A/N: Disclaimers
- I don't gain anything by this. The characters & story are the brilliant work of GRRM. And the title of the fic is taken from Loreena McKennitt's, Dante's Prayer which is a huge inspiration for this story ;)
*The great betas who help me out with this are: onborrowedwings, nysandra & swiftsnowmane :D
- The story though mainly book canon, can still apply for the HBO show (I don't anything from the tv show either).
- The story will contain dialogue from both the books and the show from now on.
20. Edric & Alysane
Once Sandor had closed the door behind him, Sansa went to the large square table where the wealth of Arman's gifts awaited her. She approached them with a wary feeling, and a long moment passed before she would actually touch them. Her eyes roamed over the beautiful silks, satins and expensive Turrani cotton; the sparkling jewels and thin veils, masks and feathers; shoes with heels and broad belts that would cover up her waist as thoroughly as Sandor's hands did whenever he helped her off Nan.
They are so beautiful, she thought as she brought the finest silk that gold could buy against her cheek to feel the smooth soft light fabric. As much as she tried, she could not shake off the feeling of apprehension that accepting all of this would mean. But had to admit she was a bit tired of dressing drably. I've longed to wear such fashionable items ever since we first arrived here. She had meant to wear the gown she had celebrated her nameday and Sandor's in tomorrow at the ball, which was still the most beautiful she owned, even if it had some water stains from the rain they had been caught in that had not disappeared. I will only wear one of these gowns for the ball, she decided. I'll tell Arman that he should stop giving me so much, and won't care about whether he takes it as an insult. It's his fault for trying to dress me up.
Searching amongst the gifts and discovering that all the dresses were cut in after the Norvoshi fashion–that is, with the back, shoulders and arms bare–she smiled, imagining the way she would look, but most particularly, the way Sandor would look at her. He will find me pretty. Why, he couldn't take his eyes off me moments ago when I was straight out of the pool. Surely he would prefer me wearing silks and velvets as I shall be tomorrow night? Yet Frema had told Sansa that men usually preferred their women naked. Blushing fiercely, she thought, Oh, gods, I don't know myself at times these days.
It was a battle of the mind and the heart what assaulted Sansa Stark. She felt exactly like she always had when she was little and her mother or septa had caught her doing some mischief, like hitting baby Arya after she lost her favorite doll, or not listening to her septa as she instructed her on figures and sums. This was ten times worse, of course, because she was a lady and had nonetheless relished every moment of him devouring her with his grey eyes. If I was wet on our namedays after it started to rain, I am soaked now, she gathered, glancing down at how the robe clung tightly to her breasts and body. She threw her dripping wet hair behind her shoulders and shivered, hugging herself. Thank goodness I had already put on my smallclothes before he knocked on the door.
She bit her lip; she let her mind wonder at how exciting it would have been had Sandor not knocked and instead caught her bathing. She sighed at that, because it was more likely Sandor would tell her some compliment tomorrow night before the ball about the way she looked, rather than entering a room while she was taking a bath. Sansa pushed these lustful thoughts and regrets and might-have-beens to the back of her mind, and stared at the dresses before her once more.
The ones that gave her pause were a purple silk, another of dark blue velvet slashed with silver that would awaken all of the color in her eyes, and one of a color she would describe as similar to ashes of roses, which would complement her auburn curls.
Sansa sighed. She still had a day more to decide what she would wear for the ball. Right now, I have to dress for dinner. Heading to her wardrobe without a second glance at the gifts from the High Magister, Sansa's eye was caught by a simply cut lambswool yellow gown, lined with vair. Frema and Vintos had given it to her for her nameday, and it was modest and becoming. She still had some of the jewelry she'd carried all the way from King's Landing, but she had not brought them because she preferred to sell them instead of wearing them–like she had told Sandor moments ago. He is such a silly man. There is nothing dishonorable in selling embroidery. Sansa remembered her meeting with the owner of the weaver's shop some days ago, and how happy he had been with her work, making her feel proud of herself. As she heard the man tell her she would get well-paid for her embroidery, Sansa had smiled at the thought of bringing food to the home she shared with Sandor from her income. He doesn't have to do everything himself. He has to understand that I am doing this for us. Even if Joff hadn't given me those necklaces, I wouldn't wear such ostentatious gemstones these days. So she wore only a simple velvet ribbon in sky blue. She slid her arms into her gown, before brushing and pinning her hair without any regrets. The time for dressing as befits the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully hasn't yet arrived. I can wait.
Feeling as ready as she would ever be for a long night with their host, Sansa Stark donned her smile and went to the door to meet Sandor. As she opened it, she saw Sandor stepping away from her door, wearing his usual scowl, but even as his eye met hers, Sansa saw him tense and his features shifted to a momentary emotion strange to him. If I didn't know better, I would think that the way he has been looking at me since I left my bath was somehow different than before.
"Why so sadface? Are you not ready for our little ordeal?" she asked him, trying hard not to think about what that stare could mean. Just thinking about it made her feel a strange fluttering inside, even though he wasn't even touching her.
Sandor wasn't amused. "Not bloody likely."
Sansa smiled, touched his arm for a moment and shook her head, sighing. "Neither am I, but we are running late."
