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 betas to whom I owe so much are: onborrowedwings, nysandra & swiftsnowmane! :D Thank you girls!
- 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.
26. Farewells
The crowd didn't cheer for him. Nervere's death was greeted with stunned silence. No one moved or said anything. A thousand eyes looked on, shifting between the body of the man on the ground and the champion. Sandor couldn't have cared less about what they all thought of him. The noble sheep had it coming to him for some time now, and no one could complain that he'd killed Arman unfairly. Which is more than what they could've said of him had I lost. Fucking tricks.
Sandor had won, and now he was free to finally do as he pleased and go away from this bloody city. Where to, he didn't know yet, but at least now he and Sansa were going to be together again. Seven hells, how he missed having his little bird in his arms.
He lifted his gaze from Arman Nervere's body, and stepped away as he saw the pool of blood surrounding the corpse growing wider and wider, creeping up towards his feet. He turned around to face the marble raised dais where his little bird was watching all of this, waiting with Frema and Vintos at her side.
The throbbing pain of his elbow was bothering him, but not so much that he didn't know or remember what had to happen next. Just as he was about to head over to the raised wooden platform where High Magister Umeren and the other officials were, suddenly, a loud, angry, hateful cry cracked the stillness of the air. Quickly looking behind him, he saw that Quallo, the damnable red priest, was running towards him in a mad state of grief with that fucking flaming sword.
Sandor once again stood still, unable to move from the spot, as he saw how the flames danced across the length of the blade, shifting constantly. The crowd began to stir all around him, but his eyes were fixed on the tattooed face of the man who wanted to kill him and avenge his master.
It was only some heartbeats what would take Quallo to run across the ring and meet him, but to Sandor it was like a bloody lifetime. The look of twisted seething anger in Quallo's eyes made him remember with detail the way Gregor's hard eyes always looked when someone had done something to displease him–which was laughable, for the small red priest looked nothing like his brother. Fuck, was his last coherent thought before he raised his longsword and shifted his body around, ready to meet Nervere's red pet.
"Stop him!" someone yelled far away. Sandor barely managed to register hearing that instruction before he saw a dagger, quick as lightning, appear in his vision's range. The dagger struck Quallo on his left shoulder. The red man winced in pain and distractedly turned around to see what had hit him, dropping the flaming weapon.
Sandor saw that three guards belonging to the Bearded Priests were upon Quallo, restraining him from picking up the flaming sword now burning on the ground. One of the guards pushed it quickly away with his foot, and they all looked up at the raised wooden platform, awaiting their next command. A young servant ran into the ring with a flagon in his hands and poured water onto the flaming sword; it hissed and returned to normal steel.
High Magister Umeren stepped forward, while Intak and the fat Bearded Priest Ouzso looked startled by this turn of events. The old magister was looking with anger at the red priest, who was struggling to get free, and he asked in a voice that dripped disgust, "What right do you think you have to try and attack the victor of this ordeal?"
Quallo answered unashamed, his eyes flashing as brightly as the flames he loved so much, "I have the right to kill that beast for butchering a brave warrior of R'hllor. You all saw how he–"
"We all regret the outcome of this affair," Umeren interrupted. "I knew Magister Nervere since he was born, and we all thought he would grow up to be a promising ruler. But he ran afoul with you and your kind, and you corrupted him. We are all sorry for Arman Nervere's demise, but this is not unexpected. Magister Nervere said the ordeal by combat was to be to the death, and there are a thousand witnesses in this square to back up the fact that Edric Goodbrook fought honorably–yourself included, if only you weren't blinded by stubbornness… Those who follow your Lord of Light know nothing of respect or–"
"Do not speak of what you do not know, foolish old man," Sandor heard Quallo shout in a venomous tone, staring at the High Magister with disdain. "The night is dark and full of terrors. If you were as wise as Magister Nervere was, you would know that the Lord of Light is the only one who can save us all. Perhaps then you would not deny him so quickly, or impede me from disposing of this brute!"
Fucking little idiot, you're only wrapping the rope around your throat tighter with every sodding word you say, Sandor thought as his heart slowed down. There were no more threats. He wouldn't have to fight with fire threatening to burn him at every moment and movement. I guess that if the bugger wants to condemn himself with his own tongue, he can be my fucking guest.
Umeren looked annoyed as he waited for the mad red priest to finish; he entwined his hands before him and replied, "The matter at hand is not who will save the world, but that you violated our sacred laws–"
"I swore no oath to your false gods."
"But Magister Nervere did, and as his assistant in the combat, you ought to have known that you were bound by the same oath as he was," the fat Bearded Priest pointed out loudly, clearly affronted.
