
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8647480.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane_&_Sansa_Stark, Lothor_Brune/
      Mya_Stone, Minor_or_Background_Relationship(s)
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Petyr_Baelish, Robert_"Sweetrobin"_Arryn, Myranda_Royce, Mya
      Stone, Lothor_Brune, Ser_Shadrich, Ser_Morgarth, Byron_"The_Beautiful",
      Sandor_Clegane, Howland_Reed, The_Elder_Brother_(ASoIaF), Harrold_Hardyng
  Additional Tags:
      Canon_-_Book, Spoilers_for_Book_6_-_The_Winds_of_Winter, ASoIaF, Spoilers
      for_Book_4_-_A_Feast_for_Crows, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon, Underage_Sex,
      Canon-Typical_Violence, Eventual_Smut, Sexual_Content, Minor_Canonical
      Character(s), Sexual_Humor, Romance, Intrigue, Deception, POV_Female
      Character, Female_Friendship, Male-Female_Friendship, Creepy_Petyr
      Baelish, threat_of_rape_mention, A_little_angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-11-25 Updated: 2017-08-27 Chapters: 8/? Words: 46969
****** Bones and Rubies ******
by Blue_Lemons
Summary
     Sansa Stark is still under the guise of Alayne Stone in the Vale on
     the opening the day of the tourney for Lord Robert Arryn's Winged
     Knights. While she is focused on courtly intrigues, a new player
     knows the truth and will be making their own moves; however, there's
     more going on behind the scenes that will flip the game board over
     and take Sansa in a completely new direction.
Notes
     This story starts immediately from where Alayne I in the Winds of
     Winter sample chapter left off. I'm trying to keep as strictly with
     book canon as I can. I realize that a few details may be confusing to
     some and it might hinder some readership. The first chapter starts
     off fairly light in tone and has only mild references to sex and
     descriptions of violence but will change to a more serious tone by
     the second. It will eventually end up as explicit.
     This is also my first fanfic. I look forward to your comments and
     hope for constructive criticism. I would also like to work with a
     beta reader who is well versed in book canon, but I have no idea how
     to find one. I hope you all enjoy the first chapter :)
***** The Tourney of the Winged Knights *****
A moan coming from her bedmate was what roused her from sleep. Too much wine
from the revelry last night no doubt. Motes of dust floated in the sunlight
breaking through the edges of the window coverings. Lazily, she turned to the
head of chestnut curls that laid beside her and yawned. Myranda Royce had taken
as many turns on the dance floor as she, but her friend could probably match
Lord Tyrion in a duel of cups. Alayne sat up on her forearms and rolled neck.
The servants would be arriving soon and the day ahead would be riveting and
mercilessly long.  
 
           It was late into the night when they had finally retired from the
feast. Alayne had seen little Lord Robert to bed before escorting Myranda to
their chambers, giggling and stumbling the whole way back. The firelight
flickered low as they continued to whisper their appraisals of their dance
partners. Myranda conceded that the knights from the Sisters had their finer
points.  After she mentioned Uthor Shett of Gulltown had trampled her feet as
well, Alayne had jested a seagull had shett on their shoes. They would never be
able to look at the ginger-haired knight again without that image.  Praised for
taking her first foray into cursing, Alayne reminded Randa she had not truly
said the word.  
 
“Do not think I have forgotten the pillow tax, you septa. I’ve given you a
reprieve long enough on account of all that blushing and I can see I’ve finally
dragged you to the seven hells with me. Come now, tell me truly… which of those
gallant men do you wish was giving you jousting lessons right now?” Randa
nestled tight into her pillow, bracing herself for a revelation.
 
She is a dog gnawing on a bone, Alayne thought. Yet, she did not feel the
prickles of discomfort as she ought and the warmth of the spiced wine still
blossomed throughout her. Even though she could not think of any particular
knight, she knew she had to give her friend a morsel of the bawdy gossip she
craved. If she were truthful with herself, she wanted to confide in the older
girl some secret of her heart as she would have done with Jeyne Poole. She
heard Petyr’s warnings in her mind, but there would be no harm in it if she
delicately chose her words.
 
“Not a one here. Not even stupid Ser Harrold.” She began. Randa scoffed, but
she continued. “There was someone once… He wasn’t a knight, though he could
have been. He was as tall as Lord Royce, but lean and built like a bull and his
kiss was just as fierce. You would never have called him comely, Randa, but he
had a way about him. It was only the one kiss and then he was gone. Just one
hard, cruel kiss.”  The spell broke after that, but she added: “I sang him a
song once too.”
 
“I’ll wager you did.”
 
“No, I mean I really did sing to him. The Mother’s Hymn.” She realized how
ridiculous that sounded as soon as she said it. Myranda turned her face into
the pillow to stifle her peals of laughter.  
 
“I’m sorry, but somehow I can believe it from you,” she said between breaths.
“Is it this bull you think of when you are alone at night?  Sometimes I send my
maids away when I’m in my bath. Thinking on the hard snapping of a well-
muscled, young arse between my thighs like a whip cracking serves me every
time.” Alayne did not know what to say to that. Myranda must have noticed the
look on her face because she asked: “You do know how to make yourself sing?”
She should be horrified, she knew, but she wasn’t.  This time Alayne settled in
closer for a revelation.
 
The maids arrived that morning with trays filled with fried eggs, sausages, and
slices of fresh oranges to break their fast. Whirling about the room they drew
back the curtains, stoked the fire, and laid out their gowns. Alayne quickly
splashed her face with cold water and nibbled as she dressed. Myranda looked
like a sweet confection in a gown of pink and rose velvet despite her
declaration that her mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage. “Not to worry,”
she said as she waved around a bite of sausage. “By the time my hair is up,
I’ll be feeling fit to receive the High Septon. This isn’t my first tilt.”
 Alayne’s head was surprisingly clear, thank the gods.
 
Even the bastard of a Lord Protector could still not presume to dress above her
station at such a grand event with highborn ladies in attendance. Alayne had
chosen her dark wool gown with the gold vines embroidered on the bodice and
sleeves and a cream-colored linen shift underneath. Her maid had arranged her
hair in a coiled braid at the back of her head. A faint amount of copper was
starting to show through the dull brown dye under the morning light, she
noticed. “The autumn yellow ribbon please.” It was her only concession to
ornamentation, but it looked so fine with her blue eyes when it was in her hair
and tied in a bow at her nape. There was no more time to tarry with Randa. She
had to settle some business about a favor. Swooping her deep green cloak about
her shoulders she headed down to the tourney yard.
 
She remembered the opulent spectacle of her father’s…her real father’s tourney
that seemed another lifetime ago when the world was splendid and full of
promise. Still, Lord Petyr aspired to an event that would be remembered like
Harrenhal and Ashford. An array of colorful banners snapped in the autumn
breeze with the great falcon and moon of Arryn taking the center of the stands.
Serving men rolled out great casks of ale, Dornish red, and Arbor Gold to keep
the cups full to overflowing.  The wood fire pits were already ablaze again for
another round of roast aurochs. Other guests in their finery strolled the
grounds and surveyed the competition, already placing their bets. Squires
flitted about like dragonflies carrying pieces of plate and mail while their
knights barked orders and honed their swords. Some had already donned their
armor, some were sparring with practice swords, and few were heaving last
night’s feast behind the hedgerows where they thought no one would notice.
Mychel Redfort was among those readying their sword arms. He had a sure aim at
the quintains yesterday. She considered him earnestly for a moment. No, she
could not do that to Mya with a heart still bruised and battered.  She
continued on.
 
She spied Ser Lothor Brune, the Apple-Eater, checking the shoes of his horse
and looking hungry this morning. “Good morrow, ser!” she called cheerfully as
she approached. A wicked idea occurred to her. She lowered her voice when she
stood near him. “A pity Ser Robar Royce isn’t here for a rematch.” His brows
furrowed like he meant to chastise her, but a small smile betrayed him. Lothor
had been unhorsed by Yohn Royce’s son at the tourney of the Hand— a tourney
Alayne Stone wouldn’t know the slightest about. Ser Lothar knew the truth of
it, though.
 
“Good morrow, my lady.  And I do not intend to win any matches today by forfeit
either.”  He was referring, of course, to sad and foolish Dontos Hollard.  And
I thought that drunkard was my Florian.  Who was the bigger fool indeed?  “Can
I be of service, my lady?”
 
“Not to me, ser. I have decided today is your name day and it’s high time you
sowed. I have saved a seat for Mya near me in the stands.  You should ask her
for her favor.”
 
Lothor laughed heartily. “Beg your pardon, my lady. Mya does not seem like the
sort.”
 
“She will. I have already spoken with her.”  When she finished here she would
need to fly to the stables and find Mya without delay. She gave her most
winning smile as she curtsied and strode away.
 
She steered clear of Lyn Corbray, who leaned against a tree and spoke with
Oswell Kettleblack. He need not be tested again today.  On and on she wove her
way through the yard.  Her tummy fluttered with her first pangs of trepidation.
Truthfully, she had not considered until now that so many of these knights had
been squires a few moon turns prior. Harry was among them, but her only hope
was a decisive win.  Father said don’t appear too eager.  Give your favor to
another. Yes, father.  Another who will thoroughly trounce Harry the Heir. My
champion will knock your arse in the dirt, Alayne will laugh prettily, and you
will seethe. At least that was the idea.
 
“You seem to be seeking something. Can we be of assistance, my lady?” Odd
little Ser Shadrich and brawny, red-nosed Ser Morgarth were standing under a
nearby tent oiling their sword blades. The Mad Mouse had been the one to call
out to her. They had been among those she had danced with the night before and
found no fault with their courtesy. Still, with their handsome third they were
as funny a motley lot as one could ever meet.
 
“Perchance you can, sers. You see, I have wagered ten stags against Lady
Myranda’s champion in the jousts. I seek my own to vanquish hers, else I’ll
find myself plucked clean by day’s end. Alas, as I recall you will only be in
the melee, Ser Shadrich. Is that also true of you, Ser Morgarth?”
 
“It is, my lady.” The hedge knight paused a moment then looked to the rear of
the tent. “Might I suggest our Ser Byron? He’s tilted many a time and won his
share. I’d put my coin on him.” Ser Byron came out of the shadows and gave a
short, easy bow. He had not even put on a quilted doublet yet. He still wore a
loose linen shirt over his tall frame and around his neck a small leather bag
hung on a cord just inside his collar.  
 
“Are you up to the task, ser?”
 
“I did not enter to leave empty-handed.  You’ll be ten stags richer, my lady.
Believe that.”
 
She studied him a moment. He was comely enough to warrant being called Byron
the Beautiful with his straight blonde hair and elegant manner. In another
life, she might have even swooned over this hedge knight. Not today. She was
bastard brave and no one’s fool. In the most unsentimental way she could
muster, she pulled the bow loose in her hair and thrust her hand out toward her
champion. Something in him must have shaken because he reached out and took the
yellow-gold ribbon tentatively. “A share of my winnings then.” She curtsied and
whirled away, her green cloak flapping behind her. She heard him ask who Lady
Myranda was favoring but she pretended not to hear. These were still Petyr’s
hired swords. They need not know everything.    
 
Gretchel had Sweetrobin looking like a proper lord in a dark blue velvet
doublet with silver detailing. To her relief, he was beaming ear to ear,
delighted the day had arrived he would have his own Winged Knights. She had
read him every tale of Artys Arryn she could find twice over.  Sweetrobin took
his place in the center dais. The Lord Protector, Petyr Baelish, was beside him
in grand fashion with a plum-colored cape secured with a mockingbird brooch
over a black doublet.  Lady Waynwood, Lord Nestor and the Lords Redfort,
Belmore, and Grafton took their honored seating nearby. The rows soon swelled
to capacity and horns blared the commencement.  The Lord of the Eyrie had the
first row of seats for his retinue. Tenderly, she kissed Sweetrobin on top of
his head and pecked her father on the cheek. Alayne sat on the opposite side of
Lord Robert with Myranda quickly joining her with Mya Stone in tow, straight as
a spear and in her riding leathers.  
 
“I don’t want cousin Harrold to win any wings,” Sweetrobin told her. “That
means he’ll be here all the time.”
 
“Don’t be troubled, my lord. Only true knights could be Winged Knights,”
 Alayne whispered to him. If only she believed that herself.  Still, her little
cousin was in fine form despite his worries. She did not sense he was in danger
of a shaking fit.      
 
It was not long before she saw Lothor Brune striding toward them. Seven hells!
 She abruptly grabbed Mya’s hand. “Give Ser Lothor a favor.”
 
“What?”
 
“You must trust me. Give him something, anything. I swear it, Mya, you won’t
regret it.”
 
“Him?”She did not sound opposed, merely cautious.
 
“He’s a man, Mya. Not a witless boy playing with swords or hearts. Nor does he
indulge in silly, empty gestures or suffer fools. A man like that would only
make himself a fool for one reason alone. I tell you, Mya, Ser Lothor is as
solid and steady as the Wall.”     
 
Mya stared at her a long moment as if she couldn’t decide if Alayne were
completely mad or just half, but praise the gods she softened by the time the
Apple-Eater arrived. “Lady Mya…” he began, though she was no lady. Before he
could finish the bastard girl pulled a dagger from her boot and flipped the
blade around so the pommel faced him. A smile spread across his square jaw as
he took the dagger from her hand.
 
The rest of the day went off as well as she could hope. She only pretended to
fervently watch most of the jousts of untried green boys and often slipped into
wistful little daydreams.  Ben Coldwater triumphed against one of the
Sistermen. Andrew Tollett had barely stayed ahorse to defeat Myranda’s brother,
Albar Royce.  Mychel Redfort performed as well as expected earlier but was
later unhorsed by Ser Byron. Lyn Corbray’s lance exploded in a cloud of
splinters on some poor boy’s chestplate and the lad had to be carried off the
grounds with a broken leg.  Alayne found herself in the odd position of
silently rooting for Ser Uthor when he faced Harrold Hardyng, but the would-be
Young Falcon managed to beat the Shett out of his saddle. She felt a little sad
when Ser Lothor soundly defeated Ser Roland Waynwood, who made her laugh and
swept her off her feet. A man with his lady’s favor and in love could be
unstoppable if the songs could be believed. She scoffed to herself at that…
yet, Ser Lothor rode tall and proud in the saddle with single-minded purpose.
She looked over at Mya and saw a softness in her gaze and a somber beauty in
her profile. Arya’s eyes would be gray, though. At least Roland’s sweet,
stuttering uncle, Ser Wallace Waynwood, won his match.    
 
As the first day dwindled down, the competition eliminated most of the original
sixty-four. She had almost lost track of who was left when one of the last
matches of the day was called. Ser Harrold Hardyng would face Ser Byron.  The
hedge knight sat atop a red courser, visor down, and lance held firm. Faintly,
she could see the autumn gold ribbon tied around his vambrace.   Though she
could not see his face, Ser Byron raised his lance arm up in her direction it
seemed. Harry was all gleaming in silver plate with a blue moon and falcon
detailing. His surcoat bore the quartered heraldry of Houses Hardyng, Waynwood,
and Arryn. So presumptuous. Harry glanced up her way and flashed a cocksure
smile.  Sweetrobin shifted around in his seat as he glared down at him. Alayne
quietly grasped his hand and stroked her thumb over his fingers.   
 
Her breath bated as the two opponents lowered their lances. Their horses
suddenly erupted into a full gallop, sending the dirt flying behind them. She
prayed hard that all she had heard about Harry’s skill was the truth— that he
truly was only an unjumped squire and that Morgarth was right about Byron’s
experience. At the last possible moment, the hedge knight shifted in his saddle
which effectively caused Harry’s lance to take only a glancing blow, but
Byron’s lance took Harry square in the upper chest. Wood shattered and the
crowd gave a palpable groan as the clatter of plate armor mixed with the thud
of hitting unforgiving earth. The Young Falcon moved his limbs slowly like a
dazed turtle on its back as a few squires ran out to attend him. She couldn’t
help but wince a little for his pain, but then she remembered her father only
needed Harry’s approval to seal this betrothal for true. Lady Waynwood would
not force her ward.  Those were her terms to help her sleep easier after her
debts were paid by Lord Littlefinger.  
 
Suddenly whoops of cheer burst from the little lord beside her and he stood to
clap his hands. The rest of the stands followed suit with a polite and
restrained applause. As the squires helped Ser Harold to his feet and removed
his helm, he looked up at the stands. His mouth was bloody where he must have
bitten himself when he hit the ground. A large dent marred his resplendent
breastplate turning one falcon into a misshapen beast. Ser Byron turned his
courser about and came up beside the railing. He lifted his visor and gave Lord
Robert a bow, but never shifted his eyes away from hers. He can’t expect his
share of the silver now, can he? Those stags I plucked from pure fancy. Alayne
rose from her seat, leaned over, and meant to chastely kiss her champion on the
cheek to put him off for the time being. At the last possible moment, he turned
his head to claim it boldly on his lips. He lingered only a second to spare her
further embarrassment. Gods, Sweetrobin will surely have a fit, possessive of
her as he is.To her relief, he did no such thing. Still, she felt prickling
heat blossoming all over her face as she could hear the amused tittering behind
her. She overheard Lord Robert declare to Petyr Baelish that Ser Byron was
surely a true knight and will have wings by tourney’s end. Myranda gave her a
sly look that said the pillow tax has just been raised. By the time she had the
nerve to look back down the field, Ser Byron was dismounting his saddle and Ser
Morgarth came up to clap him upside his head with one of his massive paws.  
 
After most of the stands cleared to head back for the second night of feasting,
Littlefinger slipped an arm through hers and gently guided her behind a cluster
of sentinel pines.  Alayne knew what was coming and put on her sweetest, most
dutiful smile. “Lady Waynwood tells me Harry is frothing. No one expected him
to perform that well, but he’s more upset you openly favored the knight that
spanked his proud arse. Just last night he was eating out of your palm. Now
he’s speaking bitterly of holding out for a highborn match when he inherits.”
His tone was even and patient, but his grey-green eyes told it differently.  I
did have him quite in hand, but I did it my way, not yours. I didn’t eat your
stupid cake either.    
 
Alayne widened her eyes in disbelief.  “Father, you told me I should not appear
too eager and that I should give my favor to another.  How was I to know some
sell-sword would win in a proper knight’s contest? The kiss was only meant to
be a chaste one on the cheek, but Ser Byron was too bold by far.” She turned
her eyes downcast and worried at her lip like Arya would do. “I’m sorry,
father.”
 
Petyr kissed her forehead and stroked her arm soothingly. “All will be well,
sweetling. It’s not too late to right this. No permanent harm was done. Lady
Waynwood will remind him he was never truly here for the wings and she will
tell him it was Ser Byron that overstepped. I will have Lothor Brune speak to
him. In the meantime, you should feign exhaustion and avoid the merriment
tonight. No need to salt the boy’s wounds.” Lord Petyr’s attention was drawn to
Lord Nestor and he left her there beneath the branches.  
 
Turning back toward the dais to find her little lord, Alayne saw him enthralled
in conversation with Ser Byron, who had taken a knee in front of him. He was
Sweetrobin's champion as much as mine . Myranda and Mya stood idly against the
railings talking among themselves, while Robert was likely bombarding the
knight with all sorts of questions. She would have to borrow a few stags from
her friends.  When she handed them over she intended to chew his ear off and
then he could get a second helping from his captain. Why, though? Hadn’t her
plan worked and Harry was now hopefully put off of marrying her? Truthfully,
that bit of ungallantry was the icing on the cake and had served her well.  It
may have been the one kiss she ever had that wasn’t a disappointment and it had
naught to do with desire. She couldn’t even recall what it felt like.
 
“My lady.” She turned to find someone’s squire approaching her. She’d seen him
before, but there were so many darting around. He had a weak mustache that
looked like bread mold.  “Maester Colemon sent me to find you. The knight that
broke his leg earlier…the maester worries he might have a swelling in the head
too.  It could be fatal. He wishes to confer how to handle this.”
 
Mealy-mouthed Maester Colemon always preferred dealing with Alayne rather than
the Lord Protector, who plowed over the man like a tractable piece of land.
“Lead on then.” The boy brought her to one of the last tents in the row.
 Inside she met neither an ailing knight nor Maester Colemon. Standing before
her was Lyn Corbray who dismissed his squire. The ruby in Lady Forlorn’s pommel
shone a dark, thick red.  “This is irregular, ser.” She could feel the sweat on
the back of her neck. Courtesy is a lady’s armor.
 
“Apologies, my lady.” He measured his words carefully to not frighten her, but
she could almost feel the pulsing in his veins from where she stood. “We have
but a moment, so we should speak plainly. I know who you really are. Do not be
afraid. I’ve brought you here to offer my help, Sansa Stark.”
 
Something told her denial would be unwise. She swallowed hard and nodded.
 Kettleblack must have told him. Why now, though? I must be brave like Robb.
“Why would you help me?”
 
“You know Littlefinger has crossed me before more than once. We both know what
that whoremonger really wants from you, betrothal or no. It’s only a matter of
time. There’s no limit to his ambition. I could see you safely to Runestone and
Yohn Royce.”
 
Her breath hitched. Take a good whiff.  “Lord Royce was ever my father’s
friend. How, though?”
 
His eyes glittered at that, taking it for encouragement. “On the morrow before
day breaks. The castle will still be sleeping off their wine. My squire knows
which guards can be bribed and will ready the horses. The mountain passes will
be slow with heavy snowfall, but we can take the longer way of the High Road.
Then take a ship to Runestone. Royce has been waiting to seize an opportunity
to pry Littlefinger off the high lord’s seat. Taking his pawn away from him
would be a good start. Lord Royce wanted to fight for Robb. He would do
everything in his power to keep Ned’s daughter safe…maybe even rally behind her
once Littlefinger is sent packing to Harrenhal.”
 
She couldn’t help the quaking within her.  A part of her wanted to believe it,
but the best lies are nestled in truth. The High Road also meets the King’s
Road and Sansa Stark still had a bounty on her head. Dead or alive. He would
have his vengeance and one hundred dragons are no small things for a second
son. He couldn’t hope to drag me out. He must have me quiet and willing, but if
he gets desperate enough... I must tread carefully.  “Ser, I share a bed with
Lady Myranda. How will I be able to leave the room without being seen?”
 
“There’s a few lads here no doubt that could keep the lady occupied. I could
see to it. A clever girl like you escaped one castle. This should be child’s
play.”  
 
“I make no promises, ser. I can only try, but if I see a guard or a maid about
I won’t risk it.  He has eyes and ears everywhere. I only move so freely
because he trusts me like a daughter.”
 
“I trust you will succeed, my lady. We must seize the opportunity. We’ve been
talking too long.  It’s high time you’re off and back to the feasting.  Go
now.”
 
Her legs felt as wobbly as a new fawn as she started back. Her heart was a bird
beating its wings wildly against a cage, mad to escape. I mustn’t cry. I need
to think. All day she had been playing at courtly games. Lyn Corbray was no
cyvasse piece. He was volatile, impatient, and deadly. Her head in a sack would
serve just as well as her whole body. She felt so hot and flushed. It might
have been Ser Morgarth that called out to her to ask if she needed an escort,
but she waved her hand dismissively as she picked up her pace. She could not
abide the company right now.

***** The Green Cloak *****
Chapter Summary
     Alayne must quickly outmaneuver Lyn Corbray before the night is over
     while keeping both Petyr Baelish and her friends in the dark.
Chapter Notes
     Just in case some people are wondering, this is indeed a Sandor and
     Sansa story. Everything is happening for a reason to lead up to his
     appearance, which should be very, very soon.
     I just wanted to start with some events that highlight a few things I
     think are important about book Sansa's arc:
     1) That she demonstrates a maturing and astute mind.
     2) That her sexual awakening is about her own desires and preferences
     3) That she can play a major role in rescuing herself.
     Or at least I hope it comes off that way.
     Big thanks to WinterfellBaby for doing an outstandingly helpful beta
     read!

Alayne was glad of Petyr’s command to retire early.  She didn’t need to feign
exhaustion.  Her only desire was to hide in some dark, silent place far from
the madness of the main hall.  The lower castle was such a small thing compared
to most others.  The echoes of the harps, pipes, and drums below reverberated
through the stone walls.  Maddie had a bath and some food brought up to her
chambers and as soon as she helped her out of her dress and corset, Alayne
dismissed her.  She requested only some bread, butter, and mulled wine be left
on the table, though she doubted she would be up able to eat tonight.  Her
tummy felt like a knotted rope being pulled tighter from both ends.  She
slipped in, sank down low and still, and let the hot water come up to just
below her nose.  Her breath made little ripples on the surface.  The sun had
just set not long ago and dawn was still several hours away.  Still, it felt
like a perilously short amount of time to work out what to do about Ser Lyn.
           
It rang true that Lord Royce would have helped her if he knew who she was.  It
occurred to her she might just be the biggest idiot that ever was.  Bronze Yohn
knighted Harry and counseled him against trusting Littlefinger.  Perhaps she
should have taken him to some dark alcove and let him have her maidenhead.  She
could have revealed herself to Harry and he would be struck dumb that the gods
had dropped the heir to Winterfell on his manhood.  That would have hastened
him to the sept out of the fear of Sansa Stark giving birth to his bastard.
 She could have swayed him to take her to Runestone and away from Petyr.  Lady
Anya may still call him her ward, but he’s a grown man and no one could stop
him.  But she just  had  to harbor ideas of holding on for someone that would
love her for herself.  She  had  to keep carrying around like a sack of stones
the foolish memory of man that was the basis for comparison against anyone
else.

Harry was so angry and bitter now.  She would have to act in ways that would
shame her lady mother or take care that her wit never exceeded his, but she
could have been herself again and ended this nightmare.  What matter did it
make if her husband would have bastards littering the countryside or if he
disdained her appearance after birthing made her fat?  Why should she be any
different than other highborn wives come before?  But that plan would also
leave her little cousin alone… and she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging
feeling that she could not truly endure such a marriage, selfish and childish
though it may be.  Stop it.  This is not helping the matter at hand .

What if she just went to Lord Petyr and told him of Corbray’s designs?  He was
so fearless and clever, he would know what to do…  but then he might move her
to some unknown, isolated place out of caution, away from the few friends and
freedoms she had.  If Kettleblack had betrayed him, he might decide Lothor
Brune could as well and be rid of him.  He may be Petyr’s man, but she called
him a friend just the same.  At least Alayne Stone of the Gates lived a modest
little life, a lie though it may be.  Sansa Stark has nothing and no one but a
claim that’s brought naught but grief.  No, Petyr Baelish’s help could only
benefit one person.
She would dress and go downstairs, discreet as a mouse.  She must somehow
ensure Randa’s stay with her tonight.   At least she could do that much.  It
would put Lyn off for one night and buy her more time if Randa didn’t dally
with a man.  She didn’t want her astute friend to raise any questions about it
either.  It was not as if she could claim a need for a sympathetic ear over
Harry.  Myranda knew she had no feelings toward him.  It would be unkind as
well since Myranda had once had hopes of a match.  

Thinking of the older girl had led to some other thoughts as well.  She
remembered the things she shared with her the previous night -- things to do
with making herself sing.  She had heard ribald japes before about boys tugging
themselves, but she didn’t imagine girls could do anything like it.  She
stretched her limbs out to relieve this awful tension and settled her head
against the back of the tub.  The water was far from growing cold, but in this
position her breasts formed stiffened peaks breaking the surface like twin
islands.  Her skin was so pale her nipples were scarcely darker than the pink
of seashells.  She remembered the times she had been groped before:  by Joffrey
and even by Lord Tyrion who she had come to think of as kinder than others.
 She wanted to replace those unpleasantries once and for all.  Slowly she
brought her hands up her body and imagined the way she would like her breasts
to be held.  From cupping them and pushing them slightly together she then
delicately moved her fingers to caress the underside and traced the seam where
they met her ribs.  She strummed her thumbs lazily over the tips of her nipples
like harp strings.  There was an easy warmth taking hold like the first rush of
wine hitting her head.  

She felt almost skittish turning her thoughts to  him .  She had her memories
etched in time and her dreams that could go anywhere they may, but this was far
more deliberate.  She held the reins and the spurs.  The honesty of it was
unsettling, but thrilling as well.  She wanted those cruel lips branding her
throat while she imagined her small hands becoming his large calloused ones.
 This was so lovely.  She wondered if men liked their nipples touched this way.
 She wondered if  he  would like it.  She suddenly had the urge to pay him in
his own coin.  Her mouth could be just as fierce on his neck and chest.  There
was a pull down in her lower belly like being led around by a hook.  Rivulets
of water trickled down as she hitched one leg over the rim of the tub.
 Tentatively she traced the outline of her sex with the tip of her middle
finger.  The petals held their own sensations, but nothing prepared her for the
awakening of finding the kernel Randa had described.  She spent a long time
experimenting with different pressures, fingers, and movements before settling
into a groove that felt right.  She had felt so small standing near him before
that it was hard to imagine what his weight would feel like cradled between her
thighs.  She didn’t want to think about the pain of taking his manhood inside
her, but she remembered she was mistress here.  She held the reins and the
spurs.  She had no idea what form that particular pleasure would take, but for
now, his manhood remained a nebulous thing that only fit like a glove.  Her
mind commanded him to move over her as languidly as a shadowcat while his saw-
blade voice murmured against her neck.  Somehow his familiar harshness excited
her, strange as that seemed.  Only a moment later she felt something reach the
peak of its crescendo before jerking her back down in the sweetest pulse of her
sex.  Her thighs quivered uncontrollably and she had to remove her hand because
the sensation became too much to bear.   Gods ...        

After she had collected herself and put  a clean shift on, someone gently
rapped on her door.  Fortunately, it was the maids come to remove the bath and
Mya Stone to check on her.  Mya sat on the edge of the bed while Alayne combed
out and rebraided her hair.  “I’m feeling a little better, thank you.  I had a
few bites of buttered bread.  I think I might go down a just watch the dancing
from the stairwell.  Have you seen Myranda by any chance?”  The last maid
closed the door behind her.

“I saw her at dinner, but after the trestle tables were moved to clear the
floor I lost sight of her.  I was a little occupied myself...”  Alayne turned
back to her friend after a pregnant pause.  Mya was fiddling with her dagger
and pretending to prick her finger with the tip as she reclined back on the
pillows.  She lifted her blue eyes pointedly.  “I let him kiss me.”

Alayne beamed.  “What did you think?”

“I think he was nervous,” she shrugged.  “He came to the stables to return my
dagger.  He said he wouldn’t leave me without defense.  We talked for a bit.  I
asked him to kiss me, just to see how I’d like it.  It wasn’t bad.  It got
better when he pulled me in closer.  He had to leave for his guard duties
walking the balconies, though.”

“Would you kiss him again?”

“I suppose I would.”  She smiled. “His arms are strong.  I was thinking… since
the upper castles are closed for Winter we won’t be using the mules as much.
 We could use the time before the snows reach us to make Lord Robert a better
rider.  Perhaps you as well.  I know you aren’t comfortable above a trot or
riding astride instead of sidesaddle.  Maybe after all these nobles finally go
home.   What do you think?”  

“That’s brilliant, Mya.  I’ll talk Lord Robert into it.”

“Good.  I’m going to check the stables before heading to bed.”

After Mya had left, Alayne put on a deep gray wool dress that was easy to lace
in the front.  She feared Myranda might have already left the hall with
Corbray’s accomplice, but she may just be dancing.   There was a draft that
chilled the marble halls so she put on her dark green cloak again.  When she
tucked her hands in the cloak pockets for warmth, her fingers touched something
at the bottom she had long forgotten was there.  It was as thin and fine as a
spiderweb, but her fingers could still feel the hard, dangerous little stones.
 She didn’t even know why she had kept it.  It made her only recall her waking
nightmares.  She would have to remember to get rid of it.  

From the bottom of the steps that met the main hall, she surveyed the room and
turned up nothing.  She saw Harry, even with his scabbed and bruised lip,
looking quite recovered as he charmingly entertained some younger ladies.
 Luckily for him, he hadn't broken those lovely teeth.  The musicians were
playing a lively rendition of “The Maids that Bloom in Spring” -- without the
singing of course.  She saw Lord Petyr speaking in Lady Waynwood’s ear as she
gazed at nothing in particular, sipping her wine.  A sleepy Lord Robert was
being led out his chair by Gretchel to be put to bed.  When he was far enough
away from most eyes, Ser Morgarth lifted him into thick branches of his arms to
carry him the rest of the way. He had done so well today.  He had behaved like
a proper lord in front of everyone and not trembled once.  

She sighed.  She would need to search the empty chambers upstairs.  Before she
could ascend, Ser Wallace spied her and asked her if she’d like to dance, only
stuttering a few times on the  d.   She smiled sweetly at him and begged his
forgiveness.  She was still so drained, yet she only wanted to listen to the
music a bit.  She touched his arm and congratulated him on his victory in the
tilts.  

Up she went through the corridors servants usually used.  Her slippers were
quiet on the floor, though she must keep her breathing hushed.  These halls
echoed something fierce.  She paused at each door listening for any sign of
Myranda’s voice… or sighs rather.  She searched one tower then another, ducking
into alcoves and shadows whenever she heard the footsteps of servants.  She
suddenly froze and flattened herself against a wall.  Around the corner, she
heard the low laughter of men mixed with rustling and heavy panting.  Very
carefully she eased out to take a look, but the lighting was poor.  It was
indeed two men in a passionate embrace… no, a man grown and a slim, comely
youth as far as she could tell.  Perhaps a year or two younger than Harry.  The
man had turned away from her, halfway out of an open doorway with a flagon of
wine dangling from his hand.  The younger one was at his neck with reckless
abandon and fondled him through his pants.  “Enough of that,”  he said low and
husky.  You need to get back down there.  Do this right for me.  On the morrow,
we’ll have our quarry.”             

“I just need something to get my blood up again is all.  What she’s got doesn’t
exactly inspire me.”

The older one pushed back on the other.  “I could manage even with Lady Lysa
when I needed to.  I’ll have you again on a bed of dragons soon enough.  Go on
now.  I’ll be down shortly.”  

Duly chastised, the younger one straightened his breeches, ran his fingers
through his hair and made his way down the hall toward her.  Alayne ducked back
behind the wall and held her breath.  She saw the back of his head as he
strutted past her and descended a stairwell.  She could not see his face or any
sigil, but he had wheat-colored hair and wore a bright cardinal doublet.  She
prayed hard because this was either a stroke of luck or her biggest mistake.
 There could be no doubt she found Lyn Corbray’s chamber and at least she knew
his lover had not been around Myranda yet.  She heard his door close so she
took the opportunity to duck into an empty guest chamber with the door cracked
in order to see when he had left.

It felt like a lifetime had gone by before she finally saw Ser Lyn striding
down the same stairs.  The rumors were true then.  He was all composed as if he
hadn’t just been tupping a boy in his room, not that she understood exactly how
that worked.  Her heart was hammering away and the perspiration was rising on
her forehead and chest.  Lyn Corbray would indeed kill her or take her to
King’s Landing for execution.  A mad thought seized her.  Oh-so-lightly she
made her way to Corbray’s chamber and opened the door.  

As a member of an ancient and noble house, he had been given a moderate-sized
room with a small adjoining chamber for a servant and private privy.  There was
a low fire crackling in the small hearth.  He had a feather bed with four tall
posts and blue and white curtains and canopy.  Lady Forlorn hung in his sword
belt on a peg in the wall.  The flagon of wine sat on the table beside the bed.
 It was still half-full of red.  She reached into the pocket of her cloak and
pulled out the hairnet.  She studied the tiny black amethysts of Asshai, how
they glowed purple in the firelight.   Do I simply drop them in?   She fiddled
with one of the stones until it popped loose and almost dropped it.  She wasn’t
sure if one was enough so she pried loose a second and into the flagon they
went.  It was so hard to see, but after sloshing the wine around they appeared
to be dissolving.   He’s going to kill me.  He knows who I am.  Cry about this
later.     

She suddenly heard heavy footfalls of boots outside.  She returned the flagon
to it’s position on the table hurriedly and dashed into the adjoining chamber.
 She barely managed to crawl under a small, low servant's cot and tucked in her
dress and cape before the door opened.  Her breasts were crushed down painfully
from the corset and press of the straw mattress above.  The vantage point
allowed her to see it was the young man that returned to the chamber.   What’s
this about?   Apparently, he left something behind, something he found
partially under the bed— a soft leather glove.  It’s twin was tucked into his
belt, which was a simple, well-worn thing that contrasted with the splendid
detailing of his doublet and the quality of the gloves.  Instead of simply
leaving, he squatted down next to the chest at the foot of the bed and opened
it.  She could hear the sound of rifling through a bag of coin and she saw him
tuck a few pieces into his own purse.   Oh, I see…  Ser Lyn would break your
pretty face if he knew you for a thief, especially after gifting you such
finery above your station.  And to think he was going to spoil you silly with
my bounty.  
After closing the chest he stood and hesitated a moment.  She saw his feet turn
to the table, she heard him take a long draw from the flagon before setting it
back down.  Her hands trembled wildly and her eyes widened.  What if it didn’t
work or what if he made it back down to the feast before it worked?  She got
her answer after he only took a few steps toward the door.  A dry cough
overtook him and he meant to wet his throat with more wine.  Only seconds later
his breathing turned thick and wheezing.  Before long he was on his knees,
scratching at his own throat.  She could barely see his face, but there was no
doubt his lips grew pale and horrifically violet.  He fell on his back, so
muffled were his cries and his legs twitched and danced.  She clamped a hand
over her own mouth to stop the scream and felt her own hot tears running over
her fingers.  Now, as they both lay on the floor together, his teary,
bloodshot, brown eyes were looking directly at hers.  His lips parted again and
again in vain like a fish stranded on land.  No air was going in or out.  Then
the light was snuffed out of those eyes.

Alayne almost wanted to retch, but she willed herself to shuffle out from under
the cot.  She still didn’t recognize who he was or where he was from.  Her
breath was ragged as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve.   I need to think .
 Ser Lyn will be back eventually.  He nearly split the skull of his sparring
partner a day ago, what wouldn’t he do when he found his lover dead?   Seven
hells, this was supposed to kill the truly dangerous one first!   Slender
though he was, Alayne could still not move him herself, try as she might.  She
felt like an idiot.  Where would she move him to anyway?  She had no choice but
to ask for help.  There was only one person she could think of that already
knew the truth.  She refused to involve Mya or Myranda.  The less they knew
meant they would never have to lie or be forced to constant vigilance playing
this game with Littlefinger.  Alayne could barely keep her own head above
water.

The evening was still young and the music and revelry below had not yet reached
their full swing.   I’ve murdered someone for true now.   She buried that
nagging thought down deep as she flew through the corridors.   I’m already in
hell.  I’ll cry about it later .  She came to an open balcony overlooking an
inner courtyard below.  A few torches flickered about and the faint glow of
moonlight was dimmed by cloud cover.  Lothor Brune was there walking another
balcony across from her, just as Mya said he would.  She stood where she
thought no one else would be able to see her from below and silently waved his
way to catch his eye.  It took a few tries before he finally stopped and looked
her way.  She prayed he recognized her and wouldn’t raise an alarm.  She held
her finger up to her lips and he nodded back to her.  Then she gestured him to
come before returning to wait for him near the stairwell.

Alayne thought she’d wear a hole in her cloak with the way her thumbs rubbed a
fistful of fabric.  It felt like forever and a day by the time he found her.
 Again, she motioned for silence as she led him to Corbray’s room.  “The fuck?”
he mouthed when he saw it.  She closed the door behind her and suddenly it all
came pouring out in a mad rush like Alyssa’s Tears.  She held back nothing.  To
his credit, he did not call her an idiot out loud.  “Kettleblack’s sons, the
ones Lord Petyr had spying for him, are on trial by the faith in King’s
Landing.  They will likely die.  Either he could do nothing or would do
nothing.  Oswell may not be able to save his sons, but he knew he could fuck
your father out of his prize piece, beg your pardon, my lady.  He knew a man
such as Ser Lyn would bite the bait.”  

“You know everything Oswell does.  If he found out about this betrayal, I
feared he would see to getting rid of you as well.  He doesn’t leave things to
chance.  I don’t want to be sent away to some strange place, isolated all over
again.  What do we do?”

He rubbed his square jaw thoughtfully for a long moment.  “Help me get his
clothes off and get him on the bed.”  Lothor had him laying face down, naked as
his name day, with his limbs sprawled.  He took the belt from the pile of
clothing and looped it around his neck, pulling tight enough for the buckle to
dig into this flesh.  He tossed the last of the wine down the privy hole and
set the flagon back.  

“Do you know who he was?”

“Some get of a poor landed knight.  A third or fourth son, I believe.  I want
you to go back to bed now.  I will deal with Ser Lyn.  Whatever you hear in the
morning, as far as you’re concerned, you were asleep all night.”  He held her
gently by the shoulders and gave her a firm look.  “If anything like this
happens again, even if they just give you a funny look, you come tell me.”  He
might have done this for her anyway, but nudging Mya his direction probably
didn’t hurt.  She nodded and silently vowed she would never attempt something
so mad again.

“The squire, though… he’s only a boy,” she said as she stood at the door.  It
was bizarre to look upon a dead, naked form.  It looked wax-like and unnatural.
 She shivered.  

“I’ll put the fear of the seven hells in him.  He’ll say nothing and count
himself lucky.  Oswell need not die, it would raise your father’s suspicions if
he did, but I’ll make sure he sees the sense in going back to Gulltown and
staying there with his fool mouth shut.”

    Alayne allowed herself to sob and yell uncontrollably into the pillow when
she was down to her bedclothes and curled into a ball under the covers.  She
wanted to be left alone.  She wanted to be held.  She was so tired, yet how
would she sleep again?  When she had no tears left in her she just laid there
unmoving.  Some time later, it was  her father  that came and sat beside her on
the edge of the bed.  She could smell the wine on his breath.
                      

“Your eyes are red and swollen,” he said as he stroked her tangled hair.  She
must look like a mad woman.  “What upsets you, sweetling?”

“I came down earlier just to watch the dancing for a bit.  I saw Harry with
some other ladies.  He enchanted them.  He’s already forgotten me, he’ll never
want me again, and it was all for naught.”  She wove this tapestry of dung so
easily now.

“I told you all would be well.  Lady Anya says he’s already starting to come
around.  She made him understand.  You are so beautiful when you are sad.”  His
thumb ran down her cheek.  “You must look at him longingly and forlorn.  Still,
it doesn’t do to have your eyes thus.  I will send for Maester Colemon to bring
you some dreamwine.”  His hand drifted down to the delicate little ribbon that
held her bedclothes together in front.  His smile did not touch his eyes.  

“The dreamwine would be good, father.” she said flatly.

He rose from the bed.  “I see Lady Myranda is elsewhere.  I believe she might
be giving Ser Andrew Tollett a good ride this evening seeing as he proved he
can stay on his mount today.  Goodnight, sweetling.”

The dreamwine was a blessing of dreamless, weighted sleep.  She had at least
closed her eyes knowing Myranda was unharmed.  It was Myranda that woke her in
the morning, vigorously shaking her shoulder.  “Alayne, you must wake.  You
won’t believe what has happened!”  Alayne’s heart lept up and wedged itself in
her throat.  “Ser Lyn murdered his lover in his bed late last night.  A landed
knight’s son up near Heart’s Home, naked as his name day.  He strangled him
with a belt in some fit of rage.  The purse was too rich by far for that boy.
 He might have been caught as a thief.  The servants found Ser Lyn hanging by
the bed curtain cords half-naked himself.  He must have offed himself out of
grief or fear when he came to his senses.  The scandal would have ruined him.”
  

Alayne gaped and stared.  She had no idea what to say except “Does my father
know?”

“Of course he knows.  Everyone is talking about it.  It’s already mid-morning.
 You’ve slept so late.  The Lord Protector has already sent for the silent
sisters to take him and his Valyrian steel sword back to Heart’s Home.  He’s
already declared the final jousts will be delayed until tomorrow while he and
my father settle this business.  They’ve moved up the melee to this afternoon
to keep the guests entertained.  A raven has also been sent to Lord Lyonel.  He
will not miss his brother too much I think, but he will appreciate it if Lord
Petyr settles the matter quickly and quietly.”

“How is Sweetrobin?”  He must be frightened at the thought of a murder
happening so near him.

“He’s quite well, though a little cross that the jousting was put off.  He held
no liking for Ser Lyn.  Maddie should be up soon to help you dress.  You should
wear something a little more cheerful to put some color back in your face.”

Myranda prattled on about Ser Andrew Tollett, including all the obscene details
of their night.  Alayne was lost in thought and still a little hazy from the
dreamwine, feeling like swimming through milky water.  Ser Lyn was quick and
powerful, but not so much if he’d been drinking and Ser Lothor was much
stronger than he appeared.  He could have hidden in the room and waited until
Corbray returned then garrotted him from behind with the curtain cords.  All
that would be left is to remove his doublet and shirt and string him up.  She
wondered what Petyr must have thought of the whole thing.  “Gold and boys...”
he said it himself about Corbray.  And gold and boys had been his undoing.  
Somewhat.   

The most cheerful thing she owned was another wool gown of a deep shade of
wine.  She did not exactly feel cheerful, but she no longer felt so bad either.
 She would be ever grateful to Lothor Brune though he’d probably prefer she
never broached the subject again.  When she saw him downstairs standing by Lord
Petyr and Nestor Royce whilst they were engaged, she gave him a little curtsy
as she passed.  Her steps felt lighter and less burdened.  She had donned her
green cloak again, but today she left her hair unbound save for two small combs
holding it off her face.  As she passed a brazier, she discreetly tossed the
cursed hair net into the flames and briefly watched the delicate threads and
stones shrivel and melt away.  The whole castle was indeed alight with gossip.
 No one even seemed to notice her.  Myranda would be waiting for her somewhere
in the yard, but she had one piece of business left.

It didn’t take long to find the motley hedge knights.  She could see Ser
Shadrich’s shocking orange hair from afar, his funny shield with the white,
red-eyed mouse painted on it rested against a nearby tree.  He and Ser Morgarth
sparred with practice swords, preparing for today’s melee.  They stopped and
greeted her when they saw her approaching.  “Beg your pardon for our friend
yesterday, Lady Alayne.  I saw your distress when you left the tourney grounds.
 He won’t be bothering you again, I promise you that.” said Ser Morgarth.

“On the contrary, Ser, I’m here to see Ser Byron.  That was not my distress, I
assure you.”  She smiled weakly.  

He hesitated a moment.  “Pity about this business with Ser Lyn.  This is Lord
Robert’s tourney, but you were also to meet your betrothed, is that not so?
 I’m sorry you’ll have such an ugly memory associated with it.”  

Courtesy is a lady’s armor.   “A pity indeed.  It will not soon be forgotten,
but we’ll have grand and happy memories as well.  In truth, the betrothal is
not yet official.  Ser Harrold must come to know me a little better first
before he consents to it.”
“How modern these noble matches are becoming.”  The Mad Mouse interjected
drolly.  Alayne thought that odd.  The Hardyng’s were no higher than landed
knights.  She sensed someone behind her and turned to find Ser Byron standing
there.  No elegant bows or words.  Simply quiet and waiting.  She reached into
her pocket and held out five silver stags in her palm.  She had nicked them off
the young man’s purse before finding Ser Lothor.  Might as well add theft and
murder to her growing pile of sins.  

“Your share as promised, ser.”  She thought he moved to take it, but he gently
closed her fingers over the coins.

“It was enough to serve you, my lady.”  She looked down at his wrist and saw
the yellow ribbon tied around it.  It was a little worse for wear, smudged with
sweat and dirt.  She hadn’t noticed before but his eyes were a soft blue,
almost a little gray in the overcast daylight.  She felt a small quivering of
desire in her lower belly, but blotted the thoughts out quickly.  It was only
natural, she reasoned, as she was coming into womanhood.  

“If you will excuse us, my lady,” said Ser Morgarth.  “We have a melee to win.”

“And the time is drawing shorter.”  added The Mad Mouse.

         



             













***** A Cold Wind *****
Chapter Summary
     Things are finally coming to a head at the Gates of the Moon.
Chapter Notes
     This was a monumental pain and pleasure to write. I have so much
     respect for people that can write great action sequences because this
     had me staring at a blank screen for days. I'm praying it came off
     the way I hope it does and I hope you enjoy it. As always thank you
     to Winterfellbaby for the fantastic input =D
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The tight-lipped annoyance of his companions was plain on their faces when Ser
Byron had offered her his arm to escort her back.  She meant to refuse him, but
some wanting, some insistent curiosity, made her slip her arm through his.  “So
who does my lady want beaten bloody today?” he said as they slowly strolled
through the tent rows.
 
“I think it wise for a gambler to know when to be satisfied with her winnings.
 I counted myself lucky yesterday.”  In so many ways.
 
“Luck?  Is that the way of it?  Not a thing to do with skill?” he prodded her.
 
 
“Lucky for me I placed my bet on the most skilled.”  She saw no need to swell
his head, though, and went for her own jab.  “However, the competition was
lacking.  Truthfully, I’ve seen more rousing jousts,” she said imperiously.
 Her thoughts drifted to her father’s tourney of the Hand and the memory of the
Hound unhorsing Jaime Lannister.  Then how Loras yielded the victor’s title and
purse after he had saved him from his brother, the Mountain.  That was a slip
up, though. Realistically, how many tourneys would a merchant’s bastard
daughter get to witness?  She hoped that her blunder would go unnoticed.
 
“Aye, my lady.  Gnats mostly, but a few with some promise if they got their
heads out of their --”  
 
“Careful, ser.  One of thosegnats could be your high lord one day.”
 
He scoffed.  “Not bloody likely.  That one is cut from the same cloth as Robert
Baratheon.”  Perhaps he didn’t know how frail Lord Robert truly was.  It pained
her to think about it, her Sweetrobin’s pain unknown to all .  Unless he
managed to live to sire his own heir, Harry would always be a looming
likelihood.  Still, a curious comparison to make to the dead king.  She knew he
meant the reckless fathering of bastards and couldn’t argue with that
assessment, but that sounded more like a wife’s concern, not a hired sword’s.
 Her father always said Robert was well liked by most men.  Unless… he was
sussing out her feelings about her supposed betrothed.  She wasn’t sure what to
say to that, but a hedge knight shouldn’t have such ideas about even the
bastard daughter of a Lord Protector.  “I don’t see myself serving here that
long,” he added.  Oh…      
         
“Yet you compete for a three-year position in the Winged Knights?”
 
“I compete to win.  That’s all.”
 
“Now there’s a lie, ser.”  She said as her finger tapped on the autumn-yellow
ribbon around his wrist.  
 
He chuckled low at that.  “You have me there.  I should apologize for seizing
an improper kiss yesterday,  but I won’t.  I am not sorry for my behavior.”
 This was getting to be a dangerous, albeit enticing. game.  It was already
foolish enough to walk with him.  If Lord Petyr or Harry saw...
 
“You should apologize.”   Somehow she couldn’t stop herself.  “You call it
improper and I agree.  It was no proper kiss at all.  I barely remember it.”
 She had never bantered like this before.  With Harry, it had all been an act
and felt as ill-fitting as someone else’s clothes.  This made her feel powerful
and grown.  He stopped and gave her an almost disbelieving look.  A gust of
chilled wind had stirred the oaks and pines surrounding them and she clutched
her free arm close to her body.  The frenzied squawks of crows echoed from some
distance away and leaves of gold and russet twirled and drifted down.  One had
landed and snarled itself in her curls and another caught itself in the lowered
hood of his cloak.  His fingers plucked the leaf out, but not before touching
the curl that held it.  A darkening of desire descended over his eyes,
deepening the gray in the blue.  It would be so lovely to press her cheek into
his hand if not for the screaming in her head that this could go no further.
 Just when he made a move to correct the barely remembered, improper kiss, she
turned her face downward and damned herself for it.  They were both suspended
in a brief moment with his face so close, a puff of breath on her skin, and a
twitch in his mouth she burned to still with her own.  To her relief and regret
he mercifully backed away when she could not look him in the eyes.  She would
be completely undone if she had.  Instead she quietly curtsied and excused
herself.  Anything so nice is never meant to be.    
 
  Alayne briefly returned to her room to retrieve her fox-fur cloak, gloves,
and warmer stockings.  She sat on the edge of the bed with her dress hitched up
to her thighs as she drew the knitted wool over the contours of her legs and
tied the garters prettily.  The corners of her mouth were turned up in an
almost imperceptible smile as she hummed “Six Maids in a Pool.”  She was not
particularly attracted to his looks; beautiful, yes, but that kind of beauty
seemed so commonplace.  He did have a way about him that wetted the silk of her
smallclothes, yet she could still walk away from him.  A darker ferocity that
could loose the ties of her smallclothes was what she dreamed of.
 
Myranda had said he was well, but Alayne wanted to look in on Sweetrobin
herself, to see him with her own two concerned eyes..  She found him in his
chambers sitting on the edge of the bed while Maddie put on his boots.  “Make
sure Lord Robert has his bearskin cloak on.  The sun is not so bright today and
there’s a chill wind blowing.”  Alayne instructed Gretchel.  They had him
dressed in a silver-gray doublet and dark blue breeches.  Around his skinny
waist was a belt studded with moonstones and a sheath for a small, jeweled
dagger.  The layers and quilting puffed him up and made his frame look fuller
than he was.  She had to admit his eyes seemed less rheumy as of late.  That
hair, though.  She wondered if she could now convince him to allow her to cut
it a little, for it had grown longer than any boy’s hair she had ever seen.
 “My Sweetrobin, you are looking strong today.  Are you excited for the melee?”
             
 
“I suppose,” he conceded.  “I like the jousting better.  My cousin was defeated
in the joust.”
 
“Indeed he was.  I’m certain you will enjoy the melee just as well.  The swords
will sing and those not competing for the wings will have their chance to prove
their worth to their high lord.”  
 
“Will Ser Byron fight today?”  The boy held the knight who bloodied and
unhorsed his heir in such high esteem, as if he were the second coming of Artys
Arryn.  
 
“I do not know, my lord.  We could simply ask him.”
 
“I could command it.  I should like to see him fight with a sword.”  Robert bit
his lip, deep in thought.  “If he proves his worth I could ask my lord
stepfather to appoint him master-at-arms.  He could teach me then,” he said,
the last part trailing off in a mumble.
 
Alayne smiled at that.  She wasn’t sure if he’d ever get the chance or if he’d
ever calm his fear of blades enough to learn to wield one himself, but it was
good to hear him speak of it.  “A most honorable position,” she said as she sat
down beside him on the mounds of fur blankets.  “He will surely continue in the
tilts.  They resume on the morrow.”      
 
“On account of Ser Lyn… and his lover.”  Sweetrobin said matter-of-factly as if
he were privy to that kind of gossip all the time.  Children his age relished
showing off their forbidden knowledge.  It would have made her feel deliciously
grown up too.    
 
Alayne looked around at the servants pointedly and they quickly lowered their
eyes.  She quietly dismissed them as she took up the hairbrush to finish
attending Robert herself.  Perhaps it could not be helped and maybe it was time
he grew accustomed to some realities of life.  By his age, her little brother
Bran had already accompanied their lord father to administer justice.  For a
brief, painful moment she thought of Lord Eddard’s sad eyes boring into her if
he knew what kind of justice she had done.  I can’t swing a sword, father.
             
 
“Yes, my lord,” she said as she stroked his hair.  “Lord Lyonel will be
greatful for the respect and decency showed his family in their grief.”  He’ll
appreciate the return of Lady Forlorn even more.  “I know you never loved Ser
Lyn, but good lords must sometimes put those things aside and do what is right
and proper.”  She brushed his fine brown hair until it shone.    
 
Robert sighed.  Just as she braced herself for a petulant response, he said
“Alayne, I am sorry I spoke of dishonoring you before.  What my cousin does is
unchivalrous and I would not be like him.  I promise you that if you don’t
marry him one day, I will marry you to someone who loves you as much as I do.
 I will command him to never dishonor you or he risks my anger.”
 
She dared not laugh at his earnestness.  He sounded so different from the boy
who had trampled her snow castle.  If she ever thought him foolish or wanted to
slap him, it was only that she saw so much of her younger self in him.  She
didn’t know what to say to that except she drew him to her and kissed the top
of his head.
 
Again the stands filled as they master of ceremonies announced the melee
competitors.  This time Lord Petyr bade her sit beside him and Sweetrobin, with
Myranda and Mya, taking a seat on the other side.  Petyr Baelish always looked
as though he sat upon a high perch, untouchable and able to see far beyond the
horizon of men on the ground.  Still, she could feel the tension in his hand as
he held hers.  It was this business with Ser Lyn.  He didn’t like surprises as
much as he boasted he thrived on chaos.  She leaned over and whispered in his
ear. “Are you so troubled, father?  Nothing has changed, has it?” she asked as
she intertwined her fingers in his.  The coquettish smile she gave him sickened
her inside, but the more he turned his attention away from Ser Lyn the better.
 She knew he burned for these little signs.     
 
