
She looked up, as if she were startled and shook her head. "I can't call you that. It's rude and...unladylike."
Sandor laughed aloud at the crazy bird. He truly had managed to snag an odd one, hadn't he? "You're worried about being rude to me?" Perhaps she thinks I'll harm her, and so she must please me. That was an angry thought and put him in a foul mood. Stupid little bird. Scowling, he continued, "I'm not going to hurt you, girl, so there's no need to lie to please me. I hate liars."
She looked taken aback at his sudden change in mood, but she wiped her eyes and continued to look him square in the face. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of the girl who leapt into the sea rather than be captured when she muttered, "I want you to hate me, sir. I can assure you, you'll find so satisfaction from me, and I would rather die than please you."
Oddly delighted that she had stood up for herself, Sandor's mouth twitched into a half smile. She narrowed her eyes at that and turned back to her lap. "You can call me Sandor." He stood and headed toward the door, stopping to look back one more time at the little bird perched upon her white pillows. "I'll send someone back with food. You just rest your pretty head and dream up ways to kill me, little bird."
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Sansa
The hulking monster left with a soft close of the door and she was alone once more. Her hand immediately went to her wrist to check for the hardness of the dagger. She sighed with relief at the firm pressure of the knife. Sansa hadn't dared let her hand wander before, for fear that someone would notice and take it away from her. Yet the wolf dagger remained - the only stroke of luck she'd had so far.
The sobbing resumed, and Sansa clutched her head in her hands. Robb, Jon, Theon, Father, Mother, Rickon Arya, Bran. All were likely dead, and yet she remained. How could the Gods be so cruel? What had she done to deserve this?
She allowed herself a few moments and attempted to control the tears streaming down her face. She pictured her mother brushing her hair with a soothing touch, but that only served to remind her that her mother would never brush her hair again and bring on a fresh wave of tears.
Focus, Sansa. You're alone, how many times will you get this chance?
With that thought in mind, she turned attention toward the her cell. It was a fairly small room, though she supposed it was big for a ship. The bed took up almost half of the space, and she had a sickening feeling that was because it's owner was abnormally large, and no one was as large as the Hound. . .or Sandor. She still wasn't sure which she preferred. Monster seemed more suiting to her. The room contained a sturdy wooden chair and a large, dark cherry wood trunk across the room. Climbing out of the surprisingly comfortable bed, she made her way to investigate.
A shiver shook her as her bare feet touched the planked floor, and her stomach swirled as the ship rolled over a swell. There was a reason I wasn't born an Ironborn, she thought as another wave of nausea hit her. Yet Sansa forced herself toward the chest, determined to open it.
Falling to her knees, she tugged on the trunk, but to her dismay, it was locked. There have to be weapons in here. What Viking doesn't have a few spare axes? And why else would it be locked? After a quick check that the door was still closed, Sansa slid the dagger out of her pocket and positioned it at the trunk's lock, attempting to wiggle it around. Arya had always been able to unlock her door with a kitchen a knife; surely this lock couldn't be so different!
Come on, open. Think like Arya, think like Arya.
With a cry, she smashed her palm into the back of the dagger, forcing it into the lock. There was a small click as the trunk opened - Sansa had never heard a more satisfying sound. Sheathing her dagger, she peered inside the open trunk. A grin spread across her face at the contents.
Inside the opened trunk, nestled in a white velvet cloth was a collection of weapons, but to her dismay, they all seemed too large for her to be able to conceal. An axe the size of her arm glimmered at her, along with long blades that curved at the ends. She couldn't stop herself from imagining that axe swung at her brothers. Quickly Sansa, quickly. Find something of use.
Her opportunity arrived when he fingers found a pocket sewn into the side of the crest. Reaching in, she felt the cool smooth surface of glass. Sansa pulled out the tiny glass bottles one by one, reading their labels as she went. Milk of poppy, no. A sleeping draught, no. There had to be something useful. . .she went through three more bottles without luck.
Finally, she raised up a clear bottle to her face and couldn't help but smile. Tears of Lys. She had never figured the Hound as one to poison, and perhaps she was right, considering the bottle was still sealed. Though the monster of a man probably preferred stabbing his enemies to death, as that was more honorable, Sansa was more than happy with a quick poison. And there was so much! Only a few drops in an unnoticed drink were enough to end a life, and in this bottle were the opportunity for many lives to be extinguished.
Slipping her prize into her pocket, Sansa closed the trunk and hurried back to the bed, pacing back and forth, unable to stop the smirk crossing her features. Arya would've been so proud.
But what if he tried to... touch her later? They came for wives. The thought was entirely terrifying, for surely he would break her, and it was a very real possibility. He would feel the dagger on her! And then what hope did she have? I could slit his throat before he has a chance to lay hands on me. No no, that must wait for when he's asleep. She couldn't fight him. So where to hide the weapon?
She thought on this a moment, anxiety rising, when a flash of inspiration hit her. The floorboards. Carefully, she bent down and dug her fingers between two boards. With a few tugs, the board came up out of place. Smiling, Sansa tucked the small bottle in and with great reluctance, the dagger with it. That knife was my only protection, she thought glumly. But it had to be done if she wished to keep it.
Yet she mustn't be hasty in her plan, no, that would get her killed. Closing her eyes, Sansa recalled a time when one of her mother's old friends had visited Winterfell. Petyr Baelish was his name, and he had been undoubtedly the most clever man she had ever met. He was small, with sharp eyes and peppered hair, his green cloak clasped with a silver mockingbird. Over a game of cyvasse he advised her, "never show what move you'll play next, dear." When asked how he knew considering she hadn't told him, Petyr grinned a curious smile and responded, "Your eyes. Your entire game is laid out in your eyes. Learn to distance your body from your mind."
Separate body and mind, she told herself, controlling the manic gleam in her eyes and instead drawing tears. Crying means you're weak. Who would expect a weak child like herself to be their murderer?
Courage like Arya.
A mind like Petyr.
Sansa Stark would survive.
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I'm planning on updating once or twice a week, hopefully! As always, feedback is so very much appreciated; every review made me smile :) I'm glad you guys like the story so far! Sansan fans rule!