A/N: Well, this is the second to last traveling chapter for these two, so that's probably a good thing for those of you who have read this story in its entirety. I know it is for me. And, as a reminder, there are actually only four more Sandor/Sansa POV chapters total before the end of this story and the beginning of the sequel that I have already begun writing. Anyway, you should be fine on your own for this one, so just have fun reading and I apologize in advance to anyone who might get offended by how...rude...things get at the end of this chapter... Many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Specifically, the lyrics of Rude Song were created by someone or someones who work(s) for Bethesda.
Rating: M for strong language, crude humor, some sexuality, and the consumption of alcohol
"Could you help me please, Sandor? I can't quite reach..." Sansa strained farther, bending her arm at an uncomfortable angle in an attempt to lace the back of her dress. Sandor glanced up in the middle of pulling on one of his boots and he snorted quietly in amusement before getting up and assisting her in her efforts.
"If you want me to touch you," he murmured teasingly beside her ear. "All you have to do is ask."
"If I wanted you to touch me," she countered haughtily, despite the coloring of her cheeks. "I would be asking you to take off my dress, not put it back on."
Sandor chuckled and nodded in concession, tying a messy bow at the small of her back and playfully swatting her backside as he returned to the chair in the corner to put on his other boot. She let out a yelp and turned as red as her hair as Sandor grinned devilishly at her wholly scandalized expression.
"For working in a brothel, and for the Imp no less, you're still awfully ignorant when it comes to the goings on in the bedroom, little bird."
"Of course I am," she bristled defensively, aggressively tugging a brush through her wavy auburn hair. "I was a maiden until...until you."
Sandor's mood seemed to darken slightly at the mention of her previous innocence and Sansa's irritation faded as she walked over to him and gently lifted his chin until he met her gaze. "I don't regret it," she said quietly, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind his one remaining ear.
"Aye?" He viciously fastened his sword belt around his waist and stood up. "Well you probably should."
She sighed and followed him out into the common room of the inn and out the door to where Stranger was tethered, impatiently awaiting their departure.
"Sandor, don't be angry. Please. I've told you once and I'll tell you again, I love the man that I know you to be, not the Hound that everyone else sees."
As she laid a hand softly on his arm, Sandor stilled and then dropped his head, sighing heavily. "I know that, little bird. It just...It'll take some getting used to. I'm used to barking and I'm no good at anything else." He lifted Sansa up into the saddle and untied his courser before mounting behind her and steering Stranger onto the path out of town. "I never learned all the chirping you did to please high lords and ladies."
Sansa huffed quietly, but offered no argument to the borderline insult, choosing instead to lean back against Sandor's broad chest and rest her head against his armored shoulder. After a moment of silence, Sandor awkwardly cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, little bird. I didn't mean that." The apology was unexpected, but not unpleasant and Sansa smiled up at him fondly, making him even more uncomfortable.
"Would you check the map?" he asked gruffly, reaching one hand back to riffle through his saddlebag and handing her the worn map of Skyrim once he procured it.
"For what, love?" Sansa asked, unfurling it and setting it down on her lap as best she could when astride a horse.
Sandor seemed to ignore the term of endearment. "How long it should take us to get to Windhelm."
"Eager, are you?"
He snorted. "After what you told me will happen when we get there, are you surprised?"
She beamed and happily traced her finger across the painted leather map. After Sandor's reaction to her hopes for their marriage once they reached Windhelm, she had been worried that he wouldn't agree to it at all, but she was happy to see that he appeared to have changed his mind on the matter.
"If the weather remains clear, we should be there by tomorrow morning. If not, two days at most."
"Good," Sandor replied, taking back the map and shoving it unceremoniously back into the saddlebag. "I want to get you safely there as soon as possible."
"Safe?" Sansa rested her hand on the one that Sandor had wrapped around her waist and she squeezed it lightly. "I'm always safe when you're with me." She could see him frown slightly and unwilling to try to soothe whatever foul mood he seemed determined to keep himself him, she ignored it and turned to gaze forward at the snow-covered road before them.