“No, nothing has changed, sweetling,” he said as he gave her hand a squeeze.
 He called for cups of hot spiced wine to be brought to them as he gave her an
approving look.  “You look like a snow maid in your furs.  The wine will flush
your lips and you will be irresistible to Harry.”  His eyes flitted over her
shoulder.  “He comes now with the Waynwoods.”  Rolland and Wallace gave her a
cheerful greeting as they helped Lady Anya to her seat.  Harry’s face was
unreadable, as if he were looking at nothing at all.  He had donned his armor
again to try his hand at the melee.  With all of them so close, Alayne had no
choice but to be as sweet as honey and innocent as a lamb.  She looked up at
him through lowered lashes and with just the proper amount of humility.    
 
“Good day, Ser Harrold.  You are looking quite triumphant already.  None shall
be able to stand against you, I’m sure.”  Her scalp burned.  I am the daughter
of two paramount houses.  It is only an absurd accident of fate that you are
heir to one.  He studied her for a moment before placing a kiss on her hand and
giving her a superior grin.
 
“And none can stand against your beauty, Lady Alayne,”  he said.  It could have
been taken as a sincere compliment if he wasn’t already heading to the field
before he finished her name.  She smiled dutifully and sipped her mulled wine.
 His squire rushed to meet him with his falcon-winged helm, quartered shield
and blunted sword.  Due to the limited size of the field, the melee would be on
foot and to the last man standing.  The ranks were mostly soldiers and hedge
knights from the surrounding lands hoping to ransom the finely polished plate
of those who had been eliminated from the first day of jousts.  The top prize
was enough gold to buy a fine destrier and even finer whores for a year, so
Petyr had told her.  Most brandished blunted swords and shields, but there were
also polearms, axes, and maces as well.  There were shields of plain, unpainted
wood as well as the red castle of Redfort, the black portcullis and crescent
moon of the cadet branch of Royces,  the green snakes of Lynderly, the golden
wings of the Gulltower Shetts, the seagulls of the Gulltown Shetts, the candles
of Waxley, the bells of Belmore, the ridiculous pink lips of house Lipps, the
funny white mouse of the Mad Mouse, and so many more sigils of minor houses she
could not place.  Ser Morgarth was there as well bearing an oak shield of paint
so old and chipped the sigil was unrecognizable.  
 
Once the fighting began, it was a cacophony of singing steel, blunt force thuds
and scraping metal.  A few formed small alliances to overcome more challenging
opponents and combatants that found themselves singled out on the edges.  They
started with forty in number.  After an hour into the battle, little more than
twenty remained.  Harry was holding his own and was doing surprisingly well.
 He had eliminated five by himself.  As men fell, squires rushed in to drag
them off the field or ransom armor for their masters.  Maester Colemon was
there to examine any serious injuries, but so far it was only broken noses and
smashed fingers.  Alayne glanced over at Sweetrobin and smiled as she watched
him bounce with excitement on his pillowed seat every time another knight fell.
 Shadrich and Morgarth kept each other’s backs.  The Mad Mouse was quick and
precise where the powerful, brawny knight was splintering shields and denting
armor.  
 
After another hour the remaining nine were growing slower with fatigue.  Harry
seemed to have caught a second wind as he managed to drive Morgarth apart from
Shadrich and took the big man down with a well-placed strike to his flank.
 Dutifully she clapped as Rolland and Wallace cheered behind her.  Shadrich was
managing to dodge most attacks with speed one would expect from someone half
his age.  As one knight lunged at him with a polearm, the Mad Mouse steered
clear, then struck him hard in the back of his helm.  Harry battered his
opponent so severely the flanged mace loosed from his hand when he was knocked
senseless to the ground in the center of the field.  It was finally down to
Harry and Shadrich and they went at each other mercilessly, without hesitation.
 The squires rushed out to drag away the dead weight of his last opponent to
the sidelines, but it was too dangerous to recover the weapons left behind.
 Some of the audience had taken to their feet while they shouted and cheered.
 The smaller man was on defense with his shield up, but Harry was still being
conservative with his swings to not exhaust himself in the final moments.
 Eventually, however, the heir of the Vale seemed to grow impatient.  Alayne
winced as Harry landed a painful looking strike to the upper arm that sent
Shadrich reeling, but he managed to stay on his feet.  Dodging a slam of his
shield, the little man’s sword clipped the falcon wings on his helm and knocked
it clear off his head.  Shadrich backed away quickly with his weapons down.  He
nodded and waited for Harry to pick up the helm to resume fighting.  They were
both swaying and chests heaving, but Harry did not move to recover his helm,
leaving his head uncovered.  His ash-blonde curls were matted down with sweat.
 Harry growled and charged.  He raised his sword and was cleaving it down on
the little man while he still had his shield lowered.  Shadrich spun out of the
way but fell hard to his knees.  Harry’s footing seemed to give way in a soft
divot in the dirt and he pitched forward with all the momentum of his stroke.
 Alayne heard the collective gasp of all in attendance as Harry’s head slammed
hard into the discarded mace just above his eye.  For a long moment, the only
sound was the wind rustling the withering tree leaves.  He was on his side,
lying on his awkwardly bent sword arm as his blood spilled out on the tourney
field.  His eyes were half-open but seemed unseeing, and his legs made fitful
twitches  Lady Anya emitted a pitiful moan and fell against her grandson.  Even
Petyr dropped his wine cup and stood dumbstruck.  
 
Quickly, she nudged her way past Petyr and took Lord Robert by his hands to
lead him out of his seat and behind the stands.  He could not become frightened
and have a shaking fit in front of all his most prominent bannermen.  As she
clutched Robert to her chest, she watched as Maester Colemon and Harry’s squire
rushed over to the fallen heir.  A crowd encircled them and the swell of voices
grew louder.  She could not see anything past the massive cluster, but
curiously, she saw Ser Shadrich now standing alone at the edge of the field.
 He had removed his helm and dropped his weapons.  He was at some distance from
her, but his arms were now outstretched from his sides and he had a far-away
look about him.  Words she couldn’t make out seemed to be coming from his lips.
 Perhaps he was as shocked as everyone else was.  There were shouts that the
Young Falcon was dead followed by wailing from the audience.  She clutched Lord
Robert’s face between her hands and thought he began to tremble -- or was it
her hands that were trembling? --  as she whispered lowly how his bravery
comforted her and made her feel safe.  He wiped the snot from his nose on his
sleeve, straightened his spine, and soothingly stroked her hair.  It was then
she realized she was the one who was truly afraid.  She was the one who needed
to run away and be comforted.  Harry’s jerking legs awoke nightmares of her
father’s beheading and the death throes of the youth she had poisoned the day
before.  It was all too much.  
 
A sharp gust of wind slapped her face and she felt her tears would freeze in
her eyes.  The crows seemed closer now than they were earlier, raising their
voices in a grating, squawking chorus.  Then she felt the warmth of a strong,
but gentle touch on her shoulder.  She raised her eyes to see the stubbled-face
of Ser Morgarth standing over them.  His massive hand could cover her entire
shoulder, the same hand that had just been breaking men.  “Come, my lady.  Come
back to the tents to compose yourself.”  He lifted Lord Robert into one of his
arms as he calmly led her away.  No doubt he thought she was weeping for her
beloved.  She cried again at that, but for herself.  She never felt like more
of a liar and a fraud accepting kindness in this moment.
                                                                      
 
  Suddenly, in the distance, there was the loudest cracking of stone she had
ever heard.  Alayne jumped and clasped herself to his arm.  All eyes were torn
from the field and toward the mountains behind the Gates.  The thundering
echoed through the peaks and into the valleys.  She could feel tremors under
her feet.  From this distance, the Eyrie looked as delicate as the sugar
confection that topped the lemon cake on the first night of feasting.  It
started with tiny streams of snow that rolled down the slopes of the Giant’s
Lance like teardrops, but then the first of the rocks came loose from the peak
and slammed into one of the seven slim white towers.  The screams and shouts
surged again, overtaking the incessant caws of the birds.  That tower, the
easternmost Maiden’s Tower, quickly toppled and slammed into its’ sister.
 Castle stones, mountain rock and great plumes of snow tumbled down together
collecting more of the same on their way down the slope.  She felt the pull of
Morgarth as he urged her away but could not keep her eyes from the sight.  The
roar of the avalanche carried to the lesser peaks and soon a flood of snow and
rock was rushing down the entire ridge and plowing over sentinel pines.  The
lower castles of Sky, Stone, and Snow must be completely buried or smashed.
 She looked up again at the Giant’s Lance.  Half the Eyrie was now gone, it’s
southern and eastern face shorn away and its’ remaining towers partially
collapsed.  Violent, rolling clouds of pure white enveloped the base of the
mountain range and were swiftly moving toward the Gates and the valleys below.
 
 
Morgarth pulled on her hard and this time she yielded.  A cold blast of air
whipped against their backs as a thick, snow-filled mist enveloped them,
turning the air to milk.  She was blind to more than a few ahead and could only
trust in the knight to guide her.  For the first time, she felt her heart
hammering against her ribs and her lungs hurt from gasping frigid air.  The
misty shadows of horses lay ahead of them.  A rider was already astride one of
them.  Before she could understand what was happening, Ser Morgarth swung
himself into the saddle with Sweetrobin still tucked against him.  She heard
him murmuring words to the boy to keep him calm.  His brown hair was dusted
white with flakes of snow.  The other rider brought his horse up beside her and
hoisted her up in front of him as if she were no more than a doll.  Her eyes
met Byron’s as he looked down at her.  She felt her lips part as if she wanted
to say something, but no words came.  It was then that the Mad Mouse took the
third horse and shouted for them to go and they spurred their horses away to
outrun the mist.       
Alayne thought they meant only take them far enough away from the immediate
danger, but it quickly became apparent that the snows were well behind them and
they were making their way down the High Road.  Byron’s arm held her like a
vice around her waist, keeping her firmly in the saddle though she did not make
it easy for him.  She wildly kicked and swung her legs, causing the annoyed
horse to groan and snort.  He could not, however, hold the reins and keep a
hand clamped over her mouth at the same time.  She shrieked and clawed at his
arm, but he was wearing mail and riding leathers.  Every chance she could she
tried to look back to Sweetrobin, but it was useless.  She could not see past
Byron’s shoulder.  She prayed hard he would not have a shaking fit, but she
knew that it was equally useless.  The terror would surely bring one upon him
if it hadn’t already.  She could hear his muffled screaming most of the way,
but now there was silence from him.
 
“Please, please,” she cried.  “Stop!  He’s sick!  You’ll kill him if you don’t
stop!”  But they did not stop.  They were still at full gallop.  They had
already covered so much road they would surely have to slow down soon or
exhaust the horses.  Finally, she heard Ser Morgarth behind them calling out
emphatically to stop.  They had come upon a very shallow, stony streambed that
ran from the mountainside.  The icy water splashed up as Byron reared his horse
and turned the courser about.  Lord Robert was limp, cradled in Morgarth’s arm
save for some twitching in his arms.  He could be near dead already.  Byron
started to say something when she gritted her teeth and jammed her elbow hard
into his face.  She felt teeth and what was probably his nose.  As he grunted
his grip loosened enough and she managed to slip down from the saddle.  She
fell flailing into the water, bruising her backside and legs against the
stones.  The water was so cold it seemed to burn as it soaked through her
clothes, but she staggered to her feet and ran toward Robert.  Wet tendrils of
hair lashed her face.  “Let me see him!” she shrieked.  Morgarth dismounted and
kneeled with Robert’s fragile little body in his arms.  With tears welling in
her eyes, she stroked his small hand in hers.  His eyes were shut, but the lids
fluttered a little, almost as if he were lost in a dream.     
 
“He is alive, my lady.  The shaking has passed and he’s exhausted himself.  He
only sleeps now.”  Morgarth turned to Shadrich.  “We need to head straight
south.  I can treat him there.”
 
“That is not the plan.”  Shadrich was tense and impatient as he looked at the
road behind them.
 
Alayne heard splashing footfalls coming up behind her.  She snatched the dagger
from Lord Robert’s belt and backed away from all of them, holding the blade to
her own throat.  “You won’t take me back to the Queen alive, I promise you
that.  You can drag my body back to her and collect your gold that way.  I
can’t stop you.  But if Lord Robert dies you’ll be wanted men for the
kidnapping and murder of a lord paramount.  You’ll all hang before you get a
restful sleep again.”  Wincing as she pressed the dagger a little harder, she
felt a tiny drop of blood coursing down her throat.      
               
Shadrich stepped forward, slowly and carefully like he was approaching an
unbroken, half-wild horse.  “We aren’t taking you to the Queen, my lady.
 Before we go any further, I think it’s time to tell you we are here to rescue
you and the boy.”
 
She stared incredulously.  “Is that supposed to be a jape?  ‘ A good melee is
all a hedge knight can hope for unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons.’  Those
were your words and now they make sense.  Leave us now, let me carry Robert
back, and you might still get out of this alive.”  
 
Then his voice softened.  He didn’t quite look so fox-faced anymore nor sound
so cunning.  “You never met me before, but surely your father told you stories.
 Your father, Eddard Stark, was my friend.  When I heard the news of his death
and Robb amassing his forces, I sent my two children to serve your younger
brother, Bran.  I came south to King’s Landing to find you and your sister, but
could not find a way to get to you.  I hoped if Stannis had sacked the city I
would get an opportunity, but that didn’t happen.  I lost you for a long time
after Joffrey’s wedding.  My name is Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch,
sworn to House Stark and ever Ned’s friend.  I can explain much and more later,
but please we must make haste.”
 
She swallowed hard.  “That’s a brilliant lie, I’ll give you that.  My own
father hadn’t seen Howland Reed since he returned from the war and that was
over fifteen years before he --”
 
“Little bird.”  It was such a frail whisper she barely heard it.
 
“What… what did you say?”  It came from Byron, whose mouth and nose were
bloodied.  She was shivering hard now and could no longer keep the blade
steady.  She felt the blood meeting the curve of her chest and trickle down
into her bodice.
 
“Show her!  Show her now so we can be away from here.”  Shadrich urged
impatiently.  
 
Byron’s fingers felt around under the neck of his mail shirt.  He drew out that
small leather bag that hung around his neck and lifted the cord from over his
head.  As he let it fall to the grass beside him, Alayne thought there was
something queer going on with her eyes.  He was tall before, but now he seemed
taller and his features sharper.  She sucked in a breath when his hair grew
dark as pitch and that familiar ruin eclipsed half his face.  She shuddered and
heard herself making nonsensical whimpers, though she knew not what she was
trying to say.  I’ve gone mad, I’ve gone mad, I’ve gone mad, I’ve gone mad…
 The ground was coming up suddenly to meet her, but a strong hand grasped her
wrist and lowered her down gently.  “It’s you?” she asked meekly.  He only
nodded.  His dark gray eyes looked so pained as if he couldn’t think of what to
say either.  She felt the knife loosened from her fingers and she lifted her
hands to cup his face, still not quite believing.  “How?” she asked.
 
“Bones and rubies,” said Reed.  “Bones from some long dead soldier that no one
would know anymore.   Rubies to strengthen the glamor as long as they’re kept
close.”  He ran his fingers through his orange hair and just then she noticed
the fading and the regrowth to reveal the gray beneath.       
 
“On the Quiet Isle we have plenty of both for Lord Reed to hide the most
recognized face in Westeros,” said Ser Morgarth.  Is he still Ser Morgarth?
 “Sandor Clegane is the only one of us who would know you through any disguise.
 Do we have your trust now, Lady Stark?”  
 
She slowly nodded, still not entirely certain she wasn’t mad.  “Little bird…”
his low rasp startled her again but she couldn’t stop her fingers from tracing
his jaw, both sides.  This was not the first time she felt blood on his face.
 “There will be more time to talk later.”  He was trying so hard to keep his
tone gentle, but the urgency was there.  “This man is the Elder Brother of a
fellowship of the Seven.  He can help the boy in ways your maester can’t.  I
was near dead once.  He brought me back.”  He turned back to Lord Reed.  “We
need to head south.”
 
“I was told nothing of heading south.  We need to go west into the mountains.”
 
“You were told to save the boy too.” argued the... Elder Brother?  She was not
used to all this yet.  “Let me take him to the Quiet Isle then.  We can be
there by tomorrow.”
 
“I’ll not go anywhere without Robert.” she chimed in.  “Help him and I’ll
gladly listen to you anything you have to say.  Are you sure he will make it
there?  The maester says these violent episodes will further weaken him until
he dies.”
 
“He does not appear to be dying anytime soon.”  The Elder Brother said as he
examined the boy.    “We can make it.”  After he remounted his horse, Sandor
handed him the boy and he enclosed him in his cloak to keep the wind off him.
 
“Fine, let us just be gone from here,”  Howland said as he returned to his
horse.  Sandor helped Sansa to her feet and walked her back to the courser.
 This felt like an absurd dream, yet it was real enough with her furious
shivering and chattering teeth.  She couldn’t keep her eyes off him and every
movement he made.  
 
It was then they heard the pounding of hooves coming up the road behind them.
 A single rider.  Reed and Clegane both drew their swords and readied
themselves.  It was Lothor Brune, equally ready with a sword in hand as he
jumped down from the saddle.  Steel clashed on steel, but against two Lothor
was mostly on the defense.  He just barely dodged a slash from Howland while
straining against the force of Sandor’s downward cut.  “No!”  Sansa shrieked.
 “Don’t hurt him!  Please stop!”  She could have lost a limb or worse, but she
ran to Brune and pushed against his chest forcing Howland and Sandor to stand
down.  “No, stop.   You must listen to me.  Look at me.”  She took him by his
square jaw and forced him to look her in the eyes.  
 
“You’re bleeding.  My lady, what is this?  This whoreson is the Hound.”  He
looked up to Sandor and pointed a finger at him.  “Wanted for the rape and
murder of little girls.”
 
Before they came to blows again, the Elder Brother shouted “That was an
imposter that stole the Hound’s helm, my lady.  He was under my care during the
Saltpans, I swear it.”
 
Sansa sighed with relief as she gently placed her hands on Lothor’s blade so he
would lower it.  “The cut is by my own hand.  He is my friend, just as you are.
 He’s saved my life and protected me more than once.  You must trust me.  I
can’t stay with Petyr anymore.  You know this.  Lord Robert isn’t getting
better under Maester Colemon’s care either.  I need you to go back and say you
couldn’t find any trace of us.  Go back and watch over Mya and Myranda… one day
I hope you leave too.”  With great reluctance, Lothor finally relented and
agreed to her request.  As she watched him leave, Sandor retrieved the bag of
bones and rubies from the grass, placed it around his neck and once again
became a familiar stranger.  His hands encircled her waist and he returned her
to the saddle.  Gone was Byron’s easy manner that warmed her to him.  This time
as he took his place behind her, his eyes would not meet hers.        
          

Chapter End Notes
     He's here! LOL Well he was kind there the whole time and if you look
     back I was dropping hints from the beginning. I hope you enjoyed it.
     This whole idea was born out of lengthy discussions with two other
     book fans. One person had the theory on the identities of Shadrich
     and Morgarth, another felt that an avalanche is foreshadowed in the
     Vale. This was no crackpot either, IMO. We came up with pages and
     pages of textual support for it. I felt their ideas had so much merit
     it got me thinking about the identity of Byron and how both could all
     tie together. ;)
     We just need TWOW to come out already so we can find out if we're
     right or a bunch of loons with no life! :O
***** The Gallant Knights *****
Chapter Summary
     This is how we got to where we are now and everything that happened
     before our three hedge knights arrived. (Just so our big reveal from
     Chapter 3 doesn't sound completely pulled out of thin air) ;)
Chapter Notes
     Apologies for taking longer than I anticipated. I got stuck for
     several days on some points. There's a shift in tone in this one.
     There was so much action in Chapter 3 that I thought we needed to
     simmer down a second before moving forward again.
They had left the High Road and cut between the barley fields and the mountains
to the east, keeping a brisk canter before they were forced to rest the horses
near sundown.  A thick cover of trees and overgrown brier along the base of the
slope would be safe enough for the night.  Her whole body was stiff and sore
from sharing the saddle, bruises on her thighs and near constant shivering
until her hair and clothes finally dried out.  Sandor only spoke when it was
necessary and limited conversation to practical matters at hand.  He had given
her his cloak to wrap herself in an extra layer over her damp fox fur, but when
she looked upon his face -- Byron’s face -- he seemed so unnatural and distant.
 He wasn’t angry as far as she could sense, but she had dared not lean against
him whilst they travelled.  She only requested that he ride beside Elder
Brother in case Robert awoke so he would see her first, which he obliged.  
 
Robert finally did rouse as they dismounted and made their small camp.  Elder
Brother made a small fire while Sandor hobbled the horses.  Howland went off
through the trees to some high ground to check if they were being tracked.  He
took his bow with him in case he chanced upon some game.  Sansa sat the little
boy down beside her on a bedroll and kept a placid smile on her face as she
explained they were amongst friends.  Beyond that, she wasn’t sure how to
explain any of this.
 
“Harry is dead,” he calmly said, though uncertain as if it had all been a
dream.
 
“I think so,” she said as she held him to her with her chin resting on top of
his head.  She could feel Sandor’s eyes upon her from a distance.
 
“The Eyrie had a great big hole in it, didn’t it?  There was a loud crashing
and then it was gone.  Alayne, am I not Lord of the Eyrie anymore?”  His eyes
went wider at that realization.  The Eyrie had been his whole world since Lysa
spirited them away from King’s Landing after the death of his father, Jon
Arryn.  Only recently had those boundaries been pushed farther out to include
the Gates and with it expanded his courage.  Then it all happened so fast.   He
is like a chick thrust out the nest much too soon.    
 
She tried very hard to make her voice sound like her lady mother’s.  “They
Eyrie may be gone, my lord, but you are still an Arryn.  Your seat included all
the waycastles and the Gates of the Moon.  Remember the Gates was once the high
seat of the Vale before the Eyrie was built.”  In truth, she had no idea if the
damage extended all the way to the Gates, but all the waycastles and the
mountain paths were surely destroyed and buried.  She prayed that Mya and
Myranda were safe and Lothor was watching over them.  “I must tell you more
now, Robert.  I am not your lord stepfather’s daughter.  My name is Sansa Stark
and I’m your cousin.  Our mothers were sisters and our fathers were friends.”
 He was taken aback, but she continued carefully.  “Lord Petyr was hiding me
because the Queen thought I killed her son, King Joffrey, but I didn’t.  I’m so
sorry I couldn’t tell you, but it was best no one knew to keep everyone safe.”
 She went on to explain how Ser Shadrich was really Howland Reed, Lord of
Greywater Watch, one of her father’s dearest friends as well and that he had
been looking for her since Lord Eddard was killed.
 
“But if Lord Petyr was keeping you safe, why did you need to be rescued?” he
asked.  Frail of body he may be, but she could not doubt the boy was sharp.
 This was difficult to answer as it felt somehow shameful and embarrassing to
say it aloud.  All the looks and smiles that didn’t touch his eyes.  All the
times she had to sit in his lap like a child, but not like a child.  All the
endured kisses starting with the first one that nearly got her thrown through
the Moon Door instead of Aunt Lysa.  All the times her misgivings were swept
aside and she was urged to move ever forward with his plans.  All the anger and
shame at herself for giving in, for lying, for being such a fool from the
beginning, for not doing more.  There was not one thing she could say that
didn’t make her feel like it all stemmed from her own failure and not one thing
she wanted to say in front of  him.   He already thought she was stupid before,
but now...           
 
“He broke his promise to take me home, my lord.”  Her throat suddenly felt
quite dry.  “I… I just wanted to go home and I didn’t want to be married to Ser
Harrold.”   I am such a coward .  Robert nodded sagely, as if that answer were
enough to satisfy him.  It was a good thing the boy was already so at ease
around Ser Morgarth before when she changed the subject to the Quiet Isle and
how this Elder Brother could help him with his ailments.  He definitely liked
him much better than Maester Colemon, but it was hard to picture such a broad
and muscled man wearing roughspun robes of a brother let alone have the hands
of a healer.  Elder Brother sat down on his own bedroll with his arms resting
on his knees.    
 
“The island is not very accessible to outsiders except by a ferry that belongs
to the brothers.  Even at lowtide the mud can swallow a man down if he steps in
the wrong spot.  We will be safe there for a while.  The Lord Protector will be
looking for outlaws on their way to collect a ransom.  Not penitents.”  The
fire crackled and sent little embers drifting upward as the sky began to grow a
darker blue.  Finally she was starting to feel some heat in her bones.  Out of
the corner of her eye she could see Sandor with his back turned as he unsaddled
the horses.  He said he had been near death and Elder Brother had saved him.
 What happened to him?  Was he there the whole time on this Quiet Isle only two
days ride away?  “Can we trust this Lothor Brune not to attempt to track us, my
lady?  Nor tell anyone about our friend here?” he asked nodding his head toward
Sandor.  “He didn’t look happy to leave you and Lord Robert.” he noted and her
attention snapped back.
 
“I am certain he won’t, despite it.  Ser Lothor has shown his worth to me on
more than one occasion.  If he didn’t trust my word, he would have continued to
fight to his death.  He never would have left us.”  That saddle thudded on the
ground a little harder than it probably should have.   Oh… she hadn’t meant it
like that.   It was still so bizarre to look at Byron and hear Byron’s voice,
but know him to be Sandor.  The world had gone wobbly today in so many ways.
   
 
“Ala-, er, Sansa?  I’m hungry.  Is there anything to eat?” Robert asked.  She
was feeling pangs of hunger as well.  Sandor strode over to where they were
seated and handed her a small bundle of cloth tied with twine.  
 
“Here, my lady.”  He said as she took it from his hand.  “ My lady”, not
“little bird ” or even “girl.”  Courtesy from him felt like a foreign tongue.
The cloth contained a wedge of hard cheese, a loaf of brown seeded bread, and a
skin of watered-wine.  
 
“Thank you, Ser --, “  Sweetrobin started to say, before Sansa jumped in.  
 
“Oh, this is Sandor Clegane, my lord.”  It didn’t seem right to keep calling
him a ser.  “He knows me from King’s Landing when I was held there.”  She
looked up at him hopefully.  “He was -- is my friend.”  How could he not still
be if he went to such lengths to free her?  Her mind and heart were wrecked
with confusion.  Perhaps… when he came here searching for an innocent and naive
little girl he had seen the person she had become and it pleased him not.
 Maybe that was dawning on him now that they could rest.  
 
That damned face that wasn’t his was so unreadable until Robert asked “Is that
why he kissed you at the tourney?” while he was nibbling at a piece of cheese.
 He shifted with some discomfort at that and she suddenly felt a heat rising up
her neck.
 
“A mummer’s farce and barely remembered.” he muttered before turning away
again.  
 
She rose to her feet, wincing from the soreness of her bruises, politely
whispered she had to make water, and strode off several feet away into the
foliage.  She wanted to be far enough from the fire that she could just hide in
the darkness for a while.  There was nothing but the singing of crickets and
the crunch of dried pine needles under her feet.  She did have to make water,
but after she righted her skirts she lingered in a clearing with her back to a
tree trunk.  Her eyes closed and she felt the weight of her heart like an
anchor that plummeted straight down into the earth.  She had forgotten how
painful it was to wear Sansa Stark’s skin.  After a few silent moments she
heard a scratching of bark over her head and looked up into the branches.
 There was something dark perched up there, swaying like some kind of heavy
fruit.  This was an oak, though.  She stood straight and peered up to get a
better look.  The minimal light caught it’s yellow-brown eyes looking back down
at her as it was chittering and squeaking softly.  It was then it stretched out
one black leathery wing from its’ body followed by the other until its’ full
span was a few feet across.  A bat!  A huge bat!  Oddly, she was fascinated,
not frightened.  It stared down at her a moment more then released itself from
the branch, swooping down close to her head before flying off into the dark
depths beyond the trees.  She stood there, still and listening, until she
couldn’t hear the beating of its’ wings any longer.
 
           Just as she was turning to head back she heard the snapping of twigs
and crunching of heavy footfalls.  “Are you preferring the company of
shadowcats?” he said.  She could feel the rasp even though it could not be
heard.  He looked as though he meant to offer his hand, but slackened it at his
side instead.  “Come.  Reed brought back a hare.”  
 
“I’m sorry I bloodied you earlier.”  It was all she could think to say
suddenly.  
 
He barked a laugh at that.  “You didn’t break anything.  It was a good shot,
though.”  She was still sorry, but also felt a small and absurd measure of
pride.  “Then threatening to off yourself with a little lordling’s tickler…”
 He shook his head and his mouth turned serious again.  “You had the bloody
balls to do it too.  I could see it.”
 
