A/N: Sadly, I still don't own Game of Thrones, or anything related to it. But despite that, I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Fire ate at her leg, and she prayed it would consume her entirely. The pain paled in comparison to what Sansa had endured for the last few months as a prisoner of the Red Keep. Her soul had withered like a flower in the winter and darkness had snuffed out every flicker of light, leaving her empty, hollow, and buried deep in a chasm of self-loathing. Her time in the Maester's infirmary was a giant fever dream that she was disappointed to have survived. Every day was a blur of painful bandage changings, mouthfuls of bitter medicine, and unintelligible voices. There was always a smooth, cool, unrecognizable hand to soothe her brow whenever she cried out in pain, and there was always a cold cloth mopping her sweaty, flushed face. Eventually, Sansa was slowly nursed back to health. When she truly came to, her leg was warm and throbbing, but she felt infinitely better. The nausea had disappeared from her aching stomach, the dizziness had morphed back into steadiness, and her mouth no longer felt like sand.
Tully eyes blinked open, long lashes fluttering as the future queen regained consciousness. Her gaze immediately swept her surroundings, assessing for any signs of danger. But there was no danger here. The room was warm, cozy even, books piling high on every surface, waxy candles casting long shadows in the wavy glow. Hundreds of bottles littered the scene, each one containing all sorts of liquids and powders, dried herbs surrounding them. Sansa slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, testing the strength in her leg. No stab of pain attacked her limb; there was a protesting shiver of tender discomfort, but that was it.
Suddenly, the doorknob rattled as someone attempted to unlock the heavy wooden door. Sansa froze, gripping her blanket tightly, heart speeding up in her chest. Was Joffrey coming to drag her back to the dungeons?
Drip. Drip. Drip. Water eternally dripping into an ocean of filth, hidden by the pitch blackness of the room.
The door swung open, revealing Maester. He locked eyes with the eldest Stark daughter, blue against blue, and his wrinkled mouth dropped open in a little 'O' of surprise. The old man quickly recovered, shutting the door with a smile, and approached the bed.
"My dear, I wasn't expecting you to make such a quick recovery. The king will be pleased," Maester said warmly, handing her the sandwich he'd probably made for himself.
Oh yes, he'll be pleased that he still has a chance at being the one to kill me.
Sansa hesitantly accepted the sandwich and took a tentative bite, which turned into ravenous, quite unladylike demolition of the meal, the realization of hunger gripping her stomach. She greedily took the mug of tea from the gnarled hands of her caregiver, drained it, and polished off the plate of fruits, nuts, and lemon tarts he'd brought her while she'd been busy eating the sandwich. By the time she was finished, she felt like a new person; warm, full, and devoid of pain. It had been months since she'd felt like this. Since she'd felt…cared for. Sansa forced the lump of emotion in her throat to dissolve, refusing to allow a single tear to fall from her eyes.
"I sent word to Sandor Clegane and King Joffrey regarding your recovery. One more night of rest here, and you'll be ready for the excursion," Maester informed the girl, not noticing the fleeting look of panic that shot across her suddenly pale face. Her fingers knotted tightly into the blankets, her breath quickening. Why was the Hound notified? What did he have to do with anything? Sansa prayed to the Old and New Gods that neither man would come to this room she'd foolishly considered sanctuary. How utterly naïve of her to think for one moment that she could be safe and at peace. Realizing she hadn't responded and the Maester was looking at her oddly, Sansa licked her dry lips and looked down at the threads of the blanket she was toying with.
"What…What excursion?" she asked, not actually wanting to know the answer. It would surely describe something awful, another tally on the board of reasons why she no longer desired life. Her heart felt like stone; cold, heavy, and dead. Why couldn't the Hound have just left her in the dungeon to succumb to her wound? The delirium would've made death rather easy to bear. Maester, unaware of the morbid, suicidal thoughts that plagued the young girl's mind, smiled brilliantly at her as if he carried splendid news.
"Your royal husband-to-be has planned a journey to Dorne, to visit our lovely Princess, sister of the king. It shall be an exciting travel by the sea in one of the royal ships. How romantic, to be on calm waters in the glow of the setting sun with your beloved. Of course, you won't be alone. The king has chosen the Hound and his beastly friend, Bronn, to protect the ship, and the Hound has carefully selected the best of his men to come as well. Isn't this exciting?" Maester said, scuttling around the room collecting carefully selected bottles and boxes. He appeared to be creating an elixir of health for Sansa, who sat in horrified silence at the news.
Trapped at sea with the worst, most vile men who took perverse pleasure in tormenting and torturing her. She wasn't even convinced they'd allow her to survive the journey. The Maester apparently had no concern regarding her silence; he cheerfully padded over and helped tip the elixir against Sansa's lips. She swallowed dutifully; it could've been poison for all she cared, at least she wouldn't be subjected to the watery nightmare awaiting her. Almost immediately, Sansa felt very sleepy and dreamy. A goofy smile spread across her face and Maester grinned back.
