A/N: Wow it's been a hot minute, but welcome to the new chapter! I still don't own Game of Thrones, or anything related to it, unfortunately. In this chapter we'll be seeing some familiar faces. (: I try to stay as time accurate as possible, but I will be manipulating timeliness of events here and there to make certain ideas work. In this story, Tywin has never and will never force an engagement/marriage between Sansa and Tyrion. I think the rest of the story follows as created, but no promises. It'll be manipulated furthermore as the story continues because I'd like to change some character events and meetings. Everything will work out! (: Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new chapter, and feel free to leave a review if you feel so inclined!
The massive ship boasted a lion's head carved into the hull, gold jewels adorning the wood. It was impressive and beautiful, that was undeniable; but Sansa had never felt such a strong sense of impending doom. She stood motionless before the boarding ramp, staring at the death trap with red-rimmed, emotionless eyes. Around her, crowds of people buzzed with excitement and a sense of purpose. Most of them were hired to load the ship with their belongings and supplies, and others were mere onlookers marveling at the sight of extraordinary wealth. Sansa clasped her hands together at her waist, dressed in the usual Lannister fashion, her fiery waves twisted up into fanciful braids. Nausea twisted knots into her stomach, and her healing leg throbbed dully. She was starting to accept the fact that she'd never survive the journey. There was no feasible way that she would step foot off the boat unscathed after weeks of being trapped on board surrounded by the region's most despicable men.
"What are you waiting for? Get on the ship, we don't have all day," Joffrey snapped, his shrill, grating voice startling the eldest Stark daughter from her thoughts. She blinked, glancing from her fiancé to the ship, goosebumps immediately scattering across her arms, pupils dilating. This was it. Tully blues slid to the right, examining the clear path through the crowd. She could make it, she knew she could; if she ran through this path, she'd make it to the woods before anyone noticed. Joffrey was saying something else to her, most likely another awful remark, but Sansa didn't hear him. It was like the world had disappeared around them, and nothing mattered except for the possibility of escape, the proximity of freedom. Her heart hammered as she studied the available route and how easy it would be to make a break for it. Joffrey wouldn't chase her, no, that would require at least an ounce of individual effort; he would shout for the guards, who were a small way off in the opposite direction, and their arms were full of cargo. By the time they'd be able to run for her, she would've already gotten an extraordinary head-start. She was smaller and nimbler than the guards, perhaps she'd be able to lose them in the crowd before making a dash for the woods. Sansa felt dizzy from the adrenaline that flooded her body and her chest rose and fell quickly with each quickened, shallow breath. There was no sound, no distraction, just Tully blue eyes focused on the route to safety. Sansa, trembling and dazed, took a step towards the cleared path, and then another. Another.
A rough, heavy hand clamped over her shoulder and pulled her back. The back of her head thudded against a firm chest, and she swore her heart completely stopped beating for three seconds before a gasp tumbled from her lips and she looked up at the Hound. He was glowering at her, so darkly even in the brutal light of day, his expression cold as stone.
"Have you lost your damned mind, girl?" he muttered under his breath. Sansa's wide eyes flickered to Joffrey, who watched them suspiciously.
"What's going on?" the boy king demanded, pushing his way over to them. Sansa swallowed and her mouth dropped open in a small, quivering 'o' of dismay as her mind raced and struggled to come up with an excuse. But the Hound was faster. The boredom etched across his face was unwavering, eyes still on Sansa as he responded.
"It's hotter than a whore's bedroom on a summer night and I'm tired of waiting for the girl to board the ship. The sniveling bitch is too meek to push her way through a crowd, so I figured I'd do it for her. Unless you have an objection, Your Grace," he said smoothly. Sansa stared back at him, her eyes burning with hatred, mouth snapping shut into a thin, bitter line. The corners of his own mouth curled into a smirk, one that Sansa wished to slap off his face. The hope seeped from her pores like the sweat that coated her face and back and it took everything in her to keep her spine straight, head held high, body tenser than a street cat preparing to pounce upon its prey. Her wounded thigh continued to throb, burning and stabbing, grounding her to the present moment and souring her mood further. The cold, deep, inky stain on her heart grew wider, swallowing more of her will to live.