Did I?  Mayhaps I would have if it came down to it.   “It would have been
better than the black cells or Illyn Payne.  You revealed yourself then so I
wouldn’t.”  She took a step toward him and he froze.  “You weren’t going to
otherwise, were you?”  His absolute stillness as the shadows of leaves played
across his whole and perfect face told her she hit the mark.  “Why?  Why would
you not want me to know?” Hesitantly, she reached for his fingers with hers to
see if he would pull away.  He didn’t, but he didn’t answer either.  “You see,
I had wondered so many times what became of you after you left.  So many times
I had wished for your counsel.  I should have gone with you.”
 
“The last time you saw me back then I recall a knife to your throat as well.
 You had the right of it not to go with me.  Don’t doubt it for a moment.”  His
face turned away slightly, but he looked at her from the corners of his eyes.
 “I have not been drunk in some time now.  There will be no danger to yourself
from me.”
 
“I knew that already.  If it’s shame you are feeling at some wrong you think
you did me, please set it aside.”
 
“Oh, some wrong  I think  I did?”  He scoffed, but it was a sad and defeated
sound.           
 
 “It was the fire.  I understood that and forgave you the moment you cast off
the white cloak.  You frightened me, yes,  but I was never harmed.”  She fell
silent for a moment but sighed when he did not seem to believe her.  “If you
have sinned more than me, let me assure you it’s only because you’ve lived
longer.  In the past year I have aspired to exceed you.”  She gave a mirthless
laugh.  “I understand I’m not what you expected to find anymore…”  She let her
fingers fall away from his.  “Come, we’re losing the light and must head back.”
 
 
She could almost feel the callouses on his hand again when it clasped her wrist
and drew her back, not ungently.  He held her chin in the vice of his fingers
and tilted her face up to him as if he was inspecting her.  “Is this the same
girl that kept a direwolf on a pretty ribbon tether?  The same one that could
look a king in the face and wish for his head brought to her?  Hmph.  She rings
true with this girl that fought me the whole way to protect her little cousin.
 Even shed tears for a man she didn't love and whose betrothal she spurned.
 Aye, sounds like Sansa Stark to me.”  Then he released her.  She didn't dare
correct him on the tears she wept out of fear.  She thought of Harry, and
though she never wished him dead, she felt nothing.  Somehow she preferred him
thinking that her heart was still soft enough for the Mother’s compassion.
 There was still so much he didn’t know yet, but she was grateful he found her
familiar still even if she seemed a stranger to herself.  “You need to eat and
sleep, my lady.”  Gently he nudged her arm and she was walking back before him
like so many times in the Red Keep.  So many questions churning in her head and
each fighting their way to the tip of her tongue, but perhaps now wasn’t the
time.   When we get to this Quiet Isle there will be time and I will see him
truly again.
 
They were drawing closer to the light from the campfire and this privacy was
growing short.  She stopped so abruptly he was close enough for their breath to
mingle when she spun about to face him.  “Little Bird.  This ‘my lady’ business
doesn’t suit you… or us.”  She searched the blue-gray of his eyes as he stood
there suddenly and utterly disarmed.  “No matter what else happened before,
this much is clear to me and all that I care for:   Sandor Clegane always came
back for me .”  There was that familiar twitch pulling at what would have been
on the burned side of his mouth as her knuckles gently brushed against it.  His
chest moved like the bellows of a forge so close to hers.  “I will have no wall
of courtesy between us,”  she said as her hand floated away like a feather in
mid-air.     
 
Howland Reed was turning the skinned hare over the flames while Elder Brother
was speaking with Robert, who was now seated next to him with his bear skinned
cloak wrapped about him like he was a mound of fur.  Again he reminded her of
Bran sitting at Old Nan’s knee by firelight, enraptured by a tale of grumpkins
or the last hero.  The parts about the dead riding ice spiders always made her
run from the room, but she’d always be back the next evening for another story.
 Frightening things had their own strange allure.  She smoothed her dress as
she sat beside Lord Reed.  Sandor reclined contentedly against one of the
saddles cutting slices off an apple with his dagger making his presence
unobtrusive as was his way at court.  It was quite a trick for such a giant of
a warrior with a scarred face to make himself seem to disappear in plain sight.
 The crannogman stared into the flames unmoved.   My father always said he knew
the worth of Howland Reed and now so do I, but Father never mentioned sorcery.
 “You said you sent your children for my brother, Bran, my lord.  Does he still
live?” she asked hesitantly.  It was too much to hope for.  The last she had
heard of Bran he was severely crippled and Theon Greyjoy had murdered him and
little Rickon.
 
“As far as I know, he does.  I know nothing of Rickon.  My daughter, Meera, was
a born with a spear and net in hand.  She can keep them living off the land as
long as it takes.  My son, Jojen, has dreams of things that come to pass.”  His
profile in the orange glow lulled her with that quality she imagined all loving
fathers’ had, that Lord Eddard had, when they spoke to their children.  
 
“Do you have such dreams?” she asked.  The fire spit as the grease from the
hare dripped down when he turned it.  He took a pull from the skin of watered-
wine before passing it to her.  
 
As she tried to devise the most ladylike way to drink from a wineskin he
replied “No.  Greendreams were his alone.  Have you had such dreams, Lady
Stark?”  
 
The slightly sour wine dribbled from the corner of her mouth and she wiped it
away with her fingers.  “ Greendreams ?  Er, no, my lord.”  Her dreams ranged
from nightmares to things that would turn her as red as a beet, but she was no
seer.  He made a sound like a  hmph  at that.  “Lord Reed, everything has
happened so fast.  Lord Petyr was so cautious to ensure I stayed hidden.  How
did you come to find me?  I remember all three of you came the day we descended
from the Eyrie and Lord Petyr had returned from the wedding of Lyonel Corbray.”
 The only other ones she could recall who knew her true name were Aunt Lysa,
Oswell Kettleblack, and Lothor Brune.  Did Dontos Hollard, fool and drunkard
that he was, blessedly sell his secrets to the  right  person?
 
Howland smiled, slightly prideful.  “True enough, my dear.  Lord Littlefinger
drank into the late hours with us, his new hired swords from Gulltown.  We had
our suspicions then, but they were confirmed when Clegane here bowed and kissed
your hand.  That was the confirmation the Lady Alayne was indeed Sansa Stark.”
 Her lips parted in amazement as she stole a glance at Sandor.  To think, Petyr
hosted the Hound in his solar, a man he would have known for years in the
King’s court, without the faintest idea!  “As I said, I left the Neck long
before.  Not the first time in my life I slipped under the nose of Walder Frey
to head south, the Gods rot his soul.  I had hoped for a chance at the Battle
of Blackwater to reach you.  If Stannis had sacked the city, you might have
been moved from the Red Keep at some point.  The dwarf had the upper hand,
though.  I simply had to bide my time after that, staying close in the
Crownlands.”
 
“After their victory, I was set aside for my traitor’s blood so Joffrey could
be wed to Margaery Tyrell.  My relief was short lived.  I thought the Queen was
having an appropriate dress made for me for the occasion, as would be the
expected public treatment of a highborn hostage.  The dress was actually for my
own wedding to Lord Tyrion, which I was informed of moments before it
happened.”  The knife slicing the apple suddenly paused.  “To his credit,
Tyrion was kind to me in his own way.  He did not mistreat me or assert his
rights,” she said carefully.  “In truth we rarely spent any time together.  It
was Lord Petyr and the Tyrells behind the death of Joffrey, not I or Tyrion.
 Ser Dontos Hollard spirited me away from the wedding feast to a ship I was
promised would take me home, but I found Lord Petyr aboard instead.  It was at
his family’s home on the Fingers that he married Aunt Lysa before we went on to
the Eyrie.”
 
“Ser Dontos’s disappearance at the same time had every bounty seeker and gold
cloak in the realm searching for you at his family seat of Duskendale.”   Ser
Dontos’s new seat is at the bottom of Blackwater Bay,  she thought flatly.  “I
was no different.  I took up with a merchant’s party to hopefully hear a bit of
rumor on the road or at an inn.  Came across a peculiar lady knight that was
also looking for you.  Oh she denied it up and down.  Claimed it was actually
her nameless sister she was looking for who just happened to be a maid that fit
your description.  Worst liar I’ve ever heard in my life, but not a
dishonorable bone in that one’s body.  She was not out there looking for a
purse, but she was too bloody innocent to see the two oafs she kept company
with were as false as they were brainless.  I’ve no use for bad liars and pure
souls.  Who better for the task than a septon and kingsguard then, eh?”  Sandor
grunted and Elder Brother shot Reed a look and muttered he was  not  a septon.
 The crannogman pulled the cooked hare off the fire and began dividing up the
piping hot meat.  It was unseasoned, but it practically melted on her tongue
after not having eaten since that morning.  Robert ate with relish as well.
 Lord Reed continued after everyone had begun to ravage their share:  “Still, I
had a little inclination to track this lady knight when she had left the inn at
Duskendale on her own.  Mayhaps she had gotten a lead.  I kept a day or two’s
pace behind her.”
 
“Father had said to us that the crannogmen were unmatched hunters.”  Old Nan
also said they were rumored to have mixed bloodlines with the children of the
forest.
 
“True enough, but she’s as big as the Hound there.  Not exactly hard to miss if
you ask the smallfolk along the way.”  Sansa could not imagine such a woman let
alone a lady knight of unblemished honor searching for her.  What original
material for a great song perhaps even Arya would have liked, she mused.
 “Found my way to the Quiet Isle eventually when the big wench stayed a night
there.  Mudflats aren’t such a problem for a frog-eater are they, septon?”
 Reed asked as he tossed the wineskin to the Elder Brother who looked
grudgingly amused.  “Did you take it as a sign from your gods when I turned up
or mine?”
 
“I shall ignore your blasphemous mockery,” said Elder Brother before he took a
few swallows.  “This warrior maid, Lady Brienne of Tarth, made an oath to your
late lady mother to find you.  She had a young lad with her that she called her
squire.  I encouraged her to return to her home, but she was insistent.  A good
soul she was, but she was under the impression the Hound had taken you and she
was bent on facing him even if it meant her life.”  Elder Brother’s eyes
shifted over to Sandor as Sweetrobin finished off the leg joint and gave a
yawn.  “I assured her that her theory was not possible as the Hound was dead…
at any rate she and her squire left the next morning to continue their search.
 A few days later ‘Ser Shadrich’ turns up on the shore unaided as if he hopped
the lilypads over.  Startled a poor novice so badly he forgot his vow of
silence and dropped a whole bucket of milk on his sandals.  Clegane caught wind
of of the ruckus, there was a mention of your name and there was no un-spilling
the milk by the time I got there.  We all had a good long chat over several
days once we were assured of Lord Reed’s intentions, of course.”  Elder Brother
glanced down at Robert, who had drifted off and was leaning against the bulky
man.  He lowered his voice to a near whisper as he passed the wineskin to
Sandor.  “Clegane mentioned your aunt was lady of the Eyrie as a possibility of
where Ser Dontos might have taken you.  I recalled a raven I had received not
long after King Joffrey died announcing the marriage of Lady Lysa to the Lord
of Harrenhal.  Then a second raven came not one month later announcing her
death.  In truth we still had no idea if you were at the Eyrie, but the
involvement of one such as Lord Littlefinger and your aunt’s sudden death was
reason enough to start looking there.”  
 
Sansa clutched her cloak tighter around her chest.  Remembering the blast of
wind in her face, a lost shoe, and nothingness below the Moon Door then Aunt
Lysa disappearing into the blue silence made her shudder.  Sandor must have
thought she was cold because he tossed another small branch on the fire.  “Lady
Lysa’s death was a very difficult time for us.”  She gave the Elder Brother a
pointed look hoping he would not discuss it further in front of Robert, asleep
or not.  “Blessedly your suspicions proved correct.”   
 
“Aye, thank the gods, my lady.”  Elder Brother nodded and continued.  “The only
problem was we needed Clegane to identify you if you were under a disguise,
which was very likely considering the distinct Tully look.  I can see we had
guessed correctly on that point as well.    Unfortunately, due to my own
stupidity an outlaw took up the Hound’s helm and committed the atrocities that
befell the Saltpans.  As if simply being the most recognizable face in the
realm wasn’t problem enough.  Before, he was only a deserter and might have
been able to reclaim his life one day.  The rapes and murders done in his name
condemned him to never leave the Isle or he’d be hanged on the spot or much
worse, such is the rage of the smallfolk or brigands who would boast they slew
the mad dog of the Saltpans.”  
 
“Brother…”  Sandor whispered, but the great, brawny man only shook his head.
 So much has changed indeed to hear him call anyone brother with such
tenderness.           
 
“For my part in that injustice I would do all I can to atone.  And yes, I did
take it as a sign from the gods how I should atone to my friend.”  
 
Friend.  Brother.   Did the Hound ever call anyone friend?  Even her?  She knew
what  brotherhood  had meant to him too.  Maybe the Hound was dead.  He said he
had not given himself over to drunkenness in some time.  Come to think of it,
in all her time with him whether he was Byron or Sandor there was none of the
harshness or mocking she had come to expect.  A part of her shamefully hoped he
wasn’t completely defanged from the ferocity that against all reason got her
blood up.  That was a selfish wish if he had now found peace in his heart on
the Quiet Isle.  Hadn’t she prayed for that for him?  She would have pondered
it more while she chewed through a tough heel of bread crust, but Elder Brother
continued:  “As you already know Lord Reed provided the solution to that
problem by the mysteries of his  tree gods .”  He then sternly glared over at
Howland.  “Those bones will be returned to the grave we robbed as well as the
gems.”
 
“Pffft!  A ‘mystery’, is it?.  The lowest form of magic glamours be.  In the
Free Cities it’s as common as dirt even among the lice-ridden street
entertainers.  Neat little trick if you want to tumble someone’s wife and
neither her nor the cuckold is ever the wiser.”  Elder Brother threw up his
hands.  Sandor rolled his eyes and took a pull of the wineskin before setting
in for sleep.   A neat little trick for stealing a kiss, as well.   He closed
his eyes and flung an arm behind his blonde head looking as contented as a cat
full of cream, but Reed turned to look directly at her with eyes glittering.
 “There are mysteries, child.  Fire, mud, rock, ice, beasts and trees,” he said
low and solemn.  She had no idea what to say to that.
 
Sweetrobin’s sleepy eyes blinked a bit as the Elder Brother gently lifted and
placed him on his own bedroll next to Sansa’s.  She was curious as to what Lord
Reed had meant, but she was also feeling the weight of her own exhaustion as
well as she tucked the furs around Sweetrobin and stroked his hair.  This was
the queerest day followed by the queerest tale she had ever heard.  “With
winter soon approaching, we decided to wait until the upper castles had closed
and the household had made their descent to the Gates.” said the Elder Brother.
 
“You never could have gotten us down the mountain quickly without being caught,
even if you could have somehow made it to the peak.”
 
“Quite right, my lady.  We knew Littlefinger had strong ties in Gulltown and
thought it best to start there as a bunch of sellswords looking for work.
 Fortunately, it didn’t take long to cross paths with Kettleblack at a portside
brothel, beg your pardon.  From him we got word of Lord Lyonel’s wedding to a
merchant’s daughter and just so happened his master would be in attendance.
 His lordship was always looking for more muscle to guard himself and his
beautiful, natural daughter.  Preferably unsavory types, discrete, good with
blade, and short on gold.”  For such a gruff man he had a kind and inviting
smile.
 
“Pity for him he hired gallant knights instead, ser.”
“Get some rest now, my lady.  We’ll be up again before dawn.  I'll take the
first watch.”  
 
She smiled at the holy brother as she nestled in close next to Robert.  The
crannogman sat peaceful and still. gazing into the flames that slowly dwindled
down into the ashen earth.  As she gathered her fur cloak over her there was an
unmistakable warmth like good wine creeping through her and she knew Sandor was
watching her and watching over her.  It was as fine as any feather bed when she
remembered how good it was possible to feel wearing Sansa Stark’s skin too.
 When sleep came over her and washed away her soreness and aches she had the
most curious dreams of bats.


***** Gods Be Good *****
Chapter Summary
     On the first day spent on the Quiet Isle, Sansa is provoked by the
     dinner conversation. Sandor makes a confession he is troubled by.
Chapter Notes
     Just wanted to play around with foreshadowing, anagrams, and wordplay
     to make connections to book canon past and present events. See if you
     can find them ;) Sorry about the longer wait, but I went over this
     chapter about fifty times to get it where I wanted it and of course,
     there's the awesome input of Winterfellbaby. Hopefully, I can convey
     my apologies with a somewhat longer chapter than usual. Love you all
     for your amazing support.
The land surrounding them had rolling dunes dressed in gently swaying reeds
punctuated with the buzzing of dragonfly wings, the trilling of unseen frogs,
and mournful calls of long-legged, wading birds.  This was in stark contrast to
the township of the Saltpans, a charred skeleton of its former self.  If there
were any survivors remaining, they had not dared show themselves to travellers.
 As desolate as it appeared to be, they had stayed on the outskirts of town
until Howland Reed scouted and determined there were no signs of soldiers,
outlaws, or even raiders from the mountain clans.  Not that there was anything
left to raid.  The castle of old Ser Quincy Cox still stood proud amongst the
devastation where a girl not much younger than herself was said to have been
savaged.  Worse, her truest friend at her back stood accused.  Her hand covered
Sandor’s while he held the reigns and he allowed her fingers to interlace with
his.  Did he think she was seeking comfort at the thought of the poor maiden’s
fate?  She had hoped to assure him she knew he was no monster, no matter if the
whole of the world condemned him.  As they made their way down to the port,
Elder Brother’s grim gaze had stayed fixed on that closed castle gate as their
horses had trotted by.    
 
A single flaming arrow was loosed by Lord Reed, sputtering in the wind.  It
arced gracefully before finally extinguishing itself some distance away in the
dark blue water of the Bay of Crabs.  Dusk was settling in again.  The holy
brothers on the isle had been instructed to keep a vigil for the eventual
return of the Elder Brother.  It wasn’t long before they could make out the
faint, quivering silhouette of a ferry coming from the isle.  The tide was high
and lapping rhythmically against the dock where they waited.  The Elder Brother
was a friend to the smallfolk here, having tended to their wounded and dying
after the massacre.  But even then they all kept their hoods up and would say
nothing until they were clear of this hellscape.  Sandor dismounted the red
courser first and held her by the waist as she slipped down to her feet,
wincing all the way.  Her thigh muscles felt stiff as two hunks of dried,
salted meat.  Two days of riding double and sidesaddle in which she cursed
herself for never having asked Mya to teach her to ride astride ages ago.
 Though weary, she put on a brave smile for Robert as she took his hand in hers
when they finally boarded the ferry.  He had often had such fitful sleep since
his lady mother died, even in the lord’s chambers of the Eyrie.  It was a small
wonder he was looking wan again and more rheumy-eyed with being so out of his
element, as was she.
 
The silent brothers in their dun robes and cowls led the way by torchlight on
the wooden steps that meandered up the steep inclines along the shore.  The
isle definitely lived up to it’s namesake.  There was hardly a sound but the
wind and waves, the gentle bleating of sheep, and the creaking turns of the
windmill.  After their horses were led away to the stables, a brother named
Narbert greeted them with the smile and a small bow.  Elder Brother introduced
him as one of his proctors, but it was not his permitted day to speak.  “Lady
Sansa will need a cottage prepared,” he instructed.  “There is a bathhouse that
you may use later if you wish.  Most everything is communal here, but you will
have privacy, my lady.  Looks like we have arrived in time for evening meal.
 The common hall is this way, ”  He gestured up the path to an elongated
building of whitewashed wood and stone as he led them on.   Oh, Gods be good.
 A hot meal, but another hill .  Her burning legs were screaming in protest.
 Sure enough, it wasn’t long before she could not suppress the pain any longer
and stumbled a bit.  To her surprise it was Robert that took her by the arm
before anyone else could.  “I have you, cousin,” he said before sniffling.  She
had already grown another foot taller in the last year, making it impossible
for him to actually catch her if she truly fell.  She was relieved that Sandor
was only one or two steps behind her.
 
“Thank you, my lord.”  She smiled down at him.  Robert was turning into such a
fine young man, and she hoped he would make an even finer husband someday, to
someone.  The more she looked at his pale face she decided she did not like the
look of that runny nose.  If supper didn't improve his color either, she
decided she would speak to Elder Brother about it.  
 
At the long trestle tables they were served loaves of hot bread and butter with
a thick, creamy stew of crabs complemented by sweet cider to wash it down.  The
wafting, savory smells made her tummy growl so embarrassingly loud she hoped no
one had noticed or they were at least courteous enough to pretend not to.
 Elder Brother took the head of the table and gave the blessing, while Robert
sat to her right and Sandor and Lord Reed sat across from her.  They were safe
here now, weren’t they?  She questioned why he hadn’t cast off the glamour.
 Perhaps he was waiting until he could change from his leather and mail…  into
novice robes again?  With the dulcet tones of harp music drifting through the
air and the honeyed peacefulness of this place, she thought perhaps it was
where Sandor Clegane could truly be happy.  His constant hatefulness never
brought him any closer to justice or joy in his former life, and all he could
be was an ever suffering and bitter Lannister weapon.  As Elder Brother said,
the outside world is unsafe for the likes of the Hound.  Honestly, what did she
think would come after this?  She had no right to ask more of him.  Still, she
caught the grey beneath the blue in his eyes now and then and there was so much
selfish, possessive need of him in her that would come rushing out if her guilt
and principles failed to hold it back.   
 
Elder Brother drank deeply from a tankard of mead and wiped a moustache of foam
from his lip before addressing the boy.  “The bed in my private chambers is for
your use whilst you are a guest here, my lord.  I can even scrounge up a few
good books you might be interested in as well.  Have you happened to hear the
one about Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies?”  Sweetrobin perked
up like a dog catching a scent, and vigorously shook his head.
 
“Good.  I haven’t heard that one in a long time myself.”
 
“Have you heard that one, cousin?  You never read it to me.”  Sweetrobin asked.
 
“I have, my lord, but I must have forgotten it since we have read every tale of
the Winged Knight so many times I feared the pages were coming loose from the
binding,” she teased him.  “You will like it, I think.  It was once my best-
loved second to --”
 
“Florian and Jonquil,” Sandor finished between spoonfuls as incidentally as
noting the weather.  A fool and his -- woman, except he didn’t say ‘woman’ as
he once put it so vulgarly.    In retrospect, she was never half as offended as
she let on, merely confused and confounded by him.  She was a girl-child then,
without a map to navigate the world of men, let alone this particular man.
 Yet, that was the song he desperately begged of her too… but he had lost his
wits and courage to fire and strong wine, so much that he abandoned all care
for himself and stole a kiss that by rights belonged to his king.  She could
almost taste the copper of sweat and blood through sweetness of crabmeat.
      
 
“Well as I said,  was ,” she muttered.  She wondered what he must think of her
indulging Sweetrobin with these stories that turned her brains to a beautifully
colorful, but hopelessly tangled ball of embroidery thread.  She imagined
hearing his scraping rasp in her head, telling her that she hadn’t learned a
buggering thing after all.   But I have learned, I think…  I don’t truly
believe in these things anymore .  It was just that Sweetrobin behaved so much
better, like a proper lord, when she drew him in with flights of fancy.  He was
even younger than she when he lost his parents, and now his impregnable, lofty
castle home had crumbled like it’s sugar miniature.  The world was an awful
place, and she resolved to let him stay a boy for a little while longer.  She
turned to Howland Reed and put on a charming countenance like changing a gown.
 “My lord, you knew my father as a young man.  What was he like then?”
 
The crannogman set down his tankard as she rested her chin on her hand.  “Quiet
and contemplative.  Though all would seem so compared to your uncle, Brandon,
who was brash and headstrong through and through.  Ned was kind and a true
friend, but still kept himself apart as if he mistrusted too much pleasure.”
 He sopped up the last bit of stew in his bowl with a piece of bread.  “This is
not to say he was a dour old man before his time.  He was good for a laugh too
and even his head could be turned by a beauty, though your uncle had to ask for
a dance on his behalf.  Mind you, this was before even Brandon was betrothed to
your lady mother.”
 
   “Of course.”  It was interesting to think of her father dancing with some
beautiful lady and laughing -- laughing like he would when he ate with his men
or when her mother said something clever, before everything went straight to
the seven hells.  “Was this at the Eyrie when he was fostered there by Lord
Robert’s father?”   
 
“The tourney at Harrenhal.  I was invited to share a table on the dais with
your Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Benjen too.”  Her smile faded, which she hid behind
a sip of cider.  Father was loath to speak of the last year that his father and
two of his siblings were alive and she had the sense not to ask too many
questions.  What she knew of that tourney and the war that followed came from
her histories in Maester Luwin’s lessons; however, most details related to Aunt
Lyanna during that time were vague to absent except for one important fact:
 Prince Rhaegar, to the shock of all, publicly humiliated his wife, Princess
Elia, and infringed on her Aunt Lyanna’s honor by crowning her the queen of
love and beauty in the presence of her betrothed.  His even more outrageous
actions afterward would lead to a war and her father’s deepest sorrow.  Howland
considered her a long moment.  “Got a touch of your aunt in you, I think.”
 
That took her aback and she had to laugh.  “Forgive me, my lord, but you must
be mistaken.  Father always compared Arya to Aunt Lyanna, both with affection
and grief.  Most say I favor my lady mother.”  Aunt Lyanna was a beauty, it was
said, but she was painted with the darker features of a Stark, and all knew she
was as spirited and willful as Arya.  She would sometimes wear breeches and had
desired to train in the yard with her brothers, and she was also an
accomplished rider.     
 
“Oh, I did not mean in look.  You’re a Tully plain enough -- though there’s
nothing plain about a Tully, is there?”  She laughed again and lifted her cup
of cider in toast.  “Wolf-blooded she was for sure, but underneath she had a
soft heart that could be moved by an injustice… or a song.”  There was a slight
melancholy as he trailed off.  She wasn’t sure what she felt about that.
 Perhaps she wished Father had seen Aunt Lyanna in her too as he did with Arya.
 She felt as though sometimes she were behind a pane of glass watching them.
 Her sister could be wild and filthy and unabashedly Arya and still win his
smiles and hugs.  Oh, she knew she was loved, but sometimes it felt as though
she must be perfect at everything and be such a good girl just to get a nod of
approval when Arya was just herself.  Though that wasn’t quite right or fair,
was it?  Arya was also treated like a crooked stitch in her elegant needlework,
worthy of a sigh before being ripped out.  
 
“She liked the songs?” she asked absently.  She was still somewhere far away
mulling on her lost little sister.                         
 
“In a manner of speaking.  ‘Twas moreso the singer,” he replied, taking another
long draw of ale.   A singer?   She thought she had seen all manner of singers:
old, road-ragged ones and garish, colorful types from far-flung places, or even
silver-tongued rogues who thought they could sing their way up a skirt.  She
hoped Aunt Lyanna had not been charmed by the latter as Aunt Lysa was charmed
by Marillion, who never sounded as awful and beautiful as when he was condemned
to a sky cell.   I’ve never been carried away by a bard himself, only the song,
which was bad enough.    All peddlers of beautiful dreams and lies, not one has
ever told me the truth.  Only Sandor was able.  
 
“In the end, she weighed her love for her prince against duty to her family and
bid farewell to the latter,” Lord Reed continued, bluntly halting her thoughts.
He tipped his head back and downed the last of his ale.
 
Her smile withered.  “Forgive me again, my lord, but her prince?”  They both
looked at each other askance.  “Rhaegar Targaryen?”
 
“Who else?”   
 
Her spoon rudely clanged against her empty bowl, though she hadn't intended to
set it down thus.  All eyes shifted to her.  Even a few of the silent brothers
a few places down began to watch.  Turned her back on her family for love, did
she?  Aside from the fact that this description of her aunt was complete
rubbish, she needed no reminders of her stubborn insistence on her  love  for
Joffrey and what it cost.  It hurt that her defining feature to others was
utter foolery that led to the misfortune of everyone around her.  She could
feel the blood drumming in her ears.
 
“She was already betrothed,” she said trying to keep her voice even, but the
bite was there nonetheless, “but Prince Rhaegar kidnapped her and dishonored
her in the worst way possible.  The pain of it was so terrible that Father
would hardly speak of her.”
 
“Aye, she was betrothed to  a stag .  Any maid without dust between her ears
would have run off, but since when is a maid asked her opinion?” he said
candidly.  “Have you heard none of this before?  No, I suppose not.”  Then she
remembered the lecherous and insatiable mockery of a king and the way Sandor
had compared her betrothed, Harrold Hardyng, to him.  She thought of Mya’s
abandonment too.  Suddenly, it was hard to imagine her aunt married to such a
man as much as she could not imagine herself being married to Harry.   But that
does not change the fact she was kidnapped and raped!
 
