Sansa

The alcohol overwhelmed her senses, making some things seem utterly heightened while others were blurred and distorted. Grasping for the small stone cup which felt alarmingly cold against her hot fingers, Sansa raised it to her mouth and downed it to the sound of cheers and laughter. Was that the sixth one? The seventh? She laughed along with them, unable to remember that they were the enemy. How could they be? Everyone was so happy; it was the most fun she could ever remembering having. Is this how men felt when they drank at night? How much she had been missing out on! Though truth be told, Sansa couldn't recall much except for the fact that she had to keep drinking to win the game.

The Viking woman across from her smirked as Sansa began to sway on her bench, clinging to the table. Osha was her name; a surly woman with cropped brown hair and a daring twinkle in her eye. "Want to play a game, Red?" The woman had asked. With a axe strapped to her back and knives on both thighs, Sansa was not about to refuse Osha anything. And besides, games were supposed to be fun, right?

Sansa had never played this game. Osha called it 'Get Red So Drunk She'll Fall Off The Ship' but Sansa doubted that that was it's true name. Her head pounded. Trying to think only made it hurt more so Sansa decided to just stay in the present. Winning the game.

Osha laughed heartily and called for a refill in her cup as well. "I have to admit, Red, ya got more in ya then I had expected." With a grunt, the woman knocked back her newest portion, wiping her mouth on her sleeve after.

Sansa tried to make her lips move properly, but the words still came out slurred and distorted. "Ladies do not drink, that's what my mother told me. But my father always said..." She paused for a hiccup, which had the crowd laughing again. "He said, Starks do not back down from a..." Hiccup. "Challenge!"

While Sansa was barely able to hold herself upright, Osha appeared rather unaffected by the drinking, apart from a rosy complexion and glassy eyes. Sansa knew she would not be able to hold out much longer. She glanced around the room at the many faces that had gathered to see the Hound's trophy attempt to out-drink one of the meanest wenches on the ship. Her eyes finally settled on Sandor, whose face was impassive, yet she thought she glimpsed amusement in his eyes. He sat a bit away from the spectacle, bulging arms crossed over his chest, observing silently. Though he was quiet, his superiority within the social ladder on the ship was evident. The men and occasional woman around Sandor gave him a small berth, and often looked to him first to judge his reaction before laughing at something Osha said about Sansa.

What a lovely man, Sansa thought happily. He is so strong. The Gods surely looked down on me when selecting a husband. She felt a nagging in the back of her head that this wasn't true. Was he her husband? Osha had called him Sansa's man, so why couldn't she remember the wedding? But once again, thinking and trying to recall the past only threatening to make her head explode. So she accepted that which must be true.

Sandor shook his head at her as one would at a child who had gotten herself into a mess she couldn't hope to get out of on her own. Sansa only smiled at him and giggled. It seemed she could not stop giggling. Or hiccuping. "I am going to win the game, husband!" She shouted at him, rocking on her seat as another fit of laughter took her. This time an entertained grin crossed Sandor's face.

Osha laughed and a taunting gleam crossed her eyes. "You want to win, girl? Here." She handed the entire flagon of mead to Sansa. "You drink all of that and stay upright, you win. Can't go retching it back up neither."

Sansa snatched the alcohol from her to the tune of jeers.

The burly and bearded Shagga had began pounding a rhythm into the table with the butt of his axe. "My gold is on you, Red! Come on, down it already!"

What fun these games were! And she was about to win! Sandor would be so proud of her. After a deep breath, Sansa brought the flagon up to her mouth and tipped it back, listening to Osha and the others laughing as it dribbled down her chin and onto the tunic Sandor had given her after he had ruined her dress. Yet she did not stop, even when her eyes began to burn and her vision began to grow foggy. Her limbs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds, yet she continued to gulp. For once in my life, I can be the stronger one, she thought as her stomach threatened to turn over its contents.

Finally, the flagon was empty. The crowd cheered. Beyond being able to rationalize anything at this point, Sansa slammed the flagon down so hard it shattered. She laughed wildly, throwing her head back. That soon became a bad idea however, for her head was so heavy. . .with a thump, she tumbled off her bench and onto the ground, arms outstretched as if she was making a snow angel. This seemed even funnier to her, and she cackled once more.