Since she knew that Sandor was regretfully intent on acting the sworn shield tonight, Sansa began to walk down the long marble floor alone, with Sandor's heavy strides echoing behind her a heartbeat later. As they reached a flight of stairs, Sansa stopped a moment to gather the hem of her long skirts in one hand, in order to avoid tripping over them and making a fool of herself.
But just as she was about to take the first step, Sandor stepped beside her and grabbed her firmly by the elbow. "Careful."
Sansa looked up at him quickly. His grey eyes were a storm of emotions that she could not quite place, but she did see concern as being one of them. Over the long month of living with him in Essos, she had come to recognize Sandor's subtle outburst of courtesies, which he always tried to hide with his gruff demeanor, and helping her down the stairs was one of them.
"Thank you," she told him, softly, remembering that falling down the stairs had killed Sandor's sister after their horrible brother struck her across the face. He led her down the flight of stairs, only to let go the moment they reached the floor. They continued on their way through the labyrinth that Magister Nervere's manse was, and when Sansa began to wonder if they hadn't misunderstood Urroc's directions and had gotten lost, they encountered Arman's bald steward, who led them over to a solar where Urroc told them the High Magister awaited them.
They found Arman sitting alone at a small table in a big elegant room, lost in thought as he stared at some sort of game with ten little pieces on its board. Sansa noticed that a scroll and a quill lay discarded on the seat before his, where his opponent ought to have been seated if there only had been one.
"Magister," Urroc said, announcing their presence. "Here is the Lady Alysanne and her sworn shield."
Arman Nervere quickly turned his handsome face in their direction. The moment his eyes saw her, Sansa noticed that the frown on his forehead vanished, and his beautiful sapphire blue eyes sparkled instantly. It was actually nice to see that the sight of her could stop whatever was troubling him in a way. She felt the color rising to her cheeks and lowered her eyes as she stepped closer to Sandor.
"My dear lady!" Arman said, sliding in three smooth moves over to them and bowing that ridiculously low bow of his before he kissed her hand. "And Edric, welcome once more to my home! I am so glad to see you again looking well. I trust you've been taken good care of?"
Sandor didn't say anything, and Sansa only smiled at Arman, nodding, before the Magister went on.
"When I heard that you were coming I knew that R'hllor had heard my prayers. I am sorry for not having had any time this past week to pay you a visit sooner at The Three Bells Inn, or for not receiving you when you arrived this afternoon, but my duties with the council and the city have kept me occupied, as well as the preparations for the ball."
"I am quite certain that tomorrow will turn out to be a wonderful event, Arman," Sansa assured him, as she remembered she wanted to talk to him about his gifts to her. "I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for not only inviting us to it, but for being such a generous host. The chambers we were put in are very agreeable, and that gesture of placing the tapestry of Westeros in mine was very thoughtful."
Arman looked over at his steward leaving the room with a humble laugh, as he stroked his cleft chin with his long elegant fingers. "I am relieved to hear you like it. Urroc told me about that incident with Muku, my parrot. I want to apologize. I could never have imagined that it could upset you so."
Sandor snorted beside her. "Of course you didn't. You keep an animal menagerie as well, and you don't seem to mind about keeping them in cages they don't belong in, so why would a buggering parrot make any difference?"
"Yes. Well, regardless of the bird," she put in, trying to intervene before the men started crossing words with each other, and because talking about the caged bird was unpleasant to her. "I wanted to say that you should not have sent me all those gifts earlier."
Arman looked concerned. "Were they not to your taste?"
How could they not be? she wondered, before it dawned on her that he didn't understand her. "It is not a matter of whether I liked them or not, Arman. The gowns and jewelry and everything else are exquisite, but you shouldn't give me anything. I am quite content with your friendship and, yes, honored that you invited us here. But, please, there is no need for you to give them to me."
Arman laughed at her.
"And why is that so fucking funny?" Sandor said, and his voice sounded like two wood saws grinding together.
"My friends, I am so sorry. I apologize if my gifts offended you, Alys, but if I send them to you it was because here in Norvos it is traditional that a host should send a gift to a lady of importance when they are staying at his or her house."
"Oh," Sansa exclaimed, a bit surprised, trying to gather her control. It was a bit distressing that every time she tried to tell Arman something, he would have a reasonable excuse that would make her give in to his actions.
"I–I did not know that," was the only thing she could stammer.
"I am sorry for not sending you a message to clarify the purpose behind the gifts," Arman said before Sandor interrupted him by asking, "This tradition of yours is to send one gift. Why then did you send more than one?"
Arman's eyes met Sandor's as he replied, "There is a reason for that as well. After our conversation the other day, Alysanne, I thought that you would be more comfortable at the ball tomorrow with a gown in the Norvoshi fashion, and by sending you different gowns you would have more options to choose from."
Sandor looked at Arman with growing impatience, and said, "I don't care how they do things in this city, but where we come from–giving a lady a gift or two hundred, when she is staying under your sodding roof, can only damage her reputation."
"I will be wearing one of them tomorrow, because I do not wish to shame you by not wearing a gown so fine as the other guests and your friends will wear," Sansa informed Arman. "But I shall return all of the other presents to you. I am not from this city, so I will insist on it due to what I was taught is acceptable and what is not."
