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 ;)
*Thank you so much lovely betas: 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.
21. The Ball
Sansa turned around, and while one of her hands held on to the top of her gown tightly against her chest so as to avoid it sliding down and revealing her breasts to Sandor, the other one swept her loose long curls over one shoulder, so it would not interfere with him trying to lace her back.
This is so strange, she could not help but think, as her heart beat faster when, after a long moment of silence, she heard and felt Sandor walking up behind her. Sansa had been compelled to learn how to lace up her own gowns out of necessity after she ran away from King's Landing and had no longer any handmaidens to help her, but the dresses she had been wearing for the last couple of months were simple, and could be tied up quickly once she gained experience. This gown was so maddening that she had to have help.
Maddening, but beautiful, she had to admit. It was easy to tell that it was made out of the finest fabrics in the world, and Sansa had felt so happy as she tried it on, treasuring the silky feeling of it against her skin. The color was a deep blue that brought out the red in her lustrous hair, and made her eyes shine as brightly as Magister Nervere's sapphire-colored ones. She was not accustomed at revealing so much, for not even in King's Landing had she seen ladies wear these sort of gowns to court. But I am a young woman now and noble Norvoshi ladies wear them. I must play a part tonight as I am among them.
The gown left her white arms bare, as well as her shoulders and back. The laces coming out from around her waist were meant to go all around her, tightening up the dress against her body, bringing into prominence her round breasts. Thank goodness the cleavage isn't very low, or I would have been too uncomfortable to wear this. The little fur-trimmed jackets that accompanied these sorts of gowns would at least cover up most of the skin she was exposing.
After all her handmaidens had left her alone, Sansa had sorted out which jewelry she would be wearing, but when time went by and they didn't return, she grew a little anxious. She knew she had to calm herself down, but how could she, when Sandor had ended up offering to help her?
She could hardly believe her ears when she realized he wanted to help her, but didn't feel she could refuse. I don't want to refuse. How could it be wrong, after everything they'd been through together?
Even now, as he stood behind her, Sansa's heart was racing so fast. The knowledge of what she was letting him do made her blush and she tried to suppress a giggle, imagining Sandor's reaction if she proposed that he could be her new handmaid.
When Sandor's huge hands grabbed the laces to her side and brought her a little closer to him, she could not help but wonder if he at least had some idea of what to do.
"Draw a knot with them around just below the small of my back, please," she said. "And when that's done, hand me one lace so that I can attach it around this little button while you bring the other around my left shoulder."
Sandor grunted, a sound that reminded her of a bear, and did as he was told with hands that were stiff and awkward; as if they had never done this before. He probably never had, she realized, wishing she could tip-toe on her feet and kiss him. This must be what husbands do with their wives sometimes. Sansa had helped Sandor take off his armor and boots, but he had never either taken off or put garments on her.
When his warm knuckles and fingertips brushed against her lower back, Sansa's pulse quickened.
"Done," she heard him growl behind her, in that deep rasp of his which excited her just as much as it had once frightened her, just as she was finishing tying the lace to the little baby pearl that served as button. "Now?"
"We must wind it round my body," she finally managed to say, in a trembling voice. Sandor startled her then, because a moment after she said that, she felt his hands on her backside and hip, and as he turned her around to face him, the world seemed to stop; to stop moving and making noise. She could not even hear their loud breathing, because the thumping of her own heart was so strong it blocked out every sound. His grey eyes, so much like the color one often found in people of the North, were gazing at her intensely.
She gulped as he stepped back. When the laces were completely stretched out between them, she pressed her gown closer to her, and told Sandor to stand still while she swirled around towards him, tangling up the laces in just the right way around her waist. Sansa must have been a bit too nervous, for she moved faster than was necessary and ended up bumping against Sandor. She staggered at the impact and lost her footing, but Sandor caught her by the shoulder and steadied her.
"Careful, little bird," he said, laughing. His laughter was iron scraping over stone, but it warmed Sansa all the same, and she laughed as well. I'm being silly. I have to calm down.
"I'm sorry, it's just that I'm nervous for the ball," she lied, glancing down at the hand he still had on her bare shoulder. She felt like she had to say something. "Thank you for helping me with the gown."
Sandor didn't say anything. Instead, his gaze followed her gaze. He gave her shoulder a squeeze, before he brought his hand down to slide around her bare arm.
She was certain he would take it away then, and silently thanked the old gods and the new for this; Sandor surprised her by bringing his hand again to her shoulder, sending goose bumps all along her skin. The feeling of his callused palm and fingers running up and down her shoulder made her arch her back a little, and when he brought his hand to her neck, while his thumb caressed her cheekbone, he said in a deep voice that held desire in its tones, "This dress is too revealing, little bird."
Sansa leaned into his hand. It's so big it covers my cheek and jaw perfectly. "Well, why shouldn't I wear it? We're in the east. Don't you like it?"
Sandor moved his hand to the back of her neck, fingers twisting about in her hair, and tilted her neck back. She felt a little exposed since her neck and chest weren't covered, but that realization just heightened her senses as her legs grew weak.
He never said a word, yet his eyes studied her with a hungry look about them as he stared at the top of her breasts, her long neck and her face. Sansa could see him gulp, the thick muscles of his neck moving strongly with it, and she had the grace to blush. Is this what he meant when he said it was a revealing dress? Is he trying to show me the effect it has? If he was, he was certainly succeeding. Sansa could not quite understand what was it that was making her feel nervous. It was a sort of feeling that made her aware in this moment that something was happening between them which she couldn't place, though she had a feeling that Sandor had.
"It comes with a fur-trimmed jacket, you know," she said, in an assuring manner, so she could ease his displeasure a little bit, and because she longed to break this silence in which he held her in a way that didn't allow her to move a limb, when she was aching to get closer to him. "I can cover it up when I wish so."
The sound of her voice seemed to bring Sandor back to the present. He blinked, looking startled, and returned his gaze to her eyes. Her mouth parted open a little, and Sandor suddenly let go of her a bit roughly, stepping away from her. Sansa looked after him with a mixture of emotions that involved confusion, disappointment, anger and loneliness.
