Let me preface this next chapter; those that subbed thinking that I will lapse into smut, sorry. I'm not HBO. Very minor curse in this chapter…it is Sandor, of course.
Sleep evaded Sansa, mind churning at the events that had just passed. She had never intended to reveal what atrocities had passed to anyone, let alone how she returned Littlefinger's favor in kind. The candle burned low before she lit the next and resumed her path from one side of the room to the other and back again. There was no denying the truth behind the Hound's declaration that she had buried herself deep down; it was less tiring manipulating than crying. Somewhere in the darkness, a rooster crowed and Sansa finally perched on her bed, back to the door, and waiting for the maid to come and light her fire.
The predictable soft knock preceded the door being pushed open. The massive figure that arrived most definitely was not the maid, but the lady of the room stared, exhausted, at the black and cold fireplace and did not notice. "Let my lord know that I will not be down to break my fast this morning. Have a tray delivered," she sternly ordered.
"You can get your own damn tray," he growled before dropping the door bar down.
Sansa whipped her head around, "You can't be in here!" Her old friend modesty gnawed at the leftover bits of her decency.
"Careful, girl. Your Stark is showing," he mocked as he crouched to light her fire. She silently watched him from the edge of her bed, noticing the slowness of his pace, the methodical movements to build the fire and the care to stoke the flames.
"I thought you hated fire," she coldly recounted.
He didn't answer, but used the poker to move a log onto the infant blaze. Sansa regretted her harshness but refused to apologize, choosing to patiently wait through the silent stalemate. "It was cold on the island, so I either learned to build a good fire or I would have lost my toes to the frost." Sandor rocked back to his heels before standing and Sansa saw his face strain in obvious pain.
"You're hurt." Sansa tried to keep her voice as even as possible, with no hint of either malice or consideration.
With a quick shake of the wounded leg, he swiveled so that they faced each other at last. "Aye." No other explanation was offered as he pulled the solitary wooden chair next to the bed, never taking his eyes from hers, nor she from his. Unhurriedly, he lowered himself to the chair, the wood groaning from his weight.
A quiet tap at the door caused one of Sansa's eyebrows to arch. "Yes?" she called out, leaning towards Sandor's burned face.
"M'lady, I'm here for your fire. Unbolt the door, if you please."
"No. I will not need a fire. I am unwell and will not be breaking my fast with my lord. Have a tray delivered." She could see his eyes flicking back and forth between her own, trying to make out her intentions. Sansa wasn't even sure of her own intentions, but she rather enjoyed making the Hound as uncomfortable as she had been so many years ago. Before the young, maid could protest or offer, Sansa added, "And do not sent a maester. I just need to be left alone for now."
"Yes, m'lady," the girl called before her footsteps faded away.
Steering the conversation, Sansa began, "You gave up your life of whoring, killing and terrifying women to hide in septon robes. Ironic." She pulled his rough, brown hood between two fingers in a caress, breaking her gaze to look at the coarse fabric. His muteness prompted her to continue, "Such a far cry from mail and a white cloak. Tell me, did they allow you to keep your sword?" She raised her eyes back up to his, forcing herself to keep her breathing steady and slow as her heart sped up in anticipation to his reaction.
"I cannot change who I was but I can change who I can be for the few years I have left." His response was neither sad or angry, accusing or belittling, only matter-of-fact. "These hands," he continued dropping his gaze to the monstrously sized objects, "Killed with little regard to right or wrong, rich or poor, need or want. I simply obeyed. But it changed. I changed. These hands dig holes in the graveyards or chop wood or draw water now. I still obey but…" His voice had grown so quiet that Sansa found she was holding her breath when he stopped midsentence.
"Yes?" She hadn't meant to let the word slip to show her emotion and internally chastised her slip.
A sigh proceeded his answer. "It doesn't matter." His eyes were still fixated on his hands, as he turned them from back to palm and back again.
Footfall outside of the doorway made Sansa hold up her finger to signal silence. "Alayne? My dear, are you alright?"