She expected him to protest, but instead Arman only said, "You could never do anything to shame me, Alys. But if you insist, this will not happen again. As your friend here says, to you it may have seemed disrespectful, but believe me, I have no intention of dishonoring such a high and noble lady's honor and reputation."
"I thank you," she told him, growing uneasy with the conversation. Does he know the Mallisters are not considered among the most honorable houses in Westeros? After all, they serve my grandfather Hoster, yet the way Arman speaks sounds as if they were as high as House Stark. Her eyes fell on the game on the table that Arman had been staring at when they entered the room, and she asked eagerly, to let go of the previous topic at hand, "What game is that? When we walked into the room you were quite drawn into it."
Magister Nervere looked down at the game and laughed. "It's cyvasse. Haven't you ever seen it before being played on the streets?"
She shook her head, and turned to look Sandor, who only gave the game the briefest of glances before his eyes fell right back on Arman. He shifted his heavy weight from one leg to the other, clearly getting bored. Sansa wondered then if he liked to play games.
"It's quite entertaining, I assure you. Would you like to learn how it's played?"
Sansa did like to play games herself, but had a feeling cyvasse was going to be a bit complicated just by looking at all the little elephants and dragons, to name some of the pieces. He could be here all night teaching me to play. So she quickly replied, "Some other time, perhaps." Her belly made a convenient grumble as Sandor said, "Bugger that game. Weren't we supposed to be having a bloody dinner? Let's get on with it. the faster we get it done, the better."
Arman laughed again, making Sansa wonder how he could find Sandor's remark funny.
"I have been neglectful of my guests' needs. You must be hungry. Please, follow me," he said, clapping his hands. A moment later, a servant stepped through the door and was asked if dinner was ready.
"It is, High Magister," the servant answered, bowing.
Sandor and Sansa exchanged a look. It was clear from his expression and cynical smile that Sandor was irritated already.
Arman led them through a door that connected the solar to a dining room with a terrace. Sansa's eyes fell on the long table to find it empty. Where are we having dinner? she wondered, as Arman walked around and away from the table. He stepped outside onto the terrace, and looked back at them.
"I thought it would be pleasant to have supper outside."
"Oh, of course," said Sansa out loud, as Sandor rasped under his breath, "Who the fuck cares? Why does he have to explain the reasons for every bloody thing he does?"
Shaking his head, Sandor followed her outside. There was a very low table and no chairs on the terrace. Instead, they would be compelled to eat their dinner sitting on large squashy differently colored pillows on the marble floor. Half a hundred lanterns lit up the place in a golden haze, which threw constantly shifting shadows across them as the servants came and went.
Sandor ordered some Dornish wine, while she preferred an Arbor vintage, and Arman a sweet sharp wine from Qarth.
She knelt on a comfortable-looking red pillow, and smoothed her skirts waiting for their dinner to arrive, trying to think of polite conversation. We may as well spend tonight learning about who Arman is, if we seem destined to suffer him throughout our stay in Norvos.
"Arman, I remember Medra, our innkeeper, telling us that your father was elected a Triarch of the city of Volantis for four years. Was he not Norvoshi, or how is it that he accomplished that?" Sansa asked him.
"My father was indeed from Volantis," he told her. "And only those who can trace their family back to Valyria can be a Triarch. The Nerveres are among those families. He was elected by the Tigers–the old blood. There is also the party of the Elephants, who are tradesmen. I believe the current Triarchs are Malaquo for the Tigers, and Nyessos and Doniphos for the Elephants."
And you probably have them all in your pocket, she thought, remembering how influential he was as she watched the servants bring them their wines. The food followed shortly after; the first course was a light salad of sweetgrass and plums, with crushed nuts to give it a special flavor.
"Your lady mother is from Norvos, is she not? Couldn't you tell us a little bit about how your parents met?"
Arman looked thoughtful for a moment before he said, "In the same manner that the nobility of the Free Cities have done for centuries upon centuries. They make treaties and alliances and intermarry"
"It isn't so different in the Seven Kingdoms, you know," Sansa pointed out.
"Yes, to be sure. In Westeros, Tullys marry Lannisters, and Baratheons marry Tyrells," Arman consented as they started on the second course: a creamy chestnut soup, with some crusty hot bread, and greens dressed in apples and pine nuts. "There are exceptions, of course, here in Essos. My aunt Mellario is one, when she married the Prince of Dorne. And my father's half-cousin had a natural daughter called Nymeria Sand with Prince Doran's brother, Oberyn Martell. They were the wise ones, I believe. Our ancestors cling to the old ways in regards to whom will they marry, believing foreign blood to be unworthy of entering their houses."
At that, her tummy twisted into a tight knot as Arman revealed he had yet another connection to the Martells. No, please, not again. Sansa had heard dreadful tales of
Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, and the Mountain that Rides had killed his sister. If he were to come here and see Sandor… she didn't even want to finish that thought. She could feel Sandor's eyes on her, making her more self-conscious of her moves. She wanted to hold his hand, so he could re-assure him that nothing would happen to them just as much as she wanted to let him know him that she wouldn't let anything happen to him, no matter if he laughed at her or said that if there was any protection going on between them, it would be coming from him, not her.
"In any case," Arman was saying now, "My parents had better fortune than most as they found love in their marriage, regardless of the fate that was meant to end their lives."
That had to force Sansa's attention away from the Martells and back to the present, not because of hearing that Arman had lost his parents, but because she remembered the day her father was killed. She could still recall as clearly as if it had only been yesterday: the sound that Ice had made in the hands of Ser Ilyn Payne as it descended quickly over Lord Eddard Stark, to strike the life from him. I haven't thought of Ser Ilyn for so long, she realized, shuddering. He hasn't haunted my dreams in months. She wondered if it meant something that, because of Magister Nervere, painful memories were creeping back to her.
Shaking her head, Sansa patted Arman's hand lightly and tried to remember her courtesies. "I am sorry for your loss. Do you mind my asking how–?"
"Did they die?" Arman finished. "It's all right, I can tell you. I was a boy and had never been out of Great Norvos, so my father decided I ought to start seeing the world and took my mother and I to meet his family. After some weeks of staying in Volantis, my parents decided to go visit Qarth and other places around the Jade Sea, like the island of Leng or Asshai by the Shadow. I remember my father joking that they would find the fabled dreaming city of poets. The last letter I received from them was written the night before they departed their Palace in Elyria. As they crossed the Summer Sea, their ship was caught in a fierce storm, and none survived."
When he was done, Sandor was drinking from his cup while Sansa stared at her hands. Following Sandor's lead, she lifted her goblet with two hands and took a long sip. She had heard the pain in Magister Nervere's voice as he spoke. "I am truly sorry, Arman. To lose whom you love at such a young age must be unbearable."
She looked around her at the two men she was with, so different in every possible aspect, yet they shared in common having known pain and loss and emptiness when they were little children. And so have I, she regretted, remembering her father's face, so much like Arya's. And there is little Rickon and sweet Bran to mourn for as well. Everyone has their ghosts that come back to haunt you when you least expect it.
"I did not invite you to talk about sad memories, my friends. Please, let's talk about anything else that you would like."
Sansa's mind searched for something to say, but Sandor was faster than her.
"You stayed at Volantis for long after that?"
"Yes, for almost a year under the care of my relatives."
"I've heard that in Volantis the temple of your red god is one of the largest buildings in the world. Since the Norvoshi believe more in the Mother Rhoyne and the Old Man of the River than in your fire god, do I take it that you became a follower of it in Volantis?"
Magister Nervere's beautiful blue eyes hardened a bit, shining bright in the candlelight, but after a moment he straightened up and said, "R'hllor is not an it but the only true god there is. Yes, Edric, you are right in believing so. I can see that you've given this a lot of thought."
"A bit," Sandor admitted carelessly, with a shrug. "Your fellow magisters don't mind entrusting their city to a follower of some foreign god?"
"Alas, it is true that Great Norvos has not yet seen the path of truth that R'hllor's light shows, unlike most of the other Free Cities. The Bearded Priests are to blame for that in part, but times are changing. There is to be a new temple for the Lord of Light in this city soon, and a very dear friend of mine, who has been with me since the year I lived in Volantis, is bringing in more and more followers into R'hllor's warm embrace."
"Bloody fanatics," Sandor rasped, his eyes never leaving Arman's face. Sansa could feel the tension in the air, and was powerless to say anything. The way Magister Nervere spoke of his faith gave her a bad feeling, but what could she do? He is free to believe in whom he likes. I can't judge him for that.
"I can see you are a man who doesn't believe in either the Lord of Light or even in another false god, Edric. I offer you my condolences for that."
Sandor threw back his head and broke into laughter. "Bugger the gods and your condolences. And you as well."
Sansa rubbed her hands anxiously together and said the first thing that came into her mind, "How did you become acquainted with the Lord of Light's faith?"
Her eyes caught Sandor's and they silently pleaded with him to stop.
"As you wish, Edric. Every man is free to dispose of their lives as they will, but they must all feel R'hllor's fire before their time in this world is over." Magister Nervere said, before switching a golden ring he was wearing to another finger. "I decided to dedicate my life not only to my home city but to R'hllor one hot day, as I walked with my cousins on the streets of Volantis and I encountered for the first time His beautiful enormous temple. The singing that was coming from inside its walls stirred something in me, and before I knew what I was doing, I entered it and the rest was me discovering the truth and the right road to tread in this life."
Sansa nodded and gave the Magister a forced smile. "It is clear that your god has a staunch supporter. I am happy for you, Arman, but forgive me, as you talked of your stay in another city, I remembered that in our previous visit to your house you said that you had been around the lands of the Jade Sea yourself. Since I am not so learned in what the red god's followers believe or do, and have always wondered what lies far to the east, could you tell us about your voyages to those lands?"
Arman studied her over his own goblet; his bright blue eyes full of… care? Or was it something else? Sansa was not certain, but in any case, the Magister took the opportunity she gave him of changing the subject and began to speak of his travels to the edge of the known world. He is a wonderful storyteller, she had to admit after the third tale. His voice was soothing to the ear, and he always stopped at the right places in his stories.