She looked down at her gown, and smirked in a mocking way when she saw that at least she now only had to tie into a ribbon the laces just below her breasts, and she'd be done with putting on this Norvoshi gown.
"What's the matter?" she asked, not caring to hide the anger from her voice, as she felt the color rising to her cheeks. "What's wrong now?"
"That dress is more trouble than it's worth," Sandor spat, walking over the long table in the living room. He sat on the chair heavily, and looked at her intently. "You would still look more fucking beautiful than all the bloody women that are going to attend this ball, even if you were wearing a sodding milkmaid's gown, so why you have to go and choose this thrice-damned complicated one is beyond me, little bird."
Beneath all the curses and irritating manner, Sansa realized that Sandor has just finally called her beautiful to her face. He is trying to restrain himself again. She sighed, laughing a resigned laugh. Will he always be like this? Walking away when he should hold me closer? Does he fear I would pull away or that I would want him to go further?
"If this gown hadn't come from Arman I would be happy to keep it, you know. Regardless of how complicated it is to lace up," she told him, sitting on the chair beside his.
Sandor thumbed his fingers against the surface of the table and seemed to measure her for a moment, before saying, "I saw him just now in some garden practicing."
Sansa frowned. "Where? What was he practicing?"
"In a terrace some floors below. I saw him through a window on the hall. He was practicing sword fighting with this short man–in the Westerosi style."
She knew that Sandor could distinguish perfectly the way the knights of the Seven Kingdoms fought, but she still asked, "Why? Why does a magister of Norvos care to learn that?" She seemed to remember Arman telling her he had no wish to visit Westeros any time soon.
"That's what I wondered as well. I can't stand that little shit."
"Sandor," she said. "I was thinking and I don't deem it wise to introduce you to too many people at the ball. The less attention we draw to you, the less gossip will reach the unwanted ears of our enemies about a certain man of towering height from the Seven Kingdoms with burns on his face."
Sandor laughed openly. "You are truly taking this thing of taking care of me seriously, aren't you? You aren't leaving any loose ends."
Sansa smiled at his praise. "I wish we had more options," she admitted, resting her chin on her entwined hands.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, we can't leave Norvos to get away from Arman and his connections to another Free City, because there are none. When we were deciding where to head for next back in Pentos, Norvos was the best option. If we were to leave the city so we could get away from him, Pentos would again be our destination. But I want to stay here for a little while longer. Just a bit more time in this place, far away from everything, where we can enjoy this sort of life we're leaving. I don't feel like being the Princess of the North yet. I can stand Magister Nervere's presence more than being back home, because no matter how much I miss my mother and Robb, I want things to stay as they are for the present. I love this great city and almost all the people in it. And you know there is still so much we have not seen yet. Vintos was telling me about the fabled caves of Brenetum the other day, and Frema hinted at us going with her and Vintos to their village for a month. If we were to head back to Westeros tomorrow, and after the joy of seeing my family again turned into a pleasant every day feeling once we settled in to our new lives in Winterfell, I know I would miss these days terribly and the opportunities lost to us."
Sandor's eyes never left her as she once again opened her heart to him. Why is it so easy to let him know my mind? And why can't I let my heart speak for once about what I feel for him?
She waited for him to speak, as she let her eyes wander to the coarse hair that could be seen on his collarbone beneath his tunic, remembering the times when they would wake up in the morning and he would let her curl her fingers around the hair on his chest.
"All right," he finally rasped. "We'll stay here for a couple more months. But that fucking magister better understand that he isn't welcome into our lives, or there will be trouble. I'm getting tired of allowing him liberties simply because he is the bloody High Magister. We had to stand Joffrey, but not this idiot."
Sansa bit her lip wondering if she should risk asking him something she had on her mind. "Sandor, you–if I asked you at the ball, you wouldn't dance with me, would you?"
Sandor frowned at her. Then he said, "No."
She nodded, understanding. Of course he wouldn't. It's probably for the best in any case. I can't ask it of him to do so when he would feel uncomfortable. Not even if it makes me sad that we will never dance together. It was actually painful to think of all the things they would never be able to do openly. If he wasn't her sworn shield, the closest they could get to being like everyone else would be the times they were with Frema and Vintos. Sandor never touched her when the married couple was around, but he did let go of his reservations a little at least.
In the streets, whenever they walked side by side, they drew curious glances, but back in the Seven Kingdoms where everyone disliked The Hound, they could end up getting more than pointed fingers and mutterings behind people's hands.
When the handmaidens finally returned and Sandor barked the question of why on earth had they taken so much time, Sansa couldn't believe it when she learned that they had gone to the High City to search for a pair of slippers that would fit her.
"You didn't have to do that," she told them when they answered Sandor's question.
"It was no trouble, Lady Alysanne. We apologize for keeping you waiting. Shall we continue with tending your hair and face now?"
She nodded as Sandor and she stood up. "You may."
"I'll go and change," Sandor rasped, walking to the door before closing it with a heavy sound when he was outside.
Sansa sighed, and forced herself to smile at her handmaidens. "Let's get me ready, then," she told them, walking over to seat at her vanity table. She looked at her reflection upon the mirror that was framed in pure gold, occasionally letting her eyes wander to the vase with fresh flowers on the table, or at the many bottles and pots of powder before her.
"Just brush my hair," she told the plump handmaiden behind her, after she had prattled on about putting a small tiara on Sansa's head or tying up her curls into an elaborate bun. "I want to wear it loose tonight."
If she was forced to take off her fur-trimmed jacket she at least wanted her hair to cover part of her bare back.
"But you will allow us to paint your eyes after the Norvoshi fashion?"
Sansa looked intently at her face, taking in all the changes she had undergone since the little girl she'd been in Winterfell. She had lost her baby fat, and now her face was narrow, throwing into prominence her high cheekbones. Her lips were ready to be kissed, and her hair had been brushed until it curled shone. Her porcelain white skin was somehow glowing in the candlelight the handmaidens were lighting up. I already look like a young lady, she thought. But maybe I need a change tonight to make Sandor see me as a woman he could be with. "Yes, paint my eyes."
