Chapter 4: Farewell
"The longer you'll keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you," he told her, although he could already see she didn't need the warning.
She'd opened the door to him with a smile today, a smile that had sent a shockwave of warmth through him.
This morning, he had woken in a much better state than he usually did, feeling actually rested and alert. Before he'd known what he was doing, he'd emptied every wineskin in his possession, rinsed and washed them until he could not detect any smell of wine anymore. Then he'd made his way to the godswood to fill them again with the water from the spring, drinking his fill of it while he was there.
From then on, however, the day had gone downhill. A raven had come with tidings of a crushing defeat the Lannister forces had suffered a few weeks before at the hands of Robb Stark and Joff had all but foamed at the mouth at the news. Losing no time, he had immediately sent Sandor to fetch "the Stark bitch".
Thus remembering why he was at her door in the first place, the answering smile he was about to give her did not make it to his lips and the warmth he'd felt at her greeting had turned to cold ashes.
"Joffrey wants to see you and you'd better be quick," he'd rasped instead of a greeting and watched as her smile froze and then vanished, just as the bloom on her cheeks and the lively spark in her eyes.
It felt disconcertingly like watching someone die.
"Tell me what I've done," she asked in a small voice, brittle and broken, as they made their way to their destination.
"Not you, your kingly brother."
"Robb's a traitor," she recited what had been beaten into her before. "I had no part in what he did."
"They trained you well, little bird," he said, tempted almost beyond being able to resist to swoop her up into his arms as he had done the night before and see to it that no harm came to her. He had no idea what Joffrey wanted to do to her, but judging from the mood he'd left him in, it would probably bad. Really bad.
He conducted her to the lower bailey, where a crowd had gathered around the archery butts. They had to step around a half-dead cat on their way to the king, the furry thing mewling piteously, a crossbow quarrel through its ribs.
Sandor pulled a face. If he had a gold dragon for every cat Joff had tortured to death while he was in his service… well, he wouldn't be much richer than he was already, but still. It would be quite a sum.
Dontos came up to them and whispered encouragement to Sansa, only serving to make the girl more nervous.
Joffrey stood in the center of the throng, winding his showy, ornate crossbow.
Sansa jerked out of his grasp and threw herself to her knees, right there into the dirt of the yard, despite the care she had given her nice dress before.
"Your Grace."
Joffrey gave her a cold look.
"Kneeling won't save you now," he sneered, "get her up, dog."
As gently as he could do without anyone noticing, he grasped her upper arm and helped her up, his mind frantically casting about for a way to get her out of this. The way Joff's eyes glittered with hatred and malice, Sansa would be beaten and bloodied before the boy let her go.
The thought of seeing her in pain, of seeing her bleed, was like knife to his intestines, twisting and burning and filling him with a pained, helpless rage that had no outlet short of killing Joffrey to spare Sansa. Which would be both their death.
Still, he had to help her… somehow.
"Ser Lancel," Joffrey demanded. "Tell her of this outrage."
Lancel did as being bid, spouting a bunch of nonsensical bullshit everyone with brains would see for a horrid exaggeration, if not an outright lie. Knowing Stafford Lannister for years, Sandor was quite sure it had not taken the Young Wolf too much of an effort to get the upper hand on that self-important fool.
Sansa kept quiet as the king barked at her for a statement and only defended her dead wolf when Joffrey called the pup a monster that had savaged him. The knife in Sandor's gut gave another twist as he remembered how ill they had already treated her then, killing what was no more than a pup to spite her, spite the Starks.
Eddard Stark had been a bloody blind fool to continue on their way after that.
Joffrey kept bragging about people he killed and Sandor was almost relieved that maybe this was all that would happen when the command "Dog, hit her!" reached his ears, making him freeze.
The girl lifted her eyes to him, not in supplication, not begging for mercy, but with a dead, resigned acceptance.
He wouldn't, he swore to himself. Not her, not like this. He would not lift a hand to her even if this was the first and last time he disobeyed a command.
"Let me beat her!" Dontos shouted, excitedly swinging his mock morning-star.
Sandor felt no relief as he watched her being humiliated, sticky pink juice messing up her hair, running down her white skin.
Rage built and boiled, even as he saw the hope in her face, the expectation that maybe Joffrey would be satisfied with this.
He knew Joffrey for too long to harbour the same hope.
"Boros, Meryn," Joffrey gestured to the two oafs standing next to him.
At once, they roughly shoved Dontos out of the way, seizing Sansa by the arms.
"Leave her face," Joffrey commanded. "I like her pretty."
As if time had slowed to a crawl, Sandor watched as Boros drew his fist back for a punch aimed for Sansa's belly.
I wish she was safe, he thought, anguished, I wish she was far away from here. Back with her brother, her mother.
Golden dust rained around him as he watched Sansa double over after Boros' hit and only then did he realize that he could do that. Wish for that. It was as heartfelt as anything he'd ever wished for and that fucking fairy better make good on her promise.
Don't dawdle, he barked at her in his thoughts, do it right now, don't wait a night or any of your magical bullshit.
There was a short silence, but then a clear and slightly distressed voice sounded in his head.
I cannot do this with everyone looking on, maybe you can distract them.
His back teeth almost cracked as he gritted them, almost mad with fury when he heard Sansa scream as Boros's sword cracked across her thighs.
I'll make you pay for this, you craven swine, he thought. Tomorrow in the training yard, you'll bleed for this.
"Enough," he said, an intended bellow that came out rasping and brittle, his throat too closed by the turmoil inside him.
His puny attempt at a distraction only drew everyone's attention for a split of a second before they turned to their victim again and before he could so much as step between them, they had followed Joff's command and half-torn her dress from her.
He took another step, inwardly cursing the stupid-ass fairy for not doing anything, when suddenly another voice cut through the throng.
"What is the meaning of this?"
All eyes went to the Imp who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, his pet sellsword in tow and a man who didn't look much different from how he himself had a couple days ago, burned and disfigured.
Quickly, before anyone could take note of it, Sandor unfastened his cloak, strode to Sansa's side and wrapped it around her.
"You'll be safe in a moment," he whispered to her. "Tell your brother I expect him to take good care of you, will you?"
She stared at him out of red-rimmed eyes, cheeks blotchy from crying and her hair wet with melon juice and stuck to her face. Somewhere on the periphery of his awareness, the Imp squabbled with Blount, but he didn't pay them any attention.
Golden dust shimmered around them and at this, a spark of realization made Sansa's eyes widen.
"Your wish," she whispered and looked as if about to say more, when suddenly his arms were empty, the girl gone and the only trace left a faintly glowing residue of gold on his fingers.
"Farewell," he said quietly to no one in particular and then, "she's gone."
Yes, she's gone, the fairy's voice tinkled in his mind. She's where you wished her to be, with her family.
"She's gone," he said more loudly, but people were still watching the spectacle between the Imp and his nephew. "She's gone," he hollered, a shout that was almost triumphant.
Everyone's eyes went to him.
"Find her," Joffrey screeched and Tyrion said almost to same thing to his men.
Blount and Trant went off in a hurry, so did the Imp's sellsword.
Sandor, not in the least willing to have to talk to either the king or the Hand, took himself off as well, pretending to look for Sansa.
He found Blount hastening towards Sansa's chambers, quite the logical choice, and barked at him that he would look for her there. So Blount was given no other choice than to take his searching elsewhere.
Stepping into her rooms, it felt odd to think she'd been in there no longer than half an hour ago.
Around him, her smell still lingered, lemon and ice and innocence and he smiled to himself, suddenly joyfully relieved at the thought she was safe from further abuse, safe back with her family.
At least he hoped she was.
"She is," a chirpy voice said next to his ear.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth and since there was no one else to witness it, besides a tiny magical being, he gave into the temptation.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his own little fairy perching on his shoulder. This time, he made no move to shoo her away.