Osha stood and peered down at her. "You lose, Red!"

Sansa grinned broadly at the woman's blurry face and allowed her eyes to close as everything went black.

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Sandor

Over the past few days upon The Stranger, Sandor had fallen into a routine with the little bird. A tense, uncomfortable, and paranoid routine, but a routine nonetheless. Early each morning he would break his fast with the other men and have food sent to their room so Sansa could eat when she woke and dress in peace. Without fail, Bronn would inquire as to how the little bird was betwixt the sheets, and everyday he would lie. Then fat Sam would hesitantly ask how she was faring with seasickness, and everyday he would tell him to bugger off. By noon he would retrieve her to stand above deck. Each day she would ask how much longer until they reached her new home, and each day he would say, "Soon."

She would lean over the railing and let the wind tousle her hair, the sun warm her face. The other men would shoot appreciative looks and Sandor would glower at them until they returned to their duties. To him, the little bird was never more beautiful than when she closed her eyes and allowed the ocean breeze to dance in her fiery locks. For those few moments in the sun she looked at peace and Sandor could pretend that she was happy.

When or why her happiness began to matter to him, he couldn't say. It seemed a trivial thing, truly. She was already his, wed in the eyes of the men, so why did he care about fucking courting her? It was a notion that his younger self would have been thrilled at. The young boy with a whole face, who had dreams to be a knight and marry a fair maiden. Those dreams were burned to ashes along with his skin.

Leaving home after his sister had died had left Sandor with no direction or notion where to go. All he knew was that he could not stay anywhere near his brother. Gregor, the giant that dwarfed even Sandor, laughed the day he left and wished him good riddance. It was only on his way out of Clegane Keep when he heard the shout, "I hope the Vikings flay your fucking ass!"

Though flaying was certainly a plausible concern, throwing his lot in with the Vikings that ravaged their shores seemed as good a plan as any. There was no other family to turn to - certainly no friends to speak of. He was two and ten when he stepped on his first Viking ship and was pulled headfirst into the whirlwind lifestyle. Young Sandor had learned to adapt quickly, not only to the ever shifting homes, but to the utterly backwards cultural norms. The strong survive. One does not pity the weak. A Viking woman is not expected to be a lady, but rather praised if she turns out an axe-throwing siren. Young men do not court women, they steal them. Sandor had learned these things long ago, so why was it so hard for him to remember them around the little bird?

Perhaps because she was a perfect replica of who he was before his sister died. She was from his other world, the life that he chose to leave behind.

After she'd gotten her fill of gazing out to see, he would give her leave of the ship. He trusted his men enough, or rather trusted them to be afraid of him enough, to let her alone as she wandered. What she chose to do, he was not sure. But some part of Sandor hoped that putting his trust in her would spark some sort of trust in return. So far, that seemed unsuccessful.

In the evening, he would bring the little bird and their supper back to their rooms where dinner was an awkward affair. He tried his very best to be gentle with her, realizing that he had made her cry twice now (though he still wasn't sure if the second time was genuine). Yet it looked as if Sansa had lost some of her original zealous defiance. For each kind word he offered her, the more confused her expressions became. Sandor, on more than one occasion, caught her arguing with herself in a hushed voice. He knew it had to do with the dagger.

For the dagger was the final part of the routine. She would tense up when he joined her in bed and seemingly prepared herself for a similar outburst like the one from the first night. But Sandor forced his instinct away, forced the growing lust and deprivation he felt out of his mind - comforting himself with the thought of how much better the fucking would be if she were eager. When she came to the conclusion that her husband would keep his hands to himself, Sansa would relax and her breathing would grow steady and deep, though Sandor had learned not to mistake that for sleeping.

When the moon was at its peak, the little bird would rise from their bed, silent as the dead, and return to her not-so-secret floorboard. From there, every night was the same. She would hold the steel for awhile, sometimes cry, and then without fail, return the blade to its hiding place. Each night he waited for her to try and end him. Each night he was surprised.

