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 ;) and there will be times when her lyrics are used here.
*The best betas anyone could ever ask for: onborrowedwings & nysandra! I take my hat off to you both again for your help :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.
- I would like to dedicate this one to bgona, a great friend! ;)
33. Lorath
Sansa was very happy during the following weeks. After spending almost two months on the road with the caravan, before settling at the castle by the Bay of Lorath where the only crowded place to be found was The Stinking Fish inn in the little town of Munne, every morning here felt like a breath of fresh air to her. Each dawn brought with it the promise of an exciting new day for her and Sandor to do whatever they wanted in the Free City of Lorath, and they could come and go without any questions being asked whenever they pleased. There were so many places to visit in this city, they discovered, and so many strangers to observe that Sansa at times wanted to spend all day long outdoors.
Sandor and her visited markets and bathhouses, gardens and mummer shows, and at night accompanied Hagen to an inn for drinks and some dancing a couple of times. Sansa's big man had been at first reluctant to go, since he didn't deemed it right for her to visit some tavern with drunken men, but the former outlaw had assured them that the inn was a decent place for her to visit.
That first trip to the inn was the funniest time Sansa recalled enjoying in a long while. She was drunk on the magic of the night, giddy with glamour, swept away by beauties she had dreamt of all her life and never dared hope to know in a place like this. This is even better than a grand ball attended by all the nobility of Great Norvos.
Once she would've turned her nose up at the mere mention of dining on greasy roasted goat and ale, but the crowd in the common room was a merry lot, and soon enough Sansa was laughing and dancing with Hagen to lively songs that were not too bawdy.
"Will you dance with Jeyne, Byan?" Hagen had asked Sandor when he first asked Sansa if she cared to dance.
"Don't dance," Sandor had growled, taking a sip of his tankard and avoiding her disappointing face.
Yet after almost an hour of dancing–of remembering how much she loved to do this even if the way Lorathi danced at the inn was completely different to the styles she had learned as a child and at court–Sansa was flushed and a little drunk and determined to have at long last a proper first dance with her big man.
So heading determinedly towards the alcove where Sandor was sullenly and silently brooding alone, a scowl on his face, Sansa stepped up beside him. She glanced around them quickly to make sure no one was listening and said, as she attempted to catch her breath, "Sandor, please, won't you dance with me? I'm only asking for one song."
"Little bird, you know I don't dance," Sandor spat, running a hand through his hair, glancing at her briefly, undressing her with his eyes, "I wouldn't know what to do or–"
"Sandor, look around you," she had interrupted in an angry whisper. "Nobody here is paying us any mind. You attract more attention by being the only person sitting down than you would by joining everybody. Please, I want to dance with the man I love."
Her big man had stared hard at her, and for a long moment he said nothing. His silence started to unnerve her after a time, but just as she was about to turn around and go away, Sandor had snarled, "Seven hells, all right, bird."
She had beamed at him and had clapped her hands excitedly together at his long awaited agreement. With a gulp and a shake of the head, Sandor stood up and walked beside her towards the corner of the room where everybody was dancing, and said in a rough voice, "Let's bloody well get on with it then."
Sansa knew that dancing was not something Sandor had probably ever done before, so she was happy when he surprised her with dancing better than Hagen did. He wasn't a skilled or graceful dancer, but he didn't step on her feet once, and was content with allowing her to lead when he was unsure as to how to proceed. Hagen winked at them when he saw them, but Sandor didn't see or care. When the dance ended, he didn't return to his seat, though.
Looking up at him with a disarming smile, she saw how that gesture helped to make her love make up his mind, and cursing under his breath, he brought one of his large hands to rest on her waist, while the other one grabbed her hand and brought it upwards, pressing it between them. Sansa rested her free hand on Sandor's arm and slowly moved in circles, letting him lead her this time. When the dance was over, Sandor bent down and without giving her a moment to breathe or blink, and kissed her deeply in front of everyone at the inn.
Sansa couldn't help but burst into giggles when Hagen whistled at them loudly, but Sandor only shot him a murderous look that made him laugh and call to the servants working for the innkeep, "More wine and ale!"
"I love you so much," Sansa exclaimed, throwing her head back, laughing and showing Sandor her teeth.
"No more than I love you," he whispered, bending down so that she alone could hear him, as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The headache Sansa woke up with on the following morning didn't hurt as much whenever she recalled the memories of her first dance with him.
Sandor and Sansa had dinner in the little shops by the frozen canals on some occasions, mingling as best they could with the Lorathi sitting around them, as they all stared at the way Lorath came alive by night. But living at The Ruins was also quite fun. Since Bryar was away, and Hagen didn't mind them exploring his house one bit, Sandor and her discovered many lovely places and hidden corners in which they daringly learned what the other one wanted or was curious about, discovering what pleased them.
And there was even more than that to make their stay at the Edars' agreeable. The food always tasted delicious, and, despite the cold, Sansa and her big man were able to spend many afternoons laying down on a couple of blankets in the garden of the house, underneath the shadow of the trees. Sometimes just looking at each other in silence was enough, but they also talked, laughed, told each other jests or stories, and even planned their future together in the North, cuddled underneath many furs.