Magister Umeren nodded in agreement. "The laws must be respected and our traditions and values upheld, and you pose a threat, not only to Edric Goodbrook but to us all. That is why, as High Magister of the city of Great Norvos, charged with protecting the welfare of its people, I sentence you to death. Guards, prepare the prisoner. I know that it would probably be his wish to be burned alive, but we will not spare this affair another moment. He is to be beheaded at once. Honorable Ouzso, if your highest ranking guard could do the deed, the Council would be most grateful. And, please, send for the Sacred Mothers to take away Arman Nervere's body. No matter what he was or did in his life, the body of a son of the Clan Nervere has to be treated with respect."
It wasn't until Umeren began to speak of honoring Nervere's memory that Sandor heard for the first time the voice of the High Magister breaking, but it was barely noticeable, because before he was even done the loud cheer of the crowd drowned all other noises.
Apparently, the body of Arman, now attracting flies to it, was too much for Umeren, for he turned around and wiped a tear from his small eyes, as the guards started leading Quallo to a corner of the ring, to wait for the executioner. Now that his fate was decided, the man's tattooed face had turned hard and solemn, and he seemed to accept his fate without further struggle. Which is the wisest thing he's done all day, the sick fuck, Sandor gathered with an angry scowl.
With a deep sigh, Magister Umeren spared a last look at the now condemned red priest, who was starting to mutter a prayer under his breath, and then his old wrinkled eyes fell on Sandor. He waved him forward, and Sandor didn't waste a moment more. The sooner we do this, the sooner I can finally get away from here before another man tries to kill me.
He strode over to the raised wooden platform and walked up to the place where Magister Intak, the fat chief of the Bearded Priests, and the High Magister awaited him. Ouzso the Priest was toying with the ends of his long grey beard, and Intak covered his mouth with a silk handkerchief, clearly upset with the way his sheep of a friend had been killed.
The sight of the handkerchief made Sandor remember the favor the little bird had given him earlier, and that was still tucked away beneath his breastplate, near his bloody heart. Smirking, he took it out and would've kissed it had he not reached Magister Umeren in that moment. Instead, he settled with holding it in a tight grip.
Sandor nodded down at the man in respect; the High Magister regarded him silently for what seemed like a long time. He finally returned the nod with a grim smile, and sighed. He turned to face the people of Norvos gathered together in the Plaza of the Just, and raised his arms, appealing them for silence.
When the loud clamor died away into low murmurs, Umeren said in a strong loud voice, "As we have all seen, the gods saw fit to pardon Edric Goodbrook. They found innocence and good in him, and thus by winning the ordeal by combat, he has atoned for whatever wrongs he may have committed previously and for which he was condemned. As High Magister, it falls upon me to grant him my pardon, and to let the world know that he has been forgiven for threatening Magister Nervere. The Council of Magisters protects him, and woe to anyone who wishes to take this settled matter into his own hands, and try and seek revenge where there is none to be found."
As Umeren spoke, Sandor kept his gaze fixed on the distant figure of Sansa, while his fingers kept caressing the fabric of her handkerchief, assuring himself that this was real and he was now going to leave this damnable place at last.
When High Magister Umeren was done talking, he turned around to face Sandor and told him quietly, "You have proved that Lady Mallister has the fiercest protector, and men will think twice before they dare come close to her again. Still, though you have been forgiven by the council and the city, Edric, I trust that you know it would not be wise for you or your lady to return to Norvos ever again. You won by the will of the gods, and thus cannot be exiled from here, but I think it best not to provoke any unnecessary risks by showing your presence, lad. It would be best to disappear."
Sandor saw the wisdom in this advice, and nodded. He didn't really like to do this sort of thing, but he was thrice damned if he wasn't about to say this to the old magister after he'd won his respect. So he rasped, "I–I'm sorry for saying that you looked close to dying at the ball, Magister. By the way you conducted this trial, I can see that your wits are far from leaving you. This city needs someone like you watching over it."
Magister Umeren chuckled. "Thank you, Edric. I appreciate that. I know that Arman didn't rule Norvos as wisely as he could have. I cared for his father very much, and was always proud of Arman as he was growing up. He was a good boy, then, and had a promising future before him."
"Until he ran into that bloody red god," Sandor spat, with ill-concealed displeasure. He had witnessed how much it pained Umeren to see how Nervere had reached his end, so he restrained himself from calling him a fucker.
"Aye, until he became a believer of R'hllor, and got it into his handsome thick head that this city could do better if it was delivered into the fanaticism of the Lord of Light," Umeren agreed. He shook his head, dismissing this troublesome and sad matter, "But that's over now. You are free to go. Go back to Lady Alysanne and take her far away. She does not belong here, but I think that as long as she is with you, she'll be safe."