Exasperated, Sansa blew out a sigh of discontent and flopped onto her back on the bed. "Yes, my lord. It is a headache and I just need some time to recover." It had been an excuse she used when she needed time away from Harry's overt need to escort her everywhere on the property and sit with her while she sewed, just gawking and grinning at her. "I have no need of a maester, so please spare yourself the time, my lord. All I need is some rest." Her eyes slid closed and she rubbed her hand across her forehead, frustrated with his attentiveness.
"Won't you unbolt the door so that I can build you a fire?"
Sansa balled up her fists and shook them in the air, eliciting a smile from her uninvited but welcome visitor. "No, my lord. I am warm enough under the furs. Now please, I am going to be quiet again as talking is making it worse."
"Yes, I will go. There is a tray here, just outside, if you'd like some wine and cheese. I will be back later to check on you, dear." As he departed, Harry had no way of seeing his betrothed roll her eyes at his sentiments.
His low chuckle made Sansa prop up onto one elbow to look at him again. Shaking his head back and forth, the burns alternately hid and revealed. "The poor bastard is dead gone for you."
"Oh, and I for he," she countered quickly, batting her eyelids. "So once the foolish girl that was led into Kings Landing, naïve to the cruelty of her betrothed. At least I won't have him beaten or his father beheaded." Sansa gave rein to the wrath creeping into her voice, eager to let it permeate and dispense of any romanticisms she may have harbored for the Hound before her. As quickly as her ire stole into heart, she remember his white cloak covering her shoulders and by turns forgave him and then detested him.
"You are still in there," he quietly accused, as if reading her thoughts.
"And you still vex me," she spat back, pushing herself up off of the bed and resuming her course from one side of the room to the other.
"I did no such thing," Sandor retorted, swiveling on the chair to watch her pace. "For the gods' sake, sit down, woman."
She froze in her route, whirling to face the septon. "Do not tell me what to do, Ser." She unknowingly backlit her body with the fire, giving the appearance of a red-haired angel standing in front of the doors to the depths of the seven hells.
Blue eyes narrowed in anger, Sansa felt her chest squeeze as Sandor stood and towered over her; whether in panic or anticipation, she knew not. Forcing herself to swallow when he stepped closer still, she was quite sure he could hear the hammering of her heart in her chest over the quick breaths she managed. Still unspeaking, he bent down to her ear. "I am no Ser," he whispered, enunciating every word individually so that she could not mistake his meaning.
"I know," she managed to squeak out suddenly feeling the power shift out of her possession. "I hate you," she hissed before she moaned, "But I hate myself more." Sansa's head bowed forward, connecting with his scratchy robes. "I have become what I hate. You hide yourself in innocence and I in knowledge and forgery. Tell me, Hound, which of us is more horrible? I used to believe, used to dream that you had honor hidden beneath your white cloak. In the darkest times, I used to think," she admitted looking at the haggard face above hers, "that under these burns, you had been my knight and I had dismissed you for these." Sandor flinched again when she brought up her hand to the ridges and melted skin.
"You were stupid to think I had any honor, Little Bird," he rasped. "I still have none."
"I disagree."
"You would because you still are dreaming of stupid knights when all they did was beat and rape you."
His words caused her to flinch that time. "Get out." She gritted her teeth try to force the tears to stop, but turned towards the fire when they spilled over. "Please, go," she begged instead.
The door bar was lifted and dropped with a loud thump. "See, girl, you are still down in there." As the door pulled shut, Sansa melted into a puddle on the floor, tears refusing to stop no matter how much she despised the Hound at that moment.
Hours later, when she had been escorted into the main hall for dinner, she found herself opposite of the man that simultaneously lifted and crushed her soul. Completely ignoring his presence was easy, but denying herself a glance was not. Sansa was neither shocked nor revolted that he was looking directly at her, in as much that she was neither shocked nor revolted that she had already forgiven him for his honesty. A slight tip of her glass to him and she was rewarded with a lop-sided grin that quickly disappeared under the cloak. Beneath the table, her thumb rubbed over her favorite handkerchief, a wolf stitched into a thick white patch edged in green flames. Glancing back at the now hooded man, she knew that his honor was buried even deeper than her fears.