Sansa had blushed lightly when she had asked Sandor how many children he wished to have on one of these occasions, and had turned crimson when he couldn't stop laughing for some reason at her. She had almost stormed away in embarrassment at one point, but he had taken hold of her hand, stopping her. After kissing her and telling her that he would be more than happy with whatever number of children they had, Sansa reluctantly frowned and nodded.
During their stay in Lorath, they also began having little rows, but Sansa knew that considering how different Sandor and her were, it had always been bound to happen, and even more so now that they were together like this. Sometimes Sandor laughed at her expense, the corners of his mouth crinkling after he'd told her one of his bored, sardonic remarks, but only once did Sandor become really angry with her. It was when she had unconsciously wondered out loud how Ser Dontos would be faring these days, after watching a fool and some dwarves entertain a small crowd at a square.
"And why in seven hells would you give a fuck about that bloody idiot, little bird?" Sandor had asked her, narrowing his eyes.
Sansa had bitten her lip hard, quickly realizing the manner in which Sandor was going to react at hearing how she had trusted her Florian long ago, and true enough, her big man was not happy, his features twisting in anger as she went on with her tale.
After he had roughly pointed out all the things that could've gone wrong had she gone on believing what Ser Dontos told her in the godswood of Maegor's, Sandor had roared, "Bloody hells, and why didn't you tell me all of this before, Sansa?"
"I forgot!" she had returned, her anger rising. "So many things happened when we escaped that it slipped my mind, and later it was never important enough for me to remember it."
Sansa was starting to get vexed with Sandor's reactions, and was afraid that he would suddenly storm away and go get drunk at a tavern again, like he'd done back in Great Norvos when Arman Nervere had kissed her. So when he didn't do that, Sansa had thanked both the old gods and the new silently in great relief. When Sansa finally made Sandor listen to her, her big man nodded in understanding and acceptance at the reasons behind her desperate actions with Ser Dontos. Yet he rasped he wasn't happy with not knowing who had sent Dontos the Red to help her.
Whoever it was, it doesn't matter now, Sansa realized later. I'm glad I went away with Sandor. I would be suffering right now in King's Landing, in case Ser Dontos had failed me completely. And the thought of having to suffer in her golden cage without Sandor was unbearable. That night, instead of going away to a wineskin shop, Sandor and she talked for long hours in their bedroom before the fireplace, hugging each other, and telling the other about what it had been like for them both to live at the Red Keep after Joffrey killed her father.
They let those ghosts rest, and were ready in the morning to move on with their lives, not looking back, aware that their relationship gained strength with every new obstacle they overcame, no matter how small, no matter if it was a trial in which Sandor's life hanged by a thread, or a confession from the past.
It had also dawned on Sansa, on one of those afternoons spent in the garden of The Ruins, that since the time to return to Westeros was near, she should at least get some of her wedding preparations done by herself, if the ceremony was to happen quickly. Sandor and she hadn't talked about when it would happen, but Sansa knew that if they waited to get her family's approval, and then for all the preparations to be done, then her wedding wouldn't happen for months and months yet to come. And I am not sure I can wait that long, she told herself honestly.
So the day after, accompanied by Amon, Sansa bought yards of yellow, white, grey and black satin, and on Sandor's startled look at her return to The Ruins, explained, "I want us to be ready. I don't need us to have a grand affair that would take months to be arranged. And though I would prefer it if my family was with us on that day, if in the end we must have a hasty ceremony, somewhere, as long as you are there I won't complain."
Sandor had stared at her speechless for a moment, but later that night when they were alone in bed, he had clung to her in a possessive embrace that Sansa more than willingly returned.
Beside the fabric for their wedding cloaks, Sansa also went to buy clean cloths when her moonblood visited her. It was hard at first to find the stall inside the market where she could find them–for she couldn't bring herself to ask some servant in the Edars' household about it in case they started gossiping about her and Sandor–but once she encountered an old woman who looked trusting enough, everything went well in that regard.
Some days later, Sansa returned to the same market so she could order two new dresses at a shop where pretty gowns were being made and sold. One was for her everyday use, but the second one was quite special, since Sansa had in mind that she might wear it when she and Sandor were taken to her lady mother's and Robb's presence. It was a gown in the colors of House Stark. And if I wear the fur-trimmed cloak Sandor gave me on our namedays, the fact that the fabric isn't fit enough for a Princess of the North to wear will be concealed. Not that her family would mind her attire, but Sansa was a lady and certain details were expected of her.
One morning when they had been in Lorath for three weeks, as Sansa, Sandor and Hagen broke their fast in the dining hall of The Ruins, old Amon came to bring Hagen a paper that made Edar almost jump enthusiastically on his seat.
"What is it now, Edar?" Sandor asked, staring at the outlaw as if he was a madman.
"Amon, when did you get this?" Hagen asked his steward, not even hearing Sandor's question.
"It just arrived, lad," the old man said, grinning from ear to ear. "We will be attending it, won't we?"
Sansa looked curiously at Hagen, and saw the way his dark merry eyes brightened up in excitement, and he answered, "Aye, Amon. Of course we will!"
"What is it?" Sansa asked, trying to get a good look at the words on the parchment.
Hagen finally seemed to remember his guests and said apologetically, "Oh, I'm sorry, Jeyne. I am being rude. Please, take a look, isn't it exciting news? It's the biggest event of the year in Lorath!"
He handed her the paper and Sansa quickly took it in her hands, reading its message, as Sandor looked over her shoulders at the parchment.
"Why is it so bloody exciting that the Lord of Lorath is celebrating his nameday?" Sandor rasped, voicing the question Sansa was silently wondering.
"Because the Lords of Lorath always make a grand affair of it," Amon answered her big man, standing behind Hagen's chair, holding his hands behind him.
"They do," Edar agreed. "No matter the Lord, this always turns out to be quite the peak on a Lorathi's life. Everyone, whether they be common people or nobles, or foreigners, can participate."
"What do they do at this event?" Sansa asked the former outlaw, handing him back the paper.
"Many things. They city hosts a reasonable amount of games in celebration. They start in three days and will likely last for a week. Would you like to go?"
Sandor and Sansa exchanged a look and quickly agreed, as Sandor placed his warm hand above her knee under the table and squeezed it. She returned her gaze to him and smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder, happily remembering the days of the tournament in King's Landing held on her father's honor. These games sound like that. There were no knights in the Free Cities, so there surely wouldn't be a mêlée or any jousting, but it sounded exciting to her.
Hagen Edar and old Amon smiled at their consent, the former rubbing his hands together and flexing his fingers, while the latter nodded and said, "I shall send word of your answer at once to the Lord."
Sandor glanced at Sansa, who nodded and grinned.
The last day of the games was too fucking cold for Sandor's liking, and yet the sun was actually bright today considering this island was in the north. He was making his way through the crowd, which was an easy task thanks to his height, bulk and face, to the seats Hagen had bought for the three of them, as well as for his old steward. The celebrations in honor of the Lord of Lorath's nameday had been better than Sandor would've expected, and had even reminded him of the tourneys he'd visited in King's Landing and Lannisport years back, even if there had been no jousting or mêlées, and thankfully, no knights. There were many participants from other Free Cities, most of whom were from Braavos, Pentos or Ibben, but Sandor hadn't spied any fellow Westerosi anywhere.
No wonder. Not until Hagen got his invitation had I ever heard of these games. Back at the Red Keep no one had ever learned about them, but that was little wonder since no one at court cared what happened in this part of the world.
Sansa was more fascinated with the games than he would've thought. She had looked on at the different matches with eager bright eyes and a beaming smile, clapping her hands together in enthusiasm whenever she won in the bets they made, looking ravishing. Today, being the last day of the games, she had done her hair differently, but she looked just as beautiful as she always did. And the pink gown Edar had given her had a neckline that made it too buggering hard for anyone to look away from her round perfectly full breasts, as it showed the slenderness of her waist, or the sway of her hips when she walked.
Had Sandor not known that Hagen was not interested in the little bird, and was still too fucked up by his wife's death, he would have struck the bugger's eyes out at his daring, but since Sansa had been very pleased with the gown, Sandor had remained silent. He knew she didn't have as many pretty dresses as she would like, and since Edar had insisted on her accepting it in thanks for allowing him to join them after they left the caravan, after she had replied that it was too much, Sandor had laid his hand on her shoulder and, bending down so that she alone could hear him, he'd rasped low in her ear, "Take it. I can't wait to see you in it."
His bird had blushed and stammered a quiet, "Thank you," to Hagen, and Sandor thought that was the end of that. I was fucking wrong, wasn't I?
Sansa looked very pretty, the color of her gown bringing out the auburn of her hair, and Sandor had done nothing all morning long but notice how men stared hungrily at her, the way a beggar would look at a hundred gold dragons. His hand had gone to the pommel of his sword a thousand times today, ruining his concentration on the first matches of today, grounding his teeth in frustration.
The little bird was at present sitting beside old Amon in the stalls, asking him hundreds of questions. Sandor had left her alone for some moments, and was just spying her at some distance when his gaze was suddenly caught by a man in black, with a quiver full of arrows on his back and a bow on his hand.
Seven hells, is that Edar? Sandor wondered, straining his neck to try and get a better look at the man's retreating back. What the fuck is that madman doing with all of that? Hagen had excused himself to Sansa and him and his old wet-nurse about half an hour ago, and Sandor had barely paid his absence any mind, but now he felt too curious as to simply walk away and return to his seat, despite the fact that trumpets were announcing that the last competition of the games was about to start; the archery contest. He can't be…?