Although she knew that Windhelm was the safest place for both of them considering Robb's position in the Stormcloak army, she was so close to her home that she could nearly taste it and the knowledge that she would be once again leaving it behind made her heart ache with equal amounts of longing and loss.
It had been seven long years since she had last been inside what was left of Winterhold and she found that the fond memories of her childhood there were slowly beginning to slip away just as the city itself had thousands of years before.
Although its citizens spread many rumours about the nature of Winterhold's destruction in the early years of the Fourth Era, her father had made sure to set all six of his children straight so that they would not so easily blame the College as so many did. And so he told them of one of their ancestors, Edwyle Stark, and the young ward who had abandoned the city after war had broken out between his family and the Starks. Full of vengeance and never having truly felt at home within the walls of Winterhold, the now infamous Theon Greyjoy had turned to piratry as so many of his family had before him and in the dead of night, he returned to the city of his childhood and somehow (historians still debated exactly how to this day) managed to pull down half of the city into the sea, sacrificing himself and his crew to destroy the once great city. To the Greyjoys and all of their kind, the young man became a martyr for their cause and the war continued for ten more bloody years because of his death. Although he had been raised and cared for in Winterhold for fifteen years of his life, the Starks of Winterhold were not able to forgive his betrayal and he was forever branded as Theon Turncloak, a monster still told about to young children in the North who were in need of a convincing admonishment. She almost missed hearing Jon and Robb's teasing stories about the ghost to keep her tucked in her bed at night.
The familiar acrid odor of smoke roused her from her memories and she looked up to see it rising high above the treetops. "Is that a camp?" she asked curiously, wiggling around in the saddle to get a better view through the tall pines.
Sandor blinked a few times at the sudden break in silence, regained his bearings, and then shrugged. "Most like."
The grip of her hand tightened on his forearm. "Imperials?" She couldn't bear to think that the Lannisters had finally caught up with them. Not now. Not when they were so close to their freedom.
"I doubt it," he replied indifferently, his nonchalance doing nothing to soothe her fears.
As they rode on, Sansa scoured the tree line, hoping to see a glimpse of Stormcloak blue. Instead, deep brown and pale ivory peeked through the veil of green and Sansa gasped as her nails dug sharply into Sandor's arm. "What is that?!"
Sandor frowned and shook loose her grip before grouching in half-hearted irritation. "Bloody hell...what is what, woman?" He followed her gaze and then snorted. "Haven't you ever seen a mammoth before?"
Once identified, the creature seemed less horrific and Sansa shook her head as she stared in awe.
Sandor shook his head in disbelief. "Seventeen years living in Skyrim and you've never seen a bloody mammoth. How can you even call yourself a Nord?" Sansa bristled defensively and opened her mouth to argue, but found herself at a loss. Sandor smirked. "Aye, that's what I thought."
She crossed her arms and stared moodily ahead, finally breaking the silence that followed with an icy reply. "Just because I haven't seen all the beasts that you seem so well acquainted with doesn't mean that I'm any less of a Nord. I'm a Stark, and there has always been a Stark in Winterhold. We're one of the oldest families in Skyrim. And besides, while you were spending your years fighting for the Empire that's trying to tear our land apart, I've been studying at the Bard's College and the College of Winterhold, both institutions of high honor in our country."
Sandor snorted in derision. "Honor? All of you Starks and your bloody honor. Your dear father had honor and you know what it got him? Ilyn Payne's sword at his neck." He laughed bitterly and spat on the ground. "Piss on your honor. If your father had half of the skills I do he would have been able to defend himself. What good did having a daughter who could sing pretty and snap her fingers to set a table do him when he found himself on the block?"