Sandor grinned, for he couldn't have agreed more with the old High Magister. He nodded respectfully at the man and turned away from him, still clutching Sansa's handkerchief. He stepped down from the wooden platform as he heard Umeren instructing the guards to prepare Quallo for beheading. Sandor reached Burnek, who gave him a hard pat on the back, and Sandor snorted.
"You look too relieved," he told the bald blacksmith. "Did you have any doubts about me winning?"
Burnek laughed. "None at all, Edric. None at all. I'm glad everything turned out for the good for you. But I know someone who will be ten times happier for this outcome, and whom we should hurry up to meet with now."
Sandor caressed the length of the scabbard the little bird had given him, and nodded in agreement. He put on his swordbelt and scabbard, and put away his new sword. His eyes fell on the kneeling figure of Quallo as the guards placed his head on the block, while the chief guard of the Bearded Priest stepped forward into the ring with a sharp looking light axe on his hands.
If Sandor had been like Gregor, he would have told that guard to fuck off and asked Umeren to let him behead Quallo himself. But Sandor was not his brother; he had no intention of remaining here another moment to see the red priest's head flying across the air, and rolling in the dirt. His job here was done. He jerked his head at Burnek to follow him, and the two left the ring, while the crowd of Norvoshi around them pointed and stared at them indiscreetly, yet they parted a way for them to walk through. Sandor made his way towards the raised dais and he never looked back; not even when he heard the deathly swift hissing of the axe claiming Quallo's life, or the intake of breath by the crowd.
When he had crossed the square and reached the bottom of the dais, he noticed that neither the little bird nor Frema or Vintos were anywhere to be seen. She was just here, Sandor thought, gazing quickly all around him. His towering height gave him an advantage in such a situation, but there was no sign of Sansa.
"What the–?" he began, before Burnek stepped up beside him and laid a hand on his arm.
"Vintos thought it best for you two to meet at my house," the blacksmith told him. "Neither of us thought it wise that people should see that there is more to your relationship than that of a lady and her sworn shield. And since we suspected you two would not be able to contain yourselves once you met again…"
Sandor didn't need to hear more. He wished he could curse the man to seven hells along with Vintos for delaying his reunion with Sansa. Instead, he only grunted and gave a short nod before he was off to the streets of Norvos, striding as quickly as his long legs could carry him as he left behind forever the Plaza of the Just, and tucked Sansa's handkerchief back inside his breastplate.
Apparently his little bird was just as fucking eager to see him again as he was. He'd walked down three streets and stepped into an alley he knew was a shortcut to the blacksmith's house, when he suddenly saw a quick flash of auburn hair and the next thing he knew Sansa had thrown her arms around him. He staggered backwards, startled by the impact. With a cry, Sandor returned his little bird's embrace tightly, crushing her to him. Sansa clung fiercely to him, not minding that he smelled of death and was covered in blood as he lifted her from the floor.
"Seven hells, I've missed you, little bird," he grunted in the Common Tongue, burying his face in her hair, laughing warmly at her behavior. Sansa sniffed and nuzzled her face in his neck, and murmured in his ear, "Oh, gods, you're here!" as if she could not really believe it yet. This feels so fucking right, he thought as he looked up from the mesmerizing smell of her hair.
He saw that Frema had tears in her eyes, and Vintos and Burnek were laughing and hugging each other in mirth. Sandor shook his head at them as Sansa brought her face up from his neck and shoulder to stare into his eyes, and the world seemed to stop moving. Her piercing blue eyes were looking deep into his soul, making him feel as if they had become the only people in the whole sodding world. Silent tears of joy started sliding down Sansa's cheeks, and Sandor gently brushed them away with his thumbs.
"I am so happy," she confessed, and she brought her hands to rest on both sides of his face. "I don't–I would've died had they taken you away from me."
His guts twisted in knots at that, and he started to notice the changes in her face. She was still the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, even if her face looked pale and fragile, but the deep shadows under her eyes told him that she had not slept in days. That angered him, for he knew it was because of him. She must have worried sick about me, he thought, and he rasped, "Don't say that, little bird. It's all over and done now. We are together and that's all that matters."
There would be time enough now that this sodding ordeal was over to ask for forgiveness and confess what they felt, but now was not the time. He smiled at her in reassurance, despite knowing that his burned skin would only twist and pull tightly across his face. Sansa nodded and returned his smile, and Sandor cursed in his mind. Not once had Sansa looked at him the way she was regarding him now, and it simply broke his heart–in a good way.
Sandor longed to kiss her, but he wasn't keen on having so much public watching them when he did. He tore his gaze away from Sansa's perfect alluring mouth, and shot a murderous look at the couple and the blacksmith, but they only seemed to find his reaction amusing.
At least Sansa wasn't finding this funny. His little bird buried her face in his neck, and even started kissing him there, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. She is less shy than I am when others are around.