When a mousy-haired handmaiden was done with her face, Sansa gasped at the reflection on the mirror. I'm so beautiful, she could not help but think; she admired the way her Tully blue eyes darkened into a startling color due to the dark khol around them, making her curly eyelashes look longer. She could hardly recognize herself. Neither Father nor the boys would know me. Mother and Arya might, but it would take them a moment. Sandor would know her, though, and tonight that was all that she cared to prove. If only I could make him forget himself for one moment, that would be enough.
Sansa didn't want to look like Cersei Lannister, so she declined having her cheeks colored, or her mouth. Every detail of the night of the battle against Lord Stannis was engraved on her memory, and the sight of the queen, all in white, but with color on her cheeks, was nothing she cared to imitate. At least, now I don't have to wear any powder to cover the bruises in my face or body that showed how merciful Joffrey and his Kingsguard were to me. With my dark eyes, it will suffice. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks because that was a way to bring a natural red to her skin, and leaned back on her chair to take her new look in.
She donned her borrowed gemstones, and let the servants put a drop of some sweet scented oil on the back of her ears, her wrists, and her ankles for some reason. She dismissed her handmaidens, and told them to tell her sworn shield that she was ready.
"I almost forgot, but Urroc instructed us to tell you, Lady Alysanne, that he shall come and fetch you and Ser Edric when the ball begins," the youngest of the handmaidens told her.
"Very well," she said, smiling at the girl calling Sandor a knight. "Oh, and please, don't call Edric a Ser, unless you wish to provoke him, as you tell him to come in."
When the trail of handmaidens left her, Sansa crossed her arms and let her eyes wander around her large apartments. Seeing the tapestry of Westeros on the wall, she walked towards it, her head held high.
What's happening to me? she wondered for the thousandth time in these past weeks. How could she not wish to return to Westeros now that a convenient reason presented itself? It is all so strange. Sansa had longed for more than a year now to see her home, but now she wanted to go back with Sandor beside her. With the intent of fleeing Norvos to get away from Magister Nervere, she could very well tell Sandor that she wished to return to Pentos, and once they were there they hopefully and finally procure a ship heading north, or at least get some long last news of Westeros and the war. But if she was honest with herself, it seemed that she didn't want to go back just yet.
I love you, mother, she whispered, as her hand grazed against the place she supposed was Riverrun on the tapestry. I love you, Robb, she whispered, touching the north. But I love Sandor too, in some way now, and if I return to you now I'm going to regret doing it so soon. Sansa suddenly felt like crying. She didn't want to be selfish and forget that her family must surely need her just as much as she needed them, but once she was back with them, Sandor wouldn't have her the way he could have her now. And neither would I be able to be with him like I am now, even if I can't really do anything about what I feel for him.
Sandor's heavy knock interrupted her musings. He knocked three long times and one short one in the code they had established. Brushing an unshed tear from her eyes, Sansa sniffed and straightened up. "Come in, Edric," she said in a strong voice.
Sandor opened the door and stepped inside, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world despite his usual frown. That changed quickly enough when he saw her. Sansa heard his breath catch in his throat before he blinked and simply stood there staring at her, from head to foot. "Seven hells," he rasped said in a low voice.
She couldn't keep a straight face then. "Is that meant to be a compliment?"
Sandor absentmindedly ran his hand though his hair, and nodded. Sansa took this moment to look at what he was wearing. She felt butterflies fluttering in her tummy at the sight of the imposing build he had, and at how wide his muscular chest was. He looks so dangerous.
Sandor began to walk towards her, and she lowered her face to hide her grin. It worked! He called me beautiful before, and now he can't even speak! When he was in front of her, Sandor lifted her jaw in a grip as hard as an iron trap, and tucked away a strand of hair that fell across her face.
"Look at me," he said.
Sansa did, and took this moment to take in every line, crater and deep crack that was Sandor's face. She stared at the good side of his face that had a gaunt air to it, along with a heavy brow, sharp cheekbones, a large hooked nose, and dark hair that he would always wear long and brush sideways to hide the lack of it on the other side.
Then she looked at what the fire had made of half of his face. At how it had melted away his ear till there was nothing left but a hole. And at how it had turned his skin into slick black flesh hard as leather, and created a mass of twisted scars everywhere. A hint of bone where his flesh had been seared away was also visible, yet the eyes that looked down at her now were grey and familiar. As grey and familiar as Father and Arya's eyes, or the stones of Winterfell.
This was the face which she had come to treasure and cherish above all others. A face she once couldn't bear to look upon.
"You look different, little bird," he finally said in a deep rasp.
"I am not a child anymore, Sandor. I've grown up."
He cleared his throat at that, his eyes watching hers. "I can see that."
Do you really? She was nervous of what he might say next. Please, she prayed fervently. Say it. Say what your eyes are assuring me of.
"What's that around your eyes?" he asked her, letting go of her face.
"Khol," she replied a bit startled and crestfallen. "Every lady at the ball will be wearing it around their eyes in this fashion."
Someone knocked at the door just then and they heard Urroc calling, "Lady Alysanne, are you ready? The ball has just begun."
Both Sandor and Sansa stepped away from the other, feeling strange. Sandor walked towards the door, and he almost wrenched it open out of its hinges, startling the bald steward.
"Careful there," the man reprimanded Sandor. "These doors are made with wood from the forest of–"
"Do I look like I give a rat's arse about that? You came for us, didn't you? Well, then, let's get going," Sandor told Urroc, in High Valyrian.
Sansa wasn't sure if she should laugh or scold Sandor, so she ended up chuckling and throwing him a look.
"My lady, you–you look simply beautiful, if I may be allowed to say so," Urroc told her, gaping at her.
"You may, and I thank you," she said, putting on her fur-trimmed jacket. "I do hope we fit in among the Magister's guests."
Urroc couched and said, "If I may be so bold, I believe you will be the most beautiful woman tonight."
Sandor gave out a long rasping laugh that echoed off the walls, a laugh choked with contempt. "Will you be asking her for a dance, steward?"
The old man turned pale at that and Sansa quickly moved to his side, taking his arm so he could escort her away from Sandor's taunting.
"Don't mind him," she told the steward kindly. "His temper doesn't bode well with many."