By the end of his speech, Sansa was close to tears and nearly without thinking, she concentrated hard on her fingertips and a spark caught between them before billowing into a bolt of flame. "I can kill a man just as well as you," she hissed, eyes flashing in fury. "And you aren't half the man my father was."
Sandor cringed away from the sudden flame and without a word he pulled Stranger to a sharp halt and dismounted before stumbling away into the forest. Sansa sat atop the black courser in silence, her rage extinguished by the look of pain and fear in her lover's deep grey eyes. The flames dwindled down and then went out with a gentle puff of smoke as she carefully lowered herself to the ground and approached the tree that Sandor had collapsed at the base of, her stomach hard and sour with guilt.
"Sandor..." She dropped to her knees before him and reached out a hand, choking back a sob when he instinctively flinched away from the touch. "I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean what I said. You just...you made me so angry. I wasn't thinking."
"Yes you were." Sandor replied, his tone cold and unyielding. "You meant every word you said. And it's true. I'm not half of any man. The fucking Lannisters have had it right all along. I'm nothing more than a dog. I know how to kill and little else."
Sansa closed her eyes and took a deep breath to soothe the pang of regret that shot through her. "Sandor, look at me." He hesitated for a moment then dragged his gaze up to meet hers, his expression hard, but his eyes still wary. She rested a hand on his burned cheek and leaned her forehead against his, blowing a soft breath out against the bridge of his nose. "I love you."
He remained silent.
Sansa moved her mouth to his and gently took his bottom lip between hers, leaving a lingering kiss before finally pulling away. "Please believe me. You're more of a man than most of the men I've met in my life. Anyone else would have raped me and sold me to the closest Lannister if they had been the one to take me from King's Landing. You've protected me and loved me. That's far more than I deserve."
"Deserve? Bloody hell, woman, you deserve so much more than I can give you. Can't you see that? I can't even think clearly because I can't stop worrying about what will happen when we reach Windhelm. I know you deserve so much better than me and yet I can't stand the thought of having to let you go."
He seemed embarrassed by the admission, but it lifted Sansa's spirits and she leaned forward to kiss him again, a shiver running down her spine when he pulled her close and returned the kiss with all the fierce desperation that his words had portrayed.
She slowly pulled away after a minute and smiled softly, brushing an unruly lock of Sandor's dark hair behind his good ear. "The sooner we get there, the sooner you'll realize that I have no intention of letting you go anywhere without me ever again, Sandor Clegane," she said half-teasingly, standing up and offering a hand. He raised his eyebrow, but allowed her to help him stand before wrapping an arm possessively around her thin waist and walking back to where Stranger was nibbling at a snowberry bush beside the road.
Sandor helped her mount and then hesitated and looked up at her, taking one of her hands awkwardly in both of his. "Thank you," he said quietly, his eyes downcast.
Sansa smiled and kissed his nose. "You're welcome."
Their argument behind them, they continued on down the road, Sandor keeping a watchful eye on the Giant camp between the trees as Sansa retrieved her lute from where it was tied to the back of Stranger's saddle and began quietly humming as her fingers gently plucked the strings.
As they rounded a bend, they were greeted by a pair of solemn travelers in light grey robes, each wielding a silver mace and an expression of fierce determination.
"Good day," Sansa said cheerily, ignoring the grumble in her ear from Sandor that she should keep her head down to avoid confrontation. "Where are you traveling to?"
"The Hall of the Vigilant," the Redguard woman said gravely, gesturing vaguely in the direction they were all heading to a shack nearly hidden by the swiftly growing hills of snow. Though she had never been privy to its location, Sansa had heard of the Vigil of Stendarr as a child and had learned much of their practices in her study of the Divines.
"You are Vigilants of Stendarr?" Though she already knew the answer, she feigned ignorance, knowing well enough that the Vigilants were notorious for their suspicious nature.
"Yes," the Redguard's Dunmer companion replied, his gaze leaving Sansa's face to give Sandor a silent appraisal. "Our order was founded after the Oblivion Crisis. We dedicate our lives to facing the threat of Daedra wherever they appear."