"Alys, Edric," Vintos said urgently. "Please, we have to hurry. We are really, really very happy that you won, but the caravan left at midnight. It's been almost two hours since dawn. The longer you stay here the longer it'll take for you to find it."
What? "What caravan?" he snarled, letting Sansa down onto the floor slowly. The motion must have put too much weight on his left arm, for suddenly the cut on his elbow throbbed painfully, and he winced in pain, remembering the injury Nervere had given him.
"What is it?" Sansa asked, noticing his face, and touching his arm. "Did he hurt you? I couldn't see very well what was happening from the dais."
"It's nothing," he told her, kissing the top of her head before the five of them began to make their way once again to Burnek's house. "Just a cut on my left arm. Burnek will look at it in a moment. Now tell me, what's this about a caravan?"
Sansa looked like she was still keen on talking about his wound; Vintos answered him. As he told him about where they had planned for him and Sansa to run away to, Sandor began to search for any weaknesses in the plan, trying to find what could go wrong if they joined this caravan and traveled through the Hills of Norvos to the north.
From what he could remember, there were no cities to the north, only wilderness and he gathered some gods-forsaken towns, but maybe that was for the best. They needed to hide and disappear again, and in the end Sandor had to admit that it was better that they joined this caravan rather than go back to Pentos, or to the village where Frema and Vintos had been born.
He wasn't surprised that the couple wasn't going to join them. Their lives were meant to be spent in these regions, and when Sandor caught sight of Sansa as Vintos admitted that they would be parting ways once they left Norvos, he saw that it pained her to leave her friends behind forever.
And we were supposed to join them for some time in their village, he remembered. That can't be helped anymore. He was glad they had met them, for they had stayed with Sansa when he was imprisoned, but he didn't really care that they had to leave them. He only cared that Sansa was now safe from Nervere's threats and they could be together.
They reached the blacksmith's house just as Vintos finished telling him about their plan, and when Burnek opened the door to his forge to let them in, Sandor broke into laughter at the sight of Stranger and Nan tied inside. When the big black destrier saw him, he began to shake his head and grunt enthusiastically. Sandor strode over to his horse, and padded his forehead. Frema and Vintos picked up their provisions from a corner of the forge and put them on Nan's back.
"I promised him I would bring you back," the little bird chirped proudly, stepping up beside him to caress Stranger as well.
Sandor looked between his horse and Sansa with a raised eyebrow before he let his fingers brush gently across Sansa's hand. "I'm glad to be back with you both."
Sansa smiled up at him. Burnek suddenly laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "Come. Let's have a look at the cut in your elbow."
Sandor grunted, and turned around to follow the blacksmith out of the forge. He heard Sansa asking the married couple to wait for them, and then she followed the two tall men into the blacksmith's house. She slipped her hand in his, and entered what was the modest living room of Burnek's house.
"Alys, could you bring some hot water and a cloth? The water is already heated. It's in the kitchen." the bald blacksmith asked Sansa. She nodded, and went to fetch the water and the cloth while Sandor took off the pieces of his armor covering up his cut. He was relieved to see that Nervere hadn't managed to cut very deep into the skin, but it would still take some weeks to heal completely.
"Gods be good," Sansa gasped, coming up to stand beside Burnek as the man cleaned up the cut and bandaged it.
"I've had worse, little bird," he told her. They were speaking in the Common Tongue, but Burnek must have understood that Sandor was assuring her that she shouldn't worry, for he said, in an attempt to distract her attention, "Thank you for the things, Alys. Help Edric clean the blood from his face and armor. We don't want to attract the guards' attention."
Sandor watched with both awe and amusement as Sansa did as she was told without flinching. To think she couldn't even look at me once. And now she could clean another man's blood from his armor, as if Burnek had asked her to cook some of her damnable lemon cakes.
"Here, give it to me," he told her, gesturing at the wet cloth. He didn't like to think that she was cleaning Arman's blood from him. At least she didn't get blood on herself, or we would have to wait for her to change and wash.
"You cannot move while Burnek is tending your arm," she told him. "You can help once he is done. Now stay still."
This was one of these moments when Sansa didn't know if she wanted to dance with joy, or stand still so she could adjust her mind to everything that had happened, but there was simply no time for any of that. The situation they were in demanded her to be practical, so she helped the blacksmith with Sandor, trying to quicken their departure.
They could delay no more if they wanted to join the caravan before dusk. After she had cleaned the blood from Sandor's armor, the latter stood up and went to quickly wash his face. When he came back, they joined Frema and Vintos in the forge after Sandor had asked Sansa to fetch him his traveler's cloak. He donned it and pulled the hood so his face was obscured. Sansa had taken her own cloak as well, and though it was not very likely that a hood would be of great help while the sun of Norvos shone brightly up in the sky, she nonetheless thought it best to take precautions.