Urroc looked like he would certainly like to say he agreed, but only held his bald head high and said, "It wasn't my place to speak so, my lady. Forgive me."
"Of course, I do. Don't regret speaking your mind." I know how that feels and I do not wish it for anyone, she almost told him.
"I thank you, my lady," Urroc said smiling, and patting her hand like an agreeable grandfather.
Her sworn shield walked behind them, snorting at every word they said. As they descended to the first level of the manor, Sansa caught glimpses from the windows they crossed of the guests arriving in palanquins and sedan chairs, flanked by guards of the Bearded Priests. The manse was decorating with a thousand candles, hundreds of lanterns, and dozens of lit fireplaces. Chandeliers decorated the ceiling, and servants scurried everywhere with trays of goblets and plates with food on their hands.
Sansa was starting to feel quite nervous, but reminded herself that she had been raised in all manners of courtesy, and had lived in and survived the court of Joffrey Baratheon. If I managed to live in that den of lions and survived, I can very well go through tonight triumphant.
When they finally reached the room where the ball would be held, Sansa gasped. It's as large as the Throne Room, she thought. Urroc had advised them not to wander here yesterday since it was being prepared for tonight, so she had had no idea that this place could hold such a grand room. The ball just oozed opulence and majesty and luxury, and Sansa realized that Arman Nervere may very well be even richer than the Lannisters. If things were different, I would consider asking him to aid Robb in his war, she gathered, knowing that couldn't happen. If Arman aids anyone in the War of the Five Kings, it will be the Martells, and they declared for Joffrey after they agreed to marry their prince to Myrcella.
Sansa's eyes quickly looked about her, to see if she could discern any Dornish in the crowd before her, but stopped when a young servant offered to take her fur-trimmed jacket away. Sansa noticed that none of the women present were wearing their jackets, so she nodded and took her warm jacket off.
Urroc then said, "Here I must leave you, my lady. It would not be fit for you to enter the ball upon the arm of a steward. If you would wait here for a moment, I shall go and tell the High Magister that you have arrived, and he will come for you."
"Very well," she said, giving the steward a smile as her eyes traveled to the nobles around her who were looking at her intently. At me and at Sandor, for he had come up to stand behind her, before he leaned over her shoulder.
"Fuck me, but this is going to be a long night," he rasped, yet there was a tone of amusement in his voice.
She couldn't stop herself from elbowing him. "Stop," she hissed. "Don't say that. I'm so nervous right now. My heart is going as fast as a rabbit's."
"Bugger that, little bird," he whispered near her ear. "You are a northern wolf. You'll devour this flock of puffed-up sheep and toads, and leave me nothing but the bones before this night is done. Ah, and look! Here comes the leader of the sheeps."
Sansa saw that Arman Nervere was indeed striding over towards them, looking tall and handsome and splendid.
A startled cry escaped her lips when she felt Sandor lay a heavy hand on her bare shoulder. Watching Arman walking nearer, a beaming smile on his face, Sansa heard Sandor whispering behind her, "You'll shine tonight, Princess Stark," and felt him suddenly slide his hand slowly down her back, his rough knuckles slowly caressing her skin in an intimate touch in a crowded place and drawing a moan from her. He stopped his hand at the small of her back and left it there even after their host reached them.
Arman gaped at her as if he had never seen a woman before, and reacted just as Sandor had when he saw her dressed up and ready. Those sapphire blue eyes stared at her as if she was the most precious thing in this world, but if Sansa's heart was beating wildly it wasn't because of the way the man before her looked at her, but because of the way the man behind her was touching her skin, letting his hand rest low on her back.
"Alysanne, you look… you look–you are precious," Magister Nervere finally said.
Sandor's snort brought Sansa back to reality; she shook her head, and became conscious of her surroundings once again. People were standing beside them, muttering who this lady was and who that tall ugly man behind her was.
"It's because of your gifts," she replied at last. "This gown is truly beautiful. Thank you, Magister."
Even now she recalled her courtesies and so didn't think it fit to call Arman by his name in front of the people he looked over.
"Nonsense," their host said, waving a hand, and walking up the steps to meet her. "You look like Queen Nymeria of the Rhoyne must have looked during the feasts she hosted after winning her battles."
That was the queen that Arya named her direwolf after, Sansa thought as Sandor laughed. The sound was iron scraping over stone.
"Ah, Edric! My other honored guest! Welcome to the ball. Don't you agree that your lady looks more beautiful than any other being on this world?"
"I've always heard Nymeria wasn't pretty, so it beats me how you can see any comparison," Sandor replied, his fingers slowly caressing her back.
Sansa gave up any hope of trying to ignore how good it felt to have him doing that, and instead hid her smile behind her hand, saying, "Magister, do you know if Frema and Vintos have arrived already?"
"They have, should you like to greet them?"
"Oh, yes," she exclaimed, blushing because the sound came out as a whimper.
Arman offered her his arm and Sansa felt Sandor give her a gentle push forward. She took Arman's arm and glanced back at Sandor. He smirked at her and winked an eye before he started following them. Within a moment, his brooding expression reappeared, and he looked just as menacing as he had always done in the Red Keep as he guarded Joffrey.
Arman noticed that she was looking back at Edric while he guided her into the ball, and leaned closer, whispering in the same ear Sandor had moments ago, "Please, Alys, call me Arman."
Sansa looked at the handsome man before her, and frowned. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"That you don't have to call me Magister just because we are here," he explained patiently. "You are my honored guest. If anyone gets to call me my name and not my title, it is you."
She smiled prettily at the Magister, hoping that would be enough answer for him. Sansa began to look around her, taking in the guests and the room's decorations. She noticed that almost every woman was looking at her with the same look Queen Cersei had done so on different occasions, and all the men were gaping at her. Haven't they ever seen a woman from Westeros before, she wondered, getting a little irritated.
Magister Nervere was walking beside her with a proud smile that made Sansa wonder if she wasn't a kind of horse being auctioned at a market–a fancy market to be sure, but a market nonetheless. When he leaned closer once again and pointed to a corner, saying, "There are your friends," Sansa felt a heavy weight being lifted from her shoulders. Frema and Vintos were indeed standing on a corner of the large room, huddled close together with drinks in their hands, looking at everyone and everything with wide eyes.