"Good thinking, dog. Pathetic, isn't she? I always found it amusing that a beast such as the direwolf represents the Starks when they are nothing but a family of cowards," Joffrey sneered, his face lit up with the cruel delight of knowing everything was going his way. The Hound remained silent as he pushed Sansa forward, steering her towards the ship. Neither one of them spoke, both wearing matching, empty masks. The Stark girl seemed to accept her fate the moment she stepped onto the deck; the life left her eyes, taking on the dead, indifferent glaze that the Hound so hated, though her body remained rigid and tense, as if maintaining an air of stubborn honor and grace was all she had left in this world. The Hound led her to the small room that would be solely hers for the duration of the voyage, and she pulled from his touch before he could say a word, angrily limping into the room, and slammed the door behind her without a single glance back at him.
A low whistle sounded from behind him, and he already knew who it was before he turned.
"Bronn," the Hound drawled, eyeing his grinning friend with a look of distaste.
"Sandor," Bronn mimicked the deep, irritated tone of the Hound, furrowing his eyebrows in mock-distaste. The larger man heaved a sigh and moved past the smaller, scanning the deck as he judged the work quality of the men he'd chosen to accompany them.
"It'll be interesting to see how long the Stark girl lasts before she inevitably snaps," Bronn mused, easily catching up to his friend.
"What are you going on about?" the Hound asked tiredly. He leaned over to adjust a stack of boxes in the arms of a passing knight; the top box had been tipping precariously.
"Oh, come on. She's the only female on this ship and our beloved king is a sick fuck. We're weeks from our destination. You really think she'll spend the entire journey locked in her room, safe and snug? She wasn't even safe and snug in the castle. One of these days, something will happen to our little princess and suddenly the waves of the sea are going to look very inviting -,"
Bronn's body slammed violently against the wall of the storage room, the Hound's calloused hands painfully tight around his shoulders and dangerously close to his throat. He gasped out a breathy curse, surprise glinting in his eyes as he met the angry gaze of the larger man.
"Watch your fucking mouth, Bronn," the Hound hissed. "Nothing will happen to the Stark girl. You want to know why? Because you will be watching over her. You will be anywhere she goes, and I want to know anytime the wind blows a single hair out of place. If I find out that harm has come her way and you failed to prevent it or help her, I will make sure that you are on the receiving end of an imitation of her trauma, down to the very last fucking detail. Do I make myself clear, Bronn?"
There was a beat of silence, and then a slow grin spread across Bronn's face. His dark eyes easily met the Hound's.
"Crystal clear, Sandor. Now, can you let go of me? Sure, I love me some rough fumbling in the dark solitude of a storage room, but I'm sorry to say you're not quite my type."
The Hound gave a huff of laughter and released him, silent as Bronn straightened his shirt and smoothed his hair back. As if there hadn't been a display of physical violence and verbal threats, the two walked beside each other as they continued their lap around the ship, overseeing the activity that took place.
"So, how'd they manage to convince you to join this mess?" the Hound asked, watching as Bronn smacked a cabin boy upside the head for forgetting half of the message he'd intended to carry. The boy hurried away to have his memory refreshed, leaving Bronn to roll his eyes in his wake.
"Enough gold to start my own realm on a nice, peaceful island away from the bullshit around us," Bronn replied. The Hound bit the inside of his cheek as his mouth curved into a frown.
"It didn't seem odd to you that you're being paid so much to simply go on a short voyage for a family reunion?" he asked. Bronn shrugged.
"I don't question the intelligence of a rich man when he offers me gold," he replied. The two men paused on the deck, watching as the seamen withdrew the anchors and ropes that held them fast to the port. Bronn swiped his arm across his face in a futile effort to dry the sweat, matching the frown his friend wore.
"The little shit is up to something," the Hound growled, gaze drifting to Sansa's closed door. He didn't have to say anything; Bronn was already strolling casually in that direction.