Though this, Sandor carrying the little bird above deck to try to wake her up from her alcohol-induced stupor, was definitely not part of their routine. He figured he should be cross with her, as that was how most men would feel should their wives had passed out drunk from a drinking contest. Yet frankly Sandor was relieved to see any emotion on her face at all, even if it was spurred on by mead. Sober, she was a stone wall with a flawless mask. Drunk, his little bird acted as though she were raised by wolves, and gods be damned he enjoyed it.

Introducing Sansa to another woman aboard the ship had not gone at all how he'd planned. He'd chosen Osha because despite her outward surliness and tendency to threaten anyone, Sandor knew that she would be receptive of Sansa, having been stolen herself. Osha's husband was now dead, but she had chosen to continue the Viking lifestyle on her own. Not knowing her though, one would never guess she wasn't born into the world squalling with an axe in hand.

It soon became apparent that Osha's way of welcoming the girl was to drown her in mead. He found it difficult to be angry at the Viking woman, since it led to the opportunity of carrying Sansa, which allowed for much more bodily contact than he had permitted himself over the last few days. She was soft in his arms; her expression peaceful. Only took a few drinks to get you to like me, little bird.

Yes, he could recount very clearly her smile at him. Childishly, he replayed that moment over and over in his mind. She had been so happy. Her smile was radiant, her blue eyes glowing, her cheeks flushed to match her hair. Moreover, her joy at been directed at him, the scarred dog whom she had called husband. Sure, the drinking had helped her along, but here she was, content in his arms.

Content? You sick dog, she's passed out. She would never come this close willingly.

When Sandor reached the top deck, a cool breeze making the night chilly, he sat atop a crate and looked down at the girl. He had hoped the night air would bring her back to her senses, but so far she had not stirred. As gently as he could manage, he traced a finger down her face and placed it on her neck, feeling her pulse flutter under his touch.

"Wake up, little bird." He said softly. "Time to wake up, now."

She stirred slightly and rubbed her firsts into her eyes. "You took quite a fall," he continued. "How's your head?" Sandor ran a hand through her hair, but it seemed she was bump-free.

Sansa groaned and opened her eyes. "Did I win the game?"

Laughing heartily at that, Sandor replied, "Yes. You won the game." Technically she had lost her balance, signaling a defeat, but Sandor would rather see the girl smile, which she did, quite widely at his words.

"Hmmm," she hummed happily. "You are proud of me now."

"Am I?" His faced twitched, amused.

"Yes, very proud. Robb is very proud too. Where is Robb? One time, this boy came to visit us. His name was Joff, so so very handsome. But Robb didn't like Joff, not at all." She yawned and then giggled. "It was an accident, I told them it was an accident and she did not mean it, but Lady bit him. He was bleeding and crying and I said she did not mean it! but everyone thought I told her to. Joffrey was very cross, but oh how Robb laughed. 'I'm proud you're my sister.' That's what he said. I was not embarrassed so much after that."

She mumbled a bit more, incoherently. It was clear she was well on her way to passing out once more from the mead's effects. Deciding he should get her into bed, Sandor stood, the little bird still tucked in his arms, and began heading back to their cabin.

"Where is Robb, husband? Where is Arya?"

"I don't know, little bird." He answered truthfully, the questions dampening his previous mood.

She nuzzled her face further into his chest. "Little bird, little bird. Sing a sweet song."

She needs to sleep this off, he thought, half amused, and half concerned over her obvious yearning for her family. Sandor had never given it much thought, this mourning of hers, considering his family life had been anything but happy. A Hell on Earth was more like it. A unexpected pang of...guilt? rang through him. Not once in his life as a Viking had Sandor ever experienced a guilty conscience. They were weak, and he was strong; wasn't that the rule? Wasn't that the way of it? So why did he feel shameful of what had happened at Winterfell?

"I'm sorry Jon. I prayed for you too, I remember." Sansa murmured. Sandor stepped over someone else who was feeling the effects of the mead as well; Jarl. The young man mumbled as they passed and rolled over into a more comfortable position on the floor.

Agitated, Sandor snapped, "They aren't here, girl. It's just me and you. Stop dreaming. They're dead. Too much bloody mead for you. It all goes to your head."