"Milk of the poppy. Your body needs the rest and comfort to prepare for the work cut out for you tomorrow," Maester explained. The world spun pleasantly around them, colors seeming softer yet more vibrant. The simplest things looked new and exciting, and Sansa rested back against the pillows, looking around in awe at her surroundings. She reached out one soft, pale hand, fingers dancing slowly through spots of dust that fluttered in the air. Maester watched, amused, before retreating to his work desk. He flipped open a large, old tome and put his spectacles on, blinking owlishly behind the glass as he started to focus on the heavy reading. However, he'd barely read a full sentence before the infirmary's door suddenly banged open. Maester jumped in his seat, startled, and looked up to find the Hound standing at the threshold.
"Is knocking below you, Ser?" he snapped, pressing a hand to his chest as if to physically slow down his racing heart. The Hound looked over at the wrinkled old man with a disdainful snort.
"I'm no Ser," he sneered, and then turned his serious gaze to Sansa. The girl was completely out of her mind, silly drunk on the poppy. Her eyes, so deeply blue and intelligent they could crush a man's heart with a mere glance, settled blearily and rather unfocused on him. He quirked a thick, dark eyebrow, an amused smirk curving the corner of his scarred mouth. She returned the expression with a pout, furrowing her own elegant brows together in a mock-scowl. The Hound rumbled with quiet laughter and approached the side of her bed.
"How do you feel, little bird?" he asked, gazing down at her. He was startled when she reached up and snatched one of his large hands into her smaller, soft ones. Her fingertips skimmed his inner wrist, slowly trailing up his forearm and back down, interlocking her fingers with his. Goosebumps dotted his skin at the sensation, breath catching in his throat.
"I've never felt better," Sansa murmured, words slurring delightfully. He didn't move, afraid of breaking this strange moment. She seemed fascinated by every scar and callous upon his hand, those Tully eyes drinking in every detail, tilting his hand this way and that. Sansa lowered their entwined hands to her stomach and raised her eyes to his face; he could've spontaneously combusted into flames, and it would've been less shocking than the ease and willingness with which she expressed in these gentle touches.
"Hound," Sansa said, tongue slowly rolling out the syllables, his name a sin from her lips.
"Little bird," he replied, her name a prayer from his.
"You should've left me in the dungeon."
The simple statement, spoken so casually and surely, stabbed at the Hound's chest. He tightened his grip around her dainty fingers.
"Don't say such stupid things," he snapped. Sansa shrugged a shoulder, dragging a finger of her free hand across the knuckles of the Hound's hand.
"It's true. I don't want to live any longer. Every day is a miserable curse and there is nothing left in this world for me. As long as Joffrey lives, I will never know freedom, safety, or love. He exists to suck the life from me. He finds every crumb of joy and purpose and crushes it in his awful little hands. He destroys everything I care about whether it's my family – killing them off one by one – or my needlework. My tears bring him pleasure, my blood even more so. He won't be satisfied until I'm a bloody, inhuman glob at his feet. It matters not what you say. I pray for death and there's nothing you can say or do to change that. I was so close." Sansa's words were soft, quiet, and deliberate. They left no room for argument or logic. They were words spoken from her heart, and the Hound found himself angry. He was angry at the king's bride, at the king, at the entire damned realm. He was angry at himself.
"Well, isn't that a shame. One small, spoiled, entitled, inbred brat is all it takes to bring a wolf of Winterfell to her knees. One squalling babe to shatter you. You think death will solve your problems? You're wrong. It's a coward's solution, a flee from hardship. I've never heard of a weak Stark, yet I stand here and listen to the pathetic chirping of a weak little bird. Grow up, child. The boy king only carries as much power as you give him over you. Don't give him your tears. Grin through the bloodshed. Deprive the little bastard of what he so craves. You need to grow a backbone to survive these games, little bird. It's time you toughen your skin and learn how to win, how to beat them at their own games. You're a Stark; act like one. Enough with the sniveling, it's making me sick." The Hound's deep, gravelly speech shook Sansa to her core, even through her opiate haze. Her soft lips parted in stunned surprise, glassy eyes looking at him incredulously. At the same time, shame colored her cheeks and neck.
"What do you even care?" Sansa finally demanded, pouting for real this time. "I don't understand you. Why do you care what I do, whether I live or die? Whenever something awful is brewing, you always manage to swoop in at the last second to pull me from the scalding water. I see you looking out for me from the shadows. Explain to me. What's your motive?"
There was a moment of silence in which the two stared at each other with heated expressions, the Hound's eyes narrowed, the Stark biting her lower lip. An awkward cough interrupted the heavy tension. Maester frowned at them.
"Ser, the lady really must get some rest if she is to set sail tomorrow," he said edgily, having not heard their conversation but perceptive enough to sense the foul vibe between the two. The Hound glowered at him, not bothering to correct the misusage of the title. Instead, he pulled his hand from the soft grip of the girl and nodded curtly.
"Go to sleep," he ordered, not too ungently. Before she could string together a reply, he abruptly turned on his heel and stalked from the room, once again leaving her in the quiet warmth of the infirmary, a million questions stumbling through her head.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a review on what you think of the story so far! (: