A/N
First of all – I broke 200 reviews and then some last chapter, so thank you all so much. You guys are seriously amazing!
Second of all- this is another San/San chapter that takes a place a few days before the previous Arya chapter. It shouldn't be too confusing because all the events are isolated- but just letting you know. After this, both POVs should be on the same timeline.
Third of all- I had a lot of trouble with this chapter, so I decided to cut it short. It's filler- but that necessary, bridge, plot-building filler. Sorry but thanks for reading anyways!
"Why are we meeting here?" Sansa asks. The night before, Sandor had sent her a short email, telling her where and when to meet him. The address took her straight to an abandoned warehouse. The only thing marking the location was Sandor's motorcycle parked outside.
"Wouldn't want Joffrey to show up at your apartment and find us, would you?" Sandor looks up at Sansa from a crouching position on the ground. He's pulling some old, dusty mats across the floor.
"No. I suppose not." Sansa watches as Sandor continues to set up the room. His muscles strain as he pulls the thick, plastic mats into position. "Do you need any help with those?"
"No."
"All right." Sansa opens her gym bag and pulls out a bottle of cold Fiji water. She unscrews the lid and takes a long sip, still watching Sandor out of the corner of her eye. The left side of his face is scarred. The scars are long and deep, but they have faded and sunk into his face like part of the natural texture. His long dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, exaggerating the sharpness of his face. Tattoos run down the length of his thick, exposed arms.
It only takes Sandor a few minutes to pull all the mats into the center of the room. He works silently. The building is humid, and a few beads of sweat roll down the back of his neck. "Was this an old gym?" Sansa asks.
"Karate studio."
"What happened?"
Sandor grunts in response. "Businesses open and then they close." Sandor kicks the final mat into place. "Come on then," he says.
Sansa tucks the water bottle back into her bag. She reaches up to tighten her ponytail, making sure all the auburn hair is swept off of her neck. "I hope I'm dressed all right," she says as she approaches the mats and stands before Sandor.
"You could wear a fucking dress for all I care. It's not like you're going to have time for a wardrobe change before Joffrey has a few too many and gives you a good old right hook."
Sansa looks up, surprised. Of course, Sandor saw Joffrey hit her the other night. Of course, she's learning to defend herself so it won't happen again. But she didn't expect Sandor to be so blunt about it. "I didn't mean-" she starts to explain, but stops herself. She doesn't owe anything to Sandor.
"Fists up then."
"What?"
"Fists up." Sandor steps forward, leaving only a small space between himself and Sansa. "Hit me. Anywhere but the face, not that you could reach it."
Sansa looks up. She's tall, but her head still barely reaches Sandor's shoulders. "Hit you? Won't that hurt?"
Sandor laughs. It sounds like a rough bark, and the sides of his lips curl into a half-smile. "If you could hurt me, we wouldn't be here."
"I suppose that's true."
"Get on with it then. I don't have all day."
"All right." Sansa curls her hands into tight fists. She's never punched someone before. She's never even slapped someone before except for the one time that Arya stole all of Sansa's bras and hung them out the windows. Arya. Arya wouldn't hesitate, Sansa thinks. She wouldn't think. She would just hit.
Sansa lifts her fists, takes a short step forward, and punches Sandor as hard as she can in his chest. She backs away immediately, rubbing her fist. She lifts her eyes expecting to find Sandor grimacing or at least wincing, but he's only standing there with a bored expression on his face.
"Again," he grunts.
"What?"
"Again. Harder. Try putting some weight into it."
"I did." And Sansa thought she had put weight into it, but apparently her punch was no more than a fleabite to Sandor. "Fine," she mutters. "Again."
The second time she punches Sandor, she lets out a gasp of her own. Punching Sandor's stomach is like punching a brick wall. She flexes her fingers and is about to ask for help when Sandor says, "Again."
So she punches him. Again. And again. After about twenty tries, her knuckles are red and Sandor is looking more and more bored.