The girl whimpered and clasped her hands over her ears as he kicked the door to their room open. Darkness engulfed them, the room lit only by a small candle left on the table. He carried the drunken bird to the bed and dropped her unceremoniously. He was about to turn to leave the little bird and her drunken ramblings when he felt a small hand tug on his arm.

"Tell me about our wedding, Sandor." The little bird asked, holding on to him for dear life. "I can't remember. Osha made me drink too much." Her words slurred and her eyes couldn't seem to focus on him, but he couldn't sense a lie. She was too far gone to possibly recall the Vikings landing at Winterfell.

Sandor smirked. "Oh, she made you drink did she? You seemed to be doing pretty well on your own."

She sighed and slumped down onto the pillows. "Was our wedding beautiful? Was it in the godswood under the Heart tree?"

Sandor shifted uncomfortably when he realized she was expecting an answer. If he reminded her of the truth, there was no doubt she would start her crying again. So he muttered, "Aye, girl."

"Did the whole town come?" She closed her eyes and smiled, as if she were picturing a fantasy in her mind. He was sure she was picturing a gallant knight, one that deserved all of her beauty. There were no scarred Hounds at a beautiful wedding; the thought of it would've made him laugh if it didn't anger him so. The thought of her fantasizing about a handsome little lordling made him want to grab his sword, and the fact that he was even getting angry about the stupid bird's dreams in the first place infuriated him further.

She's getting in your head.

"The entire town came to see you marry your bloody knight, girl. Just like you wanted." He leered over her and in his fit of rage, grabbed her throat with a yank, sobering her quickly. Sansa's eyes filled with fear as the burned man held her close to his face. Sandor could practically smell her terror and reviled in it. "He gave you his cloak and vowed to protect you, and then I ran my sword through him."

"Your buggering knight couldn't protect you, no one can save you from me." With a growl, he released her with a shove and she fell back onto the bed, staring wide-eyed. Her red hair fanned underneath her, her hands were holding her throat in the place Sandor's had been only a moment ago.

Right when he was ready to rid himself of this girl, this deluded buggering girl that had him feeling shame, the little bird murmured, "But you are my knight, Sandor. Aren't you?"

Damn Osha and damn all the alcohol in this bloody world.

... ...

He left the little bird curled into their bed, fast asleep and dreaming off her drunken stupor. Craving fresh air, Sandor sought out the upper deck once more, relishing in the cool air on his face and the rhythmic slapping of the waves against the hull. Nothing felt more like home to him than the sea.

Bronn joined him at the railing and for a long while the men simply enjoyed the quiet night. When Bronn finally broke the silence, it was in a calm tone that complimented the sea. His words were measured and careful, making it obvious he had thought for a time before approaching Sandor.

"Hound," Bronn began. "I think there's something underneath the surface of that girl you brought here."

"Sansa." Sandor corrected.

The Viking arched an eyebrow. "Aye...Sansa. Look, I don't know nothing for sure."

"Just say what you need to say."

He nodded. "You gave her leave of the ship. Now, don't look like that. None of the men have been messing with her. It's just..." Bronn paused and pursued his lips. "Day before yesterday, Tormund was bragging about this boy he killed from her village. Not to her face, just to the other men, but she heard it all anyway. Got this weird look like...like I don't know, brother. Like you almost," he laughed nervously. "Like you when you're out for blood."

Sandor gestured for him to continue.

"I didn't see anything after that. Didn't see her around Tormund, she never said anything. But just today the man turns up dead. Samwell says it was a natural death - some sort of sickness, but... I just got a feeling, you know? My gut tells me it was her."

The sobbing girl who smiled at his burnt face and called him her knight. The shadow murderer who concealed daggers and leapt into the sea rather than give in.

Sansa Stark was becoming the greatest paradox Sandor Clegane had ever encountered, and he for some reason he couldn't fan his desire to puzzle her out.

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This chapter gave me a lot of trouble, due to Sansa's obvious conflicting personas. They way I see it, Sansa is terribly confused about Sandor and herself, struggling with grief. Feedback would be greatly appreciated!

And who doesn't love a drunk Sansa? :)