“That may be said of King Robert, but then that means Father mourned a wistful
idiot that turned her back on her family for a cruel and... honorless…”  She
was so angry now she could hardly find the words.  “ False knight and prince ?
 Is that the way of it, my lord?”
 
Sandor’s sniggered like saw teeth dragging through wood. “The lady knows no
graver insult!  Which knight do you think saw fit to give my brother the vows
and sacred oils, Little Bird?  For every rat you see, just kick over the nest
and you’ll find they’ve made dozens more of their own kind.”  
 
Elder Brother looked as if he were about to say something sagely and placating,
but she plowed over him anyway.  “I may be accused of such with Prince Joffrey
and I will live with that over my head for the rest of my days, but you could
not be more wrong in comparing us so.”  Sandor’s mouth twitched.  He remained
still save for occupying his fingers by slowly turning his cup ‘round on its
base.  “The supposed love you speak of would be for the man that dishonored my
aunt in front of everyone?  And that she would dishonor herself by becoming
his…  mistress? ”      
 
 Howland listened patiently at first, but now his eyes narrowed with annoyance.
 “One doesn’t need to run away to be the mistress of a future king.  There’s a
boon enough in that for the girl and even her family for catching a crown
prince’s eye, betrothed or not.  That kind of thing happens all the time and
the most it starts is gossip, not war.  Thought you spent enough time in the
court to understand that.  But that’s not --”
 
Her jaw ratcheted up like a steel trap. “Let me remind you this prince’s father
murdered my uncle and grandfather and would have done the same to my father and
Robert Baratheon had Jon Arryn not kept them safe.  Did Prince Rhaegar  that
she did so ardently love  lift a finger to defend her kin from his own father?
 In fact, he stood with the Mad King to kill good Stark men.  If my aunt loved
such a fiend, Father would never have buried her in the crypts among the lords
of Winterfell.  Her death would not have broken his heart so.”
 
“As did mine own!” he said sharply.  “I will forgive you because clearly you
are ignorant of many things.”
 
Sandor growled low.  “Careful, Lord Lilypad.”
 
His eyes remained locked on hers.  “Down, dog.  You won’t like the scraps I can
toss your way.”  Like they were loosed by a bowstring, she found both herself
and Sandor rising from the table at the same time before Elder Brother placed a
massive hand on both their arms imploring them to sit.
 
“This is still a peaceful sanctuary.  I’ll not have hackles raised.  All of
you, compose yourselves at once.  If you have a point to make, my lord, you
better get to it without provoking Lady Sansa or my penitent brother here.”  He
shot Sandor a scolding look.
 
“Apologies, my lords.  I… I must be very tired.  I was not myself.” she said as
they both returned to their place on the wooden benches.  She felt so hot and
strange.  Robert took hold of her hand in his cold, clammy one and stroked her
fingers as she often did to soothe his upsets, but he was clearly rapt with all
this grown-up talk and traded barbs.                  
 
Howland Reed’s eyes flitted back and forth between her and Sandor before he
sighed deeply.  “The injustice I spoke of was against me and Lyanna was first
to offer her friendship and to defend my honor.  I am the last who would ever
question hers -- or yours.  Robert may have been well-liked among his friends,
but she had the right of it.  It was the duty that was demanded of her that was
wrong and Robert’s love for her was no deeper than a puddle of piss.  Her horse
knew her better than he did.”  He leaned in closer across the table at her.  “I
do not blame her for her open, honest heart.  She was no ‘wistful idiot’ and
neither are you.  At the time, she fell for the man that saw her wildness and
admired her for it, not so much her beauty and definitely not her title.  What
you said about Rhaegar wasn’t entirely wrong, my lady.  The crowning was a
reckless move, but it was meant as praise of her courage.  She could not have
known in that moment all the tragedy that would happen later.  Would that it
all could have been different.  I promise you though… it was not all in vain.
 What came of it will mean something in the days ahead.  For all Ned’s famed
honor, between choices of love and honor he chose love every time.  That’s why
he buried Lyanna in the crypts.  Honor is a good thing, but a cold comfort
compared to love.”
 
Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.   “I’m
afraid not so cold as a tombstone, my lord.”  She quickly turned her face away
toward Sweetrobin to dab the snot from his nose with her napkin, but it was
really to hold back the mist forming over her own eyes.  His skin felt cool to
the touch, but there was a light dampness of perspiration.  Perhaps his full
belly was responsible for the sleepiness in his eyes.  “I think it may be time
for Lord Robert and I to retire.”  He didn’t look like he’d make it to the end
of a story before sleep took him.  She turned to the Elder Brother and said
“Lord Robert has a sweat upon him and a runny nose.  Could you have a look at
him please?  And if you would be so kind, I think I will make use of the bath
house tonight as well.”
 
One of the silent brothers guided her to the baths, which were in a small stone
structure with an oaken door that housed four stout wooden tubs.  There was a
well that must have been fed by some underground spring from which fresh water
could be drawn up and a fireplace to heat it.  With thick mitts on he poured a
kettle of boiling water into a tub full of cold.  There was a cake of tallow
soap that smelled of honey and herbs and beside it as well was a towel.  On a
small table she was provided a simply cut, undyed dress and undertunic of a
septa with a pair of practical leather shoes.  Before he left her, the brother
set a lantern on the table and pointed to the path that would lead her straight
to the women’s cottages.  
 
After a minor scuffle untying the laces at her back, she decided to give her
dress, smallclothes, and stockings a wash, and after having scrubbed the hours
of hard riding she set them beside the fire to dry.  A clean dress was
appreciated, but going without undergarments seemed rightfully indecent, even
if it was a short walk.  Her hair was a proper nest of tangles at this point,
so much so that she wasn’t sure what she could do with except rake it out with
her fingers.  The brothers with their hair close-cropped and tonsured had more
use for razors than combs.  Scrubbing every inch of herself in a thick lather
of white suds made her feel like she was made of white, virginal snow.  Her
clothes would still need more time by the fire, so she settled in for a soak to
soothe the tenderness in her muscles.  
 
Before long, she was seeking the comfort of her own hands and musing on her
warrior perhaps using this very tub in the same way.  His thoughts would mirror
her own while he did whatever men did.  If idle chatter that she was privy to
as a bastard girl could be believed, men could be so imaginative in the
filthiest ways possible.  Somehow, that didn’t seem so bad when the dreamer was
Sandor.  He was a man grown strong long before her, and a soldier no less.  It
was slightly disconcerting imagining Sandor’s features without Byron’s
intruding, but it made no matter when she imagined the way his throat would be
exposed as he tilted his head back over the rim of the tub the way she was
doing now.  His lips would be breathlessly murmuring sweet words interlaced
with vivid obscenities.  Now she was gliding toward him in the water as if he
had conjured up a mermaid and his hands became hers in pleasuring his manhood.
 In dreams, she already knew how to work him to rapture.  She wanted to know
how it would feel to be him too.  How lovely it would be to slip inside his
skin while they kissed, desperately cleaving to each other, as he stroked her
little flower to bloom and she touched him in return.  She reached her peak
with greater ease, this time being more practiced in rhythm, leaving her
shaking and sated.  After tonight’s dinner conversation, she desired nothing
more than obliteration of sensible thought, craved the simple white-hot and
dumb nothingness.    
 
It was growing so late now, she didn’t want anyone to wonder at her lengthy
time in the bathhouse.  The septa’s dress was sewn down the sides in a
shapeless way but at least the shoes fit well enough.  She closed the door
behind her carrying her wine-colored wool dress, stockings, and boots in one
hand and the lantern in the other.  It was Sandor she found waiting at the
crossroads of dirt and gravel pathways.  He was changed out of his mail and
leather into a gray tunic, though Bryon’s blonde hair shone like silver in the
moonlight.  “Waiting for your turn?  I believe there’s still some hot water
left.” she teased.  He held out something in his hand.  As she got close enough
it was carved and polished comb fashioned out of driftwood, smooth and golden.
 
 
“Your hair could use it,” he said and she smiled warmly, “unless you plan on
joining the wildlings.”  He looked her over in the lantern glow.  “You’ve
washed more of that dye out.”  
 
“Thank you,” she said as she took the comb gratefully after he helped her carry
some of her clothes.  “I had knots upon knots after such rough travel.”  She
had no looking glass, but she hoped that what he said was true -- that her hair
was turning back to red-copper like the seasons changing in reverse.
 
“Hmph… beg your pardon that we had no wheelhouse to shuffle you along,  Lady
Stark .”  
 
She flicked the comb against his arm.  “On the contrary,  serrrr , I was happy
to ride in front of you, though don’t look too smug about it.  If I rode behind
your back, the view would never change.”
 
  The women’s cottages were shaped like beehives, snug and charming.  There was
a narrow bench outside her door that she invited him to sit on while listening
to cricket calls and the swishing of tall grasses.  If he only knew how
thoroughly she was slain by thoughts of him mere moments prior as she began to
work the comb through her wet tendrils of hair.  There was something she needed
to know though… “This is such a tranquil place and I can see that it has
changed you.  Tell me, is this where you see yourself now?  Do you wish a
monastic life?”
 
He barked a laugh at that and she almost jumped from her seat.  “I wish it as
much as I wish to be gelded.  Got my head clear of drink.  Isn’t that enough?”
 
 
There’s a yellow ribbon that says it isn’t .  “I thank the Gods then… that you
are no sworn celibate nor gelded.”  This time her laughter mingled with his.
 So often his humor was black and mirthless that she took a little joy in
saying something clever that made him laugh truly.  She was glad for him.  He
had always had wit and a deft turn of phrase, but this version was different.
 A sword as sharp as ever, but mostly kept in the scabbard and certainly not
aimed by her throat.  “Now that you’ve an unclouded head, do you find what lies
before you pleasing?”  For full effect she drew her hair over her shoulder and
combed the lush lengths that were well beyond detangled at that point.  That
got his attention.  He almost moved to touch her hair, but withdrew it abruptly
like he was bringing a dog to heel.  His mind was burdened with something.  
 
“There’s something I must tell you, Little Bird.” he began dauntingly.  “I was
with your little sister for a time after I left King’s Landing.”
 
“She lives?”  A little hope began to swell in her chest overtaking the ache of
longing.
 
“This was some months before now that I last saw her.  I found her with a band
of brigands led by Ser Beric and Ser Thoros in the Riverlands and I stole her
from them.”
 
It was hard to believe those two knights took up lawlessness, but these were
strange times.  “Are you certain it was Arya?”
 
“Full of piss and vinegar and dressed as a boy.”   It was Arya .  “I tried to
get her to the Twins to meet your brother and mother.  We made it, too, but as
soon as we entered the gates everything went to shit.  She made a run for Lord
Walder’s hall.  I could do nothing for your family but knock the wolf bitch
senseless and get her far from there.  I tried next to take her to the Eyrie,
but the roads were overrun by mountain clan raiders.  Then there was a fight
with my brother’s men at an inn when I heard news of your wedding to the Imp.”
 He could not conceal the way he spat the epithet, though she could not say why
Tyrion angered him so.  “I took several wounds. She tended to me as best she
could, but after a few days I was a sorry sight.  My wounds festered and I lost
much blood.  In my usual charming fashion, I pushed her too far and she left me
then.  After that, everything's a fevered dream until I was plucked up by Elder
Brother.  I don’t know what became of her, but as far as I know she lives.”  He
seemed as resigned as a man facing the headsman’s axe.
 
She stared at him a good long moment, until he became visibly uneasy.  Her hand
came up to cup his face and stroke his jaw with her thumb.  First news of Bran
and now Arya might still be out there somewhere too.  Scattered to the wind
they may be, but if she could become a beacon somehow perhaps they could find
her.  Her heart quaked and cracked open.  “My truest friend…”  Delicately her
fingers traveled under the collar of his shirt and found the cord around his
neck.  He seemed so furiously tense, but allowed her to do as she pleased.  As
soon as it slipped over his head, his hair grew as dark as ink and his eyes
hard and gray like steel.  One side of his face fissured into black and red
ruins with a flash of white bone and a permanent sneer on one side of his
mouth.  She held the sachet of bones and rubies and let it fall into her lap.
 “I hold in my heart more dear that you cared for my sister than even the many
things you’ve done for me.”  She then swore inside that if she ever found Arya
again, she would beg her forgiveness and that they could be as they were before
princes, queens, and septas came into their lives.  
 
Not ungently, she brushed the lanky hair that fell over his burned side away
and caressed his scalp.  The frenzy of his heartbeat was like a cornered
rabbit, so palpable it almost had a smell.  It occurred to her then why he kept
up the facade even when they were safe or maybe why he chose this particular
form in the first place.  It was what he thought she wanted, it made him brave,
and let him speak and act in ways the Hound would not.  He could play the
gallant knight for her.  This was not ladylike by any means, but hoping her
instincts were correct her lips brushed against his, testing for resistance.
 The hands that clasped her waist and settled on the curve of her hips was all
she needed to spur her forward.  “Sandor,” she whispered against his mouth
before fully pressing down to convey all her ardent feelings.  She prayed
earnestness was enough to make up for novice experience.  
 
As her arms circled around his neck he pulled her closer to him.  Her bold
initiative must have pleased him to her relief.  This time he took the reigns,
coaxing her lips to relax with his own and nudging her to move how he wanted.
 There were some false starts and moments they were hopelessly out of step,
eliciting more low rumbles of laughter between them before plunging back into
the sweetness of his instruction.  She felt like butter spreading over hot
bread.  Lightly she bit and sucked on his lower lip, mimicking what he had
previously done to her.  Eventually, she felt the brush of his tongue and she
understood she should part her lips for him.  Rather than delving his tongue
into her mouth, he patiently drew hers out, teaching her to flick and caress
each other playfully between kisses.  Her head was spinning with the loveliest
madness and that emboldened her enough to move one of his hands to cup a
breast.  He made a low guttural sound as he desperately squeezed to fill his
palm, but that damnable corset was as good as plate armor.  A moment later he
pulled away from her, both of them panting and drunk.  “I think that’s enough
for now, Sansa,” he barely managed to utter coherently.  He pulled her against
the solid wall of his chest, fingers buried in her hair and kissed her tenderly
on her forehead.  “I must needs get back.  It would not be hard to guess where
to find me and Elder Brother will geld me for true.”  With a glowing,
dumbstruck grin she nodded and pressed her cheek into his palm.
 
She felt as wicked as Myranda when an idea seized her that made her redden like
she was a crab in a kettle. “Oh, one last thing…” She placed in his hand one of
her stockings with the pretty ribbon garter.  Perhaps it would have reflected
the sentiment better if it was summer silk as opposed to practical wool on
second thought...
 
He looked at it wolfishly amused.  “The Little Bird continues to favor me with
pieces of her clothing,” he said before snatching it up and bidding her
goodnight.  In his bed tonight it would provoke him the way she intended, she
knew.     
 
Reluctantly, he stood and took the lantern, holding it out in front of him to
light the path back as she watched him leave from the cottage door.  Suddenly,
 the most awful, piercing shrieks ripped through the night air, making her
nearly jump out of her skin.  She could see where the lantern light stood
frighteningly motionless ahead of her as she ran toward it.   “IT’S HIM!!!
 IT’S HIM!!!  I DON’T WANT TO FLY!!!  I DON’T WANT TO FLY!!!  I DON’T...”   
 
Oh, Gods be good …  Sweetrobin’s screams choked themselves out as he collapsed
to the ground in an unnatural heap and then he had the most terrifyingly
violent shaking fit she had ever seen.  
                              
***** Like Medicine *****
Chapter Summary
     The aftermath of Sweetrobin's latest violent episode and the hard
     truth of his condition revealed. Sansa seeks an intervention and
     forgiveness from the Seven.
Chapter Notes
     I appologize for the long wait. Had a few good weeks of some writers
     block for this intermediary period before moving to the next act of
     the story. I'm already hard at work on the Chapter 7 with a much
     clearer direction and more action. I hope you enjoy it, thank you
     always for the support, and thank you to Winterfellbaby for the beta-
     reading. :)
The dreamwine was adamantly refused.  Elder Brother gently tried to convince
her there was nothing she could do for Robert now and she might as well rest.
 A little chair was brought in for her and set next to his bed in the Hermit’s
Hole, Elder Brother’s private chamber.  The most rest she would allow herself
was to lay her head in her folded arms on the edge of his bed so she could
watch him.  Her lady mother would sing to them when they were ill, but Robert
hated singing.  So she hummed every song and hymn she knew, though her throat
was raw from all her screaming.  Without having to look, she knew her eyes were
frightfully red and swollen.  Robert looked as pale as bone, his little face
drawn before his time.  The time passed, marked by the shallow rise and fall of
his chest.        
 
What happened before was fragmented in memory.  There was her own screaming
that turned into the howls of a wounded animal.  Flickering torchlights bobbing
around in the dark like fireflies.  The rapid pattering and shuffling of
sandaled feet.  A furious awakening in her arms and legs when she clutched his
spasming body and forced herself up, though feebly hobbling when she meant to
run.  A lightness as his weight was pulled from her arms and her skirts
tangling around her legs while she fought to keep up with Sandor’s strides.  A
moment before she was soaring on bliss… but that’s how things worked, didn’t
they?  By the time he was brought here to this chamber, his shaking was still
upon him, his eyes rolled back and unseeing.  Elder Brother had him held
upright, while he used a small funnel to dose him with dreamwine and then he
fell into a death-like sleep.  
 
She was still humming, something freeform and nameless, when Elder Brother laid
a hand on her shoulder.  She looked up to him with eyelids tired and sore with
tears.  “Lady Sansa,” he began so delicately as if he could blow her away like
a dandelion head, “I must ask you some questions now.”  She may have nodded,
she didn’t know.  Beyond the broad expanse of his shoulder she saw Lord Reed
sitting at a polished driftwood table across the tiny room that was fashioned
from an old cave, a silent mouse rather than a mad one.  She hadn’t even heard
him enter.   “After he was settled in, his lordship asked if I had any
sweetmilk to give him.  I thought he must be mistaken, that he gave the name to
something else.  But he told me his old maester would give it to him on
occasion.  Is that what you recall as well?”  
 
“That is true, ser,” she croaked.  Elder Brother poured her a cup of watered-
wine from a flagon while she continued.  “Maester Colemon was treating Lord
Robert with leechings before, but he was making no headway with his trembling.
 The Lord Protector suggested it long ago and it seemed to unburden him of
fears and put him at ease.”  She hadn’t felt a want for refreshment, but she
accepted it and took meager sips anyway.  He said nothing but his look bade her
to continue.  Perhaps any detail she could recall may be of use, she decided.
 “There were things a lord must do with which we could anticipate him becoming
overwrought…  like the tourney feast and seeing his heir flaunt himself so
presumptuously.  The sweetmilk proved effective in staving off an episode with
enough forewarning.”
 
“I see… and what of the day to day?”   
 
  
“On any ordinary day nothing is certain; however, if you know the signs
sometimes you can sense their coming and even avoid them completely.”  The cool
sourness flooding her mouth and throat began to breathe life into her in a way
that she didn’t know she needed until it was re-awakened.     
 
“How so?” he asked, seeming genuinely curious.        
 
“The trick of it is to divert him to something that makes him feel strong and
brave like a story knight or a kindly-meant lie dressed up as praise.  And just
like that,” she flourished with a snap of her fingers.  She felt oddly proud at
sharing this.  “He smiles again, squares his shoulders, and moves forward.  It
works far more often than not, like magic words…”  Just looking back upon his
stillness and the feeling melted like a snowflake.  “I’m sorry, that must sound
rather ridiculous.”        
 
“Not in the least.  Even a little nudge of the rudder turns a large galley into
a wide arc, no matter how the wind is blowing.”  Elder Brother pulled another
chair over and sat beside her.  “My lady, I beg your pardon.  I think I can
guess, but I must ask.  What was it this time that upset him?  It was worse
than the High Road.”
 
She made the remains of the wine dance and swirl in the bottom of the cup.  The
last thing she wanted was to seem like she had abused his hospitality with
indecency nor create enmity between Sandor and his newfound brother.  That was
hardly the important matter at hand, but he was a man of the Gods.  “Sandor
Clegane,” and she said formally using her lady-voice to lend the telling more
propriety than it had, “needed to confess to me that he was with my sister for
a time until he was wounded and then by his harshness, he lost her.  She was
alive at least some months ago, but it gave me hope she may be alive still.  He
thought I would curse him, but there was nothing to forgive and everything to
thank him for.”  She did not wish to lie exactly, so she measured her words
carefully.  She didn’t think Sweetrobin had seen their kissing.  It was dark
and he was far enough down the path where he was stricken.  “I insisted the
glamor be removed in my presence.  He saved my sister from the Twins.  I esteem
him so much that he need not hide his face from me like a criminal.”  
 
As the words came out an already broken heart was torn anew.  Now that she
thought about it, she hadn’t seen Sandor since Robert was placed on the bed.  
As much as I want to run to him, what if Robert is dying right now and leaves
this world without his family beside him?  At the same time I feel as though I
am a neglectful, false friend while I impotently sit here, just watching and
humming, watching and humming…   “With unburdened soul, he bid me goodnight and
then he left down the path where he came across Lord Robert.”  The boy’s
screams began when lantern light illuminated what the Mountain had wrought -
-  what’s merely skin to me now and everything that’s safe, honest, and like
home .  There was a heaviness on her chest and she felt another trail of hot
tears down her face.  “Why was my lord so far from his chambers and alone?  I
thought you said you were with him.”   
 
“I was, my lady,” he said as his shoulders sank.  “Lord Robert was already in
bed.  He even took over reading the book aloud when I wasn’t doing the voices
as you do.  Then we talked for a while about mostly you and knights.  How he’s
been ill since he could remember.  And a little of his mother too.  I had left
briefly to fetch some herbs I wanted for an infusion to give him.”  His face
looked bitterly pinched as he ran a hand over his gray-stubbled scalp.    
 
“Do not reproach yourself,” she said as she touched his shoulder.  “He came
looking for me, I know.  He has not been far from me since his mother was
murdered.  Many times he would sleep next to me and this is a strange place to
him, no matter how kind and welcoming.”  She turned to gaze upon her cousin.
 His eyes didn’t even move under their lids while he slept.  “I failed to
consider preparing my lord for the eventual meeting with the true Sandor
Clegane.”  Her fingers delicately brushed a curl off his brow.  If he slipped
away now, somehow it would seem wrong to cut his hair.  “It pains me to speak
of him so, but Lord Robert at times has fears that are somewhat overblown and
ill-founded.  One of which is an aversion to men with markings.  It could even
be as insignificant as Lord Nestor’s mole, but I don’t believe he has ever
known such severe burn scars... ”  The hypocrisy of a few years ago was not
lost on her, but she reached a point of piercing through sadness into numbness.
 She thought she heard Lord Reed mutter something to himself, but she could not
discern it nor did it rouse her curiosity.  She turned back to Elder Brother,
her eyes imploring him, for what, she didn’t know.  “I think Lady Lysa perhaps
loved him too much as one loves an infant and kept him as such.  She did not
think of the man and lord he might become.”
 
“Something you were trying to set right, my lady.  I do believe you were
winning that battle.”  He smiled sadly.  “I must ask you more about his care
now.  Anything you can recall might help.  The infusion I was making was
designed to purge foul substances from the body, though I doubt it’s been used
for this in particular.  The ministration of sweetsleep to a child troubles me
greatly.  Moreso that it was at the behest of Littlefinger.  It has properties
that quell convulsions true enough, but its potency and accumulation make it
problematic.”  He then gave her a look that bored into her that made her feel a
little off balance.  “When was the last time you remember he was given the
sweetsleep?”    
 
     “It was right before the start of the tourney feast.  He could not have a
fit in front of his bannermen and heir.  They believe the Stranger is on his
heels already, but if they saw him as feeble, not just ill, they would never
respect their liege lord.”     
 
“And the time before that?”  His face was unreadable and that made it more
disconcerting.  A chill came over her that she had been blind to something
crucial.      
She had to pause to think for a moment.  “It was on the day we had to descend
from the Eyrie.  The paths are narrow at times with nothing below but sheared
cliffs.  One could easily be overcome by dizziness and fall, even without a
shaking sickness.  The maester counselled against using the sweetmilk as he had
it only a few days prior and that it can linger in the body.  He suggested a
draught to make him sleep and strap him to a mule like a sack of corn, but that
was unacceptable for the same reasons as the tourney.”  She thought of her
father putting on his lord’s face as she had looked upon him with such pride
from the gallery when he was Hand of the King and dispensing justice.  Then he
was brought so low, stones thrown at him from the crowd before he had died on
his knees.  Perhaps it was babbling driven by her frayed nerves, but she felt
compelled.  “He is a high lord of an ancient Andal house and cannot be robbed
of his dignity and the immediate danger was too great.” she sniffed back a
fresh swell of tears.  She then suddenly recalled another detail of that day.
 “There was something else… Maester Colemon asked me if his lordship ever had a
bloody nose.  He did not, so the maester agreed to give him a small pinch for
the ride down, but that was to be the last for half a year.”
 
“It was just shy of a half a year then.”  He stroked his thick beard and his
broad brow was deeply furrowed.  “A pinch you say?  A pinch and he could ride
down from the Eyrie clear-eyed and sitting straight in the saddle?  Are you
absolutely certain, my lady?”        
 
She was almost afraid to answer.  “I am certain it has been a pinch every
time.”  Elder Brother looked horrifyingly appalled then his mouth tightened
into a thin, flat line.  Abruptly he rose from the chair and paced the room,
his mind swirling like an autumn tempest behind his eyes.  “He had to know that
amount was wrong…”  He was speaking to no one in particular.  “If he didn’t
know, he’s got as much business wearing a chain as a sheep...  it could have,
should have, but didn’t kill him…  the seven hells claim that craven gray rat
and his master!”  
 
“What’s this now, septon?”  Howland jutted in.  She had almost forgotten he was
there.  “Is is it poisoning, slow and secret?”  
 
Oh, Gods!  She had pressed the maester to give it to him once, but he never
said it could be lethal! Her mouth must have been hanging open like a
drawbridge.  Yet... murder did not make any sense at all.  “That cannot be.
 What good would having Robert dead do Lord Petyr?  His guardianship of his
stepson is his entire claim for legitimacy over the Vale lords.  Harry was in
his majority and had no need of a Lord Protector as well as having no liking or
trust for Petyr either.  He needed Lord Robert alive and fairing well to his
bannermen, so none could challenge him on their high lord’s welfare.”  At the
very least until I had been wed to Harry, swayed him away from Yohn Royce and
produced an heir to both the Eyrie and Winterfell.  Then what use would Harry
have either?  Lyn Corbray told it true about what Littlefinger really wants.
 In time, he would have married me and claimed all that came with it.
                  
 
“You have the right of it, my lady.  It’s not murder,” said Elder Brother
gravely.  “It’s reckless and cruel and has been going on for much of Robert’s
life, I think.”  
 
The tension made her feel as if her skin would split apart at any moment like
an overcooked sausage.  “Speak plainly then, ser!  What’s wrong with him?”  
 
“Think on this, my lord, my lady…”  He held up a thick, calloused finger,
commanding their close attention.  “For a grown man, a few grains of the stuff
will calm the body, make him feel at ease, confident, and strong.  Give that
same man a pinch and he will fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.  Much more than
that and that man will never awaken.  Yet Lord Robert, barely a quarter of that
size, can tolerate an amount that would land a grown man out like a candle.  I
saw him the night of the tourney feast.  He was as bright-eyed and alert as a
hare -- as you said, appearing to be fairing well.”  
 
Now she was thoroughly confused.  “I’m afraid I am not following, ser.  How is
that possible?”
 
“A drunkard cannot reach his stupor with the same amount of wine as he did as a
greenboy.  The body grows accustomed and requires more and more.  Thus, a pinch
for the young lordship is the same as a few grains for an average man; however,
the treatment is one and the same with the cause.  Without it, the body acutely
feels its’ absence and may protest with violence and sickness.  If Maester
Colemon wasn’t administering it before it was suggested to him, it was given to
him by someone else close to him.”
 