"I don't think I'm doing this right," Sansa finally says.
"No. You're not."
Sansa looks up, her eyes flashing with sudden irritation. "You could have mentioned that before the last twenty punches," she says. "Why bother coming out here if you're just going to stand here and watch me make a fool of myself? What's the point?"
"The point is that now you're angry."
"No. I'm not." But she is. She is angry. At Sandor for making a fool of her. At Joffrey for abusing her. At her sister for putting herself in danger every day. At herself for not being strong enough to protect her family.
"You look angry."
"I'm not-"
"It's a good thing, Sansa." It's the first time she's heard Sandor say her name. Something about the way it rolls off his rasping tongue makes her shiver. "Being angry is a good thing." His dark eyes are staring at her. She can feel anger, no, power in his gaze.
"Why's that?"
"You can fight whenever you want, but you can't win unless you're angry. You can't win unless you believe in what you're fighting for. And you can't lose if you truly despise what you're fighting against."
What did you fight against? Sansa wants to ask Sandor the same, single question that has been wandering around her mind since the day they met, and yet she can't ask it. She can't ask where his scars are from. Maybe because it's his business, his life. Maybe because she's scared to hear the answer.
But Sansa knows one thing- whatever gave Sandor those scars must have turned him into the man he is today.
She looks up. "So what do I do?"
"You relax. You square your shoulders. You make sure each muscle, each tendon, each bone is connected into the same force. You clear your head. You funnel that anger into a one-way stream. And then you strike."
"I'm picking you up in ten minutes," Margaery says. She clicks off the phone before Sansa has a chance to respond.
It's almost ten in the morning. Usually, Sansa would be at work by now, but instead she's in the bathtub. Joffrey insisted that she take a leave of absence until the wedding. He insisted that she needed her beauty rest so that she wouldn't look like a run-down haggard mess on their cherished day.
But instead of resting and working on the wedding, Sansa has been spending the last few days at the gym, either with or without Sandor. Instead of picking out flower arrangements, she's been lifting weights morning and night. Instead of dieting for her wedding dress, she's been running five miles a day.
Her first session with Sandor made her realize how weak she really was, and not just physically. She can't stand up to Joffrey if she doesn't believe she has the strength to stand up to him. And while she'll continue to play Joffrey's twisted little game to protect her family, she knows the charade can't last forever.
Eventually she'll have to face him.
Sansa massages her sore muscles, letting the warm water soak over her for a few more minutes before climbing out of the tub. She tugs on her soft bathrobe and takes a comb through her auburn hair. There are mirrors all over her bathroom, and everywhere she turns, she sees a pretty, porcelain face.
She's attractive. That's true. But sometimes she wishes she were ugly. Joffrey wouldn't want her if she were ugly. She wouldn't be here in the first place if she were ugly.
"A beautiful daughter." That's what everyone has called her ever since she was a little girl. Never smart or cunning or interesting. Just beautiful and polite. Robb was the strong one. Arya the sneaky one. Bran the smart one.
They all had their titles, and yet, Sansa felt as if hers never quite fit.
The doorbell rings, and Sansa calls out, "One minute, Margaery!" She heads into her room and quickly throws on a pair of linen shorts and a light blue blouse.
When she finally opens the door, Margaery is standing there with a giant notebook in her hands. She looks up at Sansa with annoyed, brown eyes. "You know," she says, "It's very difficult to be maid of honor when the bride won't tell me what to do. I've been having to boss myself around all week, and that just doesn't make any sense."
"I'm sorry, Margaery. I've been busy."
"Busy doing what? Painting your toenails? Loras told me that you were on leave from work until the wedding."
"How's he like the new job?" Joffrey not only hired Loras after their dinner together, but he promoted him to a high position.
