Moving quickly, Sansa tied a warm rock to Sandor's leg before he could protest. Slipping the chilled rock under her cloak and into the top of her bodice, she clenched her teeth as the stone settled against her skin. It rested with the other two flat, fist-sized rocks that she had gathered from the cave following their explosive argument.
"You cut my pants! I'll freeze to death!" Sandor's deafening bellow even caused Stranger to jump.
"You won't. Sit still and I will show you how you can keep the pain from your leg, since we don't have any milk of the poppy." Sansa had torn a swath of her underskirt off to fashion a bandage, which Sandor was having none of.
"Get off!" He tried to stand but was stopped when his head collided with the ceiling, eliciting a string of curses before he sat back down. "Gods, woman…get on with it." Defeated and cradling his injured head, he glared as she confidently approached the damaged trousers.
Winding a hot rock from the edge of the fire into the cloth, Sansa explained that the warmth would help keep the ache at bay. She described that her body heat would allow her to warm rocks as they rode and she would change them without even having to dismount. Sandor hissed as she secured the first rock to the gnarled wound; she swallowed the temptation to ask how he received it. He garbled something about cutting a man's pants while he slept and treachery.
The day slowly progressed; although the snow had ceased, the temperatures remained frigid. Stranger diligently plowed through the snowdrifts while Sansa persistently changed stones. A small farmhouse near the headwaters of the river leading to Old Anchor allowed them a night in the large barn in exchange for two small coins. Sansa guessed that the farmer was more swayed by the size of her escort than the request itself.
Provided with a small kettle and wood for fuel, the pair carefully built a small fire in the center of the stone building, away from the hay and animals. Within her mind, Sansa laughed at their predicament; a barn as their shelter, melting snow for water and boiling on jerky for a meal. Smile still playing on her lips, Sandor spoke for the first time since their squabble.
"What are you smiling about? It's freezing, we're in a barn and we may starve before we get to Old Anchor."
She sarcastically laughed, "All hail the Queen of the North," before shoving another log onto the fire. Modestly, she reached under her cloak and produced the warming stones, one after the other, to line up along the edge of the fire. "All men beware, this lady carries stones in her corset."
Sandor barked a laugh then added, "Thank you, they did help."
"Do my ears deceive me? Is that…is that gratitude I hear from the man who was sure that I was treacherously cutting open his pants in a plot to kill him?" She giggled and threw a hard biscuit to her companion.
"I won't say it again, Little Bird, but those rocks did help. Milk of the poppy is lovely for sleeping and forgetting but rocks will do."
Sansa didn't miss the hitch in his voice. "Who or what did you forget with your milk of the poppy?"
"Doesn't matter now," he replied, gruffly. He sat, waiting for the broth to dip his biscuit into, eyes looking everywhere but at Sansa.
As she bent over to tend the kettle, waves of darkened, copper hair parted at the base of her head, obscuring her face. Concentrating on the boiling jerky, she hadn't even heard Sandor move closer. Instantaneous panic registered as an exploring, calloused finger touched the length of her exposed neck. Sansa abruptly raised up, her tresses once again covering the back of her neck.
"He did this." Neither a request for information nor a question, the growled statement hung in the air. Sansa looked up to the rafters, furiously trying to blink back the tears, grateful the accuser stood behind her.
"You were never meant to see that," she quietly offered.
"Did he?!" The fury in Sandor's voice caused her to recoil and slip a hand under her hair to cover the offending neck. "Tell me," he rumbled in a vehement, low voice, "before I break something."
With a steady voice, she requested that he calm down first and was surprised by his silence. A cautionary glance over her shoulder showed the man standing, chest pumping with heavy breaths and fists clenched tightly at his sides. When she motioned for him to sit, Sandor refused. Sansa methodically sat down on her bedroll, smoothing out her skirts before relaying her tale of Littlefinger's "encouragement" with a riding whip when she would resist his advances. It was easier exposing the truth while staring at the floor rather that chancing a glimpse of the gray eyes etched in rage.