Following the direction Edar had taken, Sandor strode through the people, the small pavilions of the competitors, the stalls and the banners snapping fiercely in the air, to the field where the archers were gathering, almost ready for the signal to begin. Sandor shouldered the fat boy beside Hagen out of the way, as the bugger took out a couple of arrows from his quiver. The boy yelled at him in Valyrian with an accent that was unknown to his ear, "Watch where you're going, brute!"
Sandor spared the boy a look and spat, "Bugger you."
The boy turned white as he saw his burns, and quickly looked away. When Sandor noticed another archer raise his eyebrows at him, he snarled, "And you as well."
Hagen had turned around at the sounds of the commotion, and exclaimed in surprise, "Byan, what are you doing here?"
Turning his attention to the madman, Sandor answered, "Following you. What the bloody hells are you doing? You aren't thinking of participating, are you?"
Hagen scowled at him, slipping an arrow with brown feathers from his quiver before he nocked it to his bowstring determinedly. "Of course I am. I'm an excellent archer."
Sandor snorted in amusement. "You?" You're one of the most useless men I've ever met.
"Indeed, me." Leaning closer to him to avoid his competitors from overhearing, the madman asked him, "Have you forgotten what I was when your first met me? I didn't become the most fabled outlaw in the Hills of Norvos for nothing, you know. Don't believe me if it please you, but I'm a deadly archer. I have an exceptional sight, as these fools beside me are about to discover."
Sandor frowned at that. He has a point, he thought, reluctantly. The Norvoshi in the caravan had almost pissed themselves when they realized whom they had caught thanks to Stranger, but Sandor had wondered more than once in the months after that night why Edar was considered to be the greatest outlaw when he was sodding harmless.
He raided the caravan by night, when it was still quite dark. That was a clever move. Yet Sandor shook his head, unbelieving. He just couldn't think of Hagen as good at anything until he was proved wrong. So he barked a laugh, and spared a glance at the fat boy who'd shouted at him.
"The fool next to you looks so green he must still piss grass. So I reckon that you're right. Even Jeyne could outshoot him easily."
"The boy you pushed a moment ago is Atus of Anders, and Amon told me he won this very match last year. Now, if you'll excuse me, my friend, the competition is about to start."
It was true, Sandor realized. The crowd was shouting and the trumpets had stopped. Sandor stepped back from the field a short distance away from Edar, smirking, arms crossed in front of his chest, waiting to see if the outlaw's lack of modesty was well deserved.
The archery contest was a hundred paces, and there were three-and-ten competitors. Sandor saw the way Hagen drew the bowstring to his ear the moment the signal to begin was given, and swiftly loosed his shaft. The arrow whistled in the air and hit the target straight.
Seven bloody buggering hells! Sandor thought, incredulous, staring at the target with wide eyes as the crowd cheered all around him, angry that he had been proved wrong. After two more tries in which Hagen hit the target straight once again, Sandor was surprised, his opinion of the outlaw different from the one it'd been a moment ago. He could recognize a gifted archer when he saw one, and Edar definitely was one.
The archery competition, Sandor learned later, was the most famous in the games because of the quality and quantity of participants, and the winning prize. With a shake of the head, he watched as the Lord of Lorath, a whale even fatter than the ship that had brought him and the little bird to this city, gave the bloody grinning madman his winnings.
Sansa had wondered a few days back if it wouldn't be wise for him to join the competitions, but he had shaken his head, not wishing to draw unwanted attention to him and her by becoming a winner.
That night Hagen invited his old friends and Sansa and Sandor to celebrate his triumph at his favorite inn. It was the place where the little bird had made Sandor dance with her, he remembered, taking in the way Sansa was drinking from her cup little ladylike sips. He had never felt more conscious of his movements as he did when he held her in her arms in the middle of a crowd of drunk Lorathi and started moving, but he had liked dancing, Sandor had to admit with chagrin. But how couldn't I, when Sansa was the one I was with? The one I was making happy by accepting. He grinned at the sight and put his arm around her.
"You're supposed to drink deep," he pointed out, before barking across the table at Edar, "Are you of any use with a sword?"
The outlaw laughed at the question. "No, I'm not a very good swordsman, I'm afraid. I may have been had I been born and raised in the Seven Kingdoms, but since I wasn't, I turned out to be terrible with a blade. I can't use a sword to save my life, believe me. I learned that a couple of years back after raiding a merchant's caravan and learned my lesson. I can't lift a sword without doing more damage to myself than to my opponent."
Sansa, placing her hands on the surface of the table beside Sandor, exclaimed, "You can be skilled with other weapons beside a sword. When you were living in Norvos did you ever try out one of those dreadful axes the guards of the Bearded Priests are always wearing?"
Shaking his head, Hagen smiled at the little bird. "No, I never learned how to use those, Jeyne. But before I became an outlaw, a friend of mine taught me how to fight with daggers, and after a month I won in a fight against him. He was quite the skilled dagger fighter, I must say. That turned out to be another of the reasons why I became the most fabled outlaw in the Hills of Norvos. Amon told me the other day that one of Bryar's lovers taught her the same skill, and that she mastered it pretty fast as well."