Before long, she began to imagine herself going to visit all those faraway lands, with Sandor at her side. She sighed, because she knew that if that trip ever happened, it would be years from now, and it would be quite impossible to convince her family and whoever her husband was to let her go to the Jade Sea alone with Sandor, so they could relive the time when they escaped the Lannisters and lived in Essos for a while.
Thankfully, supper after that was an uneventful occasion. They finished their dinner with a tasty smoked duck and strawberries for a desert, accompanied by a cup of iced mead.
Perhaps it was because drinking from her goblet was the only thing she could do while Sandor and Arman talked of the red god, as well as when Arman was speaking of Essos, Sansa couldn't help but notice that she was already on her fourth cup by the time the dessert arrived. The wine tasted of oak and fruit and hot summer nights, the flavors blossoming in her mouth like flowers opening to the sun. Sandor would raise an eyebrow at her whenever she ordered one. He hasn't gotten drunk in all the time we've been together, she realized. He still drinks every day, but not like before. He looks healthier.
She turned her head to meet his eyes, wondering if Sandor would give her a look that questioned her behavior, but he didn't. Instead of a disapproving face, he gave her a proud grin as his mouth twitched, making Sansa feel as if her skin was glowing red at the way he looked her up and down, letting his grey tormented eyes linger on her eyes, lips, neck, and breasts in a lustful manner.
Besides making her feel as if he was eating her up with his eyes, Sandor was in turns quiet and brooding while Magister Nervere spoke of his journeys, occasionally laughing mockingly in his face after some of the things he told them he'd found and seen in the east.
It was past midnight when they finally departed Arman's company; the moment Sansa stood up, her head felt so dizzy she feared for a moment that she would not be able to keep down the Arbor gold. Both men noticed and moved to her side at once, but Sandor got to her first and rasped, "I'll take her."
"Yes, Arman, he'll do it. I just stood up too quickly, but he'll take good care of me," she assured their host. "Good night."
Sandor took her arm, sniggering, and escorted her away from the terrace and the solar. When they were far away from the Magister, Sandor began to laugh out loud, and the sound of it echoed in the empty hallways of the manor like iron scraping over stone.
"It wasn't so unpleasant an evening," she remarked casually, leaning closer to the warmth of Sandor's arm.
"Speak for yourself, little bird. Besides that bit when he tried to appear as if he was a lamb yet tried to show me his teeth and claws, it was just as fucking boring as the last time we were here. And it was the same for you; otherwise you wouldn't have drunk so much in an attempt to see tonight through with your wits about you."
"The wine was very fine, Sandor. And I only had four cups while I ate. My belly isn't full of wine."
Sandor laughed again. "I know you aren't drunk, and you know I am right."
Sansa had nothing to say to that, so she let Sandor steer her upstairs to their apartments. When they reached her door, Sansa stopped in front of it, but didn't touch the handle. There was not a sound in the world but the one which their breaths made, and she suddenly remembered that tonight she would not be able to fall asleep with Sandor beside her.
"Won't you come in?" she asked, looking up at his face.
"You know I can't," he told her in a hard tone.
They stood there, staring at each other in the gathering darkness, weighing each other's resolutions and strengths and wills, until Sansa said, "Then, can I ask you not to mock Arman's faith, please? I know that believing in a fire god is silly, but you were insulting him the way you once mocked me once for my belief in the gods who made us all."
"Believing in a bloody fire god silly? I thought you had grown up, Sansa," Sandor snarled, smiling in a way that cut like a knife. "If there are gods, they make sheep so wolves can eat mutton, and they make the weak for the strong to play with. Nervere is a sheep who has yet to learn his proper place."
Sansa wanted not to start arguing with Sandor about something she knew she would not be able to change his mind about–no more than he had hers.
"And I thought you were wiser. Please, don't test his patience, Sandor. You heard him talking about this new connection he has with the Martells."
Sandor snorted. "And you heard him going on about how he is gathering new followers for his fucking R'hllor. He wouldn't need that reason to decide he suddenly wants to kill me, little bird. He owns this city. He doesn't need to give any reasons as to why he does what he does. Just give the order and wait till it's carried through."
Sandor was right, she knew. No, don't say that. I don't want to believe that is even a possibility. Not now, now when we are in his house; in his mercy. The wine was making her feel strange. Why did we ever accept this? Why did we ever allow Arman to come into our lives? The prospect of entering the rooms behind her alone made her wish she didn't have to let go of him tonight. If they could only be together, then he would be safe.
"Nothing will happen to you," she promised him. "I won't allow it."
Sandor stepped closer to her, making her back up against the door. He chuckled and said, "Stop fretting, little bird. I don't give a shit what he thinks about me. He is free to try and kill me if he likes, but that doesn't mean he would succeed. Like as not, it would be my sword sticking out of his belly than one of his guards' axe sticking out of mine."
"I don't want you to go," she heard herself say.
Sandor's eyes hardened and when he spoke, his voice was firm, in a tone that brook no opposition.
"We should guard better our tongues here. Best you go inside now, little bird."
Sansa's lips trembled at that, but she nodded resigned, and stepped into the bedroom, letting her hand brush against Sandor's. She closed and locked the door, and tried hard not to stumble against the furniture as she made her way to the large bed, only to end up hitting her knee hard against a stool. The moon outside barely illuminating the room, since the candles were almost all out, but their scented smell lingered in the air as Sansa unlaced her gown and took off her shoes after she moved again towards the bed. It took her a bit more time than usual to slip into her nightgown, for she felt the floor was moving beneath her.
When it was done, she crawled onto the large dark mass that was her bed, sighing. It feels so nice, she thought, as her head rested on feather goose pillows and her hands caressed the satin sheets beneath her. She got under the covers and closed her eyes, gathering she would be asleep instantly.
But she could not sleep.
She began to toss and turn around, uncomfortable with almost every position she shifted into. Sansa toyed with the idea of it being the wine that was robbing her of her sleep, for this was a bed for ten people after all, yet no matter how comfortable the mattress was, the bed felt strange.
Wondering if Sandor was also having trouble sleeping made her realize what the problem was, and now knowing the reason, it didn't surprise her at all. I haven't slept alone in so many months. I miss Sandor. I want Sandor. I miss his comforting big body beside me, and the sounds he makes while he sleeps. It was frustrating to know that he probably missed her as well, yet they couldn't do anything about it. I won't even think of how it will be once we're back in Westeros.
She pressed her legs closer together as she felt warm feelings suddenly taking over her mind and lower body, as she absentmindedly rubbed her neck. She hugged a pillow to her face to muffle a squeal of frustration, longing, and a bit of lust.
Morning light found Sandor waking up from a good, if not deep sleep. For how could he sleep profoundly when the little bird body wasn't beside him? Fuck, at least I managed to get some sleep, he gathered, as he shook off the sleep from his eyes. Last night, when he needed to bid Sansa to enter her rooms despite her face clearly showing she wanted to be with him as much as he wanted it, Sandor had been sure he would not be able to get a moment of rest; mainly because he was under Nervere's roof, but also because he had finally spent a night away from Sansa after so long. The need to have her close to him and the memory of her perfect backside as she was about to enter the pool had soon made his cock go hard, and he relieved himself as quietly as he could, hating that he was doing it under Arman's house, but too aroused to stop.
Closing his eyes once again as he remembered what he'd done last night, Sandor took off the earplugs he had put on some hours ago, cursing the Norvoshi of the Low City for having none of these little things down in their city. He had woken up when the bell that announced dawn rang, but more out of routine than because of the bloody noise it was surely making, but which he had only heard with the earplugs on as a low muffled sound a long way away.
Sandor relished the feeling of resting on a comfortable bed for a moment longer, and then he sat up and looked at the window before him. It must be a couple of hours till midday, he gathered. The little bird won't be up yet.
And he was right. When he entered her rooms he found her still sleeping peacefully, her long auburn hair all about her pillow, hiding her face. Her bare perfect shoulder was visible where her nightgown has slid down over her arm, and her chest rose up and down; her soft breathing was the only sound heard that broke the stillness of the bedroom.
"Little bird," he whispered, shaking her lightly by the shoulder as he sat beside her. "Wake up."
She began to make small whimpers that drove him mad as she shifted about the bed, forcing his eyes to roam all over her body.
"Is it morning so soon?" he heard her mumble.
"Yes, look for yourself."
Raising her head a bit from the goose feather pillows, Sansa threw a hand up to block the sudden light and peeked at him from behind the hair that had fallen across her face. The moment she saw him sitting on the bed, her eyes went wide and she beamed at him.
"I didn't expect to wake up with you beside me this morning," she said.
He raised his eyebrow. "I hope you don't mind it?" he sneered, knowing perfectly well that she didn't.
She shook her head again quickly, assuring him that she didn't mind it. "I missed you," she confessed, her voice still sleepy.
Sandor played idly with the hand she had resting on the bed, staring at it as he confessed, "Me, too."
Sansa's eyes kept looking between their hands and his eyes, as a small sly smile appeared on her face.
"Mornings aren't your thing," he lied then. "You look a proper mess."
Sansa's eyes stared at her loose hair all about her and broke into a clear loud laugh. "That's not a nice thing to say to a lady!" she exclaimed gaily, as she drew her hand away from his and punched him lightly on the arm, before throwing herself against the pillows and sighing in content.
"And there aren't many ladies that hit people."
"How was your night?" she asked him, yawning.
"Better than yours," he stated, realizing that she hadn't worn her earplugs. "Bloody hells, Sansa, how could you forget putting on those earplugs when you knew the bells would sound louder up here?"
Sansa laughed at his expression. "I don't mind that as much as you do, big man."
He stood up then, unable to bear being close to her as she called him that in this bloody house.
"Get dressed. I'll ask some servant to bring our breakfast," he told her as she slipped into her robe and belted it about her wait.
Thankfully, the cockless wonder that was their host had told them last night that he didn't think it possible to see them till the ball, so they would be able to break their fast and try and enjoy today without his blasted company.
He left Sansa there, looking up at him from the middle of her bed, and strode out of the room searching for the first servant he could find. It turned out to be a boy who looked ready to piss his clothes when he caught sight of Sandor's scars, forgetting that his own face was an ugly tapestry of red boils, adorned by a large cyst on his neck; and it took the stupid boy a long time to understand Sandor's accent telling him in Valyrian that the guests of the buggering High Magister wanted to break their fast in Lady Alysanne's rooms. Where is that bald steward when one needs him, Sandor thought, walking away. When he returned to Sansa's rooms and received no reply after knocking at the door, he stepped inside and found the little bird once more outside on the terraced garden.
He could see her slippers whenever a strong gust of wind flapped around her skirts, and he saw as well that her hair was pulled back in a long braid that fell to her waist, as she leaned her elbows on the balustrade at the edge of the garden, so lost with the view before her that she didn't hear him approach till he walked up bedside her. Sansa looked up at him, beaming. She looked so bloody happy she didn't realize that it wasn't safe to stand here for long. I don't like her to be so close to the edge of the terrace: one strong wind or startled jump and she could fall down into the void.
"Is breakfast coming?" she asked casually.
"Aye," he said. "If that poxy brat managed to understand me for a fucking second."
Her eyebrows rose at his words, so he had to explain what had happened, which had her laughing and rolling her eyes at him. Sandor looked down at the long fall one would take from up here, as the little bird began to chatter about what she thought the people down in the streets were doing and wonder at how the ball would turn out tonight, but Sandor remained silent.
"Sandor? Are you all right?" he heard Sansa chirp, as she leaned her elbows on the handrail, looking up at him enquiringly now.
"What were you saying?" he asked, focusing on her chirping.
"Oh, Sandor, how can this landscape be lost to you?"
"Because it's no hair off my arse the way the world looks."
Sansa sighed, and he was amused to actually see her trying to retain her patience about her.
"This view is beautiful. How can it not interest you a little?"
Sandor didn't care much about it; Sansa was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and nothing so far had proven him wrong. So he shrugged his shoulders and rasped, "Views don't interest me the way other things do."
He looked deeply at her then, taking in the curves of her body in a bracing way, daring her to understand his meaning. Sandor saw in her eyes that she did, but what surprised him was that she didn't break away from his gaze, but instead asked, "What other things?"
Just then they heard the servants coming into the apartments with their breakfast, so Sandor shook his head and said, "I don't know about you, girl, but I'm hungry as hell. Come."
The breakfast that had been sent to them was fried and fresh bread, both straight out of the oven, along with a crock of butter and cold milk; warm teas and black plump figs, ham, and a large platter with different kinds of fruit. There were apples and pears and pomegranates, some grapes, and blood oranges. Sandor chose a pomegranate and cut it in two with his dagger, offering half to Sansa as she sat beside him at the head of the long table in the living room. Sansa ate it happily, casting sideway glances at him. Why does she keep on looking at me like that? he wondered with a little annoyance. Why does she keep on smiling at me like a grinning beautiful little fool?
As Sandor cut a fig in two with his dagger, he saw Sansa choosing a pear before she took a small delicate bite of it. It was so buggering ripe that its juice ran down her chin. The sight of it had his cock stirring against his breeches, as the thought of licking the juice from her chin and lips crossed his mind. Sansa mumbled "Excuse me," as she dabbed at the juice with a handkerchief, her neck growing a bit red.
They spent the day exploring the places in Arman Nervere's manor that they hadn't seen yet, and Sandor was as happy as he could ever be underneath that fucker's roof mostly because he didn't show his face all day long to them. If I have to spend another day in this place, I'm going to go bloody mad. Sandor was sure of it. Urroc the steward was barely better than his master, and they unfortunately did have to tolerate his presence to make up for the lack of his employer's presence.
An hour before dusk, the little bird told him that she was going to go take her bath and begin preparing herself for the ball, and when he escorted her back to her rooms, they saw that four handmaidens were waiting for her to help her out with whatever she needed. Sandor Clegane soon found himself standing guard once again outside Lady Alysanne Mallister's rooms, a flagon of wine on his hand, trying hard not to allow his mind to wander to the dangerous place where the thoughts of Sansa, naked beyond this door, took him to.
After some time of just standing in the empty hallway, Sandor began to hear the distant sound of steel meeting steel in a ringing, bone-jarring clang that drove him to the nearest window in five long strides. His insides coiled in a tight twist as he saw the brown head of bloody Nervere on a garden down by the second floor of the house, somewhere to the right of where this window faced. Sandor's lip curled as he stared down at Nervere, wearing a long loose tunic, with sword in hand, practicing swordplay with a short man who kept pivoting around the perimeter that had been established by four large stones, where both men were bringing their swords around and up in deadly arcs.
"Nice move!" Sandor heard Arman exclaim, as he drove at the short man, the longsword alive in his hands.
Why the fuck does that bloody Norvoshi practice swordplay with a weapon of the Seven Kingdoms? For a heartbeat, Sandor laughed sourly. Maybe he is training to have a barely good chance of defeating me. But what made him feel unease was to accept that bloody Arman was skilled with the blade. And thus, he was so intent on watching and studying the swordplay that he didn't even register if he'd heard Sansa's handmaidens leave her rooms at some point, for that was when it looked as if Nervere was going to lose, jumping back, parrying, as the short man followed, pressing the attack. But no sooner did his opponent turn one cut than Nervere was suddenly upon him.