She would have hurried her pace to get to them sooner, but just as she was about to do so a very big man with scented oil on his hair and a belly like a boulder, suddenly stopped before her and Arman, with a lean tall woman at his side and boys a little older than Sansa behind them.
"High Magister," the big man said, bowing. His companions did the same, and Sansa noticed that the tall woman had a snake coiled around her arm.
"This is turning out to be a splendid affair. Simply splendid!" the man told Arman before his little watery eyes fell on Sansa. "Ah! And could this be the charming guest you spoke about?"
Arman has been speaking about me to other people? She wondered, feeling ill at ease, as their host gazed at her with a warm look and nodded.
"She is indeed. Lady Alysanne Mallister, please allow me to introduce you to the noble Ukrent Yutzren, owner of the Bank of Great Norvos, and a longtime friend of mine. And this is his lovely wife Menen, and their sons Ukrun and Uktru."
The Yutzren family all bowed to her, and Sansa smiled and spoke in her best High Valyrian, "I am honored to become acquainted with you."
For a moment, Sansa considered introducing Sandor to them, but didn't since she remembered that they should draw the less attention possible to him. Mellario and her Dornish retainers surely have ears in this place.
"My pleasure, to be sure," the big man said, as his wife cowered behind her wide husband, and the sons looked at Sandor's face with a twisted fascination.
Sansa noticed that the tall wife of the bank owner was looking at her again, and even sniffed at her with a patronizing air, which was funny given that her husband and her sons couldn't stop looking at her. One of the boys even grinned wickedly at her, making Sansa look away.
"Lovely, lovely indeed," the big man said, before returning his attention to Arman. "I was wondering if we could have a talk before the dance, Arman. The Iron Bank sent me another envoy this afternoon, pressing me to–"
"Please, Ukrent, can you wait until tomorrow?" Arman said, in a tone that implied he was having none of that tonight, and yet had courtesy in it. "I promised to meet you first thing in the morning and granted you a gathering with the council. Don't ask me to do more, at least not today. Tonight we must all enjoy ourselves. Please, excuse us."
Arman led her away from the little party, and mumbled something to her which she barely heard. She was beaming at Frema and Vintos, who had finally seen her and Sandor, and who were waving at them enthusiastically. Oh, my dear friends.
Frema and Sansa held hands the moment they reached the married couple, and it was hard not to hug her and Vintos.
"Oh, I missed you so much!"
"We missed you as well," Frema said, as the Magister shook Vintos' hand. "And you as well, Edric."
Sandor rasped his greetings to their friends as Vintos said, "Oh, Alys, the Magister was kind enough to give us the most grand of apartments!"
Arman laughed, showing them his perfect white teeth. "I am glad to hear that you liked them, my friends."
Sansa smiled at the Magister for making Vintos and Frema happy, but wanted to snort the way Sandor did at hearing Arman calling her friends his. She looked over at Sandor, wanting to roll her eyes along with his at the silliness of Arman Nervere, but instead caught him staring at her with a stormy look in his eyes. She wanted to ask him what the matter was, when Arman said, "I have arranged for you and your friends to sit with me on the high table, Alys, where the magisters of the city and their guests shall sit for dinner. But in the meanwhile, Frema and Vintos, would you mind if I take Alysanne with me? I want to introduce her to some friends and acquaintances."
"Oh, don't worry about us, High Magister," Vintos assured Arman. "We are happy to stay here and look at everyone."
"You know, Klente Nubroc is here. I could introduce you to him before the dance."
Sansa saw Vintos look both amazed and scared when he heard that.
"Who is Klente Nubroc?" she asked, curiously.
"The most influential man in the trade of tapestries and other woven goods," Vintos told her. "He is the man who owns every weaver shop in the city."
"And he has been a good friend to me since we were children. I even traveled with him to Lys once. I shall make a strong case of making him aware of your talents in that weaver's shop you work at."
How does he know that Vintos works there or that he has talent? Sansa wondered as Arman led her away from her friends, Sandor trailing behind them like a dark shadow she never wanted to be rid of.
Arman Nervere ended up introducing her–or parading her, like Sandor would later call it–to every single noble in that room; from the magisters of the city, to the leader of the Bearded Priests, to the short man he trained at swordplay with. Sansa could remember all the sigils and shields of the houses of the Seven Kingdoms, but there were none in the Free Cities, and there were a hundred guests at the ball, so she had thought it would be impossible to memorize one name when she had to learn another a moment afterwards. But she pleasantly surprised herself because, even if she had no real notion of how exactly the Nine Free Cities were ruled, she managed to remember who the guests with the oldest names or purest blood were after Magister Nervere introduced them to her, and never got mixed up with the nobles who had relatives in Myr and the ones who had family ties back in Slaver's Bay when Arman asked her what she thought of them afterwards. He even looked proud of her for some reason.
She got a good look at what the nobles that lived behind the walls of the High City were like, remembering the days when she had first arrived to Great Norvos and had longed to see what life was like up here. Almost all of the rich lords and ladies spoke too quickly for her to understand them without Arman's help, but she could know by the way their eyes looked at her and Sandor, or the way their mouths twisted into smiles, whether they found Magister Nervere's honored guests agreeable or not.
The one good thing about the women present was that since all of them were wearing the same cut in their gowns as she was, and were exposing their limbs and back just as hers were, Sansa stopped feeling self-conscious about how much she was revealing, and instead spent the night staring at the hairstyles of both the men and the women present, or the way the older ladies would paint their lips a deep purple while the younger girls painted them in a lighter tone. It even made her dizzy just to breathe all the perfumes they were all wearing.
Though their fashion was very different and strange to Sansa's eyes, she could appreciate the beauty in it; whenever she chanced to look at something she liked, from the beautiful colors that some of the nobles dyed their hair with. Everyone looked so foreign and exotic that Sansa's eyes were constantly drawn to them, the same way theirs were drawn to her and Sandor.
