Author's notes:
Thanks everyone for the lovely reviews. For this chapter, please keep in mind that this is at its core a fairy tale, characters might be a bit idealized and situations are purposefully glossy.
Hope you enjoy.
Chapter 3: Sober
Sandor's face still stung even more than an hour later from the mighty slap Cersei had planted on his cheek – the left one, which he found oddly fitting – before he hastily left her chambers, accompanied by her vow that he would regret this.
The thought that he might have gotten himself into more trouble than this was worth somehow entertained him, but even looking back, he couldn't imagine a different outcome.
He had been hell-bent on taking what Cersei had offered, on finally reliving years of fantasies, get her back for years of flaunting herself in front of him, so close and yet so utterly out of reach. He meant to make the most out of the opportunity that presented itself, be it a dream or not, no matter what the price may be. And knowing Cersei, there would be one, at least of that he had been sure.
But when he had bent down to reach her mouth, Cersei had put her fingers over his lips.
"I offer my body, nothing else," she had said with a honey-sweet smile and the words had hit him like a bucket of cold water. A much needed one.
Of course she was just offering her body. What had he expected? Hours of passionate love-making? Supplanting the Kingslayer in his sister's bed? A place where he would be welcomed?
Truth be told, he had expected neither. Had had neither the presence of mind nor the time to think of it, but when she had made it clear what he could expect, it became blindingly clear to him that it wasn't what he wanted.
Not even if this was a dream. Or maybe especially if this was a dream, because if it was, shouldn't he get all he wanted and not just a flimsy, cheapened version of it?
If he wanted a quick rut between a woman's legs, beautiful as she might be, he'd much rather pay with gold for a whore than be in Cersei's debt. Besides, now that he really thought about it, did he really want to join the merry circle of which - to his knowledge – a couple of Lannisters and at least one of the Kettleblacks were already members?
The thought was more disturbing than it should have been.
He'd seen how Cersei led men around by their cocks, whether she shared her bed with them or not. Had seen puffed up, self-important lords make fools of themselves over her. Had found it a secret source of entertainment for all this time at her side. Hells, the few times they had actually spoken with one another was when they had both made fun of some poor sod who had mistaken her sweetness for real affection. Back then, he'd sworn to himself he'd never sink this low for a woman. Not for her, not for anyone.
"If I want a whore, I pay for one," he had said as he had stepped back from her, which for one thing probably wasn't a wise decision and for another earned him a cracking slap on the cheek.
A slap that surprisingly stung more than he would have expected if this was a dream.
Absentmindedly, he rubbed at the spot as he stood atop the battlements of the keep, looking down into the courtyard.
He had braced his hands against the crenels atop the wall, feeling the irregular edges of the stones under his palms, the roughness of the mortar between. Afternoon sunlight warmed his skin and a slight breeze from the sea - bringing a smell of salt with it - ruffled his hair.
This couldn't be a dream. Not once had he dreamed with such detail, such incredibly accurate sensory depth. He touched his face again and shook his head.
Then again, if this was real, he would have to accept the change the last night had brought and his thoughts started to scramble and fall all over each other if he only so much as attempted it.
Yes, he'd wished for this for years. Ever since he was that little, burned boy, screaming in pain and sobbing and whining later when his voice and strength had given out. Ever since then, he'd wished that all of it was just a terrible nightmare, something he would wake up from one day, whole and free of pain. Free of frightful stares and averted gazes, of words whispered behind his back and of the looks of pity and disgust from those paid for touching him.
But now that it seemed his wish had been granted, he felt lost. All of this had been so long ago, the little burned boy was long forgotten, his life not even a memory anymore, because it was already shrouded in the mist that surrounds childhood recollections.
There was no thread of a former life he could simply pick up and continue, no place where he belonged and could easily fit into again. Not even so much as a single person with whom he could share the joy this turn of events should be, no one to really care.
What was the upside of all this, besides that he got smiles now instead of averted gazes, frankly appraising stares from the women he passed and disturbingly assessing looks from more than one man? What was he to do with this change, besides fuck his way through every other bed of King's Landing?
He'd spent his life around people who had been born to physical attractiveness, had seen them use it to get whatever they wanted until they had felt it their due. Would he turn into this; charming the kitchen maid to get that extra piece of cake, throwing smiles and pretty words around until he had wrapped everyone around his little finger?
He tried to picture himself emulating the Kingslayer with his easy charm and careless wit and found he couldn't. It had always smacked of lies and deceit and it didn't become more palatable now that it was an option for him.
He shook his head again, purposely turning away from this train of thought.
There had to be something good about this, he just had to find out what. He wasn't one to give up easily. If he was, the little burned boy wouldn't have grown into a man.
If the episode with Cersei was good for one thing, it was to show him what it was he didn't want. Now he merely had to figure out what he actually wanted, especially in the light of the fact that if this was real, he still had one wish left.
…
As he let his gaze once again roam over the courtyard, his eyes sharpened on a slight figure, huddled into a grey cloak, who carefully picked her way toward the serpentine steps.
His hands clenched on the stone beneath them as he recognized her.
Sansa Stark, hair ablaze in the orange afternoon light, her head bent and her eyes darting around. Not so much a little bird, he thought, unamused, but a little mouse trying to gauge if the cat was busy elsewhere.
He snorted, wishing he could tell her that the cat would get her in the end, that she would never be safe here. Not if she was to become Joffrey's wife.
A familiar pang stabbed his belly at the thought of what might await her once this happened and he balled his fists to get a grip. He'd bragged about being the only thing between her and Joffrey when that time came, but in truth, he had no idea if there was anything he would be able to do to help her.
Quietly and quickly, he took the narrow steps down to the courtyard, intent on showing the little bird she could never be too careful looking behind herself, because monsters like him lurked everywhere.
…
"Where are you off to?"
She spun around, losing her footing on the narrow steps and he grabbed her arm to prevent her from tumbling down.
"Ser Sandor...," she stuttered, "I mean... my lord... I am... I meant to... I am going to the Godswood... to pray."
Her eyes were wide, the whites showing like those of an animal terrified for its life. Her skin had lost all colour and she was shaking like a leaf in his grip. On her lip, a dark bruise and a gash still told of the violence done to her the day before.
Once again his stomach muscles clenched at the memory that those bruises were the reason for last night's attempt at drowning himself in wine.
Like always, her obvious fear was like a thorny whip on his skin, like a splinter under his nail, something that lit a blaze of anger in the pit of his belly, even if one only needed to look at her bruises to know she was more than justified to fear men like him.
Then another realization struck.
"You know who I am?" he asked, much more harshly than he had intended.
Her eyes flickered to the left side of his face and he oddly felt as if he still looked a monster. Maybe the fairy's magic had been nothing but a superficial mask, something unreal that some people were still able to look beyond.
"Of course," she whispered.
Without conscious thought, he lifted his free hand to his face. Still, everything was as he had found it this morning. Hale and healthy.
"How can you still be afraid of me now?"
She swallowed and straightened a little.
He'd seen that before on her, this almost imperceptible gain of inner strength, of resolution. As if she had silently commanded herself to get a grip, to be strong. He recognized it because he knew it himself, that moment when you had to kick yourself to face something you'd rather not, when you have to take that step you dread to take, to push beyond your boundaries of comfort, daring and strength.
In her, he'd seen it first just in time to prevent her from pushing Joffrey from the battlements.
"My fear," she began haltingly, "it hasn't been about your scars. Not for a long while."
Surprise made him take a step back.
"What was it about then?" he asked, more than incredulous.
Her eyelids fluttered shut and her cheeks bloomed with pink, a faint shimmer only, speaking of an inner turmoil that fanned his curiosity. If she wouldn't spit it out on her own, he knew he would insist until she did.
But then he was once again object of a frank, blue-eyed gaze.
"Your eyes," she said, "they're always so full of rage, and you're always so rude, so hateful..."
Rude and hateful. Yes, he'd heard that from her before, back when she'd tried to thank him for ripping her out of the clutches of an angry mob. Angry, too. Yes, he was all that and probably a lot more besides.
Shouldn't his newly acquired handsome visage cover all that ugliness, though, as it did for others? Why could she of all people still see?
"That's who I am, little bird," he scoffed. "A dog; angry, rude and hateful. And you're right to fear me."
She shook her head slightly and looked for a moment as if she had more to say on the subject.
"May I continue on my way?" she asked instead.
On its own accord, his hand shot forward again, taking her arm again. He could not let her wander away. Not now. Not yet.
Not when she was the only one who saw him.
"No," he said, trying not to sound too growly, "I'll accompany you."
For a split second, she looked as if she wanted to decline what wasn't a request, but then motioned for him to offer his arm properly and then took it.
They walked in silence until they reached the godswood, the trees looming rather darkly already in the waning light. He saw her nervously bite her lips from time to time, obviously trying to come up with something to say. She even started once or twice but never got past opening her mouth.
He might have mocked her for it, or demanded she speak already whatever was on her mind, but figured he might have scared her enough for one day.
On the path that led inside, Dontos the fool stood, decked out in his new trade's motley, ogling him.
"Who are you and why are you wearing Kingsguard armor?"
Sandor sighed, undecided if he should be angry or amused. He cut a glance down at the little bird who was looking over to Dontos with an adorably furled brow, as if suspecting the fool had finally taken leave of the last of his senses.
"This is Sandor Clegane, Ser Dontos, surely you recognize him?"
Dontos obstinately shook his head.
"No one can mistake this man for Sandor Clegane, my lady," he said, "his scars..."
"...are by no means his only distinctive feature," Sansa cut off his explanation and he felt himself unaccountably warmed by the girl's support.
"Now, shoo," Sandor growled at the fool, fed up with the interruption despite the delight he found in having Sansa Stark talking to someone about his distinctive features. He almost had a mind to ask her to elaborate on that point, would there not be the risk of her talking again about the anger in his eyes and his general intolerableness. "Or I'll show you why they call me the Hound."
After only the merest hesitation, Dontos bowed and took himself away.
They walked deeper into the little grove they called the godswood and Sansa finally let go of his arm to kneel in front of the largest of the trees there, the one with the carved face.
Unsure about what he was supposed to do with himself, Sandor sat down on a large log that seemed to be placed there for exactly this purpose.
Dusk had turned the world around them a light grey, dimming all colour, giving the scene an eerie sense of the unreal which was compounded by the faint gurgling of a nearby spring that sounded like a whisper in a foreign, magical tongue.
After a while, the girl got up from what he supposed had been a prayer and carefully shook her skirts free from the leaves and grass clinging to them, then sat down on the log, primly leaving as much space between them as was possible.
"What happened to you?" she inquired quietly. "To your face, I mean, if you don't mind my asking?"
He didn't mind her asking, had expected it way before this moment and the denial of knowing anything about this was already on his tongue. Still, to his surprise, he somehow couldn't find it in himself to lie to her. If anyone would not judge him for his drunken tale, it might be the girl sitting in front of him.
Her eyes were wide, this time with curious expectation, the usual fear completely gone and he mused how beautiful a woman she might turn into one of these days. She had been a pretty child and she was even lovelier now on the cusp of womanhood.
If he were a bard, he'd probably liken her to a rosebud, petals tightly closed, fragile and unripe, but with the promise of breath-taking beauty, visible in the lines of her face, in the barely developed curves of her young body.
"Have you ever heard of fairies?" he asked.
She seemed to look inward for a while, then nodded.
"Old Nan used to tell us tales about them, back in Winterfell."
Her voice trailed off at that, suddenly thick with tears that glittered in her eyes but weren't shed.
"The kind that grants three wishes, I mean," he clarified when she remained silent, lost in what he supposed were memories.
"It's said they are sent from the Old Gods," she continued after a moment, "to good people who are pure of heart, to fulfil their most heartfelt wishes."
The words sank in somewhat slowly, but when he had fully grasped what she'd been saying, he snorted. Then laughed. Long and loud and the more he laughed the more the thought amused him. His laughter sounded beastly in the quiet of the godswood and he could see that he had both scared and angered her, but he couldn't help it.
"Oh hells," he wheezed. "Good and pure of heart...," he interrupted himself with another bout of hilarity, "that fairy must have been more hammered than I was, when she picked me!"
Her eyes rounded again.
"You were visited by a fairy?" She asked. "This...," she gestured to his face, "this was one of your wishes?"
He nodded. "To my defence," he felt it necessary to add, "at the time I believed it to be a drunken dream. I mean... how could I suspect this was real? I still half-believe this is a dream."
A little sad smile played around her lips and she nodded, as if she too sometimes thought – or rather wished – all of this was only a dream. A very bad one.
Then excitement sparked in her eyes, an intrigued curiosity that made her look much more a child than she was.
"What else did you wish for?"
If he still had the ability to blush with embarrassment, he would have done so at this. Still, he didn't mind telling her, because she might well be the only person in the world who would not ridicule him for what he was about to tell her.
"Like a said, I was so bloody fucking drunk I couldn't even see straight," he said, "So when that little golden thing started dancing in front of my eyes, I sort of wished I wouldn't like wine so much, so things like this wouldn't happen to me."
The girl tilted her head slightly to the side, biting her bottom lip and visibly trying not to laugh at his misfortune.
"So you can't drink wine anymore?"
His lips twisted in a self-deprecating sneer. It wasn't like he couldn't see the irony in his situation all by himself, without her looking as if she would burst from kept-in laughter any moment. "Looks like it. Most likely will be dead of thirst not too long hence."
Her eyes lit up at that and he wondered for a moment if it was the thought of his imminent demise that cheered her, when she sprung up and rummaged in the little satchel at her side to produce a well-used pewter cup. Then she half-ran, half skipped to where he had heard the murmur of water before and came back a heartbeat later, holding the cup out to him.
"Please try this, then," she said smilingly. "It's the best water you can get in King's Landing."
He almost told her he wasn't one for drinking water, but the expectant joy on her face made him nod and take the cup from her. As he brought it to his lips, he half-expected to be once again assaulted by the wave of nausea he felt every time he smelled wine, but there was nothing, just a faint tang of freshness that suddenly made him realize how truly parched he was.
The cool liquid went down his throat more smoothly than the best of wines he'd ever tasted. Fresh and sweet and cooling. Reviving him as if it was some sort of magic potion. Which, considering the source, might not be entirely untrue.
If fairy-tales were to be believed, and he rather feared some of them just might, water from the godswood was supposed to have special healing capabilities.
"More," he demanded, holding the cup to her once again, only belatedly realizing his lack of manners. "Please."
She nodded and obediently fetched him another cup... and another.
"Don't drink so hastily," she admonished with a smile when he was on his fourth cup. "The water is so cold; you might give yourself a headache."
The words had barely been out of her mouth, when he did indeed feel a sort of pulling, weird ache between his eyes that made him groan.
Sansa took the cup from his hands and drank the rest of the water. He was sure she placed her lips exactly where his had been before.
The pain behind his forehead vanished after mere moments and he took his time watching her while she daintily sipped her water.
"What would you have wished for, little bird, if she had come to you?" he asked and then wished he hadn't when he saw the look on her face. The pained frown, the tears once again gathering in her eyes, the unhappy downturn of her mouth.
What a bloody stupid question! It was clear as day what she would wish for.
"I'd wished I hadn't been so stupid as to betray my father's plans to Cersei. Wished we could have managed to flee from here, father, Arya and I."
It was a disturbing discovery to hear she blamed herself for all this, thought it was her fault, when all she had done was unwittingly set something in motion that others had brought to a bloody end, he himself among those who'd slaughtered the members of the Stark household man by man.
The evil wasn't with her innocent attempt at doing the right thing, but with those remorselessly using her error in judgement to further their own ends.
"Even fairies cannot change the past," he said, choked by an unfamiliar feeling of guilt. "Or so I've been told."
Her gaze fell to her hands, tightly clasped around her cup and she nodded with a bent head, looking as if once again her hopes had been shattered, prompting him to somehow think of how to make things better for her, offer help in some way.
"I've one wish left," he began, but didn't know how to continue. He still had no idea what to wish for and maybe giving her his wish would not be the worst thing he could do. "Maybe you can have it."
"You cannot give your last wish to me," she said as if it was some sort of law he should know about. "Fairies only fulfil wishes that are close to your own heart."
"One of those buggering fairy rules again, isn't it?" he grumbled.
She smiled bravely at him, masking the pain he'd seen before.
"Are there more?" she asked. "Rules, I mean."
"No changing the past, no wishing for someone to die and no wishing for more wishes," he recounted what he remembered, much to his own surprise in some detail, considering how out of it he had been at the time.
Sansa nodded, as if trying to memorize the information, as if this was something bound to come up in a polite conversation or as a test from some overly strict septa.
He touched the left side of his face, recognizing a mad compulsion to make sure it was still alright and found that it already bristled again. There was a slight rasp as his fingernails scratched over the faint stubble.
"Guess I could grow a beard now," he said into the quiet between them. Not the most thrilling of topics, but he for one had enough of talking about fairies.
Sansa's head snapped up and she made a face that clearly communicated what she thought of that particular notion.
"No?" he asked, more amused by her reaction than he should be. The girl had spent her childhood surrounded by bearded men. No one shaved in the North.
"No," she said decisively, shaking her head.
Then she stood and reached out a hesitant hand.
"May I?"
The ability to speak having deserted him at the prospect of Sansa Stark willingly putting a hand on him, he could only nod his approval.
Like a butterfly's wing, her hand fluttered over and settled on his cheek, while her eyes searched his face as if trying to find a trace of its former ugliness.
"I've never dared asking, but... did it hurt?"
Desperately, he swallowed to be able to speak again.
"Before, I mean," she clarified when he didn't answer. "It looked as if it did."
"It did," he rasped, loathe to remember the feeling of waking to the realization he'd slept too long on the wrong side, the constant throbbing of pain when one of the crevices had become inflamed after something or other had gotten into it. The crunch of sand and dirt between his teeth when a gust of wind had found its way through one of the holes in his cheek into his mouth. The trouble he had to eat properly. The way every facial expression was an ordeal.
The never ceasing irritation at the stupid buggering incontrollable twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"I understand why you wished for this," she whispered, her hand ever so slightly caressing his face. "It must have been horrible."
It had been, she had the right of it. Fuck his looks, fuck what other people thought of him, nothing of this mattered in the light of the fact that he was whole again, healthy and free of pain. How had he not thought of that before? How had it not been the first thing to value?
The enormity of the change slowly descended on him as his mind began to grasp the true extend of all this. The lack of pain, the absence of all the little and larger indignities that had been so much part of his life, he could not even imagine how it would be without them.
Unbidden, unwanted and to his utter embarrassment, hot wetness shot to his eyes and flowed over before he could even so much as close his eyes to stop it.
His instincts raged at him to turn away from her to hide his shame. To growl and snap at her that he had no need of her pity. His wounded pride urged him to sneer at her how it was she found her compassion and care now of all times when he had turned handsome.
He did neither.
Even in his state, he had no choice about giving honesty its due. She had not dared to ask before, she had said so herself and there was no one but himself who'd been the cause for her hesitation. The question had been there, as had been her compassion and she would have given it to him earlier if he'd not behaved like the rabid dog he was.
Her thumb caught the one tear that rolled down his cheek and when he opened his eyes again, he found her face much closer to his than it had been before, her lips parted, her eyes shining with wetness and with something strange he could not name.
He raised his face to her, waiting, wanting. Child or not, the craving for her touch was a palpable thing in him, as if he needed whatever she would offer in much the same desperate way as the water she had given him a few minutes ago.
Slowly, carefully, she bent down to him and ghosted the lightest of kisses over his lips.
A kiss that broke something inside him, snapped the leash that bound him to his perceived purpose, destroyed the last vestige of loyalty he felt for his masters. Broke all that and rebuilt something much stronger, something centred around the wish he'd long since felt to protect her, come what may.
Gently, as not to scare her, he put his hands around her slim waist and lifted her sideways onto his lap, then wrapped his arms around her as he always had longed to do, enveloping them both in his cloak. Instead of fighting his hold as he had feared she would, she cuddled against him without the slightest hesitation, rested her head trustingly against his shoulder and drew her legs up until she lay curled against him like a kitten, so completely enclosed in his embrace, no one seeing him would have even noticed her. If there ever was a time to be grateful for being the big, ungainly ox he was, it was now.
He felt her fingers claw into the fabric of his tunic shortly before a trembling shook her and warm wetness seeped through to his skin from where her face rested against him. Not quite knowing what else to do, he tightened his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her hair.
She snuggled closer and her nails bit through his tunic as she held on to him when great sobs shook her slight frame and he could only respond with holding her closer, tighter, hoping she would tell him should he start to crush her. Patiently, he waited until the storm would blow itself out.
Meanwhile, dusk had turned to night and here and there a star blinked through the canopy of the trees, the serenity only broken by the chirping of a lonely cicada, the murmur of the spring and Sansa's half-smothered sobs.
"Shall we go back?" he asked when it appeared as if she was done crying.
The shake of her head was more felt than seen.
"I'd like to stay for a while longer," she whispered, tears still evident in her voice. "I've not been held like this for so long."
...
tbc