A/N: Hi there! Unfortunately, I don't own Game of Thrones or anything affiliated with it. Otherwise, Sandor and Sansa would have their own spin-off. I hope you enjoy this new story. The focus will mainly be on my three favorite characters – Sandor, Sansa, and Bronn. But as this will be a GoT adventure, of course plenty more peeps will make their appearance! I kinda want to pair Bronn with someone because he's simply perfect, but I'm not sure who yet. Suggestions? Anyway, read on!
Incessant dripping echoed throughout the dungeon, little drops of dirty water splashing loudly one by one into an ever-growing puddle.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Nothing was certain in this world except for the solid knowledge that there would always be another droplet to fall. It was too dark to see the source; no lamps had been lit and there were no windows. The room was complete, maddening blackness with no concept of time or reality.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Each splash seemed to grow louder and louder, intensifying with the goal of driving any listener insane. Sharp, sudden plinks and plunks, maintaining the same steady rhythm, never changing course, never slowing, never accelerating. It was impossible to guess how long the water had been performing this maddening, mocking ritual. It could've been days, perhaps years. The smell of the water was putrid and metallic, assaulting the nose in the same way its splashes assaulted the ears. Maybe it wasn't even water.
Drip. Drip.
Perhaps this metronome of liquid was something far scarier than spoiled water. After all, war was ravaging all around them. Evil and malice lurked around each corner, growing in the shadows, watching every movement with sharp, beady little eyes. Septa had sung great songs about a future full of dancing, laughter, showers of the best wine and ale the realm could offer, handsome, sweet princes, lovely, happy princesses, strong and loyal kings, regal, clever queens. But that was all they were. Songs. Reality was harsh and bloody with beatings, whippings, cruel mockery, public humiliation, pasting on masks of bland acceptance and false gratitude, prayers for isolation and basic safety. The songs described wonderful, exciting dreams, hiding the fact that reality was nothing but a nightmare. A nightmare that was utterly impossible to escape.
Drip.
The dripping was interrupted by the dungeon's door swinging violently open, the wood slamming against the stone wall in a terrifying, splintering manner. Painful light spilled into the room, and the slender prisoner with her long waves of fire threw her thin, pale arm over her face to protect her eyes. Her chest rose and fell quickly as she pulled in nervous breaths, breaths that stung her dry throat and fell raggedly from her swollen lips. Heavy footsteps made their way one by one down the steps, calm, calculated, closer and closer until stopping in front of the young prisoner's cell. There was silence again, broken only by her shuddering breaths and the faithful dripping.
Drip. Drip.
"A little bird, moved from cage to cage. It appears no pretty songs can save you this time." The voice was rough, deep, void of emotion. She recognized it immediately and recoiled from the bars of her cell, lowering her arm slowly until she was squinting blearily at the Hound. His burned, knotted, twisted flesh was hidden by the shadows, but nothing could hide his massive, fearsome size. He towered before her cell with a ring of keys, the steady rise and fall of his broad chest almost matching the tempo of the maddening dripping. Sansa licked her lips shakily, unable to look away from the king's dog.
"Maybe I don't wish to be saved," she finally said, her voice soft, dry, cracking at the end. She coughed, the action wracking her small frame, and drew in on herself, folding her limbs close to her body. The Hound laughed humorlessly. His dark eyes scanned the princess-to-be, taking in her thin, shredded rags she wore as a dress, her battered and bruised body, the haunted look in those famous Tully eyes.
"Come. Your dreamy king requests your presence," he said, raising the keys and unlocking her cell. Sansa's eyes widened and she clambered backward across the stone floor, the rough material biting into her hands, putting space between her and the Hound.
"Please, no, leave me be," she begged, voice thick with unshed tears. The Hound laughed, again, closing the distance between them quickly. He grabbed her arm, his large hand enveloping the thin limb completely without effort and pulled her to her feet. The girl cried out as if the action pained her, but he knew he hadn't put any strength behind the action, he couldn't have hurt her.
"You act as though either of us has a choice, child. Don't do anything stupid, just chirp your foolish pleasantries and bat your eyelashes," The Hound grunted, dragging her from the cell. Her cries continued until her legs gave out and he found himself holding onto deadweight. He looked down at her trembling, curled form.
"My…My leg," Sansa gasped. Out of the shadows of the cell and in the dim light of the corridor, the Hound noticed the sweat glistening across Sansa's too-pale face, the feverish glaze to her eyes. He bent down and tugged her dress up to her thighs, meeting no resistance from the girl. He bit back a snarl at the root of her pain. Sansa bore a large, festering gash to her upper left thigh. It was deep, caking the rest of her leg in dark, crusted blood. The surrounding tissue was an angry red, screaming of infection.
"This isn't good, little bird," the Hound said, raising his eyes from the wound to meet her sickly gaze. She looked awful, weak, and sick from the untreated wound, no life in her pretty eyes.