The only unpleasant introduction was when Magister Umere–the old man whose good deeds had gained him the honor of having this event dedicated to him–told Sandor that he could die happy now that he had seen an honorable knight from the Sunset Kingdoms. Sansa saw Sandor set his jaw in anger before he spat, "I am no knight. Knights have no bloody honor. If you are as close to death's door as you look, I would think it is about time you learned that, magister."
The old man's wife, who had fine noble features, snapped her ornate fan closed and stalked away, head held high, with her wounded pride, while Arman and Sansa apologized to old Magister Umere for Sandor's words.
After an hour of saying "How do you do?" and "It's so pleasant to make your acquaintance," and of practicing for when she would be back in Westeros and expected to play the gracious courteous role of being Sansa Stark, it was time for dinner.
She sat with Arman to her right and Sandor to her left. Frema sat to Sandor's left and Vintos to his wife's left, and they all shared the high table with the most important people in Great Norvos–with the men who ruled the city under the title of magisters and their families. Singers sat before the high table, filling the night with music. A juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. And Arman was the soul of courtesy, talking to Sansa all night, showering her with compliments, sharing little bits of court gossip that drove fake laughs from her. Arman may be drunk with the magic of the night, but I'm not. She was no longer swept away by beauties like she had once been. She could appreciate them and like them, but no longer did they blind her from what lay beneath the surface.
The first course was stuffed grape leaves with raisins, peppers, onions and mushrooms, followed by quails drowned in butter, spiced with saffron from Qarth and pepper from Volantis. Then there was a kid that had been roasted with lemon and honey and was stuffed with raisins, carrots, dates, onions, mushrooms, and fiery dragon peppers. When the meat was brought out, he served her himself, slicing a queen's portion from the kid's joint, smiling as he laid it on her plate. Later came baked apples fragrant with cinnamon and lemon cakes frosted in sugar, but by then Sansa was so stuffed that she could not manage more than two little lemon cakes, as much as she loved them.
"Your innkeeper told me that you were fond of lemon cakes, so I had this baked for you."
"You are so thoughtful and kind," she said, as Sandor cursed out loud how bored he was beside her. When did he ask her? she wondered angrily. I should tell Medra to stop talking about me to Arman.
All the nobles sipped their wine from glass flutes, but Sandor preferred to do so from a cup and a flagon all to his own.
"I can understand why the girl with the red hair is there, but that man with those twisted burns and that couple that looks straight out of the Low City shouldn't be sitting in a place of honor," Sansa overheard one woman muttering to her husband at one point.
Sansa looked over at Sandor sitting beside her, drinking his wine and staring in front of him, looking at everyone. She began to feel her tummy flutter nervously as she recalled that he had never seen her dance before.
At long last, and with a belly that was threatening to burst, Sansa finally heard the music that announced the beginning of the dancing. She was looking forward to this part more than any other tonight, because she longed to dance once again, but mostly so she could get up from the high table where she felt a bit conspicuous.
"Would you grant me the honor of dancing with me?" Arman asked her as he stood up beside her and offered her his hand.
It isn't as you are giving me much choice, Sansa thought as she donned her smile and nodded, taking his hand.
She let her free hand brush lightly against Sandor's back as she stepped behind him before leaving the high table, feeling everyone's eyes on her and Arman, but only caring about the pair of grey ones she loved to drown herself in.
"Will we be starting the dance alone?" Sansa asked Magister Nervere as she noticed that they were the only ones in the dance floor.
"It's tradition," Arman replied, letting his dimples show. He led her to the center of the room and stood in front of her before smiling and saying, "I'll take the lead. Just follow me."
I would rather follow Sandor, Sansa thought as Arman stepped closer to her, bringing his hand to her back. Her hair avoided him to touch her bare back, for which she was dully thankful, and as he brought his free hand to hold her own, she placed hers lightly on his shoulder.
A different tune began to play then, and Arman Nervere began to lead Sansa in a dance, his eyes never leaving her face, as he looked down at her. Sansa instead scanned the room, sometimes looking for Sandor, and at others settling her gaze on Arman's neck to avoid having to look at him. At least Arman proved to be an excellent dancer and had no trouble in leading her around the dance floor, Sansa had to admit. There was even a small moment when she felt it was very nice to dance this way with someone who could do it flawlessly,
"You are a man of easy smiles," she told him once, as she looked up at him sharply when he drew her closer to him, gently.
He laughed. "Am I really? Maybe you are the reason that draws so many smiles to my face."
Is that supposed to be his idea of praising me? she wondered, as she tried to find some appropriate reply.
Everyone was allowed to join in with the dancing as the second song began, and soon enough Sansa found herself being asked for the pleasure and honor of her company, as all the lords and nobles of Norvos asked for her hand. She graced them all with a smile and a nod of the head, and tried to make the best of the music even when her partner was such a bad dancer that he kept stepping on her feet and begging her pardon nervously.
Sansa enjoyed most the dances she shared with Vintos and Arman, but would always be looking around to see where Sandor had gone to. She would find him circulating the room over and over again as he allowed her to dance with everyone but himself. His hands rested on his swordbelt for most of the time, and the frown on his face and the twitch of his mouth drove everyone away from him. That's what he wants, she thought sadly. He wants to be left alone, and will bite anyone's head off if they try to engage him in some conversation.
Norvoshi people were lovers of song, and the dancing went on well past midnight, by which time Sansa's eyelids were closing more often than not, and she felt limp with exhaustion. She finally managed to get away from Arman, and was making her way to the high table to see if she could find Sandor there and ask him to please accompany her back to her rooms, since she was already feeling tired, when a man who was shorter than her and wearing orange robes, stepped into her way, looking so intently into her eyes that she felt a shiver run through her.
Gods be good, who did that to his face? She wondered, as she took in his appearance. Red flames were inked across his cheeks and forehead, making Sansa recall that she had once heard that the slaves of Volantis were forced to endure being tattooed on their faces as marked of their profession or low position in life. He was a thin man, with yellowish skin, dark eyes, cracked sharp nails that were longer than hers, and had grey hair. Is he the friend from Volantis Arman spoke of last night?
"Excuse me," she said, gulping and trying to move around the man, but he stepped in front of her again.
Sansa met his brown eyes and said, "Would you please let me pass?"
