
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/961867.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Jaime_Lannister/Brienne_of_Tarth
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane, Joffrey_Baratheon, Petyr_Baelish, Tywin
      Lannister, Varys_(ASoIaF), Cersei_Lannister, Original_Characters, Bonifer
      Hasty, Robb_Stark, Jaime_Lannister, Robett_Glover, Arya_Stark, Gendry
      Waters, Hot_Pie_(ASoIaF), Brienne_of_Tarth, Kevan_Lannister, Catelyn
      Tully_Stark, Brynden_Tully
  Additional Tags:
      Character_Death, Health_Issues, Riverlands, Alternate_Universe_-_Arranged
      Marriage, Blackwater_AU, Oral_Sex, direwolf, Harrenhal
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-10 Completed: 2014-06-10 Chapters: 76/76 Words: 112104
****** The Day is Dark and Full of Questions ******
by Maracuya
Summary
     My personal take on a Blackwater AU. This story is much darker than
     my other stories, and the wording is according. Moments of fluff and
     humour will be found, too, but on the whole there is more violence
     and tragedy. Multiple POVs.
Notes
     This story has been stolen from me and has been posted on another
     homepage without my consent. I hereby declare that so far, the story
     hasn’t been taken down from that homepage despite my explicit wish to
     delete it. Any profit that person is making has got nothing to do
     with me and is being acquired against my will. I hereby condemn this
     kind of behavior. It is effectively blocking my creativity. Do not
     visit such a website, please. At this point, I’ve got no intention to
     take down my stories here, so going there has got no point.
     Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF. I do not profit from this story, nor
     would I
     ever seek to do so. All credit for characters and setting to GRRM.
      
     The story is unbetaed, and it isn't finished yet (though I've got
     some 80 pages so far). Comments and concrit are always welcome.
***** Prologue *****
It was raining. But it wasn't fire that was pouring from the heavens. No. It
was bloody green fire! The whole Blackwater was aflame, the ships on it like
some toy torches. It looked as if the Seven Hells were puking on the miserable
men who were down there with him at the Mudgate. He had been fighting. Like the
Demon Hound he was supposed to be. But now, his bloodlust was dissipating
rapidly.
Around him horses were screaming like men and men like horses – before they
crinkled, crumpled and crackled because of the Wildfire that was consuming them
with the ferocity of an otherworldly beast. It stank of pyromaniac piss. And of
human piss and vomit and shit, of oil and scorched metal and blood and mud and
saltwater.... Horse carcasses, severed limbs, broken bodies and scraps of
armour were lying around where the fire had not yet feasted on them. There was
no end to it.
A shadow was running at the Hound with a drawn sword. A man. He wasn't burning.
Just like himself. Not yet.
An enemy. The other man was an enemy. Like the others. Like ALL of them.
Panting, The Hound raised his own sword and parried. And hacked. And snarled.
Then, his blade met flesh and cut deep into the body. One enemy less. He had to
kill them all. But he couldn't... couldn't... go on any more.
All thoughts were fleeting his head in battle, giving in to his fighting and
surviving instincts. Even so, he realised he was at an end. His allegedly
infinite forces were leaving him. He had been out thrice, had faced Stannis's
thrice-damned men – yet, it wasn't enough. Not enough. They were on the losing
side, despite the fucking Wildfire, and the Hound knew it well enough.
Something within him broke apart. He was dying. Whether the battle would see to
it at once he did not know, but... he was so drained. So tired. Fuck, what was
he fighting for? And for whom?? For that little bloody shitstain of a king? The
bugger, who had shown the Little Bird her Father's head and had made her look
at it?? Fuck, no. Not any more. He'd leave. Leave and die like the cur he was
and meet most of his family in the Seven Hells of the afterlife. And there,
he'd wait for his monster of a brother, oh yes, he would.
But before... perhaps he could see the Little Bird one last time. Aye! He
wanted to see something sweet before his final breath. He'd take a song from
the Little Bird, and then, he'd be ready to die, and fuck the world, if anybody
tried to come in his way!!
The Hound turned around.
And he never knew who or what exactly hit him from behind before his world went
dark.
***** His longest night begins *****
Chapter Notes
     This is another very short chapter, but there will also be long ones,
     I promise. I had intended to post both parts originally at once, only
     my job was calling. :-)
Sandor woke up in the middle of the night. It was pitch black around him. Not
even a single torch was burning. For a moment, he was befuddled, and his head
was booming like a battle drum. Fuck, how many skins of Dornish Red had he
downed?
After a minute, he realized he was in a bed. A soft bed. Softer than the one he
was used to. Strange. Had he passed out in a whore house? Had he gone to
Chataya's? He'd never slept there before, but...
He moaned, because the headache was killing him.
“Back amongst the living?”
Sandor wrinkled his nose in surprise and distaste. He knew that bloody, old
voice. It belonged to Maester Pycelle. What the fuck was he doing here in the
middle of the night, and without a light?
“What bloody quackery is going on here? Did I fall off a staircase in my booze?
And why don't you have a torch with you?” he snarled.
There was a moment's heavy silence.
Then, he felt a light whiff, as if something was moving in front of his face.
“Fuck, what are you doing?” Sandor barked irritatedly.
Another heavy silence.
Then, Pycelle answered: “Clegane. It's not night time. It's about lunchtime.”
Sandor didn't quite understand and growled back: “Seven Hells, and why on earth
am I in a dark, windowless room then? Have I been imprisoned for some kind of
slight? But why a soft bed then? Which kind of shit is this?”
A cough from the old healer's throat.
“Clegane. You're in the healing quarters. You've been wounded. Don't you
remember the battle? And it looks as if... as if you're blind.”
After a moment of utter shock a dark roar emanated from the healing quarters
that was loud and fierce enough to shake the Red Keep in its foundations...
***
***** Accolades and Joffrey's mercy *****
People had gathered in the Throne Room, and there was a real throng of
spectators. Sansa was one of them, nervous and excited – like always when the
court met. She only hoped that there were no strippings and beatings for her
today. Cersei was clad in a breathtaking robe and looked as contented as a cat
that had fallen into a bowl of cream. Mace Tyrell, the fat patriarch from
Highgarden, was present, too, and he had a seat of honour. His sons Loras and
Garlan, the Gallant, were with him. The Game of Thrones was unfolding for them:
the Tyrell family was clearly ascending, grasping for the real power now.
The doors opened, and a horse entered. A rather portly man in shining armour
was sitting on the destrier, wearing a cloak in Lannister colours with the Lion
sigil on it. The horse stopped in front of the Iron Throne, and the man
dismounted.
“Uncle Kevan”, King Joffrey said loudly, “how very good to see you safe and
sound. You and grandfather have saved this city.”
There were hoorays from the courtiers.
When the cheers had ebbed away Joffrey asked: “Dearest uncle, how is Our Lord
Grandfather?”
Kevan Lannister's voice resounded in the hall: “He is recovering from the blow
he received while defending this city with his life. He is inconsolable that he
cannot be here today to celebrate the great victory of the one, true king.”
More cheering and “Joffrey! Joffrey!” shouts.
The king raised his voice again: “And We are inconsolable he cannot be here
with us. However, for what he has done, he will be honoured adequately.”
King Joffrey took the Chain of the Hand and placed it into Kevan's hands,
declaring: “Henceforth, my Lord Grandfather will be Hand of the King and legal
guardian, until We have come of age. Take this chain and give it to him as the
greatest symbol of trust a king can give to a most loyal subject.”
The pandemonium of the claqueurs started again. Sansa tried to stay invisible
amongst the jubilating crowd. The horse was lead away. It had left some
droppings; those were removed as well.
When Joffrey and his great-uncle had exchanged their pleasantries the king
called: “And now – lead in the next hero of the Battle of the Blackwater!”
The great doors opened once more, but this time, no rider came in. A tall,
broad man, who was lead by a page, entered with slow, small steps towards the
Iron Throne where he bowed.
“Your Grace.”
The steel-on-stone voice was flat, void of any emotions. The man's eyes were
wild as always... but they didn't focus on anybody or anything. The crowd had
fallen so silent that a falling pin could have been heard.
Sansa caught her breath.
Oh Gods! She had heard of Sandor Clegane's poor fate, but now, it was the first
time after the battle that she saw him again. Even if he had always been
hateful and vulgar in general and also rough with her she was full of pity now.
After all, he had never struck her, unlike others. He had been one of the
greatest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms – but what was a fighter who couldn't
see his opponent any longer? Sansa already feared he might replace Ser Dontos
as the Royal Jester.
The king, however, seemed to have other plans for his Hound.
“Sandor Clegane. You have served your king in the most impressive and loyal
way, and while carrying out your duty you lost your eyesight. – Pycelle, how
bad is it?”
“He received a blow on his head, and ever since he cannot see a single thing.
He might suffer from some kind of blood clot in his brain that makes it
impossible for him to see.”
“Will he recover?”
“It is not completely impossible, but unlikely. And if the blood clot moved
from one place to another he might see again, but be killed instead, because
another part of the head or a different organ might be damaged. The brain is a
most sensitive area. I am convinced that he will never be able to fight again.”
On hearing this Sansa could only think: “Holy Mother – that must be worse than
a death sentence for him!”
She remembered very clearly how The Hound had told her that for him killing was
the sweetest thing.
In the meantime, Joffrey weighed his head.
“These are sad news.”
“Aye, Your Grace”, The Hound rasped.
“In this case, We will see to it that you are duly rewarded so that you will be
able to live as comfortably as possible with this affliction. First of all, We
release you from the King's Guard with all due honours. Now about your future.
Harrenhal has recently been secured for the Lannisters. We now bestow it upon
you and your descendants, and We declare you Lord Paramount of the Trident. The
fief's incomes and the tributes of your bannermen will allow you to go on
living without any financial sorrows and your rank will be higher than you
could have ever dreamed of.”
A few paces in front of Sansa Petyr Baelish sucked in the air sharply, and his
fists were clenching in his apricot and plum-coloured doublet.
“He's not happy about the news”, Sansa wondered. She couldn't quite understand
the Master of the Coin, because the fortress in question was huge and
impressive, but basically only a ruin ever since it had been attacked by
dragons in the distant past. Apart from that the other lords from the
Riverlands would never accept Sandor Clegane as Lord Paramount, be it because
of the Hound's low birth rank, his looks, his character or his affiliation with
the Lannisters.
After a moment, Sansa heard The Hound growl: “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Joffrey had only waited for that reaction, smirked and declared: “A big, burned
kennel for a big, burned Dog!”
The people started to sneer and to laugh, and Sandor Clegane's dark expression
got even darker. He didn't say a thing, though, and was led to the side.
Next, King Joffrey dealt with the Tyrells. Ser Loras was appointed to the
King's Guard. The good-looking knight then said he had a sister named Margaery,
and that she was beautiful and virtuous, that she had allegedly fallen in love
with Joffrey from afar and that she wished to marry him.
Sansa's heart started to hobble.
“Please let Joffrey say “yes”! Oh please, please, please!” she thought
helplessly.
Joffrey pretended as if he had to think twice and mentioned he was betrothed
already, but the High Septon himself recanted the marriage contract with Sansa
– and then it was over. Although she couldn't show it openly she rejoiced. She
wouldn't have to marry Joffrey! She wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't! Oh, this was
the best day she had had for ages!
But then, the king remembered her, and a sardonic sheen crept into his eyes.
“Lady Sansa, please, come closer.”
What!? What now!?
Queen Cersei was confused as well. This had not been planned by her – just like
Eddard Stark's decapitation.
Sansa's heart beat madly while she stepped forward and towards the Iron Throne.
“Lady Sansa, life sometimes takes the strangest directions. We feel obliged to
take care of you, even though our betrothal has ended. We feel the need to
offer you a decent replacement, no royal status, of course, but a fine, loyal
man, who will be good to you – and who can also handle a traitor's daughter, if
necessary. And you'll even get a choice to pick somebody from.”
Sansa swallowed hard, while Joffrey went on: “There are several noble bachelors
here in this hall. I have already thought about it. Here are your choices.
First of all: Ser Ilyn Payne. Ser Ilyn, please step up!”
Sansa nearly fainted when she heard the name of the mute man who had beheaded
her father.
“Second: Lord Varys, member of the Small Council.”
There were snickering sounds from the crowd, because everybody knew that the
man was a eunuch.
“Third: you have just heard of his valour – Lord Sandor Clegane.”
If the other two men had already been surprised they were included in the
choice for a possible match for Lady Sansa The Hound was absolutely
thunderstruck, no matter how hard he tried to control his features.
Joffrey went on: “Fourth, we've got a man you have already declared your...
interest for. By saving his life. Ser Dontos, step up, too.”
The poor man, who served as the king's jester now, was completely confused –
and even more so, because he was more than half drunk. As always.
Sansa was really sick by now.
Through a wall of fog she heard the king's last offer: “And finally, there is a
fine man, who serves the realm most loyally by managing the financial affairs
and who is known to be an old friend of your mother: Lord Petyr Baelish.”
The small man in his apricot and plum-coloured doublet came closer, stroked his
goatee and bowed lightly, a hint of a smile on his lips and in his eyes.
Sansa felt incredibly dizzy and was close to vomiting in front of the Iron
Throne. How she managed to swallow the bile that was rising in her throat she
did not know.
“Lady Sansa – you aren't saying a single word! Should I choose a husband for
you from these good men?”
Joffrey was obviously having the fun of his life.
Sansa managed to chirp feebly: “Your Grace – I'm just so impressed by your...
merciful kindness. I... well... no... – I know my father was a traitor and...
he deserved his punishment, but still... I cannot marry the man who killed
him... however well-justified.”
Joffrey inclined his head with a smirk, and Ser Ilyn stepped back.
Sansa's eyes flickered back and forth desperately.
“Lord Varys, I know your value for the realm, but I fear... a marriage between
the two of us would not... fulfil the... requirements for a wedded life...”
Sneers from the crowd.
Joffrey inclined his head again, and Lord Varys smiled sadly and answered: “My
dear child, it is my profound conviction that our mutual... appreciation is
genuine, but indeed not quite... sufficient for a marriage.”
With those words, he stepped back and hid his hands in the big sleeves of his
robe.
Sansa was close to panic now. How could she exclude someone else? And whom? And
who would be left over?
“Oh Holy Mother, please guide me!” she prayed silently.
“Ser Dontos, you are a good man, I know it. A very good man...” – the knight
hiccuped – “... but no.”
Ser Dontos looked a little sad, when he retreated, but Sansa guessed he'd drown
himself in wine and forget her soon.
Now, only two men were left: Sandor Clegane and Petyr Baelish.
Seven help! Sansa was at a loss. She prayed for a sign.
“Lady Sansa, we don't have time all day long. Reach a decision and be
contented”, Joffrey spat.
Lord Baelish smiled encouragingly.
***
***** Duties - Revision *****
Chapter Notes
     I have revised the chapter and hope that the result is an
     improvement. Thanks for your comments!
Duties
 
Sandor was in a state of internal uproar. This was fucking unbelievable! He had
known that this bugger, who called himself “king”, was an arsehole of the worst
kind, not unlike his own flaming brother Gregor – but this spectaculum was
outrageous. And the court only watched on, snickering maliciously behind upheld
hands, fascinated as if it were a mere bloody mummer's show. Well, in fact, for
them that was what it was. They didn't care that the Little Bird was humbled
and humiliated beyond measure. The fast, shallow breathing where Sansa was
standing told him how upset she was, and he could imagine her shocked, dilated,
blue eyes all too well.
On another note, he realised that Lady Sansa's impending marriage was a
compensation for the thrice-damned Mockingbird since he, the Hound, had got
Harrenhal. Earlier plans had meant it to be different and said that the fief
should be bestowed on the Master of the Coin. So the small man with the goatee
was certainly fuming that he had not been able to secure the burned fortress
for himself. At least Sandor didn't have to see the man's face.
But it was clear that sodding Littlefinger would be chosen as husband now. He
was a little old, but elegant and comparably good-looking, intelligent as well,
and he could be charming, even if it was a false charm. Baelish was probably
not the Little Bird's fucking dream knight, but he came closest to what she
deemed important. And birds flocked together, even if one was a bloody
Mockingbird.
In contrast to that he wasn't only a big, bad, ugly brute of a Dog any longer,
but also a cripple. Blind and useless. Fuck. If only he had died right on the
battlefield!
And sure enough, Sansa spoke up with a trembling voice to rule him out. Sandor
didn't even listen intently.
“Lord Clegane. You are indeed a valiant warrior, I have seen it myself”, the
Little Bird chirped, and he wanted to growl: “Bugger that!” But, of course, he
couldn't swear in the Throne Room like that.
In the meantime, Sansa went on: “You even saved my life once – on the day of
the Bread Riots. You didn't fear for yourself for a moment. And now, you helped
save King's Landing; in a manner of speaking you saved me indirectly again. So
I choose you.”
Only after a moment of absolute silence did it dawn on Sandor that Sansa must
have said something surprising, but understanding didn't set in until Joffrey
cleared his throat and he heard him make a step in his direction – but even
then, his brain refused to accept what the outcome was. A whiff of the
youngster's loud smell, a mix of sour-cheezy sweat and a heavy perfume nearly
caused him to retch, and suddenly, Sandor's heart started to hobble in the most
unruly way.
Meanwhile, the king spoke into the booming silence: “Lady Sansa, so this is
your choice? Is this your last word?”
He sounded as if he had just found out his grandfather really couldn't shit
gold and had accidentally stepped into the heap of dung.
The Little Bird's voice was shaking from fear, but she still answered: “Yes.”
King Joffrey seemed to be irritated for a moment when he spat: “Clegane, today
is really your lucky day.”
Sandor's brain had gone to auto-pilot and caused him to answer: “I think so,
Your Grace.”
A moment later, he heard a vicious sneer from the little shitstain of a king.
“Well, well. That makes things easier for me. You don't worship the Seven, so
we don't need a septon here. I'll just sign a decree here and now, declaring
you husband and wife. That's the easiest way. Uncle Kevan, I have already
prepared the document, I only have to fill in the Hound's name. Hand it to me.
And a quill. Right. Fine.”
There was a scratching sound. Quill on parchment.
“Now the seal. – Yes. Done. – Hound, Lady Sansa, I declare you husband and
wife. Here is the document.”
A piece of paper was pressed into Sandor's hands.
Joffrey's malicious, lewd voice droned on: “Now that this is done other men
will get their rewards for their loyalty and success as well. So take your wife
now, Dog, leave and SEE TO YOUR NEW DUTIES!”
The king laughed obscenely, leaving no doubt about what his order meant, and
Sandor wanted to throttle the lad with his bare hands.
“My Lord”, Sansa whispered at him and took his arm.
Sandor turned around stiffly, his head swimming, and was lead out of the throne
room by the Little Bird.
Wife.
No.
This had to be a bad jape. The worst ever.
 
***
 
Sansa was so very much afraid of what would happen now. Holy Seven, why had she
chosen HIM? Well, for the reasons she had given. She had also remembered two
other scenes: when he had dabbed at her bloody lip with a handkerchief after
she had been shown her father's head, and the moment when he had given her his
cloak after the others had beaten and stripped her in court. In contrast, Petyr
Baelish had never actually done a thing for her. At the same time, she knew
what Sandor Clegane was capable of. She recalled how he had ridden down Arya's
friend Mycah on Cersei's orders, how he had gutted the men who had threatened
her on the day of the Bread Riots, how aggressive he was when was drunk.
Would he be aggressive now? He was blind and dependent of late, but he was
still an extremely strong man. And what would happen in marriage bed? Joffrey
had loved to tell her in detail what he would do to her himself once they were
married, and his fantasies had been as vivid as cruel and bloody and
disgusting. The mere thought of these duties left her trembling.
Suddenly, Sansa stopped dead.
“What, Little Bird?”
“I... I don't even know where your room is.”
“Take me to the fucking Godswood.”
Sansa winced. Did he want to... consummate the marriage in the open??
 
When they had arrived Sandor Clegane puffed angrily: “Right, no bleeding
listeners here. Is there any servant or gardener who could spy on us?”
“No! We're completely alone!”
They were standing on a narrow path nearly overgrown with elderberry. She could
feel the sharp edges of the pebbles on the way poke into the soles of her
dainty slippers, and somewhere nearby a bluebird sounded as if it was gibing at
them.
Then, the Hound turned towards her, took her chin with an iron grip and looked
down at her, like he had done before – only this time he couldn't focus on her.
His eyes were still a stormy grey.
“Fuck, what did that mean? Why me?”
Sansa felt tiny under his unseeing gaze.
“The king... he does what he wants to do. And... I told you in the Throne Room
why it was you.”
Her... involuntary bridegroom ran his other hand through his dark, lank hair.
“Seven Hells, Little Bird, I'm no man to marry.”
Sansa chirped with an even smaller voice: “That was the reason why you were
picked for me to choose. Like the others.”
Sandor Clegane let go of her chin and uttered a harsh curse that made her ears
go red.
So Sansa stuttered: “I'm... I'm so sorry...”
“Aye, of course you're sorry for your choice. Baelish would have been better,
wouldn't he? And now, you're already regretting your decision”, Sandor cut in
sharply.
“NO!” Sansa retorted, panicking. “I didn't intend to say anything like that!”
“No, because you're always a bloody fine lady, but it's what you're thinking.
Or what you'll be thinking within days. Or hours, more likely.”
Seven help, The Hound... no... San... Sandor was so very bitter – if possible,
it was even worse than before... before the battle. And now, he could do
everything to her he wanted. And that was also exactly what the king was
expecting. Unbidden tears were streaming down her face.
“Fuck, are you whining again? Stop ululating like a boiling kettle on the
hearth fire!”
Sansa's heart felt raw.
She attempted to swallow her muffled cries.
Sandor hissed. Snarled. He sounded at least as frustrated as she was.
“Seven Hells, do you know what the king wants us to do now?”
“To... to... bed me?”
The Hound nodded and didn't look intrigued at all.
“If I don't fuck you he'll say I disobeyed the king's order and have our heads
on spikes. Thrice-damned Seven Hells of shit!!”
Sansa thought she'd crumple at his feet in distress any moment.
“I... I don't want you to pay for all of this with your head. I'll... comply.”
The Hound barked his grating, mirthless laughter, and a shiver ran down Sansa's
spine.
“Aye, you'll comply – and you know what? It's easier for you to get fucked,
because you only have to lie back and endure. I'm the one who needs a bloody
stiff cock in the first place, and I still don't have a clue how I should lust
after a frightened Little Bird who might puke in my face from fear and disgust
at any moment. And I'm the one who will be on a level with his flaming brother
when it comes to rape afterwards.”
“You... you're not like your brother.”
“How do you know? Do you know Gregor so well?”
“No, but even the little I know about the both of you is already enough to see
that clearly.”
The next moment, Sansa pressed her hand on her mouth. Had she really said such
a thing??
Sandor Clegane was taking hold of her chin again, but not quite as rudely as
before.
“What a surprise”, he growled. “The Little Bird is opening her beak to utter an
opinion of her own.”
Sansa was paralysed, and after a moment, he sighed and released her.
He said darkly: “I fear there is no way around you losing your maidenhead.”
“I... know.”
Another low growl.
“We'll try to do it differently, Little Bird. I'll use my hand and we'll hope
it'll be enough, in case anyone decides to assess your state.”
Sansa didn't know what to answer.
After a moment, her... husband ordered: “Lead us behind a bush so we can't be
seen. I'll try to keep it short.”
Sansa's legs were like jelly, but she obeyed. Behind a bush she was asked to
lie down, which she did. The Hound did the same. Soft moss was covering the
ground here, for which she was grateful.
“You're not having your moon blood, Little Bird, have you?”
Sansa shook her head wildly, but then, she noticed that he couldn't see her and
said: “No.”
“That makes things easier now. Pull up your skirts and remove your
smallclothes.”
The blunt command made her shiver – but at the same time, his matter-of-
factness helped her believe he wouldn't like it to torture her. Unlike Joffrey.
Yes, at least, she didn't have to do this with Joffrey.
She blushed fiercely when she put off her underwear and exposed her womanhood.
But she wasn't stripped brutally and gaped at like she had been in court.
Sandor had actually even averted his face, even though he couldn't see her
anyway. The wind was cool on her sensitive skin, and it felt so... unusual
there.
“Finished?” The Hound asked.
“Y...yes.”
“Guide my hand to your legs.”
Sansa felt panic surge again – but then, her... husband didn't look any happier
than her. Gingerly, she took a calloused hand, blushed even more and put it on
her thigh. His hand was warm and dry. And she could feel his tension. Gods, why
did they have to do this, if they both didn't want it?
His hand crept upwards, to her private parts.
“You need to part your legs a little”, he rasped.
Hesitantly, she obliged. Sansa felt his big, long finger probe her entrance,
and her muscles contracted.
Sandor's mouth twitched, and he swore under his breath.
“I know it's difficult – but at least TRY to relax.”
Sansa did her best, though it was near impossible. Her... husband drew some
circles down there with his thumb, which caused her nervous heart to flutter
even more. His index finger entered a little and found some kind of resistance.
Was that her maidenhead? He probed her there again and seemed to find a little
opening, for her body started to give way. There was a short sting, as if she
had cut herself on a piece of paper – but not much more. It surprised her no
end. After Ser Meryn's and Ser Balon's fists this was almost harmless. She did
feel ashamed of the intimate touch, yes, but in comparison to the humiliating
things Joffrey had done to her this was something... something she could
manage.
Her new husband moved his hand a little. Sansa uttered a tiny mewl at the
sensation.
“Your body is reacting on instinct. You're getting a little wet, even if it's
not much. Still. Good for you,” Sandor commented flatly, and Sansa was
embarrassed, though at the same time she wasn't as afraid any more as she had
been minutes before. In fact, she was even surprised that her body seemed to be
doing something right of its own accord.
Sandor added a second finger and widened her further. It felt uncomfortable,
but it didn't hurt much. And a moment later, the fingers were gone. After
having been stretched so much Sansa felt strangely empty, though only for a
little instant – then, a wave of relief washed over her.
The Hound sniffed at the hand he had used, and caused Sansa to flush another
shade of red.
“Copper smell. There is a little blood on my fingers, isn't it?” Sandor Clegane
inquired.
“A... a drop or so”, Sansa admitted.
Sandor nodded gravely to himself and told her to put on her clothes again and
to lead him to a small nearby pond so he could wash his hands.
Sansa felt a little raw between her legs, but to be honest, her moon blood was
worse than that. She was confused. That had been it? She wasn't a maid any
longer? How strange. Plus she didn't feel any different, neither any wiser nor
more experienced or anything the like.
 
***
 
Sandor had always known he was a disgusting monster, but never before had he
hated himself so much. He'd wanted to kill himself with the next dagger he came
across, if he had not feared fucking Joffrey would marry the Little Bird off to
another brute the next instant.
Fuck, he had taken something from Sansa that had never been meant for him. And
she had been a maiden just flowered and not yet ripe for picking, whatever else
other men would say about her having had the first moon blood.
She was so delicate and tender, and apart from her maiden's blood he had also
smelled her sweet female scent, and her body had been warm where he had touched
her. It all felt so damned wrong!
 
While he was kneeling in the grass and washing his hand in the cold water of
the pond he suddenly heard his unhappy bride say: “I've got... a question.”
“Then bloody go ahead with it!”
A moment's pause.
Then: “King Joffrey said: 'Take your wife now, leave and see to your new
duties!' – Now, Harrenhal is one of your duties, too, isn't it?”
“If I ever chose to care about the ruin – aye.”
“Doesn't it mean you have to look after it? Probably live there? Could you
interpret Joffrey's words literally and take me to the Riverlands?”
Sandor stopped dead for a moment. Then, he threw his head back and laughed
madly.
“Little Bird, you're in your castles in the skies again! As if any guard would
let us leave! And just in case you've forgotten: I'm blind now. I'm useless.
Couldn't even cut down a straw puppet right in front of me any longer, much
less a buggering knave on the road. And how the fuck should we travel? Would
the lady need an entourage? A nice, gilded cart that reminds her of her cage?”
He knew he was being cruel again, but he was long beyond caring.
“Seven Hells, Little Bird, we could rather expect our king to annul our
marriage and to marry you off to somebody else, just to make you a real whore.”
As soon as the words had left his mouth Sandor was suddenly sure: that was what
the king intended! It would be the greatest fun for the little crowned
shitstain to hand Sansa from one man to another to another... and a worldly
marriage decree of the king was so much easier to disband than a match sealed
in the Sept of Baelor... SHITSHITSHIT! A second later, the Hound remembered how
Joffrey had once inveighed against the Imp that his uncle's taste for whores
was so insatiable that there were not enough women of their profession in the
Seven Kingdoms.
Had Sandor been sick already – he now wanted to puke.
Fuck, he would not leave the Little Bird to the blasted Halfman!
“Little Bird?”
“Yes?”
“Find me someone, who can lead me to my room. A servant. Then, you go to your
own chamber. Put on a normal dress, something unspectacular, if possible. Wear
a pair of boots, or firm shoes – whatever you've got. Then, you take a bag. Put
in a second dress and some smallclothes. A comb, if you absolutely need it, and
all the jewellery you've got. Don't wear any necklace or the like openly.
Fasten a cloak around your shoulders. Nothing in bright colours – your hair is
more than bright enough. Actually, it would be good, if you could hide it under
a hood or veil, or something like that. Then, you come down to the yard. Meet
me there. There shouldn't be many people around, because the gathering of the
court and the distribution of rewards will take all day.”
 
***
 
Sansa was so intimidated that she didn't dare to make a peep. She was confused;
one moment, the Hound declared her mad that she wanted to leave the Red Keep –
and the next, his scarred face contorted from fury, and he was suddenly giving
her orders for packing. Holy Mother, what did it all mean??
She did as she was asked, though. When they arrived at the entrance to the
Godswood, they came across a sentry on his round; his armour rattled when he
came to a sudden halt.
“What are YOU doing here??” the man asked, clearly thunderstruck. “Shouldn't
you be in the Throne Room?”
Then, the Hound snarled: “I've just fucked my bride, as the king expected me to
do. If you don't believe me, ask King Joffrey. He's in one of his GENEROUS
moods today.” Next, he grabbed into his tunic, where he had stuffed their
wedding papers and waved it under the man's nose.
The sentry seemingly couldn't read, Sansa noticed, but he knew the royal seal.
His eyes flicked in disbelief from the document to Sansa to the Hound, so she
turned as red as a beetroot and looked away in shame. Gods, did he have to be
so vulgar and talk like that about the intimacies they'd shared? But obviously
Sandor Clegane knew which words to use for a mean soldier: the sentry stood
aside with a scowl and let them pass.
When they entered the fortress again, the Hound... no, her husband, she had to
learn that, rasped darkly: “Right. If anybody asks the little bugger he'll
confirm I'm just obeying the king's orders.”
A moment later, they passed a servant in a corridor, and Sandor Clegane was on
him with a snarl and started to give the skinny, elder man – who was paralysed
from fear of Joffrey's burned sworn shield – his orders.
Sansa rushed off to her own room, the echoes of her light steps bouncing off
the stony walls, and made haste, just like her... her husband had told her to
do. She barely met a single person on her way, since everybody wanted to see
the big spectaculum down in the Throne Room, and many servants were confined to
the kitchens or the royal wing, because there should be a feast after all the
heroes of the Blackwater Battle had been rewarded, and people wanted to
celebrate their victory over Stannis.
In front of her chamber, there was no guard for once, and neither was anyone
inside. Good. With swift fingers she rummaged through her few possessions. She
didn't own much. A golden necklace Joffrey had given her in their early days,
and a pendant with some garnets from Cersei. She'd make good use of the
jewellery and sell it soon, if Sandor Clegane allowed it. Her dresses were all
horribly tight; she had hoped for some new robes in the near future, because
she had grown so much, but now, it would have to wait. So her bundle turned out
very small.
Faster than she would have believed possible she was ready and dashed down to
the yard.
The Hound's black, harnessed courser was just being led out of the stables, but
it wasn't saddled yet. Stranger, the fierce steed's name was Stranger, Sansa
remembered and shook her head at that blasphemous name.
Her... bridegroom hadn't arrived yet. But a little later, she heard his heavy,
measured steps. She turned around and saw him approach, being lead by a servant
again. In addition to his normal clothes, he was wearing his mail shirt and a
short sword on his hip. His own, small bundle was stripped to his back.
Ever since Joffrey had called her forward to the Iron Throne today her heart
had been pumping madly, but now, she was so nervous she thought her legs would
give way under her! Would they really manage to leave King's Landing? Or would
they be caught and die?
 
***
 
Sandor's body was full of adrenaline. What he was doing was nothing short of
suicide. They were mad even to try this foolishness. He could hear his horse
neigh.
“Little Bird?”
“Yes?”
“Already there. A swift Little Bird you are. Now mount Stranger here.”
“He... he hasn't been saddled.”
“Of course not, stupid Bird! The knob of the saddle would be too high for you,
and we have to ride double. Blind as I am, you have to sit in front of me and
take the reins.”
He heard a little gasp.
“But... but how shall I mount? I'm such a bad and inexperienced rider! And your
Stranger is so... lively.”
Sandor grunted irritatedly: “A vicious beast – that's what you want to say,
right? Well, come over here to the stairs, you'll have to try to mount from an
elevated position then.”
In the end, they both landed in the mud of the yard once. Mounting a horse
without a saddle, but with another rider already sitting on horseback when you
were blind was bloody more difficult than he had expected. Finally, they were
dirty, but seated, Sansa's body pressed against his for need of support – and
Stranger was very annoyed and excited after their clumsiness. He showed it
clearly by shaking his mane and snorting and whinnying until Sandor put his
hands on Sansa's for a moment and reined him in.
Slowly, they started to trot off, and it was certainly a bloody sorry sight for
any possible onlooker – in a different context, Joffrey would have shat himself
with glee.
Then, they were facing the first guard.
He stopped them.
“Where are you going?” he demanded to know.
“Leaving on King Joffrey's orders. Lady Sansa is my wife now, here is the
king's wedding decree. See? And the king told me to take my wife, to leave and
to see to my new duties. Since His Grace has just bestowed Harrenhal upon me,
my duty is to take care of it – so this is where we're heading.”
“I'm pretty sure King Joffrey was just referring to bedding your... bride.”
“So you claim to know what the king meant with his words? I guess His Grace
will be most interested to hear that. And react accordingly. Apart from that –
fucking my wife is ONE duty. And we have already fulfilled it, I can bloody
tell you. And I'll do it again at any time, if necessary on horseback, if it
suits His Grace. But King Joffrey was talking of dutIES. Even your fucking
wizened brain should realize that that's more than ONE duty. So, he was clearly
talking of my wife AND Harrenhal. And since it's a bloody haunted place, as
everyone knows, I've got to go and see to things myself. Well, 'see' is not the
right word, replace it with 'smell' then, since I'm a Dog. I don't need my
eyes. I can still kill a man, don't you ever doubt that, because I can smell
his fear and know where he is.”
Sandor sniffed, and tipped his finger right on the guard's nose. It was a lucky
strike, but the man didn't have to know that. Then, The Hound moved the hand
away with a fluent motion, and his dagger glided from his sleeve into his hand
in an instant.
“See?”
Sandor heard the man gulp noisily, and Sansa uttered a tiny squeal, too. That
wasn't helpful at all, but he knew the guard, some Eddy Tollbritt, and the
man's mouth was bigger than either his cock, his brain or – most important –
his courage. And true enough, the man coughed: “Well, with two people on one
horse – a delicate lady and a blind man – you won't be fast, I guess, and if
you... misinterpreted the king's orders he'll be fast enough to catch you
again.”
The next moment, they were through the first gate. Somehow, the clopping of
Stranger's hooves on the cobbled street was too loud in Sandor's ears, perhaps
because he knew that they would have to face more guards.
However, it turned out to be easier than they had thought. Though blind, the
Hound – known for his loyalty to the Lannisters – still inspired so much fear
that the sentries shrank back from him and let them pass. Even at the city gate
it was the same. And then, they were out of King's Landing.
Sandor thought that the air was suddenly fresh and sweet, now that they had
left the stench of the capital behind... and the fact that he had Sansa's
lovely hair right under his nose added to the impression. Still, he was sure
they'd be stopped soon. Stopped and killed. The only question was whether it
would be a swift death on the road, or a slow, torture-induced demise. He could
only hope for the former variant.
 
***
***** Most unwelcome developments (I) *****
FUCK! This big scarred brute of a Dog had shattered all his dreams. First, he
had taken Harrenhal away from him. The fortress had been meant for him, not for
this blind cur of a crippled warrior.
And as if that wasn't enough Sansa Stark, who should have chosen him, HIM...
she had just decided to marry Clegane. Why on earth had she done that? She was
Cat's daughter, she was his! And not only had she preferred that scorched block
of meat, no – for all the other disgusting candidates she had found some polite
(if false) words. For him, however, she had not even had a reaction! That was
simply outrageous! A scandal! It had been easy to talk the spoiled king into
this pick-yourself-a-husband-affair since he had always liked this kind of
games with his betrothed. How on earth could the outcome go so utterly wrong??
Oh, yes, he had been given another fief in the Crown Lands as compensation, but
that was only a small, unimportant, rather bare stretch of land, and a keep
that wasn't even worth to be dubbed such.
Instead of some glorious prospects he'd have to labour again to earn himself a
good position.
Petyr was sitting at his desk and looking into the hearth fire, stroking his
beard.
Hmmm... the informant, who had stood sentry at the Godswood had told him that
Sansa Stark and the Hound had been there and... had obviously fucked in the
walled park. Strange spot to consummate a marriage for a high-born lady.
Clegane had probably done it, because the Stark girl liked the Godswood for
prayer, it was well-known, and he had intended to put her off that place,
heathen Dog that he was. The guard had also noticed that the young bride had
moved a little awkwardly, but had still been able to walk properly. After
having been bedded by the Lannister Dog that had to be an accomplishment. Petyr
remembered Nilla, who had served the Hound in one of his brothels once, and she
had recounted that everything about the man was in proportion, including his
private parts. She had also told him that the scarred man wasn't an elaborate
lover – a short, rough tumble from behind, and he had come and been gone sooner
than you could say “Flea Bottom”.
The Mockingbird unlaced his trousers and got his own cock out. Probably,
Clegane had meant to break Sansa Stark in well, which would serve himself just
fine enough, once he would be able to lay his hands on her delicate body. The
blind cur could be disposed of soon – without his eyesight he wasn't much of an
adversary any longer.
Petyr started to pump into is fist and imagined it was Sansa Stark's sweet
cunt. Aaaah, he would punish her adequately for choosing the wrong man. He
could already see her, bound, blindfolded, helpless and with red scores on her
cream-white arse. Yes. Oh yes. That was good. He remembered how the girl had
been stripped and beaten in court, how her little teats had been heaving from
pain before that damned Clegane had covered her with his cloak.
Fuck, that blasted man again! Well, he wouldn't have Sansa Stark's maiden's
blood, but he would make her lick up the Hound's life blood. HA!
At that moment, Petyr snarled and shot his load. Aaaah, yes, that was good!
He'd treasure that fantasy well. And it wouldn't be long until it would become
reality.
The next morning, however, made things only worse. One of his spies told him
that Sandor Clegane and his young wife weren't in the Red Keep any longer. This
was a shock for him. He just wanted to inform the king when he was summoned for
a meeting of the Small Council. Seemingly the disappearance of the couple had
not gone unnoticed by others either.
So he prepared hastily and made for the council room. To his surprise King
Joffrey was present as well – and he was in a foul mood. He had a guard on his
knees in front of him. The man was sweating from fear.
“When did the two leave yesterday?” That was Cersei Lannister. She was purring
like a lioness lying in wait for the lethal pounce after having spotted a
victim.
“It must have been a little more than an hour after the king had started
dealing out his rewards in the Throne Room, I think.
“Did he give any reasons for why he was... leaving?” Joffrey asked in a sour
voice.
“Yes, Your Grace, he said you had ordered him to leave, to take his wife and to
see to his new duties, so he was thinking you meant consummating his marriage
and taking care of Harrenhal as well. He stated he was obeying your very
words.”
Joffrey hissed and spat, and Cersei commented venomously: “The insolence of
it!!”
Petyr's heart leapt in sheer joy. The Hound was making things easy for him.
So he spoke up: “Your Grace, you should catch and execute that man at once!
He's abducted your ward Lady Stark!”
Suddenly, the soft voice of Lord Varys could be heard: “Lord Baelish, I presume
you're making a mistake here. The Stark girl isn't His Grace's ward any longer,
strictly speaking, because she's Lord Clegane's wife now, and he can take her
wherever he wants. And he is a more intelligent man than we might take him for,
in spite of his extremely rough manners; in fact, it was a very sagacious and
helpful choice that he made, because – loyal as we all know him to be – he's
got the perfect means to secure His Grace's power.”
Grrrrr. The eunuch knew all too well how to handle the king – and sure enough,
Joffrey wanted to know: “What do you mean, Lord Varys?”
“The Lady Sansa is half a Tully by heritage and the very image of her Tully
mother. Now, you have declared Sandor Clegane Lord Paramount of the Trident,
but we all know that the lords from the Riverlands would never accept him as
their overlord. But with Lady Sansa at his side he might win them over to our
cause.”
“The traitors should all be executed”, Joffrey pouted, but Lord Varys answered:
“Those are indeed very understandable feelings – yet, some of them are very
competent and we could make extremely good use of them, if they stayed alive
and switched to our side. It might help to overthrow the traitorous Young Wolf
completely.”
Petyr was fuming inwardly, and he started: “Your Grace, but...”
Joffrey, however, had made up his perverted mind and cut in: “Hush, Baelish! I
want to hear no more. The Stark bitch may rot in the Dog's kennel, as far as
I'm concerned. I don't want to lay my eyes on her again. If The Hound secures
my power – fine! If I find a sign of treason from his side, which I doubt very
much, I can still send a raven and a killer to clear up the situation.”
Cersei had tried to pour honey into her son's ears, too, to persuade him of a
more ruthless and direct way of action, but she had been reprimanded by him,
and that was the end of the discussion.
It was a pity that Lord Tywin was still recovering from the wound he had
received during the Battle of the Blackwater. Had the Old Lion been present he
would have reined in his grandson. But it couldn't be helped.
The Imp, who had been injured as well, might have been a help, too. Or not. You
never knew with the Halfman. It was futile to think about it.
At the end of the meeting, Joffrey had only called for Ser Ilyn Payne and told
the mute man to deal adequately with the incompetent guard, who had let The
Hound and Lady Sansa slip out of the castle.
Petyr wanted to scream. But that wouldn't have helped at all. So he had to do
something different. Via his brothels it was always possible to find a man who
was willing to do a dirty job for enough coin. