Content notices: off-screen violence/gore (it's the bread riots, what did you expect?)
Disclaimer: G.R.R. Martin is the mastermind behind the series. This is merely a fan venture, I stand to gain no profit from it.
The godswood was just as quiet as always as Sansa picked her path carefully, the falling twilight making it harder to see in the encroaching darkness. It was her first visit in nearly a moon turn and she wondered if Ser Dontos would be present. She had seen him around the court but she hadn't approached him and neither had he approached her. She felt sorry for what she was about to do to him but her song had changed and it would not be right to let Ser Dontos think he still had a part to play.
She was grateful to him, she truly was, for trying to spirit her away but words were not going to help her and words had been all she had received from him. Florian and Jonquil was a beautiful song but Sansa was no longer content being a Jonquil. She was not going to wait for someone to save her, she was going to save herself.
"My dear Jonquil, is that you?"
A shadow moved behind one tree and Ser Dontos stumbled out from behind, drunk. I'm sure the real Florian wasn't drunk all of the time, Sansa thought unkindly before feeling ashamed of herself. Ser Dontos did his best, he just fell short of her expectations.
"Yes, I'm here, ser."
"Dear child, you were gone for so long," Ser Dontos weeped as he reached to pat her hand. "I was afraid they had done something terrible to you, to make you afraid of coming."
"They had not, ser," Sansa took a step away and looked at the man with pity. She felt like the most cruel person in the world. "You swore me an oath to take me home, isn't that right?"
"Yes, yes, I did but I told you child, we need to be patient. I have a friend, a good friend who will help us-"
"You told someone else?" Sansa interrupted him, for once forgetting her courtesies in the face of her fear. Who was it who knew of her desire to flee? Was she being watched? Would her plan fail? Ser Dontos stumbled back at her sudden outburst.
"No need to fear, Jonquil. He is a good man, he won't betray us."
Sansa took a deep breath to calm herself. She could not be scared, not now.
"Ser Dontos, I came here tonight with one purpose and that was to release you from your oath to me."
"To release me?" he repeated after her unbelievingly. "But you want to go home, child, don't you?"
"Not anymore," Sansa spoke the lie convincingly enough, she felt. She was becoming a better liar as of late but she wasn't entirely lying, either. She wanted to leave the King's Landing first. Then she would start thinking of getting home.
"What happened to you, Jonquil?" Ser Dontos asked brokenly and Sansa drew herself up. I am of the North. I am the blood of a wolf. I have to be strong and harsh when needed.
"I grew out of the song, ser," she spoke coldly. "I shall honour my late father's wishes. I thank you for helping me as much as you could but I can no longer run away from my fate. I'm truly grateful," she added more softly, "but you can't help me anymore. I'm sorry."
Turning away from the former knight, Sansa walked out of the godswood, forcing herself to walk slowly. She listened to see if Ser Dontos would give chase, to try and persuade her to change her mind but there was only silence. A real Florian wouldn't give up so easily, was the thought that flitted through her mind but she suppressed it. Florian and Jonquil was no longer her song, if it ever had been. Maybe all of us have to write our own songs, she realized and found that the thought lifted her spirits considerably, We cannot live someone else's song, only our own and I'm going to live mine.
And even though she was walking back to her cage, Sansa smiled.
The day set for Myrcella's send-off dawned bright and clear. Sandor Clegane made his way to the little bird's room, all the time cursing himself for a thrice-damned fool. It had seemed a good idea last night when he had drunk three skins of wine and heard of the trouble in Flea Bottom. Everyone with half-a-brain knew that the city was close to erupting in chaos. The food was scarce, people were discontent and the increased presence of the City Guard made about as much difference as one man pissing in the river made difference in its level.
The Imp ordered a full contingent of the gold cloaks to guard the courtiers who would be seeing Myrcella off and he deployed all five remaining members of the Kingsguard to guard the King and his family. As much as Sandor disliked the little bugger, he couldn't underestimate his own instincts which agreed with the Imp. There was a threat of violence in the air, apparent to all who made violence their job.
And that's why he found himself standing in front of the door to Sansa Stark's room, clutching a dagger even as he raised his hand to knock. He heard shuffling from within and then a maid emerged, hurrying past without looking at him. And then Sansa herself approached the door, a small smile appearing on her face before she slipped her court mask on.
"Good morning, my lord," she greeted and Sandor almost growled at her that he was no lord but as she met his eyes, he could see she was prepared for the rebuke and would just shrug it off.
She had grown so much over the past few weeks, ever since she had started spouting that nonsense about writing her own song and planning her own escape with ingenuity that had surprised him. Looking at her, she was no more than a slip of a girl, barely starting to turn into a woman. But she had that quiet dignity of hers that she wore like a cloak and when she chirped her courtesies at him, there was an honesty in her words that was lacking in everyone else.
"Are you ready to go, little bird?"
"Yes, we can go."
She stepped out of her door and he held out the sheathed dagger to her, making her look uncomprehendingly at him.
"Just take it," he growled and she timidly reached out, taking hold of the small weapon.
"Why?" she asked as she turned it over, pulling it half an inch from the sheath, studying it curiously.
"A wolf has claws, little bird. Didn't you say you wanted to become a wolf?"
She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide in surprise.
"But I don't know how to wield it."
Sandor snorted at that.
"Wield it? It's not a greatsword, little bird. You stab it in the first soft part you find - neck or eyes or belly. Eyes are the best, though. Not much strength needed to drive the point through."
She grimaced at that and tried to hand the dagger back to him.
"I don't need it."
"We are going into the port today. We have to pass through half of the damn city and it's dangerous out there."
"But we'll have guards with us," she protested even as her lax grip on the dagger grew stronger.
"Do you think those guards will care for your life more than they do for their own miserable ones?"
She shook her head slowly. Good, she was learning.
"Here, girl," Sandor took her left arm, turning it wrist up and pulling up her sleeve. "Give me the dagger."
She obeyed and he fastened the sheath to her forearm with practiced movements. He had picked a wrist sheath for two reasons - it being easily concealed under the long, draping sleeves that most of her dresses seemed to possess and an easy access. He dropped her arm when he was done and watched as she fidgeted a bit, unused to the constriction.
"Is it tied too tightly?"
"No," she replied, her right hand disappearing into the left sleeve. She drew the dagger out, holding it gingerly. "Eyes are the best?"
"That's right, little bird."
She put the dagger back and then she straightened, the hesitation disappearing from her manner and the serene courtly mask settling over her face.
"I am ready to go, my lord."
He turned and led her out to the bailey where the horses were already waiting.
Sansa was still shaking even as Maester Frenken tended to the gash at her forehead, washing it out with swift, sure movements. She had been scared to death when the mob had enclosed her and all of her courage had disappeared. I am the blood of a wolf, she had tried telling herself, trying to force her hand to move, to do as the Hound had advised. But she had sat stiff and scared on her horse, the dagger hidden up her sleeve as useless as if she hadn't been wearing it at all.
And then the Hound had arrived, just as she had started falling, his greatsword cleaving a bloody path through the bodies surrounding her. One man had been reaching for her and his hand had suddenly rolled into the dust, his mouth emitting a terrible scream of pain before another swing of the sword had silenced him. A big hand had shoved her back into her saddle and then the Hound had mounted her horse as well, taking them out of the screaming throng of people.
Sansa had closed her eyes then, pressing her face into his back and holding tightly on to her saviour. She had still been able to hear, though and she had tried very hard not to imagine what the Hound had had to do to get them to safety. She had felt ashamed, though. She had been telling herself how she was going to be a wolf but when the time to prove her words had come, she had been unable to move even her fingers.
"There, my lady, this should take care of it," maester Frenken spoke to her as he spread some kind of poultice on her wound. It stang but Sansa welcomed the distraction of pain.
"Thank you," she said quietly and watched the man gather his supplies and leave her room. Her maids descended on her immediately but when they started tugging at her stained dress to help her change, Sansa remembered the dagger still at her wrist. "No," she told them. "Prepare my bath first. I want to bathe."
They obeyed and left the room in a flurry, giving Sansa a precious few moments to take off the sheathed weapon and hide it under her pillow. She would have to find a better hiding place later. What for, though? She had proved that the dagger was wasted on her. She would do better to give it back.
Her maids came back, carrying her bathing supplies and she let them tend to her. Bathed and dressed in a clean garb, Sansa dismissed them all and sank into a chair, staring out of the window. She could see smoke raising from the city but no sound penetrated this high. Her writing table was to her right, covered in rolls of parchment. Her little poems, the cover for her increased demand on writing supplies. She had almost finished her map, copying down every larger village between King's Landing and Riverrun meticulously. And there was another map she was drawing, the map with the exotic sounding names - Pentos, Tyrosh, Myr, Volantis. She wouldn't be able to choose, she knew. She would have to board any ship that was available and then make her way home from wherever she would end up. For a moment, Sansa smiled as she thought of the strange world beyond the Narrow Sea. Arya might have been the one with a taste for adventure but Sansa was curious about the new things, too. Essos was shrouded in secrets and myths. The magic still thrived there, she had heard. And the women dressed in flowing silks and soft fabrics of wonderful designs.
Sansa sighed. Her wound was throbbing, reminding her mercilessly that for all her dreaming, she was still a prisoner left to the whims of her gaolers. The Hound had had the right of it when he had told her her guards would abandon her to save their lives. He was always right about things like that. But he hadn't left her. He had cut through the mob and saved her life, sending the people who had threatened her scattering like leaves in the wind. He had enjoyed it, too, Sansa realized. When he had sent them running, he had laughed, his sword bloody in his hands and his face strangely joyful.
Her fearsome not-knight. He had given her his protection, promised her help with her escape and tried to arm her so she could defend herself. Had anyone ever done more for her? Sansa couldn't recall. Glancing out of her window, she saw the shadows lengthening, the setting sun casting red glow over the city, making it look like it was on fire. She shivered at the sight, a strange sense of premonition taking hold of her.
Sansa turned away from the window resolutely. She had to find the Hound and thank him. She had forgotten to do so earlier in the day, still in shock over her ordeal and truth be told, she had been whisked away before she could so much as look at him after he put her down from her horse. She had no idea where to look for him, though. Would it be too strange if she were to ask after him? And was it wise to draw attention to their interaction at all?
All the times before, it had been him who had come to her, not the other way around. Were she to go down to the sept to give her thanks to the Seven for protecting her, maybe she would run into him as he went about his duties. Or she could go to the godswood, even if there she risked running into Ser Dontos. She had met the Hound on the serpentine steps once, when she was returning from her first meeting with her poor Florian. It was not that late, Sansa decided as she pulled on a dark cloak and grabbed the dagger. She would walk to the sept to pray and then to the godswood and maybe she would meet him en route.
Sansa opened her door and took a look down the corridor. It was empty, not even a maid walked by. She was oft left alone, though and it suited her plans. Closing the door carefully behind her, Sansa pulled the cloak tighter around herself and set off down the corridor towards the stairs. The sconces were yet to be lit and it was getting dark so she picked her way carefully. When she reached the landing, she moved to go down but then the shadows stirred and a large shape suddenly hulked above her.
Sansa opened her mouth to scream but a heavy hand landed on her shoulder and turned her around and the scream died in her throat. It was the Hound!
"Are you going to scream for help, foolish little bird?" he rasped down at her and Sansa shook her head, relieved by his presence.
"You startled me," she explained, trying to make out his form in the dark better. He let go of her shoulder so suddenly she stumbled.
"Scared out of your wits, girl? Where's that pretty dagger I gave you? You should have had it out the moment you saw me in the dark."
Sansa caught a whif of wine from his direction. He had been drinking, she realized with a dismay. Was every man she knew a drunkard? Even the Queen was in her cups more often than not these days.
"I didn't think-" she started to say when he interrupted her.
"Of course, you didn't think, you fool. You froze completely and waited for someone to rescue you. And you want to be a wolf? Don't make me laugh. You couldn't even stab that son of a whore who was trying to pull you down from the horse. Do you know what the mob did to Lolys Stokeworth? Do you?"
Sansa shook her head mutely, her eyes filling with tears. Why was he being so cruel to her? She didn't even manage to thank him for saving her.
"Half a hundred men raped her," the Hound told her cruelly. "She's a lackwit and fat but they didn't care about that. They would have done the same to you if they got their hands on you. That little gash on your forehead is nothing compared to that."
"But you saved me," Sansa spoke timidly, thinking to calm him down with the reminder but he seemed to grow even more angry.
"Aye, I saved you, little bird. I cut my way through to you while you sat there on your horse, perched like a bird, trembling and unable to raise even one arm to defend yourself. I gave you that dagger for a reason. You should have pulled it out and stabbed that man. You were higher than him and he wouldn't have expected it. You could have saved yourself. But what have you done, little bird? Tell me what you have done."
He was leaning over her, his wine breath washing over her face and Sansa felt her tears starting to fall.
"Why are you being so awful to me?" she asked, her breath catching in her throat and emerging as a sob. "I thought you were kind. I thought you cared for me."
He froze at her words or at her tears, she didn't know and didn't care as she started crying in earnest. She had been so scared earlier, lost in the mob. And then he had saved her, proving himself her protector once again. Yet, here he was, teling her awful things, calling her a coward and a fool. Had she been a fool, to hold him in such regard?
"Little bird?" he said quietly, hesitantly and the gentleness in his voice broke Sansa even more. I am no wolf, she thought in despair. I am a bird without talons, unable to defend myself. And no amount of borrowed claws will make me into a wolf. I was a fool to think otherwise.
The Hound moved so quickly Sansa barely registered what he was doing. But his arms went around her and pulled her into him, his roughspun tunic harsh under her cheek but she welcomed the warmth he offered and she burrowed deeper into his embrace, her body shaking as she cried out all of her fears and doubts, while his hands held her steady.
"I'm sorry, little bird," she heard him say into her hair. "I didn't mean to chastise you so."
She sniffled but nodded into his chest, accepting his apology.
"I'm not brave," she spoke. "I thought I was but I couldn't bring myself to harm someone else. I couldn't hate those people, though they hated me. I'm not a wolf."
"No, you're not," he agreed with her. "You're still a pup. You have yet to learn to use your claws. Until you do, I will kill anyone trying to hurt you."
"Do you mean it?" she raised her head, looking at his shadowed face.
"Aye, little wolf, I do."
He called me a little wolf, Sansa realized. And as her tears dried, her courage returned with it. She disentangled herself from his arms, straightening her clothes and wiping her face before turning to him. Her protector, her friend, her packmember.
"We will leave King's Landing in a week," she declared and he nodded once.
"As you wish, little wolf."