"I dropped her right in the courtyard of Riverrun."
He tried to imagine the scene, tried to imagine what she would tell everyone how it had come about that she had been deposited right into their midst. She might want to be careful with her explanation, he thought, still grinning like an idiot.
"Thank you," he said. "Guess that means I didn't waste all of my wishes."
"No one says the other two were wasted," the fairy chirped. "Sansa certainly didn't."
He sighed, remembering Sansa's curiosity about his wishes, her barely hidden amusement and her understanding compassion.
His gaze went over her belongings. The discarded dresses she had pulled out of her wardrobe, frantically trying to decide which one to wear, the various implements on her dressing table for prettying herself up. The comb she had hastily drawn through her hair, a few silky hairs still entwined in it.
Would she need any of this where she was now? Would she miss it?
Her comb was in his hand before he finished the thought. A pretty and fragile thing it was, much like its owner. Made in the North, no doubt, it was delicately whittled from whalebone, enameled with mother-of-pearl.
Maybe she'd would want this one, he thought and pocketed the comb. Maybe there was a way to get it to her.
"You could have wished for her, you know?" the fairy piped up again. He had almost forgotten about her still being there.
"I might as well have held her down and raped her for all the say she would've had in it," he gave back.
In truth, the thought had never crossed his mind. Well, it had, but it had been repellent to him from the start. He could imagine no greater torture than being left wondering for the rest of his life whether she was with him because of his wish or because she really cared for him. It would have driven him mad.
"There should be some of your bloody rules about wishes like that," he said. "It seems worse than just wishing for someone to die."
The fairy nodded, as if truly contemplating his words.
"You're a good man, Sandor Clegane," she finally said.
"Is that why you chose me, because I am such a fucking good man?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her shrug her tiny bewinged shoulders
"I have my own orders to follow, it's not me who does the choosing," she said.
"The Gods, then?"
"I think that's what you call them, yes."
He shook his head. Why any of the Gods, old or new, would want to meddle with his life was beyond him and thinking about it made him weary.
"What do they want from me?"
"Their plans are nothing I am privy to," she said, "your guess is as good as mine, but I think there are still things for you to accomplish."
Maybe something had been accomplished already, he thought as he let his gaze wander over the chamber in which Sansa has lived. And every other bridge he'd cross if and when he came to it.
"Will she remember any of this?" he asked, indicating the chamber, the room and the holdfast at large with one sweeping gesture.
The fairy leaned her head to the side, looking at him as if seeing much more than he was aware was there.
"Do you want her to?" she finally asked.
He braced his hands next to the small window of Sansa's chambers, looking outside, down onto the bustle of the yard, where Golden Cloaks were now apparently helping in the search for Sansa.
Did he want her to remember all she'd suffered here? No, he truly didn't. Memories could be cruel; no one knew this better than he did. Suppressed by day by pure will and at night by copious amounts of wine, they could not quite drive you insane, but they were always there, lingering, infesting your dreams with their ugliness, poisoning your soul until you were as bitter and resentful as you never wanted to be.
He'd not wish that on anyone, least of all someone as pure and sweet as her.
"No," he said.
The unblinking stare out of golden eyes never wavered from him.
"Do you want her to remember you?"
Pain seized his heart in a sudden grip, while the scene from a few nights before played in his mind. The innocent ghost of a kiss, the body curled so trustingly against his, young and fragile and so much in need of the one thing he had craved, too: a gentle touch, an unselfish show of affection and care.
The pain in his chest made him irritable, though.
"Do I get a say in it?" he barked at the fairy. "I've no wishes left, have I?"
The fairy fluttered up from her perch on his shoulder and made to fly away, but then turned again.
"You should always know which wishes and dreams are closest to your heart," she said with a smile. "Only then can you decide on the right way to choose for yourself. It might not get you all you want, but maybe it'll get you what you need."
...
tbc