"Did you pack enough water, food and warm clothing?" Sandor asked her, as his eyes fell on the horses' saddles and the pair of bedrolls attached to them. He began to inspect how well attached the saddles were, quickly checking the horses' hooves and the reins before he put his steel gauntlets into a bag in the saddle.
"Yes, everything that I deemed necessary," she assured him, counting off with her fingers the items and provisions she'd packed into the saddles. She was mentioning their smallclothes when Sandor suddenly lifted her chin with his hand, and remarked with an amused grin, "I'm very proud of you. You did better than I could've done when you faced the bunch of puffed up magisters. You've learned how to survive on your own."
Sansa took hold of the wrist belonging to the hand he had on her face. She smiled a little and said truthfully, "I do not want to survive on my own."
He looked down at her deeply, knowing what she meant, and snarled, "You will never have to."
She gazed up at the grey-eyed man, and inhaled his scent–so masculine–and stared at his hair, the color of his eyes, the burns of his face, committing them to memory.
They were interrupted by Frema saying, "Alys darling, remember the caravan. We have to go now."
Sandor and Sansa nodded in agreement, not tearing their gaze from each other, nor their touch, for a moment. When they broke apart, Sandor went to pat his blacksmith friend in the back, thanking him for everything, "And for that sword of yours as well. It's bloody good."
Sansa smiled and thanked Burnek with all her heart, and while Frema and Vintos stepped forward to do the same, Sandor suddenly put his warm hands around her waist and before she could even blink, he'd seated her on Stranger.
"You are going to hurt yourself," she reprimanded him.
He only laughed at her and said, "Bugger that. You may be tall for a girl, but you're light as a feather."
She smiled when he seated himself behind her, after he'd slung his scabbard to the saddle so the pommel was within his reach.
"Vintos, you and Frema ride Nan and lead the way to the gate," Sandor said.
Vintos nodded and helped his wife up onto the chestnut mare. Sansa felt Sandor's strong arms circling her protectively as he reached out for Stranger's reins, and she leaned down her weight on his chest, resting her cheek against the hard metal of his breastplate. The nightmare is done, and you have him back now. Sansa had not been able to stop her tears from flowing once she was back in Sandor's arms. Those had been tears of utter happiness, and the feelings which had stirred in her heart at having him with her again had been too overwhelming.
"Are you ready, Sansa?" he whispered in her ear, leaning down.
His warm breath on her skin made her shiver in delight. She closed her eyes, treasuring this moment. "Yes, I am ready. Please, take me away from this city."
Sandor gave a last nod of farewell to Burnek, and they were off into the streets of Great Norvos. They are crowded again, Sansa noticed. Now that there were no more trials or fights or beheadings, the Norvoshi had to go back to their daily tasks, and even if some of them recognized them, Sansa didn't really notice it or care. She was smiling as Stranger followed Nan's lead, while Vintos conducted them to the northern gate where they knew the caravan had set out from hours before, around midnight.
As they made their way through the cobblestone streets, Sansa's mind drifted back to the evening she and Sandor had first arrived here. They had been searching for a place to live, and they'd met Vintos and he'd directed them to The Three Bells Inn.
The days and nights they had shared under the roof of their little house had been full of happiness in their simplicity, and they'd grown so close to each other that it was no wonder they had both reacted so strongly to the outcome of their acquaintance with Arman.
She recalled telling the guards of the Bearded Priests that stopped them at the gates as they entered Norvos, that she was Sandor's wife. I guess I sort of lived up to that name in the time we were here, she thought with a smile. When she saw Vintos and Frema turning to look at them with a nod, Sansa stretched her neck to see what lay ahead of her friends, and saw that they had reached the northern gate of Great Norvos. She gazed at the ancient High City resting up in the mountain called Mother Rhoyne, and smiled because that was not going to be the place where she would be spending the rest of her life.
"Keep your face down," Sandor told her, as he brought Stranger beside Nan. Sansa turned her head to the side, catching sight of Frema, who winked at her in reassurance. She prayed silently that nothing would go wrong now, and tried to avoid staring at the guards of the Bearded Priests in front of their little party.
Thankfully, the old gods and the new must have been listening, for the city guard showed no interest in travelers going out of Norvos–and least of all when it was to the barren north they wished to head to. The guards were concerning themselves with the ones that were entering the city.
The moment Stranger stepped out of Norvos, Sansa's face broke into a smile, and she felt Sandor pressing her closer to him, as if reassuring himself that she was not going to disappear soon. Sansa, relishing at the proximity of their bodies, managed to forget for a moment that the next stage of their journey would take them to the crossroad where she would have to part from Frema and Vintos.
The natural beauty of the landscape was enough to distract her for a time. Sansa's eyes fell on the pine forests that they rode through, as they passed by the foot of the smaller mountains that composed the Hills of Norvos. The grand vastness of the wilderness that met them when they were barely outside of the city took her breath away. And so they at long last put an end to the milestone that had been their time in the Free City of Great Norvos, and before Narrah announced midday, they were all far away.
Sansa didn't really have a chance to converse much with her friends. For close to three hours, the only thing they did was ride and follow the wide road to the North, sometimes stopping so Sandor or Vintos could go and relieve themselves, but besides that, there were no interruptions to their escape. They did encounter many peasants heading towards the city, but Sansa's fear of encountering Mellario of Dorne coming from her estate in the Hills of the Nizzi to congratulate her nephew on his upcoming wedding never came to pass.
Now she'll only find ghosts there. She shuddered as she recalled the news of how Theon Greyjoy had killed her little brothers back in Winterfell. Do ghosts await me as well? Sandor had his own past to haunt him as well. Even Frema had something to mourn for due to her love affair with that man before she married Vintos. Everyone suffers in this life. Princes and villagers.
At one moment, she had been about to voice her fear to Sandor regarding Mellario, but something stopped her. It's good to be cautious, but if you dwell too much on the possibilities of something bad happening, you won't enjoy the chance with Sandor the gods have given you.
If she was honest with herself, Sansa was not afraid of what laid before her now. Weeks on the road, she gathered, with only Sandor to talk to. Whatever it was that laid at the end of this new journey could not be worse than the terrible fate they had just escaped from.
Yet no matter how much she fought it, her heart became heavier and heavier, for it pained her to think of what was to follow once they reached the crossroad the couple had talked about two nights ago.
"The way to our village from the city is to the north, but soon enough we will come upon a crossroad beside three big rocks, and there is where we will turn to the East, Alys," Vintos told her. "But you and Edric must follow the road to the North. The caravan is not likely to have left the road yet. It'll follow it from a week or so, before they start going down twisted unknown paths that will get them across the Hills of Norvos."
When they reached the crossroad beside three big rocks, Sansa gulped and tried to smile bravely for her friends. Vintos and Frema dismounted from Nan, while Sandor helped Sansa. The moment her feet touched the ground, she staggered a little, unaccustomed to riding for so long after such a long time in Norvos, but Sandor was quick to catch her. She thanked him before Frema threw her arms around her and started to cry.
Sansa comforted her friend, patting her back, and telling her how grateful she was for everything she and Vintos had ever done for her and Sandor, meaning every word. Her eyes fell on Vintos, who was looking at his feet. He said, "This is a sad affair. I am really glad that you two managed to overcome what happened in the last days, but it's still sad to say good-bye now."
Sandor looked a bit uncomfortable listening to Vintos; Sansa went to hug the latter. Frema and Sandor were left staring at each other for a moment. Finally, Sandor coughed and rasped, "It was good to have met you both."
Frema smiled as she dried her tears. "You'll take care of Alys, won't you?"
Sandor nodded solemnly, and Frema appeared content with that silent promise. Sansa punched Vintos slightly on the arm after they'd drawn apart, and he said, "It was a pleasure to have met you both. I don't think–I don't think we'll ever forget you."
"No, it is us the ones who are honored to have met you," Sansa told them, shooting a look at Sandor, urging him to say something.
"Seven buggering hells," Sandor rasped. "Don't mention it, Vintos. I owe you and your wife a lot. Thank you for taking care of her when I was unable to do so."
Frema smiled widely at those words, and Vintos looked simply startled but pleased when Sandor offered him his hand.
When they finished shaking hands, Vintos cleared his throat and said, "If we ever have a child, we wanted to know if you wouldn't mind us calling him Edric if it's a boy, or Alysanne if it's a little girl…"
Sansa gently squeezed his hand, and exclaimed, "I shall pray to the gods that your child is healthy, and lives up to be as good as the parents when he or she comes into the world."
When Vintos and Frema turned towards the East road at last, they did so wishing Sandor and Sansa all luck in the world, and Sansa realized as she watched their retreating backs walking away, that it didn't really matter that her friends would never learn who she and Sandor were. They do not know Sansa Stark or Sandor Clegane. They came to know and love Alysanne Mallister and Edric Goodbrook, and those are the names they should chose for their child.
The moment they finally disappeared from her view, Sansa knew that Alysanne and Edric were now gone forever. It was time to move on. Sansa turned around to see that Sandor had been regarding her quietly, and she smiled and never thought about her next movement twice. She walked over to him and hugged him, drawing comfort from his presence, while Sandor's strong, muscled arms encircled her. One of his hands held her by the waist, while the other began to caress the back of her head, running it down across the length of her auburn curls.
"They'll be all right," Sandor rasped in a low tone, after they had been hugging for some minutes. "They don't like it, but they're survivors."