The awful understanding was like the plunge and jerk of the condemned at the
taut end of a noose.  “Lady Lysa.”  Her hand covered her mouth as she looked
back at her poor cousin as he lay there so still and fragile.  Nothing that
touched her babe would have escaped her notice.  Gods, she was mad but to do
this!  There was no one closer to the boy than her aunt who was known to feed
him herself.  She had heard the servants speak once about Lady Lysa taking him
to her breast when he was well past old enough to be weaned.  He had even tried
to nuzzle against her own when he took to climbing into her bed.  “Can it… can
it be passed from mother to child?  Through her own milk?” she asked and he
silently nodded.  She must have been at the stuff herself to calm her many
fears.  Fear of the Lannisters, fear of knives in the dark, fear of Sansa
taking her husband away.  “They knew.  Both of them.  The maester mentioned the
use of breast milk as physic, but he was chided for suggesting a wet nurse.
 Petyr knew immediately to suggest the sweetsleep.  The maester would place it
in cups of milk where perhaps its taste would be familiar and comforting.  I do
not know if Lady Lysa understood what she was doing, but she was mad and raving
toward the end.  Lord Robert once swore he heard the singing of a prisoner in
the sky cells days after the man had jumped to his death.”  It might be kinder
if the Gods took him now if that were the case.  From the corner of her eye,
she noticed Howland Reed leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across
his chest, ever silent but his mind was chewing away at some thought by the way
his jaw moved.     
 
“I swear to you if his lordship makes it through this. I will do everything I
can to purge this from his body, so he will not suffer like his mother.  My
lady, you really ought to rest now in your own bed.  I promise I will send for
you if anything changes.”
 
Sansa took up the lantern that was left on the table.  No, she did not require
an escort.  Yes, she knew the path back to her cottage.  A little quiet and
solitude was a welcome thing.  Whatever happened now, Sweetrobin was in the
hands of Elder Brother and the Gods.  As she walked, the light from her lantern
reflected on the leaded glass of a building she passed, making the colors dance
beautifully.  As she held the light higher, she saw the carvings of the Mother
and Father on either side of the wooden doors.  The unrefined angles of their
faces and folds of their robes may have been shaped by simple artists, but the
polished driftwood had a warm, golden beauty.  She had not felt close to her
mother’s Gods since she prayed in the sept before the battle of the Blackwater.
 The door gave way so easily, she felt it would somehow be wrong to not enter.
 
There were still a few candles that had not yet finished burning themselves out
on each of the seven altars.  Sansa had no candle of her own to light, but she
knelt at the altar of the Mother and prayed that She keep Sweetrobin close to
Her.  She prayed for Myranda, Mya, and Ser Lothor, that they were all safe.
 She then went before the Smith and asked Him to aid Elder Brother in his work,
to give him the tools he needed to save the boy.  To the Crone, she prayed for
guidance in the days ahead.  She had a few friends, but they were still not
free of danger.  She would need wisdom to choose the right path and whom to
place her trust in.  
 
At last, her skirts spread out around her before the Father.  These prayers may
go unheard if she did not unburden her own soul of sin.  She stared up into the
Father’s flat, wooden gaze, lit from below by the lantern beside her.  “No
candles and no septon to hear a proper confession.  I make a poor supplicant, I
know.  Father, judge me justly so that my prayers might be worthy of notice.”
 She choked on a fresh wave of burning tears.  “My lies are many.  I do not
speak of the ones that shielded me from abuse.  For those I’m not sorry.  I
speak of the ones that muddied and blurred the lines between my own safety and
serving an evil man.  I should have beseeched Lord Royce for help when I had
the chance.  I should have told someone how Lady Lysa really died, but I was
scared.  No matter what Marillion did, it was no true justice that he took the
blame and Petyr slipped by unscathed.  I told myself I was being kind to my
cousin to withhold the truth, but what kindness was there in keeping him under
the shadows of monsters and cowards that sought to use him?  In his innocence,
he placed all his trust in me, but I always stopped short of risking myself.
 The only safety that was guaranteed was Petyr’s.  He needed someone to speak
for him and champion his interests alone -- someone with more than a paper
sword and shield of good intentions.”  She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her
sleeve.  She thought she should take no chances and be thorough as possible in
her confession.  “I could have been a better sister to Arya and obeyed my
father.  I’ve had unchaste thoughts about a man who is not my husband and
engaged in indecent behavior.  I killed a man and robbed his corpse --”
 
A low whistle and a clucking of disapproval came from behind her.  Horrified,
she whipped around to find Sandor with his arms lazily draped over the back of
a pew a few rows behind her.  He must have been lying down when she came in
else she would have seen him.  Even now in the low light he was little more
than a darkened shape of muted colors.  “You should have made yourself known!”
was all she could think to blurt out.  
 
“Your prayers were silent until you got to the Father.  There would have been
nothing to intrude upon had you decided to keep it all in your head.”
 
“A poor reasoning.   Are you drunk? ”
 
“No… the Gods know I wanted to be.  I wanted to get wrecked more than anything,
but I forced myself here instead.  Besides, the stores of wine and ale are kept
chained and locked.  There’s quite a few here with the same want to drown
ourselves.”  
 
At that, her fists unbunched and she sheepishly crept up to sit beside him on
the bench, hands folded delicately in her lap.  “That was unkind of me to ask.
 It was not your fault what happened.  His mind has been addled by a foul
substance disguised as medicine.  Elder Brother says it causes the same fits
it’s supposed to stop.”
 
“Little Bird, you think I am unaccustomed to children being frightened of me?
 This is no illusion,” he said as he pointed to his face.  “I do not have to
understand his words before he fell to know I am the stuff of his nightmares.”
 
 
She sighed as his words twisted in her gut.  “I can’t say I understood either.
 I should have explained things to him sooner.  He didn’t know your real face,
but he knows you unhorsed Ser Harrold and made him feel like there was some
fairness in the world.  The next day he asked me if Ser Byron would be in the
melee and said that he would make you his master-at-arms.  He wanted you to
teach him to fight.  I had never heard him speak so before.  If… when he
awakens… all will be well, I promise.”  He was looking off toward the Smith
perhaps or at nothing in particular.  “You are accustomed to children being
unafraid  of you as well.  Tommen and Myrcella had known you all their lives.
 I remember your fondness for them.”
 
“The only good that ever came out of the Queen’s --”
 
“Yes, I suppose so,” she interrupted.  He chuckled softly as he nudged her arm.
 How Elder Brother managed to not muzzle him at times, she hadn’t the
slightest.    
 
“Whatever you think of yourself, you are a good mother to the boy, you know.”
 This time it was her turn to gaze up at the rafters and the point where the
seven sides of the ceiling met.  Aside from their conversation, it was eerily
quiet and still in the sept with just a ghost of incense in the air.  “Little
Bird, don’t let me rattle you by asking.  Nothing between us has changed.  What
happened to your aunt and why did this Marillion take the blame?”
 
She hadn’t even known her hands were fidgeting until the warmth of his covered
them.  “Marillion was this singer that accompanied Lady Lysa when she arrived
at the Fingers to wed Petyr that very day.  Late that night, he came to me in
my bed and tried to force me.  Ser Lothor held a knife to his throat and made
him leave me alone.  He never tried anything again, but he was Lysa’s creature
through and through.  
 
You see, the only reason my aunt even agreed to keep me around was because she
wanted to marry me to Robert, so he would have Winterfell and the Vale.  Then
one day, she saw Petyr grab me and kiss me, but she blamed me and thought I was
trying to take her husband away from her.  Marillion bolted the doors shut to
stop the guards from coming in.  Then he played and sang loudly to cover the
sounds of her mad raging while she tried to push me through the Moon Door.”
 Her body shivered of its own accord.  
 
“I came so close to falling, but Petyr stopped her and then he pushed her
instead.  When the guards finally came in, Petyr blamed the singer and bade me
to support the lie.  I should not care a thing for a man that tried to rape me,
but it felt wrong all the same, because Petyr was made himself Lord Protector
and guardian over Robert.  Marillion was even tortured into confessing, before
he was sent to the sky cells where he did eventually jump.  
 
Then he told me I must always be Alayne all the time or there will be more
blood on my hands if anyone found out the truth.  I was already accused of
Joffrey’s murder.  I felt trapped.  Then with time, it just became so easy to
be a bastard girl from Gulltown.  It was what Petyr wanted to hear and it kept
me safe from the Queen, but not from his lap or his kisses.  Though as long as
I could endure that, I had his trust and thus my freedom to carve out a little
life for myself.  That’s more than I had as a hostage in the Red Keep.”  
 
Sandor remained quiet for so long she feared he might be regretting his promise
that nothing had changed between them.  When he finally spoke, it almost
startled her.  “If you were ever forced, you don’t have to fear telling me.  I
would not think you ruined.  Even if you did what you had to…”    
 
She shook her head.  “ No .  No, I am still a maid.  He did need proof Lord
Tyrion never sealed our marriage, since he has failed to turn up dead and make
a widow of me.”  In the quiet stillness, she felt a delicate puff of air brush
against her hair, the release of the breath he was holding.           
 
A seemingly endless moment passed again.  One of the little flames on the
Father’s altar had completely devoured itself, and the dimming light made it
look as if the figure was receding from them.  “Shed no more tears for imagined
choices,” he rasped as a massive, muscled arm scooped her up against him and
instinctively her face pressed into the warmth of his tunic.  “There is no good
to come from this ceaseless acting as your own accuser and headsman, Sansa.
 There is no shame in being outmatched.  You say you got the smiling whoreson
to trust you?  Well, there’s a marvel, because Littlefinger trusts no one.  If
there was even a whiff that you would betray him, he’d shove you through the
Moon Door himself or mayhaps something worse.  There’s much worse ways to
ensure pretty girls like you are never to be seen again.  He’d still have the
boy under his thumb, this time alone and with no one looking after him.  There
will be time to tell Robert the truth as well, after Elder Brother says he has
the strength for it.”  
 
She could have nuzzled against him all night if he’d let her.  It felt good to
simply be childish and comforted, the burdens of living being lifted away, even
if only for so long as his arms were around her.  “Do all Starks sup on useless
guilt, I wonder?  Your sister gnawed straight down to the marrow of that bone
after the Twins.  Well, enough of that.  Your nose is as red as a sot and
you’re boring the Gods to death.”  His fingers interlaced with hers, so thick
they could splay hers wide apart.  “Lay the blame where it belongs and I’ll
gladly be the headsman.  I promise you, if I ever get the chance, I’ll cut the
smile from his face before I kill him.”
 
“You probably shouldn’t say such things in a sept,” she murmured against him.
 She hoped, for his sake, they never came anywhere close to Littlefinger again.
 She reminded herself it took all the talent of three brave men, the mixed
blessing of that avalanche, and a substantial amount of luck to get this far.
 There was no doubt about it; Petyr is relentless, bold, and cunning.  He has
resources everywhere.  As many eyes and ears as the Spider.  He would never
stop.
 
“What better place than before the Gods to make such a promise to you?  One
that is deeply felt and solemnly made…  so what’s this about killing a man and
robbing his corpse?”
 
“Oh…”  His question snapped her back around.  She unravelled the whole affair,
from beginning to end.  How Ser Lyn discovered her true identity and how he
said he would help her, but she didn’t believe him.  His endless need for coin.
 The plot to take her for the ransom, dead or alive.  The poison, the deceitful
lover, the predicament of the body, and the greater predicament of Ser Lyn.
 She looked up at him smiling, praising Ser Lothor for coming to her aid yet
again when she realized Sandor’s brows were knitted and his grey eyes were
searching her face.
 
“You threw yourself between us, begged me not to hurt him.  Was there a
fondness between you that was cut short?”  He was trying to sound casual in his
asking, but the worry was there.  
 
“A friendship, nothing more.  Truthfully, Mya Stone turned his head and I
encouraged her look his way.  Fortunately for me, he was more than a tad
grateful for it,” she reassured him.  The remains of the candles were just
keeping their flames above their little puddles of wax.  All that would be left
was their lantern light.
 
“Hmm, it’s no matter anyway.  The man has a cask of whatever he drinks coming
to him,” he said.     She knew better than to make light of that ration of
respect from Sandor Clegane to a knight, no less .   Ser Lothor looked after
her when he could not, a thought that must have both pained and consoled him.
 Ser Lothor mentioned once he was turned away when he sought out the Brunes of
Brownhollow after his father passed.  If it were ever in her power, she’d grant
him land and a home for him and Mya too, if she liked.  
 
Sansa could tell by the subtle, stormy movements of his grey eyes he was
curiously still brooding.  She supposed his thoughts never made room before for
other men winning her smiles and respect.  That was silly, though.  She never
once thought of Ser Lothor in that way.  Yet, she had to admit if it was some
kind, pretty girl… or shapely, grown woman, much more world-wise than herself,
that saved his life…   Well, I would still be grateful, but I am even moreso
that it was actually a brick wall of a man instead.   
 
Blotting buxom nursemaids out of her mind, the corners of her mouth then turned
up, feeling a yen for this mood to be lifted.  “The coins I nicked were for Ser
Byron’s services, but he proved more chivalrous than hired steel ought,” she
slyly mentioned.  “Honestly, in my mother’s day a lady could count on the
avarice of sellswords.  I can hear her now.  ‘Their dubious loyalties are as
certain as Winter,’” she intoned most imperiously.  “There’s no telling what a
man without a price could want in return.  It could be practically  anything .
 What she would say to Ser Byron, I wonder?”  His laughter erupted, rough and
velvety all at once.  Watching him transform like that had a satisfaction like
catching a snowflake on her tongue or signing a letter with perfect penmanship.
 What would her mother think of Sandor anyway?  Perhaps that was best not to
imagine.  
 
And the sept grew even darker.  Another blackened, curled-up wick sighing a
trail of of unfurling smoke up to the Father’s hidden face.  He rose from the
bench, grabbing up the lantern, and offering her the other hand.  “You had best
wonder what your lady mother would say about your  other  confession and your
disgraceful behavior as of late.”  Her mouth must have gaped as she stood,
because he laughed even harder.  Before she could respond, he had her by the
waist, one-armed and slung over his shoulder like a wildling carrying off
plunder.  She wriggled and pounded his back with balled fists, but they both
knew it was only pretense.  Oh, she would pay him back in turn soon enough.
 “What a lustful, black-hearted, thieving, murderous bitch you are, Little
Bird!  Come, it’s off to the Wall with you.”                  


          
***** Horses and Riders *****
Chapter Summary
     Approximately covering a period of two weeks on the Quiet Isle and
     what everyone has been doing since the end of chapter 6. Sansa and
     Sandor learn much more about each other AHEM. Howland Reed is getting
     very tired of being put off and draws the line with Sansa.
Chapter Notes
     First off, I'm so sorry this chapter is arriving so late. I admit I
     had a lot of trouble with it. Writer's block, issues with
     characterization, creating a bridge to the next arc in the story,
     horrible bout of the flu. I really felt terrible it took so long.
     Good news is it's DOUBLE the length of a chapter I usually do and a
     large chunk of it is Sansan goodness. Very special thanks to
     maidenoftheforestlight on tumblr for helping to resolve some major
     points of my characterization issues. We are basically on the same
     page when it comes to Sansan meta.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Since their second day on the Quiet Isle, Sansa sought to keep her hands
fluttering with work and one-step ahead of her mind.  She did mending work for
the brothers’ robes, often by her cousin’s sickbed.  There were nights she sat
by the little hearth fire in her cottage when she could not abide lying still
and alone in the dark.  She’d work until the heaviness in her eyelids was
impossible to resist and her hands felt many years her senior.   
 
Sandor burned most of his daylight hours building new fences for the pastures,
helping with repairs to a wagon and plow, and re-thatching the roofs of the
sleeping quarters.  Once she had caught a glimpse of him relieving a bent-back
greybeard of a heavy load of grain, keeping a step behind the old man’s
shambling.  By the time she would see him at evening meal, he brought with him
the appetite of three men.  
 
Lord Reed, on the other hand, was seldom seen during the day.  He’d often
return with small game in tow and said he’d been scouting on the mainland for
anyone tracking them.  He never used the ferry nor did anyone see him come or
go.  Occasionally Howland would try to speak to her in hushed tones and away
from the others.  He asked her strange questions about Lady and spoke of things
she didn’t understand.  Had she ever dreamed a dream of her wolf so real that
she could taste the blood of her prey or feel her paws scratching at the earth?
 He claimed to talk to trees and hear their answers in the wind rustling their
leaves.  This was a far cry more than the silent contemplation in the godswood
her father had taught her.  Truthfully, Lord Reed frightened her more than a
little sometimes and she’d delicately make her excuses or change the subject.  
 
One night at dinner, there was talk of where they would go next.  Both Sandor
and the Elder Brother felt that appealing to Yohn Royce at Runestone was their
best course of action.  Lord Reed insisted that they must take Sansa into the
Mountains of the Moon though there wasn’t much he could say beyond that.
 Sandor made plain what he thought of Howland’s tree spirits doling out advice,
but before another ruckus could disrupt the common hall Sansa told them all she
would hear none of this.  Not until Robert had recovered… or not.  Afterward
Sandor warned her that Howland Reed was mad no matter his loyalties to House
Stark and to not be swayed by that mystical horseshit.
                         
 
When she ran out of tears and holes to mend, an embroidered depiction each of
the Seven came to adorn the sept’s formerly plain altar cloth.  Elder Brother,
impressed with her exact hand, invited her to learn to sew up a wound the next
time it was called for.  It seemed a fine, practical idea until she was faced
with the amputation of two of a brother’s toes.  They had accidently been
crushed while trying to dress a millstone and the misshapen things looked like
bloody grapes.  The sight initially made her wobbly, but she steeled herself
before Elder Brother could see and send her away.  Before long, she discovered
a queer fascination with the process.  She even finished sewing the tiny flap
of skin over the wound under his supervision before he bound it up with honey,
herbs, and prayer.  As curiosity got the better of her, she’d pay visits to the
patient over the next few days just to watch the leeches plump up, drawing good
blood to the wound and carrying the bad away with them.  Ugly and purple though
it was, there was no foul odor or running pus.  The brother seemed to be
content to have a little respite as well.
 
The worst of Sweetrobin’s purging was five days of restless hell, whipping him
between extremes.  During that time his frail body had sweat like a wrung out
rag or shivered even under piles of furs and sometimes he vomited bile when his
stomach was well beyond emptied.  Still, the attendants that stayed by his side
had persistently plied spoonfuls of broth or the infusion down his throat, one
by one to keep his strength up.  Then on the sixth day he fully awoke and her
heart leapt up like a hare as she ran to him as soon as she deciphered the hand
gesture.  Her lord looked exhausted, but equally happy to see her and she
smothered his face in kisses as light as butterfly wings.  Sandor did come with
her to the Hermit’s Hole, but he waited just outside the open door.  Out of
sight, but within earshot.
 
To her dismay, Robert remembered much in vivid detail of the night he fell ill.
 There was indeed a demon of a man that many times had haunted his dreams if he
chanced to sleep without the maester’s oblivion.  It sounded terrifying the way
he described him.  White as milk but for one side of his face marred with
something like a blood stain and an empty socket where an eye should be.
 Relentlessly he would urge him to fly from the Moon Door into the blue.  
 
Sansa gently explained that it was only a nightmare likely brought on by his
condition and it wasn’t real no matter how frightening it was.  She knew he had
never known anyone who was burned before.  Very carefully she told him about
the glamour and that Sandor was still the same person here to help them.  The
scarring on half his face was the only coincidental similarity and that it was
a burn, not blood.  Robert eyed her skeptically and asked her how that could
happen to a person. Never had she uttered the secret to another soul before and
she was at a loss of what to say next.  Elder Brother seemed just as
dumbfounded.  After a long moment and very softly, she heard Sandor rasp from
outside the doorway.  “Tell him.”  So she did, sparing no details.  She didn’t
think it right to paint a prettier picture than it was.  The boy sank back on
his pillows deep in thought.  
 
“Someone should have done something,” he finally said, mouth drawn tight.  
 
“I would have done something, cousin.  I am the Arryn.  It would have been the
sky cells for his brother,” he insisted.  “But that wouldn’t change what
happened to Sandor,” he added sadly.  
 
“No, Ser Sweetrobin the Just,” she said, kissing his forehead.  “Though I think
it would have changed some things for the better after that.”                 
 
Half a moon’s turn had passed and there was no delaying it anymore.  In
preparation Sansa had fashioned a simple dress with a wider, circular hem than
she usually wore.  She would be glad of the extra fabric to drape over her legs
while she sat astride the red courser, Ser Byron’s young gelding.  Elder
Brother had kindly granted her access to some of the flotsam bolts of fabric
that found their way to the Quiet Isle.  Enticing as the silks were, she
required a more practical attire of cotton and wool.  It was a dark shade of
blue like deep water with the lacings in front so she could easily dress
herself.  A lighter blue cotton shift tied near her throat and a matching shawl
to cover her pinned-up hair for the modesty of the isle.
 
When Sandor first took her to the stables it pleased her to discover Stranger,
who the brothers unsurprisingly  tried  to rename Driftwood, had survived here
with his master.  He would take their lessons as an opportunity to exercise the
handsome, but ill-tempered destrier by using him for demonstration.  Sandor led
their mounts out to a nearby clearing of grass where some sheep and goats were
lazily grazing.  “I’ll hear no complaining.  You’re going to need to learn
quickly,” he told her sternly.  “If you get thrown, you’ll have no pity from me
if you didn’t listen.”  She nodded solemnly, not wanting to test him on that.  
 
She would have preferred to have an agreeable, old palfrey for practice but the
warhorse had an obedient, well-mannered enough temperament that would have to
do.  She felt acutely aware of how small she was next to him and he wasn’t even
as tall as Stranger.  Her little sister, who would seem like a flea hopping on
his back, wouldn’t have a lump in her throat or a twisted tummy as she did.
 The first time mounting the beast had her uneasy of sitting with her legs
apart and she felt the prickly heat over her face while Sandor adjusted her
feet in the stirrups.  He said nothing more than to keep her heels down, but
his mouth twitched slightly as she could feel his fingers on her ankle bones
even through the boot leather.
 
Posture and poise had never been troublesome for her when learning her dancing
and courtly graces, but this was so very different.  She did have some trouble
remembering to keep her heels down -- something Sandor reminded her of seven or
eight times more.  
 
“Click your tongue and press only your lower legs into his sides,” he said.
 “When you need him to stop, press your seat deeper into the saddle.  Rely more
on your body to command him, less on pulling the reins.”  
 
No Name Horse, what she called him in her head, was indeed obedient but it was
even harder for him to understand her commands when she felt unsteady and every
movement unnatural.     
 
This was no bailey pony ride and they stayed at it all morning.  Whatever he
wanted her to do, Sandor demonstrated first on Stranger then patiently watched
and waited for her to mirror it.  Muscles all over her body were growing sore
with unaccustomed use just mastering the basics.  Sometimes No Name Horse got
the impression he should trot faster than she preferred and he paid no mind to
her fumbling halt commands.
 
 “Here, girl,” Sandor called to her.  “Bring one rein out to the side and his
head will follow ‘round to meet you.  He can’t buck or bolt then.  If he tries
to move forward, it will only be in a circle.”  
Absurdly, she felt a flush of mortification as the sheep heads bobbed up to
watch her utter foolery, still chewing their cud, nosey as washerwomen.  If she
could bare her teeth at them like a real wolf and not look even more stupid,
she would have.  Instead, she grumbled to herself “I shall eat your mutton with
relish and the rest can stand there naked while I knit socks.”         
 
 Her heart was hammering, the sweat matted her hair to her brow, and she felt
like a giant fool half the time; however, she did not dare whine or show
weariness.  After a few hours of practice, she gradually worked up to a
tentative confidence with trotting, to put it one way, and No Name Horse and
herself had reached a certain understanding.  Sandor finally took a minute
amount of pity on her sorry self, or perhaps it was pity on the horses, and
told her they could take a leisurely ride across the island.   Oh Gods be good.
 
Although she didn’t initially take more riding as a reward, the views of the
Quiet Isle by daylight were delightful little sketches.  Grey-brown, pointed
hoods and bell sleeves worked the gardens piling carrots and onions into big
woven baskets, sprays of green draped over the sides.  Great stalks of corn
swayed and rustled in the cool wind, while brothers moved between the rows,
plucking up the gold and green ears.  Down by the shore, crab traps were being
hauled in on ropes and the air filled her nose and mouth with a briny tang.
 Passing a lush and wildly overgrown berry bush, she grabbed a small cluster of
sweet, dark fruit and popped them in her mouth.  She could almost taste the
sunshine in the bursts of juice.   
 
When the paths narrowed to little winding trail near an isolated shoreline,
Sandor rode ahead of her and No Name Horse seemed content just to follow
Stranger without too much effort on her part.  Eventually, they reached a
gently sloped, half moon-shaped grassy area where the green tapered down to
meet the silt and rocks on the shore.  The trees were thick behind them, the
distant shores of the Vale to the north and Crackclaw Point to the south, and
nothing straight out but miles of waves and sky where the bay lead to the
Narrow Sea.  A thin, stoney freshwater stream was just nearby that Sandor said
was fed by the same springs that supplied the bathhouse well.  After helping
her down, they left them tied near the stream to finish cooling down and to
drink their fill.  
 
In truth, these private moments between them were rare.  The isle was always
bustling about its labors and they must keep a respectful semblance of
propriety.  Nonetheless, there were glances, sly smiles, secret japes, and
occasional stolen kisses with herself playing the thief.  He never took what
wasn’t clearly offered… which was becoming a little vexing at times.  She was
mad to be properly embraced just how she remembered it and how she imagined it
would be again.  On the green slope under a tree with a crooked trunk, he laid
out one of his cloaks while she waited.  Her hands clasped primly in front of
her as she gave herself over to a little girlish swaying while his back was
turned.  He sat propped against the tree and his long legs seeming to stretch
out endlessly before him.  Joining him there on the cloak, she couldn’t fully
stifle the groan of soreness as she sat next to him and tucked her legs to the
side.  “That’s to be expected,” he said.  “You did well… enough.”   She
wrinkled her nose at that as he chuckled.
 
“I doubt shall ever meet my sister’s talent with animals.  In truth, I never
found the pursuit that appealing.”
 
“You gave nothing away.  I’m stricken with disbelief.”    
 
“Did I ever tell you Mya offered to teach me before everything happened?  I
don’t think she had the faintest idea what she would be getting into.”  She
supposed Mya would be far more of a taskmaster.  A bashful look over her
shoulder would find no purchase there. “Her stores of patience would have been
beggared, poor girl.”  
 
She smiled to herself, but she missed the company of women many times.  What
she wouldn’t give to confide in the older, savvier girls.  As the days passed,
their time together was both effortless and a tumult of nervous exhilaration.
 It was the same for him too, wasn’t it?   It was like that urge to swim as far
from shore as she dared, but still frightened by not seeing the bottom under
her or being unable to touch it with her toes.    
 
“Patience doesn’t come natural to me either.” he said, folding an arm behind
his head.
 
“No, but you learned to be a little more than you were.”  She smiled sweetly at
him, but the corners of his mouth only matched hers by half.  
 
“And what do you need to learn, Little Bird?” he asked.
 
The question rang a little peculiar like it was some kind of trick.  “When we
leave here, I must be able to ride on my own, so as not to slow us down.”  That
was not the answer he was seeking by his unchanged expression.    
 
Her attention was drawn to a spindly, white heron making its way between the
reeds, its beak striking like a two-pronged spear into the water and deftly
maneuvering a fish down its serpentine throat.  It turned its head to look back
at her, its eye a yellow bead.  Its legs reminded her of the way Moon Boy
sometimes went about on stilts at court and wasn’t there roasted heron served
at Joffrey’s wedding?  That was a shame, because the bird before her was a
graceful thing, a white-plumed tail tapering as delicate as a brush stroke.  As
she stared back into the bead, the heron hopped up on a large rock a mere few
feet away and splayed its wings out wide to her delight.  The sunlight shined
through the feathers like milk glass as it preened.  
 
“It enjoys the admiration,” she mused as she took off the shawl covering her
head.  She could feel his knuckles lazily tracing her spine and there was that
familiar pull to bend for him like a bowstring, her eyes closing as she savored
it.
 
“Vain little creature,” he rumbled low.  
 
When she opened her eyes again, the heron was already silently gliding away
over the surface of the water, barely pulsing its wings to ride the current of
air.  Tumbling near her through the grass and nudged along by the breeze was
one of its feathers.  Not the bladed wing kind, but a thin, wispy one from its
breast.  Sansa reached over to grab it before it passed her by and twirled it
between her fingers.  So soft and airy it was, a sensation barely registered as
she brushed it against her cheek and jaw.  Could anything be more perfect than
this?  She smiled and lowered her lips upon his.  A tiny, fresh knick on his
chin bespoke of shaving this morning and he tasted faintly of copper and soap.
 Yielding and supple as his mouth was, his hands had not yet moved to clutch
her to him, causing her to stop and sigh.  
 
“You haven’t answered me yet, girl,” he said.
 
She didn’t think she’d have to work for  everything  today.  Her thighs
squirmed together as she readjusted herself to face him.  “I think I must not
have understood your question.”    
 
“That courser,” he began, “still had its tack on when some brothers found it
wandering outside the Saltpans.  His old master no doubt is keeping company
with worms somewhere,” he added, a tad amused with his own gallows humor.
 “He’s solid, only a few hands shy of Stranger and worth some gold, but not so
fancy he’d not be fitting a sellsword master and drawing unwanted questions.”
 
She nodded sagely as she looked back through the treeline at their mounts,
trying to adopt his appreciation for them as her own.  Stranger did draw the
eye with his glossy black hide over a muscular, imposing frame.  A stallion
like that could sire many desirable foals that would fetch a handsome price.
 That was plain enough.  No Name Horse was nothing to sniff at either.    
 
“He won’t balk at a lance charging straight at him…”  Sandor continued, but a
dark cloud descended over his countenance that reminded her of the time he
first told her of his scars.  “He’ll also not flee from shouting or chaos...
scent of blood or loosened shit.  He can break an infantry line or break a
skull like an overripe melon... only the juice isn’t as sweet.”  He must have
seen the way she swallowed hard because he snickered.  “Not to your liking?”
 
“Why are you trying to scare me from a horse to which you’ve entrusted my
person?” she asked.  It was working if that was his intent and just when some
of her intimidation was waning.  They had so little time alone, why was he
spoiling it?
 
“He’ll do as you bid him, Little Bird.  Believe that.  He’s become accustomed
to your handling.  You can move him easily now...”  His grim smile faded into a
stony expression.  “Still, it’s best for you to stay wary all the same.  That
one’s knows more of unleashing hell than eating apples from your hand, no
matter how he may like the taste of it.”  
 
She didn’t know what to say to that.  A long silence followed and suddenly she
felt chilled as the wind whipped up across the water.  
“What are you calling him anyway?” he asked to fill the space while he seemed
to be looking past her or through her.  She couldn’t tell.
 
“Oh, I hadn’t thought I’d be the one to name him.  I’ve just been thinking of
him as No Name Horse, but I suppose that won’t do to say out loud,” she said,
tittering nervously.    
 
He snorted, taking her aback.  “I think he’s earned a consolation more
befitting of his pride now that he’s been demoted to carrying your delicate
arse around.”
 
He didn’t even feign good-natured teasing.  All color in the scene drained away
leaving nothing but chalk and coal outlines.  She should have known that mean
dog would come around barking at some point and of course it would be to ruin
everything.  
 
“Well, this is some well-trodden ground I’d thought we’d left behind!” she
spat.  She had enough of his pointless mocking and confounding her with
whatever ghastly thing he was going on about.  Sansa scrambled to her feet,
powering through the miserable soreness.  She threw the now crumpled feather at
his feet.  She had a mind to just leave him, but not before paying him in kind,
not before cutting him as deep if not deeper.  
 
“I shall think of something grand for him indeed!  He’s the only beast around
here with the stones to let me ride him -- and he’s a  gelding  at that too!”
she flared and took off striding back up the narrow path with a bunching of
skirts clenched in her fist.
 
As soon as her back was turned a hand flew to her mouth and her eyes went wide
as eggs.  The words had rushed forth faster than her helpless brains could
corral them back.   By the Seven, she hadn’t meant to sound like such a
dreadful winesink slattern.  Coy intimations were one thing, but thatwas just
explicit and vulgar.  She just wanted to sting him back, didn’t she?  Do not
cry.  It will only make it worse.  Crying is the weapon of little girls.
       
 
Of course, she could only get so far though before she felt those arms
enclosing her.  
 
“Sansa… Sansa, stop!” he said, gently whirling her around.  When the horse
bolts, turn his head toward you was what he told her.  The body can only follow
the head.  Instantly, his knees met the dirt with his hands gripping her upper
arms.  No!  If she really looked him right now she would turn as soft as
pudding and all she wanted was to be strong and angry.  He had been terrible
and did not deserve an inch of ground.   Do.  Not.  Cry .  Sansa shook his
hands off and punctuated her rage with a shove against his chest, as little as
that would actually move him.  Still, she didn’t run again and just hugged her
arms around herself while his fell limp at his sides.     
 
He looked as if he expected as much.  
 
“You have the right of running from me, but -- fuck it all -- I care not to see
that happen again.  Damn me, for making you feel you must.”  Through a thin,
black veil of his hair his eyes gazed up at her with something that would seem
like a warning to keep away if you only knew him as the Hound.  The same storms
within them covered an array of meaning.  “I have not the talent for pretty
words like you and saying everything I mean just so.”  
 
Pretty words, he says!    “Can we just forget this ever happened and just go
back now?” she asked wearily.  She could only bare to look at him from the
corner of her eye.  
 
“No, we cannot,” he said rising to his feet and closing more of the space
between them.  The top of her head barely met his shoulder and she was forced
to look up if she didn’t want to be speaking to his jerkin.  “I’ve always bid
you to speak plainly with me, have I not?  I owe you much the same.”  Very
carefully, she felt his fingers on her wrists, coaxing her to uncross her arms.
 “I know what you want, Little Bird.  Bloody hells, I think of little else than
being the one to give it to you.”  His voice was so thick she sucked in her
breath and bit down on her lip.  “I’m not such a fool that I would turn down
whatever you would offer me, but it torments me the same. You’re too fresh and
unspoiled.  What do I know of that?  Before you, there were only whores, by
trade or not.  And occasionally even one of the Queen’s  ladies  with a taste
for bad men that found the courage to meet the Hound in a dark corner.  It’s
never been pretty or nice.  I’ve never forced any of them, but I repaid the
latter by making sure she’d regret seeking me out.  They got what they came for
and more than they could handle.”  
 
It was the opposite of his intentions, of course, but that picture was a queer
kindling aglow inside her.  She could almost feel herself concealed in a nearby
corridor, watching with wide-eyed fascination the way he would move, rutting
like a beast.  Was that what it was called?   A taste for bad men?   She felt
as if she should say something, not even sure what, but as soon as her lips
parted he was holding her intently by her arms again.  
 
“You’ve only just come into your womanhood and one day you’ll be back somewhere
far above my reach.”   With a husband she ought to have .  He didn’t need to
say it aloud.  “You’ll not thank me later anymore than the others did.  I’ll
not be your regret, do you understand me?”
 
Bitterly .   I am very practiced at listening and nodding at what I’m told.   
 
“And when do I get to decide what is best for me?” she asked after careful
consideration.  “Or when can I finally give voice to my wishes and not have
them overruled?  You call me woman, so let me be one.  I would make a choice
and live with whatever comes the same as anyone else.”  When he looked about to
protest, she reached up and held his jaw with her thumb pressed over his lips.
 Funny how her little hand seemed to pillory him where he stood.  
 
“I mislike this pristine tower you are placing me in, Sandor Clegane.  I tell
you, it feels as confining as any other cage.  Did you like me better when I
was a scared and naive?  No, I don’t believe that.  You took every moment you
could to tear the veil from my eyes, but you liked the idea of an innocent maid
to save, did you not?  That does not make me less  flesh  and blood.”  The
emphasis was chased by the breath from his nostrils warming the back of her
hand.  
 
“You told me yourself you would never consider me ruined, that nothing would
change between us, yet we must have a care for the tender pride of my presumed
betrothed, whomever  that  may be?  The idea you could spoil me offends me.
 Trust me to know my own mind on this and refuse me only if you don’t want me.”
 
 
Finally, she released her hold on him.  “Perhaps it is you that has been given
what you want and you find it more than you can handle,” she said, jutting her
chin up.
 
She started to slip past him and go reclaim her shawl, when his arms seized her
around her upper thighs, lifting her so fast that she threw her arms around his
neck for balance.  There was a dull throbbing in her tender muscles somewhere
in the outskirts of sensation.  When he had her hitched up almost nose to nose
like this, somehow the pain melted and pooled into something different.  
 
“Have it your way then,  woman ,” he said gruffly.  “Just so there’s no
mistaking let me put a fine point on it… I’ll not simply slink away when you’re
ready to play lady of the castle.  You choose this, it’s ‘til one of us is in
the ground or nothing at all.  Save your spit for the rest of the world when it
scorns you.  If you don’t have the stones for that, then you don’t have ‘em for
this,” he said giving her a sharp thrust of his hips.  And there  it  was
undeniably, even with layers of skirts and thick breeches between them.  In
spite of herself, she squeaked and shuddered against him.
 
Maybe it wasn’t gallant of him to hem her in so when she had barely swam out
from the shallows.  She supposed she had courted this response with her
brashness.  All things considered, “‘til one of us is in the ground” did not
sound as bad as it should.  They had both nearly died, the future was
uncertain, Winterfell was a ruin, she couldn’t stomach another betrothal
anyway, and they got on so well most of the time, didn’t they?  Beside that…
 no one could uproot him from her heart now.  Not without tearing down the
whole garden.  Of that she was certain.  
 
“Yes…” she panted and nodded furiously. “Yes, I’ll have no other.”  
 
The iron links of whatever chain restrained him before yawned open and finally
gave way.  His chest heaved like blown horse under her as the force of his
mouth crashed against hers.  He was all tongue and teeth and faint scrape of
stubble.  She was all warm honey drizzling off the comb.  It was so much
better, more vibrant and humming, than she ever remembered.  Mayhaps the
absence and longing made for a thicker, sweeter syrup.  Then he set upon her
throat like it was slow-roasted meat off a bone, making his way up to the
morsel of her earlobe while she fisted his hair and clawed at his shoulder.  A
low, rumbling approval against her skin was all his answer to all the
breathless, mewling half-words that came tumbling from her mouth.    
 
In a few strides he had cleared the distance back to the tree where the cloak
lay.  After gently lowering her down to recline on her forearms, he sat back on
his shins looming above her.  Her lips felt swollen and kiss-bruised, her lids
heavy like she had disgraced herself with too much drink.  
 
“Your dress… open it,” he bade her as he hastily worked at the fastenings on
his jerkin, feasting his eyes on her all the while.  
 
Her hands felt clumsy and oddly like they were someone else’s as they pulled
the bows loose.  First her bodice then fumbling down her corset before the
maddening criss-crossing devils were too much.  His jerkin shrugged off, he
gave her some assistance by splaying the halves of her corset loosely apart
while she managed the ties of her shift.  The cool wind off the water lapped
against the slash of pale goose-prickled flesh revealed from her throat to
juncture of her ribs.  Those Six Maids in a Pool were certainly onto something.
 It was wildly tempting to just strip it all away and let warm sunshine and
blue sky, green grass below and warrior above all make love to her at once.
    
 
Her eyes greedily swept over the way the tunic hung off his shoulders,
something he must have noticed because he was letting her have her fill instead
of immediately pouncing on her.  She sat upright and let her hands drift under
his tunic, blindly feeling every hardened plane and ripple covered in a thick
coarseness of hair.  What she wasn’t blind to was the way his manhood buffeted
against the front of his breeches.  He hissed as he sucked in a breath under
her touch while she was so brazenly marveling at the way it pulsed and
protested against its confinement.   I hardly recognize myself in this fevered
dream.  
 
I’m practically slavering like a dog .  Reaching over his shoulders Sandor
grabbed his tunic and pulled it over his head, discarding it like a nuisance.  
Gods, if she ever extolled the beauty of Loras Tyrell, then her imagination was
as bland as oat porridge!   Nakedness had done nothing to diminish his massive
size.  In truth, she was in full slack-jawed wonderment at the lean hardness of
his belly, his broad ox-like build, and the way veins coursed through the
sculpt of his arms.  He was mapped with all manner of healed over slashes and
gouges, even another burn scar on one of his forearms.  The tangle of black
hair ranged the breadth of his chest then invited her gaze down below the cinch
of his breeches.  If she nearly came undone by the upper half of him…
 
Occurring to her that he would want to take the same pleasure, Sansa drifted
back onto the cloak.  He followed suit, propping his full weight on his side
and cradling her head on his arm with his other hand flat on her belly.  For a
charged moment he seemed suspended above her and she knew he would not move
yet.  Perhaps he understood she needed a show of his dominance, but enough
space to slip the snare if she needed that too.  For that, she could grant him
anything.  Her hands found the divide of her bodice and further widened it
baring her shoulders and breasts to him.  Seemingly lost in a reverie, he
grunted as fingers traced their curves and strummed at tips of her nipples like
harp strings.  She would gladly accompany it with a song -- soon, very soon.
 He had her taut enough to peak without much effort.  
 
“Do they.. I please you?” she asked breathlessly.
 
“Better than I imagined,” he said with an unexpected boyishness, “And I’ve
forged a maester’s chain for the study of tits.”  
 
They both broke into roiling laughter at that.  His japes were always so sharp
and witty, it would be wrong to think them only blunt and crude.  
 
“Of course you please me, wench.  Stop fishing for flattery.” he said, giving
her nipple a flick of his tongue coaxing a sigh from her.  His lank hair
drifted over her skin as he continued.  “Their color is like this rock crystal
of the same pale rose found near about the mines of Casterly Rock.  They were
after the veins of gold so it got tossed away often.  Back when I was squiring,
I had picked up one such piece and set to making something of it.  I always
thought it might come to life... with the proper polishing.”  
 
Her breast could near fill his palm and he held it like a nesting dove.  She
was as good as slain by the press of his tongue and insistant suckling.   Oh,
his cruel mouth!  Hot as a brand making her want and want and want .  Before
long he turned to its twin leaving the first wet and lustrous, now bathed in
cool breeze.   
 
 Clutching and raking at his smooth, muscled back was the only thing to be done
with this heady restlessness.  Everything else was out of reach except…
 Bending her knees, she reached down and dragged some of her skirts up around
her waist in a rumpled pile.  She must look a shameless sight, but she was
frantic with need and relief so close.  Over her smallclothes, her fingers
fiercely grinded against her sex while he was entrapping her nipple between his
teeth.  He surely took notice the rise of her body and her louder sighs,
because he looked down toward her legs.  His free hand was still at work
kneading her breast, but she felt his fingers twitching.  
 
“ Fuck!    Sansa, please .”  His whispering was ragged and desperate.  “Say
‘yes’ for me one more time.”
 
“I-- I’m near, but I’m not ready for that part,” she said, knowing she was
still a little wary of swimming that far out.  “I shouldn’t have said that
earlier as if I was.”  
 
She was about to make apologies and explain further, but he soothed her.
 “Shhhhh, I know.  I only meant to touch you,” he said on bated breath.  
 
She nodded and he moved his hand beneath hers and above the smallclothes.  He
was making almost mournful sounds as if it pained him to touch her.  Half-
intelligible murmured things spilled from his mouth that absurdly sounded like
praise of her impressive wetness and ‘the Maiden’s own quim,’ which was
probably his way of poetic tribute.  She could burst into giggles, but it would
be unkind.  She had never felt more of a woman than in his arms and besides,
she found his earnestness endearing.  
 
His fingers were stroking the cleft up and down, pressing into it through the
barrier of cloth.  No mystery to his mind there. Still, it wasn’t quite hitting
the mark.  Delicately she adjusted his fingers to the center of her pleasure,
that little jewel of flesh that seemed the crossroads of every nerve in her
body.  
 
“Here and like this,” she said as the guided his fingers to the perfect
modulation.  
 
He was an apt student watching her move so intently as if he were committing
all to memory.  When he was matching her with ease, she responded so furiously
that her head fell back and her thighs fell apart.  There was that familiar
ascension coiling upon itself as she reopened her eyes to find him rapt with
her flushed and dampened face.  Slowly she took her hand away from his and
brought it to the burned side of his face.  She could not want another even if
she tried, especially when his eyes drank her in like this.  While bucking her
hips to match his rhythm, a dark passion overtook him.  He jerked his head
round to meet the fingers that touched herself and one by one, he  tasted
them.  
 
“Oh, Gods!” she cried, as she shuddered hard and violent.  
 
Her legs turned to jelly, quivering of their own accord.  She whimpered as she
was forced to push his hand away when the thrumming pleasure multiplied tenfold
and turned into a tenderness beyond bearing.       
 
“Sansa,” he said as he pressed hot kisses between her breasts.  “I am your
cuntstruck dog, you enchanting little bird.  My proper little lady, I just knew
you would be the spirited kind,” he rasped.  
 
Still clutching her through her completion, he moved his body to be cradled by
her open, shaking thighs while resting on one arm.  “I’ll not take you, but
I’ll die of madness if my cock doesn’t touch you.  Trust me?”  
 
She nodded and she could feel him fumbling with his breeches, pulling out his
co -- his  manhood , and setting it on the bare skin in the crease between her
hip and thigh under her smallclothes.      
 
There wasn’t anything Sansa could see with the gathering of skirts around her
waist, but she could feel a length and heaviness she supposed was befitting the
man, a fact that was stirring if not a little intimidating.  
 
“Put your arms around me,” he begged.  
 
Her arms embraced him around his neck and threaded her fingers through his hair
as she gazed up into a face transformed.  There was a joyfulness about him and
perhaps a glimpse of the youth denied him.  She could envision the boy that
polished a pretty rock he found just to satisfy his curiosity.  It was a
reminder it wasn’t just herself savoring the first brush with a sweetheart.  
 
Echoes of her pleasure warmed her, kindling her desire to see him just as well-
sated as she was… as well as to lift the veil on the questions she had pondered
in her bath.  She was still floating with anticipation to finally know when to
her surprise he spat in palm and wetted his manhood with it.   Oh .  Well, that
was not as magical as she imagined, but then he began to rock his hips, plowing
it against her skin as if he were inside her for true.  It would be too easy to
hastily make it so, if it weren’t for Myranda enlightening her that
satisfaction could be achieved without consummation. That full knowledge could
be delayed without frustration and might be all the sweeter for it.  The
rocking also made for him a tempting spectacle of her breasts following suit
judging by the way he growled and lowered his mouth to partake of them again.
         
 
So he liked her spirited, did he?  She felt as much with her own blood quickly
rising again.  The flesh that he rubbed against was alight with a sensitivity
of its own and the urgent pressure of his body was not so direct a stimulation
that it felt quite pleasurable again.  As much as she enjoyed embracing him
like this, she was aching to trace those cords of muscle on his beautiful form.
 Her hands drifted down his chest, his flanks, his hips, then coming to rest on
his flexing backside.  He rose up above her again, chest heaving and a slight
smile pulling at his mouth.  She bit her lip thinking on how she should never
have been so quick to dismiss Myranda’s appreciation for this and she gave her
body over to move in tandem.  His manhood was both trapped and slipping between
them, which must have spurred his excitement because she felt it jerk and seem
to grow harder still.  
 
“Sandor, when you grow near, I wish to touch you,” she said, ripe with need.
 “As I’ve wished many times in my bath.”  
 
The cream topping the berries was flashing him such a wholesome, demure look.
 Innocent as a lamb, but she was a wolf.       
 
His body lurched as he groaned almost painfully before steadying himself.
 “That was real clever, Little Bird.  Nearly had me there.  Believe me, you
won’t find unmanning me with your pretty tongue always so amusing.”  Her mind
was working out what exactly that meant to even respond, though it was clearly
something lewd knowing him.  Her speechless searching had him chuckling hard.  
 
“Go on and touch me then,” he bid her as he withdrew from under her
smallclothes.  
 
The exciting prospect shook her from his mocking that without a second thought
she was spitting in her palm… except spitting was never an arrow in a lady’s
quiver and it so awkwardly dribbled that she had to wipe most of it from her
mouth and chin.  He nearly buckled over again as he was roaring with laughter
so loud they’d have to rename the isle.  She could burn right now from her
scalp all the way to her toes. When he recovered himself he planted a ardent
kiss on her mouth.  
 
“You are indeed flesh and blood, real and mine.  I’d rather another man see you
naked than have him ever know you the way I do and I’d still have his eyes out
for peeping,” he said taking her by the wrist and bringing her hand down to
grasp his manhood.  “Like what you had in mind, Little Bird?  Or moreso?” he
said, growling with desire.  
 
She gasped as more detail sharpened in clarity through touch alone.  Hot-
blooded and thick enough that her fingertips could not touch, ridged with
veining, yet so satin-like it quelled fears that it would hurt.  
 
“I had supposed it would match the man,” she said, smiling up at him and
arching a brow at his casting a line for her to bite, “but my basis for
comparison is small.  My little brothers.  Ser Dontos.”  She almost misstepped
and mentioned Lord Tyrion, a sore subject best avoided.  
 
He snickered as he guided her hand in stroking him from base to tip.  “That
suits me fine.  I’d rather you not be any more familiar with cock.”
 
“How am I to forge my own chain then?” she asked, giving him a gentle, playful
tug and then rising to kiss from the hollow where his neck met his shoulder all
the way to his ear.  
 
She could stay here for the remains of the day, tongue and lips melting against
bared throat.  The very air around him was heady and virile and she could fill
her lungs to bursting with it.  
 
“On your back,” she whispered into the shell of his ear to which he was as
pliant as willow wood.  
 
It was a powerful thing, not to be taken lightly, to have a man accustomed to
constant vigilance against the next attack giving himself over to closed eyes
and helpless moans.  His hips rose and fell, driving himself upward into the
enclosure of her delicate hand.    She could feel a bit more slick fluid
running from the tip, smoothing her strokes.  One arm slipped around her waist
to cup her backside while his other hand hitched her leg up to caress her
thigh.  One by one, she plucked the moans from his mouth with her own.  Would
that she always give him cause for such happiness.  She then feasted her way
down his neck and chest.  
 
“Where do your thoughts turn?” she asked, choked with desire.  “I sought
comfort from my worries by thinking of your touch, even before I knew you were
so near.”  
 
At that, he lifted his head to give her a pleased, but slightly bemused look
for a long moment.  
 
“Thinking is not my usual aim when I’m in my own fist, but now... I can only
picture you with your hair unbound and nothing on except these,” he said,
slipping two fingers under the tops of her stockings and garters and giving
them a pull.  “There’s a way about you in your lady’s trappings I have no
accounting for, but it has me come begging.”            
 
She beamed up at him and blushed when it was well past blushing about such
things.  The sudden recollection of a token near forgotten and to find it had
exceeded her hopes had her fluttering wildly inside. Her boldness renewed and
driven by instinct, she lowered her head and traced the border of his nipple
with her tongue.  His manhood tightened and jerked again in her hand.  Off in
the distance a bell was rudely tolling the call to the midday meal.  His grunts
were restless and ragged as as his hand moved between the cleft of her backside
to urgently paw at her sex.  The other dug into the saddlesore flesh of her
thigh as if to brace himself.  She mewled as she captured the tip in her teeth,
exulting in the twisting of rivalling sensations.  A few more sharp thrusts of
his hips and he was completely undone.  A warmth spread over her fingers
circling the crown of his manhood.
 
Cutting her eyes downward, she swallowed hard and awakened to a realization.  
I’ve made a man spill his seed.  Me.   It almost seemed like candle wax had
melted and pooled below his navel, his muscled belly quaking in the final
spasms.  In this moment she really looked at him there for the first time.  If
seeing had been anything like her wedding night and she had grown afraid and…
well, thank the Gods it wasn’t and she hadn’t.  Even that much felt like
shutting a door behind her.  He wasn’t all that different than her touch had
already divined, yet the longer she lingered…  she discovered something so raw,
masculine, and demanding threatened nothing worse than fevered bouts of
delicious distraction.  Even when he was spent it was like her dog come to
heel.   Real and mine.  
 
“Little Bird?” she heard him ask as his panting slowed. One, two, three more
clangs of the bell filled the space. Perhaps she seemed too far away and for
too long, because he was already using the free edge of the cloak to hastily
wipe the evidence from her fingers.          
 
Sansa gently stilled his hand and took the partially soiled wool from him.  As
daintily as if she were serving tea to a queen, she finished cleaning him up.  
 
“I suppose someone will be sent to fetch us if we tarry much longer.  As if we
were deaf to that thrice-damned bell,” she sniffed before chattering on
merrily.  “It would be wicked to scandalize them, but I have half a mind to
steal a plate of food, throw the bolt on the cottage door, and pretend there is
only you and I, eating from each other’s fingers.”  
 
I’m making a habit of heedless words , she chided herself.  Perhaps it had been
too many years of mincing her every word and now she could finally let every
thought that came to her fly.  Everyone knew the rules here.  She was caught in
the push and pull of two minds.  There was still the girl that wanted a true
wedding night someday, full of adoration and desire after all the splendid
traditions.  Then there was this new Sansa, who didn’t want to live anymore for
the promises of someday that may never come, when she could dig deep into the
present with this man.  “... and nothing more bothersome than all my prying
questions and requests for stories.  I would boast that I know you better than
anyone else.”  
 
Her eyes raised to meet his, stormy and pensive.  “You see… I haven’t felt this
lightness since my father, the best man I’ve ever known, died.  I haven’t
smiled or laughed so easily as myself.  They’ll just have to forgive me or
bugger off, because I feel wrested free --”  And Sandor gathered her up so
tightly their ribs could be soldered together.    
                  
“Curses now too?” he asked while giving her rear a good squeeze through her
dress.  “Don’t get led so far astray, my Little Bird.  Don’t you know that
clean, pretty mouth of yours gets my cock hard enough to carry a long sword and
name it my squire?  Though I should like to see you command them to bugger off.
 If you’ve a mind for siege warfare as much as sin, I’m the lucky bastard to be
on your side of the door.”  
 
His mouth hungrily set upon hers smothering her giggles.  He was always saying
the most ungallant things.  
 
“Come now, we both know this is nothing but a first taste.”  
 
Gods, if they lingered any longer, well, she was already feeling an ache of
emptiness that must go unanswered.    
 
A few more heated kisses and hastily they righted their clothes, grinning like
fools.  She tucked a few wayward curls behind her ears.  Nothing amiss that
couldn’t be explained by a vigorous ride.  Sandor balled up the cloak and
stuffed it in his saddlebag as she finished tying her last fastening.  How
would they ever be able to sit across a trestle table as before?  How could it
not be so obvious?  Surely she looked different now in some way.  She bit her
lip as giddy as a foal as she approached the stream where the horses were tied.
 As long as they had left them there they should be as rested as courtesans
lounging upon mounds of pillows.
 
Prinnnnncess ssss.  It came hushed and slipping through the greenery on the
wind.  There was no doubting her ears even when she looked to Sandor and she
found him unmoved.  He was ready to help her mount up, but she hesitated and
surveilled the forest around them.  A squirrel flew about the canopy before
alighting on a low hanging bough.   Nothing louder than the droning of insects.
 All was as it should be.  Still, there was a niggling feeling that drowned out
whatever Sandor was saying behind her.
 
“Here, now.  Be at ease.  ‘Tis only a mouse.”  
 
Sandor whipped around, dagger drawn, to find Howland Reed stealthily emerging
from behind a rather slim chestnut tree.  She was startled as well, but not
exactly surprised to find him there.  It was no small wonder they say one could
be peppered with poisoned arrows without ever seeing the crannog that did the
seasoning.  There was no telling how long he had been so near.  
 
“I hear your cousin will live,” he said, blunt as bricks and he did not wait
for a reply.  “And yet, here we are. Still sitting here, gathering moss, and
not a word or move from you.”  
 
He gave them both a shrewd look up and down in a way that made Sansa shift
uncomfortably.  “Naughty child .”    Beside her she could feel Sandor’s ire on
the boil as Reed continued.  “The winds are shifting again.  Your hunters will
be backtracking this way soon when they find no trace of us at any port town or
south along the King’s Road.”
 
Sandor stepped forward.  “Aye, and we’ll be heading to Runestone.  Royces are
kin enough to her.  Yohn can offer her castle walls and swords which are a
fucking good deal more useful than you.”
 
The heights of these two facing each other were as different as Sweetrobin and
his rag doll, but Lord Reed gave no ground.  
 
“Stone and steel will not mean spit soon enough.  Winter’s reach is long and
its grip is cruel.”  He pressed forward another step, brushing past Sandor to
look her straight in the eyes.  “My Meera and Jojen are sworn to protect your
brother and see him through to his purpose,” he said, the hardness in his voice
cracking slightly.  “They will die if they must for their prince.  How can you
do any less than they,  princess ? ”          
 
Sansa stiffened.  They both knew what she heard by his pointed look.  Sandor’s
laugher was grim as he shook his head incredulously.
 
“ Fuck me .  Don’t tell me you’re carrying on that fool’s fantasy of your own
snowball kingdom.  I know where crowns got  good King Robb .  I was there.
 Bloody good it did her too when Joff had her beaten for his glories.  Well
you’ll not be filling her head with that shit.  What do you want one girl to
do, Reed?  Winterfell is razed.  There’s nothing left to fight for except
keeping her alive and safe.  Maybe find her brothers and sister one day.
 Little Bird, be grateful Ned could boast more friends than just frogs.”
         
              
Sandor was being more than sensible, she had to agree, no matter how it hurt to
hear it out loud.  Once she thought to appeal to Lord Royce and she doubted
herself and him.  That proved a mistake.  Yet, Lord Reed was right that she had
dug her heels in and delayed, delayed, delayed.  It was too easy to retreat
into this little daydream and Sandor hadn’t pushed her too hard about it either
if she were being honest.  
 
“I do not speak of plunking anyone’s proud ass on any throne!  This is about
Winter, not Winterfell,” Reed said.  “That fight is for another.  This is about
the real war coming and your part to play, same as Bran, Rickon, and Arya.  Jon
as well.  Your direwolves were a gift from the Old Gods to awaken something in
each of you.  It did not die with Lady, but merely sleeps within you.  I come
as a guide to lead you back to your place among First Men, who saw mankind
through the first Long Night.  Starks are kings and a king’s duty, the only one
that matters, is to defend the realm.  I swear it by the Old Gods if we go into
the mountains we will find what you need to defend the realm.  Now, as your
bannerman and servant I ask, I demand, you make your decision.”                
 
She then felt the heat and weight of Sandor’s hand on her shoulder.  
 
“Little Bird, if you don’t want to go to Runestone, we can take a ship to the
Free Cities.  You have my sword always, you know that.  Your fate is not to
freeze or starve to death on some stoney slope only to fill a shadowcat’s
belly.  The mountains are riddled with savages and you’d have to cross the Lord
Protector’s doorstep again.  All on his word that  something  will happen.
 Either he is mad or he’s playing you for his own reasons.  Use that wolf’s
nose of yours.”         
 
Sansa worried at her bottom lip and paced about.   I trust Sandor, I do.  And
father trusted Howland Reed .  Sandor would risk his life for her.  Howland
risked his children, the future of his house, for Bran.  He wasn’t doing it so
she could hide or run or sew up holes in dun cloth.  Sandor had all reason on
his side, but Howland spoke to something within her she knew had truth to it
even if she didn’t really understand any of it.  She had faith divided between
two loyal men, but she also had the words of two houses:  Family, Duty, Honor
and Winter is Coming.  She sighed.  Kingsblood, wolfsblood, what did it matter?
 She didn’t know anything about defending anything.  A wise person leaves those
matters to experienced men like Sandor and Yohn Royce.  Though what of faith in
the Old Gods?  It was true that there was a direwolf pup for each of the
children and direwolves had been thought long gone for over a century.   The
Gods fashioned me a Stark.  Even without a home I still belong to a people .  A
liege lord has a duty to see to his people’s safety and to do justice when
called upon, just as their bannermen have a duty to answer their call.  Howland
Reed made good on his oath to House Stark.  The songs are sung of people who
are brave, who  always try  even if they may fail.  
 
When she heard them quarreling and cursing again, she raised her hand to quiet
them.   Gods be good, Sandor won’t like this one bit .  
 
“Very well.  We will send Robert to Runestone under Lord Royce’s protection
until Petyr Baelish can be removed and Robert’s rightful seat, whatever is left
of it, can be restored to him.  I will ask Elder Brother to escort him there
himself so he can give testimony to the cause of Robert’s condition.  I will
also send a letter telling Lord Royce that when the time is right I will be
calling upon him as kin to House Stark and to await word from me.”  
 
She was addressing them both, but now she turned to Sandor who was standing
straight as a spear, balling his fists at his sides.  
 
“I trust you both for your counsel and with my life.  I will leave for the
mountains as soon as Robert’s arrangements have been made.  Sandor, I… I know
you disagree, but I ask you to trust me if not Lord Reed.”  His eyes were
smoldering like hot coals and his mouth twisted in the ugliest sneer.
 Suddenly, she felt like a stuttering little girl who got caught on the
serpentine steps.  “It.. it is my hope that you would still… that I would still
have your sword… as you said --”
 
“ Fucking unbelievable!”  he seethed.  He already had his back to her, storming
off to mount up on Stranger.  She started after him, pleading for him to wait.
 “Fuck off,  your grace! ”
Chapter End Notes
     Just as a heads up, I might be taking a slight pause with this
     because I dearly want to write a meta for TWOW predictions that I
     kinda base the premise of this fic on. It's something I've been
     gathering notes on since late 2016. Come check me out on tumblr at
     bluelemonsforever for my asoiaf and sansan obsessions, fanfic recs,
     and metas. Thanks so much again. You all are so lovely and
     supportive.
***** No Half-Measures *****
Chapter Summary
     Dealing with the aftermath of Sandor's anger at her decision, Sansa
     and the Elder Brother share a series of intimate conversations the
     night before she must leave the Quiet Isle.
Chapter Notes
     Now beta read by the fabulous maidenoftheforestlight!
     ***content warning for mention of rape***
     You're probably not going to like me very much at the end. Just
     please stay with me. It will be worth it next chapter. Sansan are
     imperfect people stumbling around in uncharted territory.
     My hiatus turned out to be so much longer than I imagined. I wanted
     to work on an ASOIAF meta project that and give myself some time work
     on how I wanted to proceed with this fic. Well, long after the meta
     was done, I was thoroughly in a bout of writer's block. Not for lack
     of trying, but the words wouldn't come. Finally after some weeks of
     sticking with it one word at a time I finished this chapter and I
     feel pretty good about it.
     Oh and the meta project that I actually inspired me to write this fic
     in the first place can be found here if you are interested:
     https://sweeticeandfiresunray.com/2017/07/13/their-gallantry-is-yet-
     to-be-demonstrated-shadrich-morgarth-and-byron/
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Her knuckles rapped timidly on the infirmary door like the footfalls of mice.
That will not do, Sansa. Straightening her spine, she knocked again as if she
were nothing more than paying call on a neighbor. The latch soon raised on the
other side and the glow from the candles inside fell upon her face. She gave
Elder Brother a poised, toothless smile. Ushering her inside, he bolted the
door behind them.
“My Lady, I know you have an early start on the morrow,” he said, “I wasn’t
sure you’d come.”
“I scarce believe I’ll find much sleep tonight, brother. Truthfully, I don’t
mind a little company right now,” she said. A note asking her to come see him
came with the brother who brought her supper of baked cod and parsley sauce, a
salad of greens, bread and cider. Sansa ate alone while she wrote her letters.
The first was to her brother, Jon Snow, now Lord Commander of the Night’s
Watch. She hoped it would find him overjoyed to know she was alive and well.
The words flowed easily to Jon and Lord Royce ending with a satisfaction that
her hand had not forgotten how to sign her name just so. There was that
graceful upward flick at the end of the “K” that she perfected under her
septa’s tutelage. It was quite the opposite with her last letter that felt so
clumsy and imprecise. A least worst version possible folded up and sealed in
her dress pocket along with the little leather bag of bones and rubies.
A gusty of wind had kicked up outside and was creaking the shutters on the daub
and wattle building. Low-hanging branches of the trees scraped against the
roof. The air smelled of the rain that would be upon them soon, she thought as
she pushed back the hood of her cloak. Inside it smelled of herbs, vinegar, and
tallow candles spiced with cloves. He gestured for her to sit at a small table
as he poured them both a cup of watered wine from a pitcher. “I’m glad someone
wishes to speak to me,” she said as she raised her cup to him.
It was a trying day that left her drained and stiff from her neck down through
her shoulders. No matter how gentle her words or how honeyed her reasons, her
cousin’s face fell as he learned she would not be going with him to Runestone.
She could not even tell him when she would see him again or begin to explain
why she was leaving without him. Gods, if only that were the worst of it she
could have borne it. With Elder Brother standing present, Sansa quivered her
way through the truth of Lysa’s death. Even the parts about his mother being
unwell and what she had tried to do. It felt cruel to part with him this way,
but he deserved to hear it from her lips. “I lied about what happened because I
thought he saved my life, more than once. He said if anyone found out we’d both
die for this. I lied, I was scared, and I lied and I’m so sorry --”
The moment her hand drew close to touching him, he recoiled as if it were a
serpent. His face twisted in a taut, red rage. “Go away. Just go.” he hissed
under his breath, but then when he saw her hesitation his roar so fearsome she
shuddered. “I said go away! You’re a liar. I hate you. Get away from me! Get
out! Get out! GET OUT!!!”
As if he had shouted into a cavern, his curses echoed against the walls of her
mind. She must have seemed far away as she took a sour mouthful of wine. A
rough, meaty hand gently stayed her wrist. Her fingers had been drumming on the
table.
“In time, he will remember that you mothered him too. He has a chance now to
live a long life because you gave him what he needed. That includes the truth
as well.” He leaned in before continuing. “It is no easy, painless thing to cut
away diseased flesh to save the body. It will be the same in disentangling
yourself from the Lord Protector’s lies.”
“My cousin’s life is a price above my shame,” she said. “If this is the
Father’s will, I will do my best to make peace with it.”
He smiled, nodded, and gave a final pat on her arm. “I promise there is fresh
air to breathe on the other side of this. Be patient… with both of them.”
“Have you spoken to him?” she asked, wide-eyed and hopeful. It was slightly
embarrassing this transparency. She walked all the paths searching for him
yesterday until it was clear he didn’t wish to found. Judging how he had taken
her to that shaded shore, he clearly knew the secluded places of the isle. So
she decided to stay near her cottage today and keep a ear for any sound outside
the door, nearly jumping out of her skin when her supper arrived.
“Eh… he was in no mood for my company either last I saw him. Not the first time
he’s kept to himself for a while. Though my proctor told me we now have enough
firewood to last a moonturn. After Lord Reed told me of your plans, it wasn’t
hard to guess what troubles my brother. Better the logs meet the ax than Lord
Reed though.” His heavy brows arched as he took a long swig himself. The poor
man must be so weary of all this.
Stuffing down the urge to pounce on him with more questions, she remembered her
manners. “I am so grateful you agreed to take Robert to Runestone. It heartens
me knowing you will be with him,” she said.
He waved his hand as if his charge was a mere trifle. “I arranged for a
fisherman from the Saltpans to take us directly to Runestone aboard his boat. I
helped his wife birth three of his children and comforted him when they were
lowered together into their grave after the massacre. He will not betray us.”
Sansa nodded solemnly. Must it only the blood and cruelty of the world that
births bonds of love and loyalty? Like grist from a grindstone, she supposed.
The hearth fire was warm, but she felt cold all the same. She really couldn’t
help herself as if talking about him would make him feel all the nearer. “You
call each other brother,” she smiled as she said it. “He’s never been one for
vows, you know.”
“Clearly the Gods fashioned him for something other than quiet contemplation…
or quiet anything for that matter. He isn’t a ‘brother’ to me in that sense.
Nonetheless, he’s still the little one even with a foot over me,” he said and
she couldn’t help but laugh a bit. The levity was fleeting though. “I confess
there’s much I don’t understand about all this either.” By the way his brow
furrowed with worry, his leanings were clearly with Sandor. “As much as I
cannot argue Lord Reed is loyal to House Stark, I cannot understand why a fine
lady brought up under the Seven should feel compelled to…” He shook his head.
His hair had grown out enough now that he could wear the tonsure again. “Well,
at any rate, you are free now to do as you wish, my lady. I won’t waste my
breath when plainly it will do no good.”
“Oh no. By all means, box my ears and send me scurrying to my room. Tell me
what a foolish child I am,” she sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “I know
how imprudent it all looks. When I was King’s Landing, I sang in the sept and
felt the Mother’s presence among the people there. You may find it blasphemous
for me to say, but I felt that power in the godswood too, next to the heart
tree. The only truly godless place I’ve ever been was the Eyrie. A cold, empty
sept and a godswood of stoney earth. Yesterday I heard it on the wind through
the trees, though this place belongs to the Seven. I have to believe this is
all the work of the Old Gods and the New. Runestone will still be there when I
return. I feel it would be the greater folly to ignore this… this thing. I hope
you know I wouldn’t make this decision lightly or without much regret for
causing such disappointment. You all are dear to me.”
“Aye, I know you wouldn’t; however, we both know you wouldn’t lose sleep over
disappointing me,” he said. “Lumping us louts together, you serve the lamb with
the mutton but there’s no mistaking which one you stick your fork in.” Despite
herself she burst into laughter at the absurdity of that picture. If a lamb
could make other knights wet themselves, then you might compare Sandor to one -
- to his face if you were truly brave or stupid. Then again, wolves are never
so wolfish as when they want lamb. Really, Sansa. She shifted uncomfortably in
her chair, a little shocked at how ill-timed her stirrings could be. “I’m sorry
if I overstepped, my lady,” he added, not seeming that sorry at all.
“I came for your company, did I not? You do my spirit good.” It was true. She
did feel a bit better. “How do you do this, brother? People are like pots to
you. You just lift the lid to see what’s bubbling inside,” she said.
It was his turn to chuckle now. “No matter what they say, people want someone
to see them,” was all he could say to that. Perhaps that was true. She’d like
to visit this beautiful isle again from time to time if she should be lucky
enough. A sweet thought came unbidden of one day delivering her own babes here.
It was just another flight of fancy, but then just like that she thought of
placing her babe in strong, outstretched arms for the first time.
A pattering of rain speckled the window now. “I leave in the morning. Would he
really let us part this way?” she asked. “And even after... he swore his sword
to me, so I thought. I expected a quarrel, but he was so quick to leave my
side. So damned decisive about it. If I could have just talked to him like we
are now, I could have made him understand.”
He gave her a sideways glance as he took another sip. “Oh I doubt that,” he
said. “Perhaps you are right and this is the path the Gods will for you. It’s
just what Howland Reed proposes is more than a sworn sword’s understanding,” he
went on to explain. “There are very few places of safety left in this world for
you, my lady. The crannog is a wily one, I’ll grant you, but the roads are no
doubt being scoured for Lord Robert and Alayne Stone. And when those turn up
nothing they will turn over every village, hovel, and encampment. Aside from
that, there are savages and beasts in the mountains should you get that far.”
“Then I need him now more than ever!” she said, tinged with panic.
“A strong sword arm to protect you?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes, of course!” Seven Hells, wasn’t that obvious?
“That’s all? Are you really so blind or are you playing me a tune?” He must
have seen the wounded way her face fell as if she was no longer certain she
knew neither Sandor nor up from down. He continued more gently. “Things have
changed, my lady. We started this mission as your swords. We would deliver you
to safety and that would have been enough for him. You would never even need
know about the glamor, until you forced his hand. Then you gave him absolution
from every way he imagined he failed you. And you were so different from the
maid he had known in King’s Landing. He once told me… he said ‘your courtesies
were the scaffolding that held you together.’ A veritable fortress of cold
stone. Against all expectations, the woman he discovered was a home and
hearthfire, full of life’s promise. To the despised and exiled, there’s no
sweeter heaven.” He smiled wanly. “You’ve a mind like an arrow that drives you
forward into a dangerous, unknowable place. If that scares me, think on him. He
can’t fight you, can’t stop you, and can’t watch you do this. Maybe a sworn
sword could stand by you dutifully, but it would destroy Sandor utterly if he
lost you now.” His gaze turned to wine swirling in his cup. “So much I fear
something worse than the Hound rising up from the pit of hell in his place.”
Her mouth was probably opening and closing like a codfish. She certainly felt
as stupid as one, rendered speechless as she was.
“Am I wrong that he believed his feelings were returned?” he asked, almost like
an accusation.
“I… yes, he did. I mean, I do,” she managed to cobble together. You choose
this, it’s ‘til one of us is in the ground or nothing at all was what he said
to her. While she knew she would have no other, that wasn’t the heart of what
he meant after all. It was a plea to be merciful. Please, please don’t give me
half-measures, she could almost hear it in his rasping voice. I don’t want to
know, I don’t want to hope if it isn’t true. “I suppose he must have felt like
I was the one who was being damned decisive about it,” she was loathe to admit.
“Aye,” was all he could say for a good, long moment. The hour was surely close
to midnight. Still she didn’t feel much like sleeping, which she would surely
pay dearly for in the saddle come morning.
“I’m not playing at courtship if that’s what you think,” she started. “I’m just
a fool who made a mess of things. Perhaps I will always have romance in my
silly heart and I was a bit swept away, but I was glad it was him,” she said as
he started to refill her cup. “I admit it took me some time to come to return
those feelings. His absence made me see the truth of it. That I missed him. And
then from the missing came the longing for him to kiss me again, though there
was naught to do about it. He was gone, I thought.”
“Kiss you again?” he asked, squinting at her.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly self conscious. Saying it aloud again felt
embarrassingly like having to repeat a joke that wasn’t particularly droll the
first time. “When I last saw him, the night of the battle. I suppose he wanted
a memory to keep with him when he left,” she said. “He was so much more
difficult then and rightfully awful about most anything. Still, I probably
should have seen that I meant something to him.” Elder Brother set his cup down
most roughly, as if he had lost his handling of it. Perhaps the wine was
getting to him, yet her head was clear. Odd. He’s such a big man and the wine
is heavily watered, she thought taking an askance look in her cup.
“You should retire brother,” she said as she started to get up. “You don’t have
to keep yourself up on my account.”
“No no, please stay, my lady,” he said, recovering himself. “There was
something else.” He strided over to the high-standing workbench where made his
poultices. “Actually the reason I asked you to come in the first place.” The
shelves behind him held row after row of clay pots and jars, not unlike the
arrangement of Maester Luwin’s turret though far more orderly. Bundles of
plants were strung up from the rafters upside down. Charming as that was, there
was also a thick glass vat of pond water swirling with leeches and an
arrangement of disquieting metal instruments. He had a satchel bound up with
leather in his hands that he placed before her on the table. “You remember how
we made that poultice for the brother’s foot? There’s the ingredients for that,
clean bandages, and a needle and some catgut suturing. There’s powder for pain
you can add to wine. I wrote down some basic instructions for common injuries
you might find useful. Oh, there’s also a little razor with a keen edge so mind
your fingers.” He was starting to stammer his words as he hopped from item to
item on his list and he ran a hand through his bristly salt and pepper hair.
She placed her hands on the satchel, touched by the gesture. “Thank you,
brother. This is very kind,” she said.
He sighed, looking so much older than his years. “That’s not all… you’re plenty
old enough, so I won’t dance around it. Anything can happen to a woman out
there,” he said. “There’s a sachet for tea.” That tea, of course. Myranda had a
gilded box that she kept hers in and she’d steep some from time to time. “I
will pray it never happens, but if you’re ever raped… as soon as you can, drink
a cup every day until your blood comes. It’s a cold comfort, but at least
you’ll bear no bastards from it.”
She nodded slowly. The Saltpans has been seared into his mind. “If that scares
me…” We both know dead women have no use for moontea. He is scared for me, but
he’s doing what little he can. “... think on him.” She shivered.
“One last thing before you depart and it’s in the same vein. I must risk your
offense, but it is necessary. You can tell me truthfully. I would not judge
you. Are you a maiden still?”
Her eyes widened, a touch surprised by his asking. “Yes, of course. And no, I
took no offense.”
“Your Lannister marriage… Lord Baelish planned to have it annulled by proving
it was unconsummated?” he asked.
“That was his thinking. All the better if my husband widowed me, but yes.”
“If it please you, my lady, I could write you a sworn testimony as a holy
brother attesting to your maidenhead. Normally a septa would handle such
things, but I’m sure my knowledge and standing would lend a similar weight.”
This time it was his turn to grow visibly uncomfortable. “Now there’s no need
for a physical exam if that worries you. I take you at your word --”
“Should I find myself no longer a maid, my marriage could stand until one of us
dies.” She had been Alayne Stone so long, she had almost forgotten they had
made her a Lannister first.
“I know it’s not the foremost of your concerns right now, but the issue will
arise again at some point as long as the both of you live. No promises, but
there’s a chance this could help your cause in that. I can keep a copy here,
take one to Runestone, and give you a third.”
It was a good plan if only better than no plan. A part of her did hope Tyrion
wouldn’t come to a bad end to resolve the issue, Lannister he may be. He’d been
kinder than most, that much she could say. She’d escaped and he was left to the
lions after he was served up by the Queen of Thorns. If we all survive this, he
would likely welcome an annulment and a good-riddance to her as well. “You’re
right. It may be years before it is safe for me to seek an annulment,” she
said. “We should do whatever we can now. And… I don’t expect you to lie on my
behalf. If you put your name to a document that could be submitted to the Most
Devout, I would have it be the whole truth.” She stood and looked him in the
eyes as she felt her lady mother would. “You may examine me and let us both
have a clear conscience.”
An intrusive flash came back to her of Grand Maester Pycelle’s bony, spotted
hands on her while Cersei’s creatures had held her down. She thought she might
have to go away inside, but it really wasn’t like that. As she lay upon one of
the beds staring up into the ceiling, the worst she felt was a chill on her
legs. Elder Brother was both efficient and gentle and it required only a few
moments of pressure. Turning to wash his hands in a basin and without looking
back he told her she could get up. “It is as you say, my lady. Not that you
were doubted,” he finally said. “I’ll have your copy ready for you when I see
you off.” She retied her small clothes, rose from the bed, and smoothed her
skirts. After giving her a moment, he turned around to face her as he dried
himself on a towel. “I will pray the Gods deliver you safely and give you only
what you can bear. You are very brave, my lady.”
I am frightened more often than not. But she thanked him all the same for
saying so. “I’m afraid I need to trouble you once more,” she said as she walked
over to the little table. Reaching into her pocket, she placed two of the
sealed letters and the bag of bones and rubies on the table. “This one is for
Lord Royce. You need not discuss the details of my journey now, just tell him I
am safe enough. But do tell him everything that has happened. Spare nothing.
This other one is to my brother, Jon Snow, if you would be so kind to send a
raven to Castle Black. I also require a parchment and quill please.”
As the Elder Brother set them out upon the table along with the inkpot and wax,
she stood by the hearthfire. The third letter, the inadequate little
scribbling, she fed to the flames and watched it curl and blacken. No half-
measures. She could feel his eyes behind her watching her curiously. As she
settled into her chair and took up the quill, Elder Brother drained another cup
of wine and kept by the window listening to the rain and wind outside. She
wrote briskly without regard to line or form. A palsied monkey could do as
well. When she was finally done and the ink had dried, she folded it and sealed
it with a thick gob of wax. There it was. The words of her heart lined up like
chained prisoners.
Whatever the Elder Brother was thinking, he kept it to himself. “Tell him…” she
said. “Tell him I swear that with every drop of Stark blood in my body I will
come back for him like he always came back for me.” Just hold on a little while
longer. I have no right to ask, but just please hold on. “Do you hear me,
brother? I will come back for him.” Nodding and silent, he tucked her letters
and little leather bag into the pocket of his roughspun robes. There was naught
else to do, but raise up her hood and bid him goodnight.
The wave crests seemed gilt in gold as dawn broke over the Bay of Crabs to the
east. Howland Reed waited with the horses in hand where the ferry was tied to
the dock. Her red courser, Nameless, carried a bedroll, a pack of foodstuffs,
and the medicinal supplies. Another bag slung over her shoulder contained a set
of extra clothes and the polished driftwood comb Sandor had given her. Sansa
walked down the little pathway that winded down the hillside down to meet them
all. Well, not all. There was Elder Brother, of course, and Sweetrobin standing
beside him and the brothers Narbert and Gillam. She sighed as Sandor was not
there, but somehow she already knew that.
Sweetrobin was still as cross as ever and avoided looking at her. She knelt
down before him on the dock all the same. His cheeks had a much healthier hue
to them since they’d been here and he seemed a bit more fleshed out under his
bundle of warm clothes. “I know you are still angry with me and I understand,”
she said low enough so only he could hear. “The best way I can tell you I’m
sorry is to make sure you are safe and do everything I can to give you your
home back. We’ll see each other again and I hope you will find it in you to
forgive me, cousin. I love you.” He flinched when she moved to kiss his cheek.
He relented and allowed it, but he still refused to look or speak. That would
have to suffice, she supposed.
Howland Reed extended his wiry arm out to Elder Brother and to her surprise he
found it in himself to clasp it warmly, despite all that had happened. “I
reckon you’ve been praying for the day to see me gone, septon.”
“Remarkable how farewells can alter one’s attitude, my lord. Until the next
tourney then.”
Howland snorted a laugh. “Aye. ‘Tis only fitting you’d want another go since
you lost.” His mouth drew a more serious line. “Bronze Yohn will have his
meeting with Lady Sansa. I swear it by earth and water, bronze and iron, ice
and fire,” he said before leading the horses on to the ferry.
Wordlessly Elder Brother handed her a thick folded up parchment bearing the
seven-pointed star pressed in wax. How to thank this good man enough for all
he’s done? She threw her arms around his burly neck as her eyes misted over.
Her nose pressed into the coarse weave of his robes as she felt the giant bear
paws of his hands around her back. “My gallant knight,” she said, sniffling
like a babe. “Watch over them both for me.”
“I tried to speak with him, my lady,” he said, both defeated and rankled.
“Brother Rawney told me he broke his fast and left on Stranger before sunrise.”
“It’s fine, brother. He’ll read it when he’s ready,” she said as she pulled her
hood up and shrouded her face.
And with that she boarded the ferry. The poles sank down deep into the silty
bottom of the bay as four brothers gave a good shove away from the dock. She
took Nameless by the bridle and stroked his black mane while she watched the
Quiet Isle grow ever smaller. True to his nature, Nameless was the sort of
steadfast fellow that knew when to stand there quietly while sparing some pity
for a lady. Tucking her hot, wet face down against the heaving barrel of his
body, she bit down on her sleeve to silence the sob.
 
~~~
Dearest Jon,
How sweet it is for me to finally be able to write to you. There’s so much to
tell and a raven can only bear so much weight, so I must regretfully be brief.
I am alive and well. I have friends that have helped me escape my captors and I
hope to be able to write to you again from Runestone soon. I have also received
word that Arya and Bran may be alive. Let us both rejoice and hope that they
remain so until I can find them. Father would be so proud that you made Lord
Commander at such a young age. If the Gods be good, we will look upon each
other again before too long, brother. Give my love to Uncle Benjen and Ghost.
Know that I love you and hold you in my heart as well.
Your faithful sister,
Sansa
~~~
To Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone
By now you have Lord Robert Arryn in your custody and have met my friend, ally,
and emissary the Elder Brother of the order of holy brothers on the Quiet Isle.
I trust him to give you full accounting of everything that has happened,
including the true nature of Lord Robert’s illness and Lady Arryn’s death. Lord
Robert and I are alive in part because of him.
You may be wondering if I am indeed Sansa Stark. You accompanied your youngest
son, Waymar, on his way to join the Night’s Watch and visited my family at
Winterfell. You caught a buck during a hunt and you bested my father and Ser
Rodrik in the training yard. I hope this is sufficient to convince you and that
you will forgive me for not revealing myself to you sooner.
There is no one I trust more to take Lord Robert to ward and to teach him how
to rule well than you, my lord. For the honor of his father and mine. As for
me, know I am safe with my father’s man, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch.
I will find my way to you when the time is right. Then we will act. Misrule has
had its day.
Sincerely,
Lady Sansa Stark
~~~
Sandor,
I’ve done my truest friend a bad turn. For that I have no defense except that I
am a wretched fool that took you for granted and I am deeply sorry. I acted the
highlord’s get and made you feel reminded of your place. You are no one’s dog,
least of all mine.
What else can I tell you but that I love you? I love you, Sandor. My dreams
were shaped around the idea of love, but how much harder the real thing turned
out to be. That you are as close to me as my own skin is why I unfairly
presumed you would just follow along and bury your differences with Lord Reed
for my sake. That was wrong.
But damn you as well for keeping yourself away as long as you have, after
everything we shared. I know you love me fiercely. So much that you want me to
feel your presence torn away from me like you think I am tearing myself from
you. How much hope is there if we cannot talk to one another?
I will not presume again that I can make you understand or that I can assuage
your fears. A little bit of trust in me is all I ask. I have something I must
do and somehow it makes sense to me. It’s for my brothers and sister, for
Mother and Father, and the responsibility to those who loved my family.
Please, please don’t go away again. Stay where I can find you, my love. You are
my family as much as any of them. My home is wherever you are and I am sorely
yearning to return even before I’ve left. I’m truly lost if I don’t know how to
find my way back home. Grant me the comfort of this one thought to carry with
me. I do love you so.
L.B.
Chapter End Notes
     Just stay with me! I love Sansa's individual relationships with each
     of her gallant knights. Lord Reed won't disappoint (I hope) in the
     next chapter and don't worry about Sandor. I promise it will be good.
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