"Don't change the subject on me." Margaery points a finger in Sansa's face. "Now grab your purse, pull back that soaking wet hair, and let's get going. This wedding isn't going to plan itself. Now, I know you and Joffrey aren't exactly two lovebirds in a nest right now, but if you can't have a perfect husband, at least you can have a perfect wedding. So come on. Let's get going."
Half an hour later, Sansa is sitting in a bakery with fifteen tiny slices of cake in front of her. "Try this one," Margaery says, sliding a piece of cake across the table. "It's butter-cream with almond chocolate frosting."
Sansa dips her fork into the fluffy cake and takes a small bite. It's delicious, light and sweet.
"What do you think?" Margaery asks.
Sansa manages a small smile. "Not bad, I suppose." Every cake in the store is mouthwatering, but Sansa doesn't want a single one of them. How is she supposed to pick out a cake to symbolize her love for Joffrey when there is no love to speak of?
"Not bad? Are you sure your taste buds are working? Try it again." Margaery pauses and narrows her eyes. "You're not pregnant, are you? Because I heard pregnancy can really mess with your sense of taste."
"No, I'm not pregnant!" Sansa says in a tight whisper.
"Don't look at me like that. Setting the date for the wedding with only a month to spare. You can't blame me for jumping to conclusions." Margaery lowers her voice and leans over the table. "It's just that, well, you don't seem very happy about this marriage. And I know that Joffrey isn't exactly Prince Charming, despite the fortune, so I can't help but wonder why you're marrying him if you seem so unhappy about it. The only thing that made sense was, well, a baby."
You have to have sex to make a baby, Sansa thinks. She's found a reason to stay out of Joffrey's bed for over a month now, and Joffrey doesn't seem to mind. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a woman on the side. Or women.
Sansa puts down her fork. "I'm not pregnant, Margaery. I hope you haven't been spreading that idea around either."
"Of course not. I'm your friend, Sansa. I'm just trying to look out for you."
"I appreciate that."
"But then-" Margaery looks up, brown eyes concerned, "why are you marrying him? You're obviously not happy, and you don't care about the money."
Sansa takes a sip of her water. "It's complicated."
"People tell me I'm very smart, so I think I can handle complicated."
"Well maybe I can't!" Sansa snaps and then immediately lifts a hand to her mouth, embarrassed by her outburst. "I'm sorry," she says, her cheeks blushing red. "I just. I should go. I really don't have time for all of this. Why don't you pick out the cake and-" Sansa starts to stand up and head out the door, but Margaery grabs her by the arm.
"Not so fast," Margaery says. "Calm down, Sansa. I'm your friend. I'm just trying to help you. Let me help you."
"You don't understand," Sansa says. Her hands are shaking, so she clasps them tightly around her purse. "It's complicated, and you don't understand."
"Well then why don't you help me understand?" Margaery guides Sansa by the arm, out of the cake shop, and onto the sidewalk outside. "Help me understand what's wrong. You can trust me."
But can I? Sansa and Margaery have been close friends for months now, but how far does that friendship go? Her brother works for Joffrey. Why would Margaery want to work against her own family? And would she even believe Sansa if she were told the truth?
Sansa looks up to find Margaery staring her down with dark, compassionate eyes. "You can trust me," Margaery repeats. "Whatever is wrong, you shouldn't have to deal with it alone. So trust me. Please."
And how can Sansa fight Joffrey alone? Arya is next to useless as long as she continues to race anonymously. She hasn't spoken a word to Jon for years. Sandor might be a decent coach, but would he ever fight for her?
How can Sansa expect to stand up to Joffrey, to Robert, to Jaime, to Cersei, to all of them without a little help?
"All right," Sansa finally says. "I trust you."
A/N – This chapter was a STRUGGLE. I'm sorry. It's not very quality, and I know it, but it had to be published so that the story can move on to better things.
Next chapter will be back to Arya x Gendry, and I promise to get that out very quickly (as in hopefully the next day or two).
As always, thank you for reading and reviewing!