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
Behind the closed door, Sansa had changed into a thinner, simpler dress intended for heat and travel. It was white and airy, void of fanciful flufferry save for a sapphire blue colored ribbon tied into a neat bow at the V of the neckline. Using a matching ribbon, she drew her hair into a simple twist at the nape of her neck. The heat was almost unbearable, the room suffocating. She had no window to open for a breeze, but death by sweltering confines sounded more appealing than subjecting herself to the negative attention she'd receive out on the main deck. She sank slowly to the end of her bed, wound stretching painfully with the flex of muscle, staring at the wood paneling of the wall, and allowed herself to fully absorb the knowledge that she'd lost her one last chance of escape. Her weak hesitation stole her freedom, and there was no denying that. If she'd only burst into a sprint at the first glimpse of that cleared pathway, she could've been plucking blueberries from bushes instead of spiraling in this wooden jail.
The room was so small, fitting only a slender bed and a writing desk with a small chair. There was an oil lantern on the desk, lit and providing the prison with a warm glow. Everything was warm and small. The walls were so close, the door so thick that life on the other side seemed far and muffled. Sansa was in a hot coffin, the sweat trickling down her spine and in between her breasts. Her breathing, rapid and audible in the heavy silence, felt like active work, the air so dry and thick. She was dimly aware of the panic swelling at her diaphragm, tightening her throat, making the room seem smaller and smaller as everything seemed to close in on her. Her healing wound burned and throbbed, the bandages themselves feeling like strangling binds. She wanted to rip them off, rip everything off.
Just as Sansa toed the edge of hysteria, a firm, loud knock startled her from her spiraling mind, and she leapt from the bed. She looked at the door as if it'd suddenly appeared from nowhere. There was not a single person she wanted at her threshold and her mouth withered into a choking dryness. Feeling like the oxygen in her lungs had been sucked out, Sansa straightened her posture and ignored the fact that she had nothing to defend herself with in this room.
"Yes?" she called. She was relieved when the single word came out strong and steady, two things she certainly didn't feel at the moment. There was a pause, and then the door opened to reveal a man she'd seen before but could not remember his name. For a moment, the two studied each other in silence. The man was decently handsome of unclear age, though she figured he appeared to be a few years old than Jaime Lannister. She didn't know much about the man outside of the whispered gossip amongst the servants.
He had been a sellsword of no clear allegiance to any house, known to put himself and money above all else. Undeniably strong and brave, but unknown for kindness or loyalty. Rumor had it that watching him fight was almost supernatural; he moved faster than any animal, his sword becoming his arm. He was a heartless, ruthless, insolent killer, and had somehow become friends with Tyrion Lannister – Sansa could not remember how the two became acquainted – which allowed him to eventually meet Sandor Clegane at a bar. Everyone around them expected a fight as the two pushed each other's buttons, but apparently, they shocked them all by becoming friends that night, buying one another drinks until dawn broke and the Hound stumbled down the street drunkenly carrying a blacked-out Bronn over his shoulder.
The roguish man had friendships all over the realm because of his charming personality and allegiance to nobody. He even had friends in the North, with the Starks, according to the whispers. It was said he traveled with her mother and brother at one point. Sansa realized that had probably been how he met Tyrion. She'd never spoken to Bronn, had only heard of him, and seen glimpses of him. Until her beloved fiancé ordered the Kingsguard to publicly beat her. It was only because of Tyrion and this man that she hadn't become seriously wounded. They'd stormed the scene as she'd been stripped of her clothes and put a stop to the abuse, Bronn smiling at Ser Meryn with a deadly smile as the Hound wrapped her in his cloak. She'd never seen Bronn again. But now here he was, in her doorway, regarding her politely with no move to come closer. He was holding the door only half-open, as if protecting her from the eyes of anyone who might be near, and she found herself appreciating the small favor.
Sansa licked her lips uncertainly. He was friends with Tyrion and the Hound, two men who were associated with her greatest enemies but who had also never tried to harm her and instead did everything to protect her. He was famous for his absence of loyalty. And she did not have so much as an inkling as to why he was on this ship, let alone in her doorway. She didn't trust him, but then again, she trusted nobody outside of her family.
"I…I'm sorry, Ser, I have forgotten your name," Sansa's soft voice broke the silence. He looked the opposite of offended; an amused grin touched his features, making him appear younger.