The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Seven bloody hells, he fights just like Jaime Lannister. Both men were alike in height and build, so he shouldn't be surprised in that. What was really startling to Sandor was just how desperate he was to go down there and teach those buggering idiots what it was to really fight. His hand kept grabbing the handle of his sword. Lannister never stood a chance with me, though he would give me a decent fight, he gathered. I could break my fast with this lamb in swaddling clothes. He recalled how sure of himself that idiot had been last night at dinner as he talked of that fucking red god, and it made Sandor feel the rage inside him once again. Buggering idiot, he thought, as high, low and overhand, Arman Nervere and the short man rained down steel upon each other. The short man is more experienced, but older. He lacks the strength of young men.
Sandor stood there beside the window ledge until the practice was done, drinking from the flagon of wine. He saw Arman patting the short man on the back and telling him how thankful he was to him and happy for the good fight they gave each today.
"You are getting far better at it than me, Magister," the short man told Nervere, as they walked away from the practice yard, a towel on his hand to clean off the sweat on the back of his neck and hair.
"That must mean you are doing a good job in shaping me, Kelenne," their sodding host said, laughing that annoying laugh of his.
"You seemed most intent on the lesson today. Are things going well with the ruling of this great city?"
"Things are looking up. I thank R'hllor for hearing my prayers. I've been busy lately with the council giving me some troubles and objections, but besides that, I think we will be able to have the building open soon enough. But then, there's the Iron Bank asking the Yutzren family to pay them back their loans."
"At least you have the ball tonight to distract yourself."
"Indeed, my friend, I have the ball tonight and I have hope for the nearby future. I wish to introduce to you someone tonight at the ball, if you don't mind…"
When they went far beyond his range of vision and hearing, Sandor snorted derisively. Idiots. He looked up at the sky and realized that it was well past dusk. I walked upon the little bird about to bathe a day ago, he remembered suddenly. Isn't she done getting ready? She's been in there for a fucking long time.
He walked back to her doors, leaving the empty flagon of wine on the window ledge, and knocked heavily. Waiting some moments and receiving only silence he called, "Alysanne?"
"Y–yes, Edric?" he heard her cry in a trembling voice.
Sandor knew just by hearing those two words that something was wrong. "Alysanne, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, I–I'm just waiting for my handmaidens to come back. You didn't see them out there, do you?"
Sandor glanced to his sides. "No. Why are they making you wait for them? Weren't they bloody inside with you when I left?"
"Yes, but… well, the slippers that I was given didn't fit me, so I sent a handmaiden to look for another pair. They must do everything in small groups together here, because all the handmaidens went away to look for the new pair."
"So what if you don't have a pair of shoes? Aren't you finished yet with everything else? Let me in and we'll wait. I don't like shouting through the door," he told her, as he tried to open the door. It was locked
"No, I–I'm not ready yet. I still have to do my hair and others things–"
"Seven hells, it beats me how or why you take such a bloody long time with it."
"I am a lady, I'm supposed to take long," he heard her shout back at him.
Sandor grinned at the indignation in her voice, but was also quickly losing his patience. "Alys, open up or I'll kick the door open."
"What? No, don't do that," she exclaimed from inside the room, and quick as that he heard her moving towards the door. She opened it a crack and said, "I can't let you in."
He frowned down at what little he could see of her through the crack. "Why not?"
"I–well… It's just that these Norvoshi gown are just so strange that I can't manage to reach my back and lace it up. The handmaidens left me before they did it, saying they would come back, but it's been a while and… nothing," she explained, biting her lip as she wrinkled up her face up at him.
His grey eyes quickly met hers. He knew exactly what was happening. He could let her wait for her servants and let them do the job, but vaguely remembering a bit what women in the High City wore, the thought of helping Sansa lace up that revealing gown was starting to make him hard and stubborn. In that moment, suddenly all the world was forgotten. He only cared that his little bird was partly undressed inside and he wanted to do something about it. But will she agree to it?
"Get inside," he said, in a low rasp, "I'll help you."
Sansa's eyes went wide at that, and she began to blush. She turned her neck to see if anyone was coming, and when she assured herself that they were alone, she opened the her mouth and whispered, "Sandor, I–"
But he didn't let her finish. Before he knew what he was doing he pushed the door open, and stepped into the living room, turning around to see Sansa quickly locking the door behind her. Sandor Clegane felt heavily and acutely some need in him at the sight of the little bird standing before him in a woven dress designed in the Norvoshi fashion, that left her neck, arms, shoulder and back bare; it was too fucking fascinating and put it out of the question that he would walk away from her now. Fuck, I would follow her into any of the seven hells if she asked it of me.
"I need help lacing it up from behind," she told him nervously, grabbing tightly on to the front of the gown so it didn't fall to the floor for lack of support and revealed those perfect full white breasts of her. Sandor gulped and tried to control his hands from shaking.
A/N: I thank you all so very much for reading! And your reviews always lighten up my day! There are a great way to start the week with :D