Sansa nodded politely, but Sandor gave a dismissive snort and shook his head in disbelief. "Stendarr."
Her eyes widened at his unconcealed blasphemy and both of the Vigilants fixed the large Nord with level stares. After a moment, the Dunmer spoke. "Yes. Stendarr. He is the God of Mercy. The patron of order and justice for all of Tamriel. We bring His compassion where none can be found, by cleansing all those who would offend His children." He gave Sandor a pointed look and the sellsword narrowed his eyes at the threat.
Desperately trying to remedy the situation, Sansa smiled brightly to draw their attention back toward her. "I know what you say is true, for I have heard tell of your compassion from all the corners of Tamriel. Might you be willing to extend your hospitality to a pair of hungry and weary travelers so that we too may spread the word of Stendarr's great mercy?"
The Vigilants exchanged a glance and Sansa took the opportunity to turn her head and frown at Sandor. "Did it ever cross your mind that we may need the gods on our side?" she whispered harshly. When he stared down at her with a slightly shocked expression at her chastisement, she rolled her eyes and turned back to the two warriors on the road before them.
"You may rest and eat the food from our tables," the Redguard woman acquiesced. "But then you must be on your way. Stendarr's mercy shall always be upon you, but the Vigil has little to share."
Sansa nodded graciously and took the reins from Sandor, steering Stranger off of the road to Windhelm and following the Vigilants to their hall hidden in the deep drifts of still falling snow. The lodge was modestly sized, and made of fragrant pine wood that wafted along the crisp autumn breeze and reminded Sansa of her father's throne in Winterhold.
With Eddard Stark's death, the throne of the former Northern capital had fallen to Robb, as the eldest son, but concerned more with his commitment to restoring Skyrim to the hands of his people, he abdicated in favor of the next eldest, Jon Snow, Lord Stark's bastard son, who remained the ruler of Winterhold in the midst of the bloody civil war.
As Sansa dragged a still reluctant Sandor into the warmth of the humble hall, Stranger was tethered to a post out front by a young Vigilant who ended up with a broken nose in the process. The young woman could tell that her lover was rather pleased by his courser's unruly behavior.
They were greeted inside by a Breton woman in her early thirties who wore the same grey robes as her followers, though the more ornate armor adorning her forearms and shoulders marked her superior position. "Greeting travelers," she said with the same quiet solemnity as the two Vigilants who had led them there. "I am Carcette, Keeper of the Vigil here in Skyrim. We bring Stendarr's Mercy to the innocent and His Justice to the Daedra."
Sandor mumbled something unintelligible behind Sansa and she chose to ignore him, beginning to get annoyed by his open disdain for the gods that she chose to believe in.
"We ask only for a room and some provisions, Keeper Carcette," Sansa said politely, offering a very slight curtsey. "We'll be back on the road before nightfall, so as not to intrude."
The Breton nodded and gestured toward a closed door near the back of the lodge. "One of the Vigilants will bring you your provisions." She turned back to the task before her. "Stendarr be with you."
Sansa walked over to the room Carcette had indicated and let herself in, turning around when she heard Sandor close the door behind him. Before she could berate him for his blatant disregard for the Divines and those who were willing to be their hosts, he had his arms tightly around her waist and he pulled her against him, kissing her soundly on her slightly parted lips. Her breath caught in her throat as she gasped in surprise and she allowed herself to wind her fingers through the shorter hairs at the back of his neck and kiss him back before pulling away and keeping him at bay with a hand on his chest.
"I meant it when I said we were here to rest, Sandor," she scolded, though the heat still flooding her cheeks gave away her desire. "I hardly slept last night and I must keep my strength if we're to reach Windhelm on the morrow."
"Fuck that, little bird," Sandor murmured, reclaiming her lips and pressing a heated kiss to the hollow of her throat. "If it means I can have you, I'll wait until the war is over to take you to your brother."
"I'm not saying you can't have me," Sansa replied, pushing his head away from her neck with the tips of her fingers and raising her eyebrows. "I'm just saying you have to wait. At least until we make camp tonight."
Sandor let out a huff of exasperation and flopped unceremoniously into the chair in the corner. "How am I supposed to wait when I can't ever get enough of you, little bird?" Sansa's cheeks flushed red and she sighed, her resolve crumbling at the look of mixed desire and dejection in her lover's dark grey eyes. With a heavy sigh, she walked over to where he was seated and lifted her skirts slightly before settling herself down in Sandor's lap, embarrassed by the impropriety of her position but unwilling to adjust.
"You don't have much longer to wait before I'm yours," she said quietly, resting one of her hands on his chest and the other on one of his muscular biceps. "Wholly and completely."
Sandor groaned and gripped her ass with his large hands, pulling her closer and burying his face in her hair just as the door opened. The Vigilant who appeared with their tray of food appeared nonplussed by the actions of the couple in the corner, but Sansa jerked away regardless, stammering her thanks as the man departed and closed the door again behind him.
Sandor chuckled despite his obvious displeasure at her departure and shook his head in amusement. "Such an innocent little bird." He stood up and helped himself to the bottle of Alto wine they had been given and took a swig straight from the bottle before pouring a glass for Sansa. When she sipped at it daintily, he moved to recline on the bed, his boots hanging off one end and his arms resting behind his head at the other.
Sansa joined him after a moment, sitting demurely on the edge of the bed beside him and setting the tray of food down next to her. Picking up a jazbay grape between two of her slender fingers, she offered it to Sandor and he opened his mouth, licking her fingers clean of the juice when he took the fruit and making her blush.
"Why do you hate the gods so much?" she asked after a moment, blowing daintily on a spoonful of venison stew before slipping the spoon between her lips and swallowing quietly.
Sandor shrugged and sat up enough to eat his own bowl of stew with half of the loaf of bread they had been given. "Why shouldn't I? They've done nothing for me. It's easy for you to say they're out there. You had a loving family, you were raised to be a perfect little lady, gods know you're a beauty...but me..." He shook his head. "No, the gods haven't smiled down on me. They gave me Gregor and all else that came with the monster he turned out to be."
"They've given you me."
He snorted. "Given? I stole you away, little bird. Most like, the gods were planning on having the Knight of Flowers ride up on his white steed to rescue you from the fiery inferno, but I got in the way. And they've shown just how much they've appreciated that."
"Oh yes," Sansa replied drily, taking a sip of her wine. "They've punished you so. If giving you a maiden that was willing to take you into her bed is their form of torture, I'd say you should be thanking them." Sandor looked at her from beneath his heavy brow and frowned, signaling an end to the conversation.
They ate the rest of their meal in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, but when they stood to leave, Sansa slipped her hand inside Sandor's as a silent gesture of apology. He said nothing, but when the pressure of his hand around hers increased slightly, she knew she had been forgiven.
By the time they were back on the road, the sun was setting, far sooner than usual as it was oft to do in the latter months of the year, and Sansa sighed wistfully as the sky shifted from blood red to a deep lavender, the dimming light casting shadows across the snowcapped mountains and the frosted plains below.
"It looks like a fort up ahead, little bird," Sandor said quietly, breaking his silence. "Take the reins." Sansa obeyed without a word and tried not to show her fear as Sandor slid his sword out of its scabbard and laid it carefully across Sansa's lap where it would easily accessible in the event of a fight. His hand remained on the hilt.
They rode slowly toward the crumbling stone fortress, and were relieved upon riding through its gates to find it unoccupied, presumably because of the poor state of its foundation. Stranger snorted moodily when Sandor pulled him to a stop and the warhorse stamped his feet in the dirt when his master tried to tie a rope around his neck.
Sansa laughed quietly at the courser's irritation and she smiled up at Sandor's annoyed expression. "I'll take our things inside while you and Stranger argue about his arrangements for the night." She stood up on her toes to give him a chaste kiss and then opened the door to the main garrison as Sandor grumbled something unintelligible behind her.
Inside, the fort was in much better condition than it had appeared from the exterior and Sansa checked the few rooms inside for any fellow travelers before settling onto the largest bed in what she assumed had once been the barracks and setting her lute across her lap. She idly strummed a few chords, tuning as she went, before clearing her throat and playing the opening notes of The Warrior's Charge.
"The star sung far-flung tales
Wreathed in the silver of Yokuda fair,
Of a Warrior who, arrayed in hue sails
His charges through the serpent's snare—"
"What's that nonsense you're singing about now, little bird?" Sandor asked from where he was leaned against the doorway. He moved into the room and bent down to unlace his boots before sitting down on the edge of the bed.
Sansa sighed with a mixture of annoyance and resignation. "Is there any song that you don't denounce as 'nonsense'?" she asked feebly, not expecting him to answer in the affirmative.
He gave it a moment of thought before smirking and meeting her gaze. "Do you know A Rude Song?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "The Rude Song?" A bright blush rose to her cheeks. "Of course I do, I worked in a brothel. But I tend to sing a Less Rude Song, for the sake of propriety."
"Propriety?" Sandor laughed loudly and then leaned toward her. "I want to hear you sing it." Her blush deepened and she shook her head, keeping her lips tightly closed. Sandor moved to sit cross-legged at her feet and gestured toward the lute across her lap. "You start playing, and I'll sing."
Sansa raised her eyebrows and hesitated only a moment before moving her fingers across the strings in the well-known opening notes of the famous brothel and barroom song.
"In the spring of the year
Doth propriety disappear
In the courts and the ports
Of the Bay."
Sansa giggled as Sandor sang in a surprisingly good bass, a smirk playing across his lips as he reached his hands down and slowly rolled her stockings down the length of her pale, thin legs.
"Drinking new beer,
Everybody feels queer
And the earls and the churls
Go astray."
He tossed her stockings over his shoulder and bent down with uncharacteristic grace to place a kiss on the protruding bone of her ankle. Her fingering faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered, adding her voice to his as he began the next stanza.
"The bee and the bird
Don't have to tell us a word.
Our bodies for naughtie
Are prime."
He flashed her a grin as she blushed and her breathing quickened slightly as he picked up one of her legs and moved his lips gently across the back of her knee.
"If you haven't heard,
You can let yourself be lured
For the youth, for things uncouth,
It is time.
Oh, it's lovely to sit in a field, harvested into rows,
It's lovelier still to do the same not wearing any clothes."
Sansa let out a quiet laugh as her voice trailed off and she gently pushed at Sandor's broad chest with one of her outstretched feet. "Sandor..." He raised his eyebrow and smirked at her breathy sigh as he brought his fingers to the laces of her bodice.
"In Daggerfall, they hold a ball
And all of society indulges in a variety
Of scandal, they can handle—A lot."
"You skipped a verse," Sansa interrupted breathlessly, her fingers falling away from her lute as Sandor carefully lifted it from her lap and set it down on the ground beside the bed.
"I don't care," he replied, pushing her long sleeves off of her arms and pulling the bodice of her dress down to pool around her hips before leaning down to kiss her deeply and whisper against her closed lips. "Sing the rest for me, little bird." Sansa whined in protest, but Sandor kept his lips just above her skin until she sighed and obeyed the request. It was only as she sang the final verse that he lowered his mouth to worship the rest of her smooth, pale skin.
"Oh, it's lovely to give your love a single perfect rose
It's lovelier still to do the same not wearing any clothes.
Oh, it's lovely to abandon all your cares and fears and woes,
It's lovelier still to do the same not wearing any clothes.
Yes, ser, it's lovely not to wear any clothes..."