"I hope I die," Sansa bit out darkly, the words forced out on a breath. Before he could react to her awful words, the girl's eyes rolled back, and she collapsed against the dirty stones.
"Fuck," the Hound snarled. He scooped her up in his arms – she was too light, too hot – and carried her from the dungeons. He wanted to know who'd stabbed the princess-to-be. Whose dagger had dug into the little bird? He wanted to know whose eyes he'd be carving out.
It was quite a sight for anyone passing by; the huge, infamous, terrifying Hound carrying a pale, sickly, battered princess in his arms, a look of murder twisting across his already savage face. She was limp in his arms, her breathing uneven, the sweat cold on her hot face. When they entered the tower of healing, Maester looked up from his parchment in shock.
"What -," he began. The Hound pulled back the sheets of one of the beds and placed Sansa's weak little body onto the mattress, and then pointed at her.
"Heal her," the Hound ordered. Maester's nervous eyes shot to the unconscious princess.
"But, the king, - "
"Fuck the king, heal her," the Hound growled, a promise of slow violence clear in his eyes. Maester swallowed with an audible click and obliged, scurrying over to the bed. He carefully peeled the dress up, sucking in a breath at the sight of the infected wound. His eyes drifted up to meet the Hound's with a look the knight didn't particularly care for.
"If she dies, you die, so you better get started and fast," the Hound grit out. The Maester paled significantly, wisely swallowing his words, and nodded.
The first hour was a whirlwind of medical care that the Hound didn't particularly understand but watched anyway with scrutiny. Maester thoroughly washed the leg before applying a whole slew of ointments, herbs, and goop that the Hound had never seen to the wound. After what seemed like the whole cabinet had been applied, the Maester artfully stitched the wound closed with perfect suturing technique and then bandaged and dressed the site, tying the end of the gauze with a finishing bow. Muttering to himself thoughtfully, Maester fetched a sack of cold water and placed it atop the bandaged site.
"To soothe the inflammation," he stated, whether to himself or the Hound, the knight had no idea. Finally, the decrepit man took a dropper of golden liquid and eased it into her mouth, squeezing the contents in, tipped her head back, and made her swallow.
"What did you just make her drink?" the Hound asked suspiciously, watching as the old man put away his supplies.
"Medicine, to hopefully chase away the infection in her blood. This is all I can do. Now we must wait. If she survives the night, she will recover," Maester said with a sigh. He tucked the sheet around her trembling body and placed a cool rag upon her burning brow. His eyes re-met the Hound's. Brave, for a little man like himself.
"Go. Leave her to rest. I will look after her, and I will have a maid tend to her hygiene. You will be notified with updates," Maester said, not unkindly. For a moment, the two men stared at each other. But then the Hound gave a curt nod and left the room with a final glance at the sleeping princess.
The king had not a drop of concern for his fiancée when his loyal dog presented him with the news. He merely made a face as if he'd sucked an unripe lemon.
"Women are such weak, pathetic creatures, aren't they, dog? The dramatics makes me want to puke," Joffrey said, his infuriating voice driving the Hound mad with hatred. He offered no reply, simply stared at the boy king with an empty expression.
"She'd better recover quickly; I will not have her interrupting my plans. I decided that we will sail to the harbor of Sunspear to visit my sister and her betrothed in Dorne. I want to…ensure she is in suitable hands. After all, I cannot have my name in embarrassing hands," The boy king said, an ugly smirk twisting his thin mouth. The Hound detected something more sinister beneath the surface, but continued to say nothing, shifting his weight in boredom.
"Anyway, you will accompany me and my stupid fiancée, along with the aid of Bronn, and the protection of a handful of other knights – I'll let you choose who comes, you know them best. We set sail in one week," Joffrey said. His dog gave a curt nod, which seemed to satisfy the boy king, and that was the end of the conversation. The little blond devil hopped off his throne, the too-big crown crooked on his head, and stormed over to a maid, screeching about the lack of effort she was putting into polishing the floors.
The Hound left the room, making his way to the training grounds in order to select which knights would accompany them. The only thing on his mind, however, was the little bird wasting away in yet another cage, her wings clipped and her sparkle gone. Her past chirps and songs echoed in his brain, shared with images of her pink, full lips curving into that warm smile that would melt even his cold, shriveled heart. All of that seemed so long ago. This doomed pit of a kingdom had sucked the soul straight from her lovely shell.
I hope I die.
Maybe the little bird would be better off dead, after all. Birds were meant to fly free, sing their heart out, enjoy the beauty of life and nature. Not sit in cages to be tormented and mocked. He could still feel her clammy, hot skin against his own, smell the sick blood that oozed from her stab wound. Her empty, pained eyes gazed at him from those beautiful blue Tully pools.
Just hold on, little bird. I'll free you.
A/N: Thank you for reading! If you'd be interested in more content, please leave a review! (: Have a great day3