"No apologies needed; I am not a very memorable man. My name is Bronn, and I am no true knight, so you can drop the 'ser'. I just wanted to check on you," he said, his voice pleasant. His rejection of his knighthood reminded her of the Hound, and she wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not.
"But you are memorable, Bronn. You saved my honor." The quiet, small words startled Bronn. He blinked, taken aback, his neck and cheeks flushing. He had not expected her to remember their short interaction; he'd barely been involved. Tyrion had done all of the talking; he hadn't even said a word to the girl. He'd only scared off her attacker with a single, vicious smile.
"I did nothing, my lady," he replied genuinely, breaking eye contact, unnerved by her solemn sincerity and silent grace.
"I disagree. Why are you checking on me? Has my presence been requested?" the anxiety that grew with her questions did not go unnoticed. His eyes fell to her pale, slender hands that fumbled nervously with her skirts, raising to glance at the way she bit at her full lower lip.
"No, no. But you're not amongst friends, as I'm sure you're aware. I want you to know…that the Hound and I will do our best to ensure your safety, my lady," Bronn said quietly, reassuringly. Sansa stared at him, not even bothering to hide her bewilderment. Her mouth dropped open, eyes flickering over his broad shoulder before returning to his face.
"Why?" she finally asked. The man who had not moved a muscle from the doorway gave her that boyish grin again, a scoffed chuckle falling from his lips, and he surveyed the room as he replied.
"I have been paid for my presence upon this ship, nothing else. I have found over the years that no man has any control over me, my thoughts, my actions. I'm a free man with my own beliefs. What I don't believe in is a boy king who was handed a crown he did not earn and does not deserve. A boy king whose mother should've swallowed rather than conceive. I don't believe in the imprisonment and torture of a royal young lady such as yourself who is innocent of any plausible charges, your only crime being your existence. So, I am fulfilling the duties of my job by accompanying this miserable lot across the seas. But while I'm here, I may as well keep an eye over the unfortunate prisoner of the ship. Plus, the Hound has threatened my well-being should any harm come your way, and I love myself quite a lot."
Sansa's head was spinning from the unexpected reply. She took a step backward, and then again, until the backs of her legs touched the bedframe. She sank to the mattress, hot under Bronn's gaze, and bit her lower lip as color flushed her neck and chest. Why on earth would the Hound want Bronn to watch out for her safety? And why would Bronn care at all about her situation? Her eyes flickered to the doorway where the man leaned against the frame casually, and then over his shoulder to the hall that seemed to be empty. He was quite brave for speaking so truly and freely out in the open where anyone could overhear.
"Why would you care about what happens to me? You don't know me. You aren't loyal to the North. There's nothing to gain from being on my side. I've heard the stories and rumors, I know you've killed girls younger and more innocent than me, killed them for gold. I just…don't understand…any of this," Sansa said, flustered, struggling to put her thoughts into words. The entire scene was too much; the room was small and sweltering, the man was spilling nonsensical truths, her bandages felt confining and her dress trapping her. She raised a trembling hand to her pale, sweaty temple, breaths quickening.
I need to be out, I'm suffocating and drowning and burning all at once, it's too much, this room…this heat…I – I CAN'T
"My lady, let's go for a stroll, get some air," Bronn offered, watching the young girl become paler by the second, her breathing too shallow and fast to be alright. She didn't look well; she looked ill and unstable. He vaguely knew something about a wound, knew she was recovering from something, that she'd been forced from the infirmary much too early, and he didn't think it was wise for her to shut herself up in this cramped, hot room.
"No, no thank you, Ser. I'm tired, I think I will get some rest," Sansa said with a surprisingly steady voice, her fever glazed eyes meeting his dark ones.
"I think you should really join me on the deck," Bronn said with forced pleasantry. Her eyes narrowed.
"And I think you should leave," she replied stubbornly. Bronn couldn't help but bark a laugh. He wasn't even sure why he was arguing with her. He did as Sandor wanted; he'd made sure she was safe in her room. He was no Maester, if the girl wanted to die of dehydration and infection, that was on her.