A pregnant pause filled the barn when she concluded, both parties refusing to move; Sansa from her misery of reliving the account, Sandor from his anxiety that he would explode in hatred. Her eyes still cast downward, she saw his feet turn away and hated herself for burdening him.
"I wish I could kill him again." His admission was so simple, filled with unadulterated hatred, that Sansa burst out laughing. Sandor turned on his heel to glare at her and she smiled, adoring the brutality of his resentment. She had no doubt that had Petyr's lifeless body been nearby, it would have been beaten and set afire after being torn limb from limb. His anguish evident, he muttered, "I should've taken you that night, tied you up and taken you away."
"Don't you ever say that!" she shouted, standing and advancing towards Sandor. Sansa's wrath at his retort even caught herself a bit off guard, but it bolstered her interjection. "You gave me the choice…I made it. You don't get to blame yourself for this! This is my doing, not yours. Besides," she soothed, "I did kill him and that is my doing too. You can't have all of the glory."
Lips pressed tightly together, his eyelids closed as he sighed. Sansa predicted his tormented words. "I would have kept you safe."
Likewise, she inevitably extended her hand to trace his burns, her touchstone. "And the Hound would not have died so that the gravedigger could live on. And that," she assured, looking directly into his eyes, "would have been more unfortunate than either of our scars." Sansa felt her heart stir and chastised herself. No one would marry her for anything other than the rights to Winterfell and she would marry only for family, duty and honor, bound by heritage. She had no right to care for a murderer turned septon, though she wished for nothing more than for the man to see himself as she did…so much more than a dog.
Cooled broth consumed in expected quiet, the two hunkered down next to the fire and tried to sleep. Sandor didn't turn his back to her as she supposed he would but awkwardly kept his arm from naturally surrounding her.
Sansa felt the tendrils of her hair being brushed aside. As tenderly as she remembered, Sandor's fingers traced the thin, angry red scars across her small neck and then tracked back and forth across the neckline of the back of her dress. Relaxed and protected, Sansa eased into sleep.
Robb came to her again in the godswood, demanding her submission. She relented as the metal crown pierced her scalp. "I am coming, Robb! I didn't forget." Ashes fell like hellish snowflakes, covering the ground.
"Queen of the North," Robb declared. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
"I am strong because I have been weak," Sansa boldly replied. "I am fearless because I have been afraid. I am wise because I have been foolish. Winter is coming."
Her brother led her to the Great Hall. Horrified, Sansa felt herself being pushed forward to a throne on the far end of the room, the Iron Throne. "No, no, no, no," she sobbed, heart racing, believing that Joffrey would appear and have her beaten. Forced to her knees by her dead brother in front of the Iron Throne in Winterfell's Great Hall, Sansa's head hung in defeat while she waited for her dress to be destroyed and the thrashing to begin. How was she to be Queen of the North when she couldn't even save herself?
A low whine came just before something pushed her arm from behind. Turning, a large gray hound pressed her into standing. Suddenly, she found the hound as her only company, ashes silently covering the floor and throne of swords. The wiry haired dog pushed her with its head towards the throne, nearly toppling her. When she resisted, the dog tenderly fastened his teeth to her hand and pulled her towards her destiny.
A thunderous voice caused Sansa to clap her hands to her ears. "Family! Duty! Honor!" The echoing speech gained in volume until she cried out in pain. The last thing she saw was the dog clamping its jaws around her arm and jarring it back and forth.
"Wake up, girl!" Sansa snapped her eyes open, wild and frantic to figure out where she was; the barn was nearly dark as the fire had died down. Sandor had her by the arm and was shaking it. "Wake up! If you keep screaming, they will think I am murdering you." He seemed as nearly agitated as she felt, relieved that she had finally found her way to consciousness.
An unhurried smile spread across her lips. "You won't hurt me," she said, sleep keeping her voice low.
"If you keep screaming like that and waking me up, I just may," he grumped, laying back down and tossing his arm around her waist before hauling her in close.
Enjoy my songs that inspire the chapters ~ JS :
"Panic Switch" - Silversun Pickups
"Stripped" - Shiny Toy Guns (Depeche Mode cover)