"I know who you are," the man said, in the Common Tongue, his accent heavily flavored with the accents of the east.
Sansa's heart chilled at those words. He can't know. How could he know?
The man gave her a sly smile and said in a furtive slow voice, "You are Lady Alysanne Mallister, are you not? I have longed to finally set eyes on you for many weeks. Arman has spoken a great deal about you to me."
Sansa's eyes searched the room for Sandor, but for once she could not find him.
"I fear I do not know you," she told the man, having no idea why he made her feel so uneasy.
"I'm Quallo, a servant of the Lord of Light, and a friend to Magister Nervere."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, but if you'll excuse me, someone's expecting me," she told him, finally seeing Sandor. He was walking towards her, an angry scowl on his face.
"That someone is coming this way, my lady," he told her. How can he know when he is not facing Sandor? "I shall leave you, but would you welcome some advice from R'hllor?"
She nodded more out of her desire to be rid of him than curiosity.
Quallo stepped closer to her and placed two long fingers on her wrist, intensely looking into her eyes.
"A new flame is kindled for every flame that gutters out. Remember those words and treasure them to your heart, for the time is approaching when you shall find yourself in need of comfort, and will be blinded to the opportunity before you. I have seen you in my fires, as well as the man who guards you."
And with that he left her, quite puzzled. Gods be good, what does that mean?
"Who was that?" Sandor asked her, once he reached her some moments later.
Sansa didn't know why she felt afraid, but there was no mistaking that familiar weight in the pit of her stomach. She looked up at Sandor and whispered in a trembling voice, "He is a friend of Arman's. He said he had seen us in his fires and that the time when I would need comfort was approaching."
"Seven hells", Sandor rasped. Who the fuck was this Quallo? I knew Nervere's stupid faith in a fire god could not mean anything good. He wished that tattooed man would shove his advice up his own arse, and never show his ugly face outside one of his beloved god's temples. Seen us in his fires, has he? Bloody idiot. Yet the bit with Sansa needing to be comforted gave him pause.
Sandor looked down at the little bird for a moment and said, "Do you want to leave now?"
She nodded and he began to steer her around the crowd towards the door. Sansa lifted her head and looked about the room, squinting. "I guess I won't need the fur-trimmed jacket now. Oh, but I don't see Frema or Vintos"
"They were dancing the last time I saw them. Let's hurry before the sodding high sheep finds us."
The little bird laughed at that, and increased her pace. As they made their way to their rooms on the seventh floor of the house, Sandor recalled the whole evening in his mind. Sansa was certainly Nervere's main attraction. The way Arman had escorted her about the room, presenting her to everyone, had made his insides burn. Every touch of his filthy hands on Sansa's skin and all the smiles she had to give him drove a sharp knife into his belly, and whenever they danced together that knife would twist painfully inside him.
Even though he was jealous, Sandor had to admit that Sansa was good at interacting with and complimenting nobles. She was certainly the most beautiful woman at the ball tonight, he thought, and knew how to charm her way into people's hearts. She would have been a good queen despite having to endure Joffrey's cruelty.
Sandor remembered the time when he had told Sansa that he would have stood between her and Joffrey once she was the queen. She was born to rule. Maybe that was one of the reasons why Nervere had paraded her around his neighbors and friends with that stupid grin on his face all night. He too can see how good she is at facing any pit of vipers, Sandor thought with a foreboding feeling. Fuck me, if I managed to get her away from Joffrey, this fucking Norvoshi lamb won't hurt her.
At least the evening's finally done now, he thought, sighing, as the most beautiful little bird in this world took his arm and tried to poorly conceal the yawn that escaped her. He had passed the time by watching Sansa dancing with every bleeding man in the room but him, and imagining how it would be like to stick his longsword in every son of a whore who gazed too long at the little bird's cleavage and bare back. It would have been better if I was the only one to see her in that fucking arousing gown. It would have been nice if she had worn it for me and it hadn't come from bloody Nervere.
He couldn't stay still as he watched her being touched by others, even when it was innocent enough. He had walked around the room over and over again, always ready to draw out his sword and spill the guts and blood of anyone and everyone if things went wrong. He could find comfort in the fact that once they were back in Westeros with her family, most men would try to look with a certain measure of respect at the sister of the Young Wolf, for Sandor had no desire to repeat tonight's experiences.
Remembering the Starks brought back to his mind the conversation they had had before the ball; Sansa had told him that it would be pleasant if they could stay in Norvos for a while longer. Visiting Vintos' wretched village will indeed be preferable to staying in this house again. It warmed his heart that Sansa wanted to stay here with him.
Once they were inside her rooms, Sandor was pleased to see that the sound from the ball could barely be heard up here. Suddenly a loud thunder was heard splitting the air in two, and the dark sky outside was illuminated with a scattering of red light.
"Oh! Are those fireworks?" Sansa said, snatching one of the few remaining lit candles and heading to the terrace. "Oh, they are! Sandor, come have a look!"
He walked reluctantly to her, more out of amusement at the way she reacted to something like fireworks, than a desire to see them himself.
"They're alright," he told her, as Sansa grabbed his hand. He didn't tell her what he was really thinking though, that the sight of the red sky brought to mind the night they had escaped King's Landing as green fire lit up the sky. I put a dagger to her throat and made her sing me a song. He told her about it, but she only looked up at him with a wise stare and turned away from the fireworks display, sitting at the edge of her bed, as she took her shoes off.
"Maybe you did put a dagger to my throat, but you also ended up saving my life that night," she said, rubbing her ankle and stifling another yawn. "And you don't have to take a song from me now. Just ask and I'll sing one for you gladly."
"You haven't sung me a song for a while," he told her, leaning against a column, with his arms crossed against his chest, weighing her reaction.
Sansa stopped rubbing her tired feet and looked at him for a long time, making Sandor wonder if she was waiting for him to rephrase his petition. When he was about to speak because he could not hold his silence anymore, desperate to know what she was thinking, Sansa surprised him by standing up on the bed.
"Come here," she simply said.
Go back, his better sense advised him. Go back to your rooms. You are under Nervere's roof. You can have her bloody song tomorrow. Yet his heart ruled his better sense tonight, for he walked over to her, noticing that now her eyes were on a level with his and that black decoration around her eyes gave her face a haunting look that drove him mad.
"Hold me," Sansa said, those blue eyes that looked like a sunlit sea never leaving his face. And there was a time when she wouldn't be able to do this for the space of a heartbeat, he thought, amazed at how far they'd come from the night when they escaped King's Landing.
For some reason Sandor forgot to struggle against what this might lead to, and so he stepped right in front of her, his shins hitting the mattress. Sansa took hold of his hand while she placed the other over his heart.
"What in the seven bleeding hells are you doing?" he growled at her, suddenly suspicious about this position, since he had just seen her dancing just like this with other men.
"Shh," she purred in a voice that dripped honey. "Don't say anything. Don't talk. I just want us to stay like this. I want to imagine how it would have been like to dance with you."
For fuck's sake, he thought, angrily as she gave him a measuring look again. He was about to disentangle himself when all of a sudden Sansa brought her head to rest on the crook of his neck.
Swaying slightly were he stood due to Sansa moving a little back and forward, it didn't take long for Sandor to start relishing in the closeness of Sansa's face on his neck after he got over what she was actually doing. He felt Sansa's nose inhale in his scent, rubbing the tip of it against his warm neck. That gesture felt so good that Sandor ended up bringing himself closer to her as he finally laid his hand on the small of the little bird's bare back for the second time tonight, while he his other hand wonder to her hip, caressing her there.
He must have moved her closer to him a bit too roughly for she gasped. It was barely more than a whimper, so he paid it no heed since Sansa didn't lift her face away from this mesmerizing closeness they were feeling.
Sandor closed his eyes and began to nuzzle against Sansa's neck and hair just like she had started doing to him at some point. She smelled so good that he wasn't even aware that he had started caressing the little bird's exposed skin on her back with his fingers.
After some moments, Sansa extended both her palms against his chest and slowly but firmly began to slide them up towards the back of his neck, until she was completely pressed against him, so close that his throbbing cock was right up against her belly. The little bird amazed him by bringing herself even closer to him. What the fuck is she doing? Surely she can feel my need against her, he thought, dazedly.
"This feels so nice," she whispered, her voice soft as a kiss, moving back and forth, swaying his body along with hers in this intimate moment that was more like hugging than dancing. "Do you remember the first time I sang you Florian and Jonquil?"
"Yes," he rasped hoarsely, though in truth his answer came out more like a grunt. Sansa's lips suddenly brushed slightly against his neck until she was bringing her cheek right against his burned one. Her warm breath was tickling his ear as she held on tightly to the fabric of his tunic, twisting it in her tight grip. Sandor swayed where he stood, affected by the closeness of her body against his.
When Sansa moaned after he pressed himself closer to her, his hand still tracing circles on the cold skin of her back, she brought her head back to hide it in his neck, inhaling deeply, as his touch brought a tremble running through her body. Sandor didn't want to push things too far and least of all when he finally remembered in whose house they were, so he just crossed his arms around her, holding her tight as she did the same with him, feeling their heats fall into a rhythm where they were beating as one.
After a time, Sandor realized that she was falling asleep, and slowly and gently he began to regretfully disentangle himself from her. Maybe it was because she was practically asleep now and wouldn't notice, but whatever the reason was, Sandor's hand came up from Sansa's back to sweep her long hair back from her shoulder. Holding her up with one arm, and holding back her hair with the other, Sandor brought his scarred lips once more to the crook of her neck, but this time he kissed her there. After closing his eyes so he could remember this moment better, he brushed his teeth along the length of the little bird's smooth shoulder blade, relishing at the feeling of his steel hard cock against her tummy and her breasts pushed against his wide chest. He then nibbled at her skin, grazing his teeth against her shoulder, before Sansa began to shift a little, making him regretfully take his head away from the warmth and safety of her neck. If she woke up and wanted to take things further, she might end up regretting it after he lost his control.
She's going to have to sleep with her gown on tonight, Sandor thought, as he finally helped lay a sleepy Sansa on the bed and directed her head to the pillows. She stretched out on the bed like a lazy cat.
Sandor stood there staring at her for some moments, remembering how he had caressed her back before they entered the ball to give her courage and to see how she would react to him touching her so. She didn't seem to find it unpleasant, he had learned happily, as he found the resolution from somewhere to put his hand upon her skin after he encouraged her to bring out the wolf in her. He leaned down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear that was driving him mad for some reason, while she kept on muttering in her sleep.
And to think that such a helpless thing as her thinks she can keep me safe. Looking down at Sansa's sleeping form, Sandor found himself remembering life before he came into this life and all the shit that had happened to him. He was a broken man, but at least he had aided Sansa in seeing that she could safe herself from suffering the same fate as his long ago. But here we are, and now the little bird wants to keep me safe. He found that notion amusing, but also strange and not so bad. What does it mean if we both want to keep each other safe from the world?
His eyes began to trace every line and curve of Sansa's body, taking in how much she had grown.
"Good night, little bird," he whispered in a low rasp, covering her with the blankets. Then Sandor traced a long wide finger down the little bone of her freckled nose, watching with amusement how it moved of its own accord, before walking away to the door. He closed it behind him and sighed as he reached his own rooms, stretching his arms and relishing in the knowledge that tomorrow they would be away from this place and back at their house at the Three Bells Inn once more, sharing the same bed. As he was about to close his eyes, the image of the man with the flames tattooed across his face who had talked to Sansa came to his mind, and Sandor wondered what the hell the cryptic message he had told the little bird could mean. Stupid bloody poxy bastard. Fuck, I'm tired, he cursed out loud before sleep took him as quickly as it had Sansa's moments before.
A/N:
- Dear readers, thank you so much for sticking me with me for more than 20 long chapters. I hope you all enjoyed this one! :D
- I would like to thank Milady of York from for writing a very interesting and wonderful essay about how meaningful it is the act of touching in Sandor and Sansa's relationship. It was posted recently over at the From Pawn to Player: Rethinking Sansa threads, and here is the link. Read it, you'll enjoy it! ;) ...00#entry3778891