"As you wish, my lady. Can I at least offer water, or would that be too audacious?" Bronn said sarcastically. The girl tilted her head up in a simple, silent acceptance and he scoffed, turned on his heel, and left to fetch the water.
When he returned with the goblet of cool water, he noticed the Stark girl had deteriorated quickly in his absence. She sat huddled on her bed, drenched in sweat, pale and trembling. Her eyes raised to meet his and she stiffened before quickly scooting off the bed to re-obtain an act of normalcy and strength. But her leg suddenly gave out beneath her when she stood, and she caught herself on the wall, drawing in a sharp breath of pain. Bronn hesitantly moved further into the room, reluctant to leave the doorway. He was almost relieved when she waved her hand dismissively, rejecting his concern.
"Gods, why won't you come outside? I'll stay by your side," Bronn huffed as he handed her the goblet. She held it like it was her life ring and took a restrained sip.
"I don't want to catch his attention. If he's bored…If he has an audience..., -" Her voice trailed off and he understood despite his frustration.
"You're being foolish," he simply said. When he met her gaze again, he was unsettled by the feverish glaze. This was why he enjoyed his life; loyal to no one, single, no children, no worries, just doing what he pleased when he wanted to. He didn't have to care about anyone or worry about their wellbeing. And now he was trapped in this sweltering coffin with a young, sick, scared girl. Nothing had prepared him for this. In his head, he cursed the Hound.
"Robb, my leg hurts so bad," Sansa whispered, tears stinging at her eyes. The wound pulled with every movement, every flex of the underlying muscle, the very limb exhausted.
"What'd you call me?" he asked. She didn't reply; she stared into the water.
"You've over-worked your leg, I heard you're recovering from a nasty wound. Did you take your medicine? Where is it?" Bronn said, scanning the room for her belongings. But there was nothing in here, no bag, no box. Where were her things? He ran frustrated fingers through his own sweaty hair.
"I…I left it in my room by accident," Sansa mumbled sheepishly. He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.
"Okay, well, I'm sure we must have medicine on this damned ship. I'll go get some, you just rest and drink some water," Bronn said. He turned and began striding from the room, contemplating how he would make Sandor pay for the nightmare he'd forced him into, but she grabbed his upper arm tightly, preventing him from leaving. Confused, he turned his head to glance at her over his shoulder. She looked worried, the goblet shaking in her other hand.
"Just…Be careful, okay? Please. Don't let anyone know what you're doing or why. Pretend it's for yourself," Sansa said, her soft voice lilted with concern. He found himself speechless for once. He hadn't expected her to worry about his safety. He opened his mouth to crack a joke or reassure her, but the goblet slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor. Water splashed as her eyes rolled back and she collapsed. Bronn didn't even recall moving. One second her slender, limp form was crumpling to the floor, and the next second he found himself catching her with a spluttered curse. She burned in his arms, pale but flushed, skin too hot to the touch as he palmed her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes didn't open to his hands upon her face, or to her name that he called.
"Fuck it all," Bronn whined, carrying her to her bed. He carefully settled her down, assuring himself of her safety when he saw her chest rise and fall with each breath. Once he'd situated her, he grabbed the goblet from the floor and left the room, shutting the door quietly, and then walked as fast as he dared to the storage room. He didn't want to draw attention to himself.
The Hound was nowhere to be seen and Bronn wasn't going to waste time or risk attention by looking for him. Instead, he slipped into the storage room, a large area filled with extra food and beverages, everyone's bags and boxes that had yet to be unpacked, and hopefully medicine. He quietly moved from row to row like a shadow, drifting in silent concentration, eyes skimming each shelf and box for any sign of medicine. Nothing seemed useful in this room. As he rounded the corner to search unmarked boxes, he bumped into someone. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around the neck of the person in a chokehold, throwing him to the ground and scrambling on top of his lap to pin his weight down. He remained silent however, the only noises being the choking beneath him and his own heavy, ragged breathing as adrenaline coursed through his veins.
"Bronn, no, stop, it's me, it's me!" a terrified, feeble voice croaked. Confused, Bronn leaned back to get a better look at the face below him.