Sansa nodded, looking impressed. One of Edar's friends called his name in that moment, and the outlaw stood up and went away, leaving Sandor and Sansa alone. The little bird started chirping about everything the old steward had told her this morning regarding the games while he was away, but Sandor was having a hard time listening to what she was telling him. She had, more than once, brushed her breasts against his arm, and touched his thigh, so Sandor only wasted a moment before lowering the arm he had around her shoulders discreetly down to her waist, throwing caution to the airs, noticing Sansa's cheeks going red with arousal.
She looks so fucking pretty, he thought, his eyes raking over her neckline. He quickly silenced her as he leaned down and kissed, bit and licked her throat, thankful that no one was paying them any mind and that their alcove was hidden in the inn's common room's shadows, as he placed his hand on her thigh, the agonizingly low, slow moan she let out after her sharp intake of breath making him aware of the growing tightness in his breeches.
A week after Hagen Edar won the archery competition, Sansa was lying down in bed, looking up at the ceiling, trying to concentrate on her musings, but Sandor was making it hard for her. It was late at night, and they were waiting in their bedroom at The Ruins for the summons to dinner. Earlier, Amon the steward had told them it was going to be served a little later than usual tonight, and in the meantime, Sansa and her big man had quickly found a way to distract themselves from the waiting.
"Maybe Robb will grant us lands and a keep after some time when we've returned," Sansa remarked, her lips slightly parted at the way Sandor was slowly making his way up her leg, trailing kisses on her skin, even as his hand slipped under skirts, between her dress and undergarments. Her breath caught in her throat as he bit her, and yet, despite what she was feeling, she couldn't keep her mind from straying back to the vast range of possibilities that awaited them both once they returned to her family.
"Your brother will want to have us close to him for at least a couple of years to keep an eye on me, and make sure I don't harm his pretty sister or betray you all, little bird" Sandor rasped, sliding his hand across the side of her left leg to the inside of her thigh. He kissed her in between every word at a different place, making Sansa giggle and run her hand across his broad back whenever she could reach it.
She sighed at his words, though, seeing the truth in them. She propped herself higher on the mattress and rested her back against the bed's headboard. He left her legs so he could kiss her, and when she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her eyes shut tightly, she bit at his neck gently, and then moved down to his collarbone. Sandor leaned down to rest his head in between her chest and belly after releasing a long deep groan at her actions, wrapping his arms around her so tightly, that Sansa had to shift around a bit so that she could pry loose her arms and start running her hands through his hair, as it fell to hid his face from view. I won't think about Westeros tonight, she told herself again for the hundredth time in this past fortnight.
It was not the wisest course of action, but she couldn't very well keep on thinking about the way the world would condemn the love she and Sandor had for the other in this moment, when her big man was making her feel like this, to the point where every new breath came out ragged. Sandor had raised his head and had resumed his previous daring touches and caresses of affection on her leg, groaning, making her moan in return when he once again stroked her thighs soothingly.
By the time dinner was at long last ready, Sansa, who was feeling quite hungry, quickly squirmed for freedom from underneath Sandor, and stood up from the bed and put her slippers on. But Sandor didn't seem inclined to hasten.
"Let's go, I'm starving," she said, smoothing the skirts of her gown, aware that Sandor's grey eyes were hungrily devouring her.
"Must we? I'd rather stay here with you," he rasped, grinning up at her, still sprawled on his stomach on the bed, his leg brushing against her own.
Sansa chuckled and stepped closer to the bed, standing still when her knees hit the edge of the mattress. "The sooner I get some food in my belly the quicker we can resume what we were doing, big man."
Sandor chuckled at that, the sound sour, part rumble and part a snarl. Beaming, she offered him her hand to help him up. He took it in agreement, but when she tried to pull him upwards, she couldn't. He is so heavy, she thought, marveled at his muscular body, remembering how much she loved the intimacy he made her feel when she arched her back against him when he moved above her, pinning her to the bed, drawing from her quick breathings, lust, hazy thoughts, and so many more wonderful feelings.
He laughed again, and when she exclaimed, regaining her senses, "Sandor, I thought we had a deal," her words of protest were interrupted by him as he quickly stood up and muffled her voice with a long deep kiss.
They ate their dinner quickly, both wishing to return to the privacy of their bedrooms, but Hagen Edar delayed that by bringing up another of his propositions to them once the servants had brought them desert. Their host asked old Amon to please leave them then, but she didn't pay that much attention. Sansa had talked to Amon some days ago about the way to cook lemon cakes, and she was busy finishing her first one, when Hagen suddenly asked them, "Have you decided when you will be leaving for Braavos?"
Sansa exchanged a glance with Sandor and answered, "We went to the harbor the other day, and after making some inquiries decided that the merchant galley, Montufar's Dance, was the best option. It sails in a week and a half."
"A week and a half," Edar said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "That's time enough."
Sandor arched his eyebrow at him suspiciously. "Time enough for what?"