Sansa buried her face on his chest, feeling the cold dirty metal of his armor against her cheek. "I know they will."
"Sansa," Sandor said, at last calling her by her name now that they were alone that there was no danger of saying it out loud. "We–we have to talk, little bird."
She raised her face to look at him. "I know we do. But, please, let's talk later. I'm so happy right now without anything else in my mind but the fact that you are here with me again. And besides, there is no time. We have to reach the caravan."
Sandor nodded, stroking the line of her cheekbone with his rough fingers. "Very well. Let's go."
They walked over to where the horses were eating some dry grass, and Sandor snarled, "Would you still like to ride in front of me? We can tie Nan's reins to us."
"Of course," she said, grabbing his hand. Sandor quickly tied Nan to the warhorse, and once again lifted her up to Stranger's saddle, as if she really didn't weigh anything at all. His hands were strong and never trembled as he held her, and when she had adjusted herself on the saddle, she looked down at him, smiling, meaning to thank him, only to find that he was staring at her intently. She felt Sandor's hand slide down slowly from her waist to her hip, down her thigh till it had caressed the length of her leg before it stopped on her calf.
"Thank you," she finally said, still smiling.
Sandor squeezed her calf in answer and let his hand linger there for a moment. He took his hands away slowly, his long fingers brushing against the fabric of her simple dress, before he seated himself behind her. When he again surrounded her with his arms, Sansa's tummy started making funny noises.
"Are you hungry?" he rasped bending towards her neck. The feeling of his warm breath on her ear was nice.
"Very," she replied letting out her breath, as her tummy made funny noises. "I–I have not been able to enjoy anything for days now."
"I am afraid you won't be enjoying good food for a while. Here, there's an apple."
"What about you?" she asked, after he had searched in the saddlebag for one, and passed it to her.
"I'll eat later. I need both hands now. But you go on ahead, little bird."
"How does your arm feel now?" she wondered, shifting around in the saddle to get a good look at him. "Does it still hurt you very much?
Sandor rasped a laugh. "No, little bird. It doesn't hurt me very much. It's nothing I can't stand."
Sansa bit her lip, uncertain. "You will tell me if it starts to hurt you again, won't you?"
Sandor brought his forehead to rest against the side of her head as he said, "If you wish."
"Promise?"
"Aye, little bird. I promise."
"Very well. I'll take a look at it when we've settled for the night. I will have to change it at least twice a day."
Before she was even finished, Sandor kicked Stranger in the stifle, and the horse was off in the blink of an eye, galloping down the road, Nan quickly following, while Sandor held her closer to him.
They didn't talk much. But there were so many things in both their minds, that silence was now just another sign of trust between them. It wasn't like in the first days after they'd fled King's Landing. If they had been silent then, it was because they were strangers compared to what they were now, and both had been, in one way or another, afraid of each other. But now they could be silent and draw comfort from it.
Sandor concentrated on riding, steering Stranger through the safest terrains he could find as they followed the road north, with only occasional stops. Once they reached the banks of a small river, Sandor got down from the black horse to make sure it was safe to cross before he led Stranger and Nan to the other side. It was shallow and easy to ford.
From there, they kept on following the road, knowing they were going the right way because there were no other roads about, and because the caravan made its presence known on the lands it crossed by footprints or small belongings people left behind. Through valleys and up small hills they rode, with a range of tall mountains to one side. Some hours after they had parted from Vintos and Frema at the crossroads, they passed a large village settled at the foot of the Hills of Norvos. The village was an untouched place inland of the mountainous region. It was a little arduous to get to it since it was so far removed from everyone, making Sansa feel like she was traveling through time back to the ancient times before the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea to Westeros. Few people lived in the village, and they spent their lives tending little gardens amongst weeds, while children played naked in the mud.
At one point Sansa found herself recalling Arman Nervere. She was sorry that he had to die, for it could've been avoided, but she had seen so much in the past two years that his death did not really make an impression on her. If he ever did me a kindness, then I am thankful to him for that at least.
She didn't think it possible, but at one point, near dusk, when the sun was low in the sky and they had slowed down in fear of breaking their horses' legs, Sansa felt her eyelids close and she managed to snatch some sleep for a little while in the saddle. She never knew how long she drifted off to the land of dreams, but her eyes opened wide when Stranger stopped moving, and she realized just how weary she felt. The consequences of the lack of sleep and food in the last worrying days were making their appearance now, which was no good. Her legs felt numb from all the time they'd been riding.
Sansa looked around her and saw that they had now left some the woods behind them, and were standing at the top of a small hill, and below them, the caravan was settling down for the night.
"Little bird," Sandor said behind her, moving her gently, "We've reached the caravan. Wake up. We have to be ready before we reach it."
"Ready for what?"
Sandor got down from Stranger, and replied, "Come, let me help you or you'll fall from the horse."
Sansa put her arms around his shoulders, wincing a little as she touched the ground. It had been so long since they rode this long in a single day, yet every little shot of pain felt as familiar as if it had only been yesterday.
"Are you all right?" he asked her with concern in his voice, as he supported her up. She nodded, grabbing his strong arms for support.
"Yes, I just need to rest."
"You'll be able to do so in a moment," Sandor told her, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. "I'm tired. Little bird, before we go down there, do you remember the story we told the captain of the ship that brought us to Essos?"
Sansa nodded, recalling with detail every day they'd been aboard The Summer Bird.
Sandor continued, "We should call ourselves like we did back then. We must guard our tongues here. If anyone asks, I am bloody Ser Byan Stone–"
"And I'm Jeyne," she finished. "We escaped Westeros because we thought we could make a better life in the East rather than in the Seven Kingdoms with the war going on. I don't think they will be asking us much more than that. Vintos said they wouldn't care about us, so long as we paid for joining the caravan."
"Vintos was right. Do you think you can walk down the hill, Sansa, and lead Nan as well? I need a free arm so that I can reach my sword in case we need it."
"I think so," she answered, disentangling her chestnut mare's reins while Sandor buckled on his sword belt. They made their way slowly down the hill, the light of many little fires guiding them. When they reached the foot of the hill, Sansa saw that there were more than five-and-ten fires spread in the surroundings, with people resting by them in small groups that went from two to ten. The nearest gave them furtive glances, but once their eyes fell on Sandor, armed and with his usual scowl, they were quick to return to their business.
They are a solemn lot, Sansa thought, as Sandor guided her over to a solitary tree away from the fires. She tended his wound while Sandor assured her that it didn't really hurt him much anymore. Once they had started a fire, fed the horses and tied them up, Sandor took out some of the food she and Frema had packed two nights ago.
They were so tired that they didn't even untie their bedrolls. There was bread and cheese and skins of water. Sansa was content with just eating her dinner silently, looking all around her, at the people who would be their traveling companions for who knew how many weeks.
Sandor had meanwhile taken out the maps of Essos they owned, and was staring at it intently.
"It's not so very cold tonight," she commented at one point, using her dagger to cut more bread.
He didn't even raise his eyes from the map. So concentrated was he. Yet he shrugged and said, "Can't really feel it with this armor on."
"Won't you take it off? I can help you."
Sandor looked up at her, as she knew he would do, "It's a tempting offer, little bird, but I don't think so. If I take it off, someone could steal it. And it's too much weight for Stranger to carry all day long. I don't need to ride all the time. I can carry the weight for a long time."
Sansa took a last drink from her skin of water, and as ladylike as she could, she moved over to where Sandor was sitting, his back to the trunk of the tree.
"Hold me," she told him, and he did, his eyes never leaving her face. She sat beside him, and Sandor put his arm around her, while she sighed at how good this gesture always made her feel. Someone coughed in the fire next to theirs, and a baby started crying some distance away, but they didn't pay it any mind.
"Where are we heading to now, Byan Stone?" she asked Sandor, as his eyes went back to the map, his hand still caressing her arm unconsciously.
Sandor laughed and ruffled her hair. "You didn't think on what taking this caravan would mean, did you?"
Sansa shook her head. "No. I planned our escape from Norvos. It's your turn to decide where we are going to go."
"Well, we don't really have that much gold anymore, little bird," he said, in a low voice in case anyone was close enough to hear them. "I will ask an inspector as soon as I see one if this caravan is in truth really heading for the North, and just where to exactly. If we reach the Shivering Sea, I reckon I could find some work to do in one of the towns by the sea, and once I've earned enough wages to get us passage aboard a ship, we could decide then where to go forth next. Westeros, or another of the Free Cities."
Sansa didn't want to think about that now. "Wake me up when you are feeling sleepy and I'll keep second watch."
He grunted in agreement. Sansa shifted around and gave Sandor a quick hug and a kiss on his burned cheek. "Sandor, I know that you don't like it when I call you brave. But you showed great courage this morning."
Sandor looked deep into her Tully blue eyes. "I was afraid, Sansa. When I saw that bloody flaming sword, I couldn't breathe for a moment."
"I understand," Sansa assured him, feeling so much for her big man in these moments. Her hand lightly traced the scars and burns that had ruined half of his face before she went on, "I overheard my father telling my brother Robb and Jon once that the only time when a man can be brave is when he is scared. I know in my heart that had you been forced to face fire again, you would have won."
A/N: Dear readers, I wish for you all to have a Wonderful Christmas, and I send you a big hug! The last couple of months with this fic have only been more meaningful because of you all. Thank you for reading and reviews are love :D 3