"Podrick…Podrick Payne, is that you?" Bronn asked, surprised. He immediately released the boy and hopped to his feet, extending his hand to assist him to his feet as well, which the squire accepted. The squire coughed harshly and regained control of his breathing as Bronn helped straighten his clothing.
"Terribly sorry, Pod. Why in the names of the new gods and the old are you lurking in the shadows? Wait…why are you even on the ship? I don't recall your name being on the attendance list."
Podrick Payne, distant cousin of Ser Ilyn Payne, was the former squire of Ser Lorimer and current squire of Tyrion Lannister. He was a shy, awkward, friendly young man brimming with naïve loyalty, and if he was here in this storage room, then that meant…
"Pod, my current thoughts better be wrong," Bronn warned. The boy's face flushed and cast his gaze downward, awkwardly fumbling with his belt that had been twisted in the tussle.
"I apologize, Ser, um, I didn't mean to – Well, you see -,"
A loud banging noise stole Bronn's attention and caused the young squire to jump. At the back of the storage room, a large wooden crate had toppled to the floor and busted open. Straw flooded the floor, and lying amidst the packing was –
"Hell's bells," Bronn groaned, covering his face with his hands.
"Don't act like you're not happy to see me. If anyone should be groaning, it should be me. I've been crammed in a box with Podrick all day. Do you have any idea what that's like? He's a strapping lad, I had no room to stretch my legs," Tyrion said, brushing the straw from his body. He walked over to join his comrades, an amused smirk on his face.
"Tyrion. Why am I standing in a dark storage room witnessing my best friend – Hand of the King – and his squire tumble out of a crate?" Bronn asked, unable to resist a humored grin. Podrick, seeing the situation turn from negative to positive, smiled as well. He was, after all, in the presence of two of his favorite people.
"Did you really think that my idiot nephew could sail off to Dorne with obvious ill-intentions without me? Podrick and I decided to sneak on board by hiding in the cargo, so we could watch the drama bound to unfold," Tyrion replied easily, reaching up to clap his squire on the back enthusiastically.
"You mean, you convinced Pod to help you get on board and he agreed because the boy's loyalty is bound to get him killed one day, and he succeeded in the endeavor," Bronn corrected. Podrick's smile faltered and he glanced at his master to gauge how to react. But Tyrion's bright spirits had not been dampened by his friend's accusations – which, were in fact correct.
"Of course. What brings you to the storage room?" Tyrion replied easily. He snapped his fingers at Podrick and pointed at the fallen crate. The boy immediately understood the request and hurried to the back of the room to sweep up the mess and destroy all evidence of their secret boarding.
"Right. I'm looking for medicine to give to Sansa. She's sick with infection and forgot to bring her medicine with her for the journey. This blasted heat isn't exactly helping her health," Bronn said, returning to his original mission. Tyrion and Podrick fell into step behind him, not needing to be told to help. The group of them searched, eventually finding a basket of…healthy looking things. Bronn removed it from the top shelf of the room and set it on a box to rifle through it. Tyrion knocked a bag of herbs out of his hand and instead nudged a round glass vial towards him. A gold liquid sloshed within.
"There. Give this to her. It's for inflammation and infection," Tyrion said confidently. His squire looked at him proudly. Tyrion continued shuffling through the contents of the basket and ended up handing two more vials to his friend; one was something mild for pain, and the other was milk of the poppy. Jamming the medications into his pocket, Bronn eyed the two stowaways.
"So, geniuses, how do you plan on getting through this voyage without our royal highness discovering you?" he asked. Tyrion shrugged.
"I figured we might sleep on your floor," he replied.
"No," Bronn said flatly without hesitation.
"And I considered us friends. Well, that brings us to our back-up plan. In the day, we are free to roam the ship under disguise. My nephew is too stupid to see through a disguise; I brought a false mustache and a wig. Pod doesn't need anything; nobody will recognize him. At night, we simply sleep in the cells below deck. They are empty and considering everyone on board was hand selected, there will be no usage for the cells. Nobody will have any reason to go down there. Besides, even if we are detected, it's not like my nephew has the balls to do anything about it. He wouldn't dare kill us. He practically cried when I slapped him after the riot," Tyrion said, smiling sweetly. He crossed his arms over his chest, a smug glint to his eyes, clearly quite proud of this plan. Bronn rolled his eyes.
"In hindsight, none of this should have surprised me. There's food in here to hold you over, I'll check back in later tonight," Bronn said. He went to the door and swung it open. Positioned in front of him, hand out in his interrupted attempt to open the door, was the Hound. The beast of a man blinked down at him, and then looked at Tyrion and Podrick over Bronn's shoulder. His eyes fluttered shut.
"Hell's bells," the Hound muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Having absolutely nothing to say regarding the stowaways, Bronn cheerfully clapped Sandor on the back as he exited the room.
Bronn knocked on Sansa's door, fingering the glass bottles in his pocket with his other hand. There was no answer, which he'd expected, so he slowly opened the door. Sansa was curled on her bed, sleeping with a surprisingly peaceful look on her young, pretty face. He almost felt bad for having to wake her up. He entered the room quietly and placed a new goblet of water by her bed, and then gently shook the girl's slender shoulder, acutely aware of the Hound's piercing gaze from where he stood watch at the door. Tully eyes fluttered open, and the Stark girl flinched back, startled by the sellsword's proximity. She let out a small gasp and moved as if to sit up, but Bronn firmly pushed her back into the mattress.
"I found medicine. This one is for the infection," he said, handing her a dropper of the gold liquid from the vial Tyrion had given him. She eyed it warily, but apparently recognized the lovely liquid because she reached out and accepted it. Bronn decided it was in his best interest to avert his gaze as the young girl wrapped her lips around the dropper and suckled the liquid from it, tilting her head back slightly to allow the medicine to slide down her throat. He wasn't blind; Sansa Stark was stunning, and any man who lay eyes on her knew it. However, he also wasn't stupid. She was betrothed to the king and had some sort of…something…with Sandor. He preferred his cock attached to his body, so he wisely kept his eyes trained on the floor until she gave him the dropper back.
"This is milk of the poppy. You need to rest, and it'll help your pain. I found something else for pain that you can take whenever you need; it won't knock you out or alter your mind in the way milk of the poppy does, so I suggest taking this one during the day," Bronn said, handing the next dropper to her. At this, Sansa hesitated and bit at her lower lip. Her eyes flickered up over his shoulder to look at Sandor, who impassively watched from the threshold.
"I don't know if this is a good idea. I'll be…sedated," Sansa said. Bronn nodded, realizing what her concern was.
"I promise, nothing will happen to you. We'll be right outside; nobody will come in," he promised quietly. She gave him a long, searching look before glancing back at Sandor. The Hound met her gaze and nodded silently, as if confirming the truth behind Bronn's words. His assurance seemed to work; Sansa accepted the dropper.
Once Sansa was thoroughly medicated and took a few sips of water as directed by Bronn, the sellsword stood up from where he'd knelt by her bed. He turned to go, but Sansa's soft hand suddenly grasped his own calloused one, and he looked back at the girl. She was still curled on her mattress, sweaty and flushed, but those full, pink lips tilted into an appreciative smile.
"Thank you, Bronn. Another memorable experience with the immemorable man," she said. He grinned at her tease and squeezed her hand before releasing it.
"I suppose I must be growing soft with age," Bronn mused. He exited the room, and the Hound replaced his presence at her bedside. The milk of the poppy was beginning to kick in; she was relaxed against her pillows, a dreamy look on her pretty face, lips curving easily into a smile as if all was well. The Hound knelt as Bronn had and brushed a fallen lock of hair from her sweaty face. He palmed her forehead, the skin still too hot, and each pink cheek, the smile never faltering from her lips.
"You sure are smiley for someone so sick," the Hound commented, not unkindly. Sansa let out a sleepy giggle and shrugged her shoulder.
"I have a few things to smile about," she replied, gazing at him from beneath her long lashes, stifling a yawn. He gave a dry laugh at that.
"Do you?" he asked in disbelief. But Sansa nodded as if it was a serious conversation.