The former outlaw shot them a wary glance, looked unsure as to how to proceed before replying with an attempt at a cheery smile, "I was wondering if you two would allow me to accompany you to Braavos."
Sandor stared at the man with incredulity, but Sansa smiled at Hagen. It isn't very shocking that he wants to join us again, she decided, recalling the night this man, back then a prisoner, had asked them to join them after they departed the caravan when Sansa and Sandor left behind them the Hills of Norvos.
"Seven blasted hells, why would you want to do that?" Sandor snarled.
"Well, I've been thinking for the past weeks that it's the best course for me to take. You know about my wife. I have had nothing in this life since she died."
"But what about Bryar?" Sansa pointed out. "What will she think when she comes home and you've left again?"
Hagen Edar actually burst out laughing at that. "Oh, sweet Jeyne, I love my sister, but never for a moment would I be fool enough to think she would mind me leaving her. You see, Bryar doesn't really care what I do, as far as it's not something disreputable."
"And you're not planning on doing anything of that again?" Sandor asked, his tone daring their host to say the contrary. For the last couple of days, Hagen had taken to practicing his archery skills in The Ruins' gardens, and had bought a new bow and a quiver full of arrows, and would even go as far as to wear it on the streets of Lorath.
"Not at all!" Hagen exclaimed, carelessly. "I am still young, Byan, and have much strength. I want to see the world, and Braavos seems like a good place to start. Don't worry, we would part ways in the City of a Hundred Isles."
"Hagen, I treasure your friendship," Sansa said, "And for that very reason I have to ask if it wouldn't be wiser for you to remain here, and help your family's business instead. I won't mind it one bit if you come with us, but I feel compelled to point this out to you before you regret walking down the road you intend."
Her friend smiled kindly at her and shook his head. "Thank you for that, Jeyne. To be honest, I had considered it myself as well, but finally decided against it."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because my family's business belongs to Bryar now. I know I'm the son and the eldest child, but my sister has been the one that has been in charge for years. I would never seek to take that position from her, since she does a better job with it than I would ever be able to do now. And I don't want to live thanks to my sister's efforts. Even if she gave me the chance to try and make up for my mistakes after I lost my share of our fortune thanks to Arman Nervere by working at the warehouses, she would never seriously trust my abilities. I know I wouldn't."
Sansa felt very bad for Hagen, but she couldn't bring herself to try and comfort him. She knew that he didn't need it. He is looking for a way out from the fate he just described to us. She was aware that in some small way, Edar had grown fond of her and Sandor's company. Maybe that's why he doesn't want to leave us so soon. We make him feel better. There wasn't even much risk to him finding out their true identities if he was indeed going to separate himself from them after they reached Braavos.
Making up her mind, Sansa turned to address Sandor in the Common Tongue and said, "It didn't turn out too bad the first time we allowed him to join us."
A short while ago, Sandor would not have allowed this to happen, Sansa knew. But ever since the former outlaw had proved his worth with the bow and arrow, and with daggers, she had seen how Sandor had grown to trust Hagen a little more, and was therefore now more open to accept taking Edar along with them.
"Fuck," Sandor cursed, letting out a resigned sigh, nodding at her. "Very well. He can join us."
He looked at Edar and said in High Valyrian, "But only until we reach Braavos."
Hagen Edar bowed his head in appreciation, and Sansa's face broke into a wide smile before she kissed her big man in thanks.
Mist covered the broken caves men had built here long ago. The ground was still wet from the water that had fallen from above earlier, his paws sinking in the soft mud as he wandered about this place. It was dark all around him, but he had sharp eyes and there was little he missed. A cold wind ruffled his fur as he heard the croak of one of those black loud birds soaring across the sky.
She is late, a voice inside his head whispered anxiously, making him pace the ground with impatience. When he heard the sound of quick light footsteps and a different smell in the air some moments later, the wolf quickly darted among the trees and the old caves and finally settled beside a large stone, licking his fur, paying little attention to the urgent whispered voices nearby as he guarded his master's secret.
But after a short time the whispers became faint, making the wolf prick up his ears. The sound wasn't getting any louder. He stood up and quickly ran towards the place where he thought he could still hear his master calling, with the starry sky looking down on him, thinking that letting them out of his sight meant he had failed in his protection. Running fast among the broken caves, he stopped abruptly when a voice called "Sansa!"
Turning around in all directions, he finally spotted a face hidden in shadows behind a big white tree with leaves the color of blood and a face on its trunk. Raising his head up, he let out a long howl, singing to the moon, calling his brothers and sister–his pack–back to him.
Sansa opened her eyes suddenly, feeling goose bumps running through her limbs, a tingling rush of sensations coursing through her blood. It was early afternoon and the light of the Lorathi sun was streaming through the open window. The silence of the bedroom allowed her to hear the distant voices of people down at the beach, as well as of the sea outside The Ruins.
She had fallen asleep while she waited for Sandor to come back from the blacksmith. He and Hagen had taken Stranger and Nan to shoe the horses' hooves, but Sansa had preferred to get some rest, little expecting she would end up having the strangest of dreams. Sansa recalled it all with vivid clarity, and had even for a mad moment thought she could still smell the wet earth underneath her.
No, not underneath me. Underneath the direwolf. For there was little doubt in her mind that it hadn't been a regular wolf the one she'd felt but a direwolf, and particularly one belonging to her family's pack. She brought her hand to touch her forehead lightly, sighing. What an odd dream!
Looking absentmindedly at her surroundings, from the walls to the fireplace to the open window, Sansa wondered what the dream could mean. It was as if I was the wolf. Sansa shivered. It all seemed like a story straight out of one of Old Nan's tales. The animal was guarding someone, and got anxious when he felt he could no longer hear his master's voice. She frowned, propping herself on her elbows, feeling butterflies on her tummy. I haven't felt this so strongly since the time when Lady was alive. The direwolf had been one of Lady's brothers, it had clearly been a male. But whose?
There were Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggydog and Ghost. But anything could have happened to any of them in the months since she'd left Westeros. Lady had had a sister once as well, but Arya had lost Nymeria around the time when Sansa's direwolf had been unjustly killed. Sansa had no idea which wolf she'd dreamed of being, but now that she was awake, she knew that it had not been Nymeria, and that instead of feeling sad about remembering Lady and her siblings, Sansa was feeling a sort of peace in her heart. There was a certainty inside her that assured her the people the direwolf had been guarding in her dream were safe somehow.
And yet, she had spied the face of a boy behind the heart tree, hiding from her, from the wolf. It must have been the boy that called my name, Sansa concluded, nervously rubbing her tummy. I didn't see another soul nearby, but I thought for a moment that I recognized the voice of that shadow.
Thoughts about the dream and what it could mean went round and round in her head, but in the end Sansa shook her head in resignation. It was just a dream, it doesn't matter, not really, she tried to tell herself, even as she felt acutely how much she missed her Lady. A day came back to her memory then; the day when she had first spoken to Sandor. How curious that I first talked to Sandor on the day Lady's fate was decided.
Sansa had no desire to remember everything that had taken place on that dreadful day, from her disappointment with Arya to her time with Joffrey, to that butcher's boy who was friends with her sister, and whom Sandor had to run down, to her desire to be like Cersei Lannister, and least of all to recall the days that followed before and after Lady was killed. No, instead, she remembered only the moment when Ser Ilyn had frightened her and she had bumped into Sandor.
His strong hands had grasped her by her shoulders, making her think for a moment that it was her father, but then she had turned around and seen Sandor up close for the first time. Sandor's burned face had looked down at her with his mouth twisted in a terrible mockery of a smile before he rasped, "You are shaking, girl. Do I frighten you so much?"
He did back then, and had done so for many months afterwards, but even in those first moments I recognized that I was in truth not as frightened of Sandor as I was of Ser Ilyn. Sansa had nonetheless wrenched away from her big man, making him laugh in amusement, and then Lady had moved between them, rumbling a warning.
Gods, she hadn't thought of all of this in ages. Sighing once more, Sansa rose from the bed and went in search of her brush so she could untangle her auburn hair. Once that was done she decorated it with the baby pearl comb Sandor had bought for her in the town of Munne many weeks ago, singing and waiting, recalling their time at the old castle by the Bay of Lorath.
When Sandor finally came back, Sansa quickly walked towards the door to meet him as he stepped inside. He grinned and placed his hands on her waist after locking the door behind him, carrying her off the ground so their faces were at the same height, and he didn't have to bend down to kiss her. Sansa returned his smile and his kiss, and hugged him tightly to her, making him groan and rasp, "Missed me, did you?"
Sansa nodded, burying her head on his neck. "Very much."
When Sandor set her down on the floor again, after making her slide down against him, his hands went from her waist to her bottom, but she was very used to him fondling her there by now, and loved it when he did that.
His grey eyes fell on her hair. He threw back his head and his laugh was half a growl.
"You still have it then," he remarked, his hand touching the baby pearl comb before wrapping a finger on a strand of her hair.
"Of course I do," she answered, smiling softly. "I told you I always would."
Noticing that Sandor had soot on his good cheek from the forge, she brushed it with her fingertips quickly before he took hold of her hand possessively, as she asked how the visit to the smithy had turned out.
"The horses are now shoed and ready. The blacksmith's apprentice was better than his master with the hammer and working metal, and in the end Hagen convinced the old man to allow his nephew to do the work for him."
She smiled at that, remembering the day when Edar had won the archery competition almost two weeks ago. "You don't dislike Hagen so much anymore, do you?"
Sandor shrugged. "Now that I know the madman isn't completely useless, I don't."
Frowning, she asked, "Is he really so skilled with a bow and arrows?"
He nodded. "Aye, the bugger knows what he's doing, and I asked him to show me how he fights with a couple of daggers and he was good with them as well."
Nodding, Sansa led Sandor to the chair by the window and waited for him sit down before placing her chin on his knee, keeling on the floor beside her big man.
"What did you do while we were away?" Sandor asked her, staring down at her, his hands once again in her loose hair, his voice breaking her train of thought.
"I took a bath and then I slept for a little while. And–and I dreamed of my direwolf. Of Lady," she answered truthfully.
His grey eyes quickly met her own, surprised, as he said, "You haven't mentioned your wolf in a long time, little bird."
Sansa smiled a little and took hold of the large hand Sandor had removed from her hair to place on the arm of the chair with both of her own, and lifted it to her face.
"I also remembered the first time you talked to me," she said in a low voice, brushing his calloused hand against her cheek, closing her eyes for a moment. "When Ser Ilyn scared me, and I bumped into you. I thought you were my father when you held my shoulders."
Sandor raised his eyebrow. "You did?"
She chuckled, her thumbs caressing his hand. "Yes, for a moment."
Her big man shifted in his seat and said, frowning, "Little bird, after your father killed your wolf, I think I was the first person he talked to, you know."
Her mouth dropped open a little at that. I didn't know. So Lady left this world and Sandor somehow stepped into my life then. For even if they hadn't really been friends or anything till many months later, he had always been there during her time in King's Landing, since the night of the Tourney of the Hand when he told her about how he was burned, and afterwards giving her advice as to how to deal with Joffrey and the vipers at court. Sandor hates liars, and yet he told me to lie because he knew that was the only way I would ever live through that nightmare.
"I survived because of you back in King's Landing," she pointed out quietly.
But Sandor shook his head and snarled in a harsh voice, "No, Sansa. You're strong, you're a wolf and have claws and teeth. You were smart enough to listen to what I told you, but there is so much more to you than what I advised you to do or be."
She didn't really know what to say to that, so instead she brought her mouth to Sandor's hand and started kissing it gently. After some moments, she heard Sandor rasp, "Little bird," but she only closed her eyes and whispered against his skin, "Hush."
Looking up at his face after a moment, Sansa saw Sandor as she had long ago, taking in the ruin the fire had made of his face, memories of the night when he told her about the Mountain and the wooden knight echoing on her mind. Sansa felt so strongly for Sandor right then, that before she knew what she was doing, she had stood up and placed herself before him, between his legs, staring at his narrowed eyes, drowning in their grey waters.
Silently, she brought her hands to cup both sides of Sandor's face and without a moment's hesitation, knowing that she was the only one he would ever expose himself to like this, Sansa bent down and started kissing Sandor's burns and scars gently, pressing her lips to them, from the hole that remained of his ear to the rough leathery skin at his temple that was always covered by his thin dark hair, brushing it away so that she could reach every part of his scars. It didn't matter that he could not feel what she was doing; only that he knew she would do it, lovingly and willingly, while he let her know and feel the deeply buried affection he'd once hidden under a gruff demeanor.
Breathing in his scent, musky and male, earth and wine, sweat and horses, it dawned on Sansa just how much they both had changed by being together. They were in a way two completely different people to the ones they'd been on the day Lady was doomed to die, but she knew that this change was very good for them both. They made each other better, and inspired all the good things in someone to come out when the other one was around.
Sandor meanwhile was growling deeply as he put his arms around her, grabbing her hips and bringing her closer to him, drawing a little moan from her. How can it be possible to love him so much? I can't live without him. The very thought made it hard for her to breathe. This is how it feels like to be in love with someone who gives you strength and courage. And to have the certainty that she made Sandor feel the same was priceless and precious.
Some moments later, Sansa straightened up and once again met Sandor's eyes. Seeing in their grey depths so much emotion, as his mouth began to twitch, Sansa, feeling as overwhelmed as he looked, brought his face forward so that he could bury it in her breasts, aware that this was a comforting gesture. Sandor hugged her tightly to him and she let him rest on her chest, one hand drawing soothing circles on his back, while the fingers of the other ran through Sandor's hair.
"Sandor?" she said at one point.
"Hmm?" he answered, not raising his head from her chest.
"Why did you tell me about your scars?" she asked him, curious.
Sandor didn't look up at her, and nor did he answer her for a moment. But looking down at him, Sansa saw him shrug at last and heard him say, "I was bloody drunk, Sansa. I wanted to show you how wrong you were in thinking knights were any good, and one thing led to another, and before I knew it I had told a strange pretty little bird about Gregor."
Sansa bent down at that and kissed the top of her big man's head, her hands at the nape of his neck. "Sandor, look at me. I'm glad you told me," she admitted slowly.
Sandor looked up at her at last, and rasped hoarsely, "I fucking love you, Sansa."
She smiled at that and replied calmly and truthfully, "And I you, Sandor. Now and forever, remember?"
He nodded, drawing her down to him so that he could kiss her, as he answered, "Aye, now and forever, love."
Now and forever, till the end of our days, Sansa thought happily, as Sandor's scarred lips kissed her again.
A/N: Dear readers, as always, thank you very much for reading! Will keep my fingers crossed you liked the chapter. Comments are love