"I do. I thought I was going to be trapped on this ship with nobody on my side. I was…so scared. But I thought wrong. You're here for me. Like you always are. Always watching, always protecting. And now Bronn is here, too. Maybe it's dangerous of me to feel this, but…I'm starting to believe I'll be safe as long as you guys are nearby," she confided. She slid a hand across the mattress until it reached his own. Her soft fingers brushed over his own rough ones, feeling each scar and ridge, eyes not leaving his face. The experience unnerved him, and he wasn't sure what to do or how to react. Words died in his throat as her hand slowly slid from his hand up his arm, to his shoulder, the side of his neck, and then reached his ruined face. He could've sworn his heart stopped beating in that moment.
"The little bird isn't afraid of this ugly mug anymore?" the Hound asked sardonically, trying to ignore his body's reaction to her smooth, soft hand upon his cheek. Her fingers traced the knotted, mangled scars, the skin hardened by burns.
"I've seen enough monsters to know you aren't one. Scars aren't scary, people are," Sansa whispered. Her words stabbed at his heart, and he was once again rendered speechless by the sweet chirps from the little bird. She'd grown up so much from the terrified little bird that flew so meekly from Winterfell. From jumping at every shadow to accepting the darkness with resignation. He couldn't remember at what point she'd gone from flinching at his gaze, those blue eyes widening at the horror story branded into his mangled flesh, to being able to look at him so simply on her own free will, looking at him as though he had a normal face, speaking freely with him.
The Hound met her gaze silently, watching as her lovely eyes explored his face, examining his eyes, the slope of his nose, his lips. Her eyes lingered too long upon his lips.
"Don't trust anyone, little bird, not even me. Trust only leads to pain. I'm still a dog. I'll do my best to protect you, but at the end of the day I'm a dog to the king," he said simply. Sansa shook her head. Her fingers knotted into the hair at his shoulders and suddenly pulled him closer. He nearly lost his balance, not expecting this, and he furrowed his brows in surprised confusion.
"You're no dog, Sandor Clegane," Sansa whispered.
Before he could react to her words, she was leaning up, and those sinful lips were brushing across the burned half of his face in a sweet, fluttering kiss. Before she'd reached the corner of his mouth, her elbow that was propping her up trembled, and her weak, drugged body dropped back against the mattress. The Hound stared at her with an embarrassing amount of heat flaring in his groin. He closed his eyes, willing himself to settle down, convincing himself that he was a disgusting, shameful predator for even feeling this way. Was he any better than that bastard, Littlefinger? All those times of watching Littlefinger drool over the Stark girl like she was the last slice of sweetened lemon tarts, the predatorial, hungry gleam impossible to miss in his eyes. The perverse way his gaze would slither from the top of her head to the slippers upon her feet, lingering fervently on the swell of her full breasts, the curve of her backside beneath the silks and satins. His behavior infuriated the Hound, filled him with disgust and hatred. Yet here was, becoming unraveled by intoxicated looks and touches.
"Don't be a fool, little bird. I didn't earn my name through caring for damsels in distress. I'm no better than the bloodsuckers that crawl around the Keep," he said bitterly. Sansa's eyes fluttered, too drugged and sleepy to open them.
"Yet here you are, as usual," she mumbled, barely coherent. He didn't respond, didn't move, or make a noise. He watched as her head eventually lulled to one side, breathing evenly and slowly. A big part of him wanted to stay there, kneeling by her bedside, until the sickness left her blood and the color returned to her face. He wanted to watch her while she slept, lost in her purity and innocence. But he'd already spent far too much time with the Stark girl; someone was sure to notice he hadn't been around the king enough. So, the Hound reluctantly stood, casting a final glance at the sleeping maiden, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Bronn was sitting against the wall outside her bedroom, whittling away at a random piece of wood Sandor hadn't seen before. They exchanged glances.
"I'm going to spend the rest of the day with the little bastard. If you need me, I'm sure you'll find a way to signal me," the Hound said. His friend nodded from where he sat, boredom plastered over his face, and continued whittling.
The Hound disappeared around the corner and went after the king, his face smoothed into a bland mask of indifference, though his mind was filled with soft touches and dreamy smiles, fiery red hair splayed across white pillows, and Tully blue eyes gazing up at him with undeserved trust.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! I'll try to update soon. Leave a review if you're enjoying the story so far! (: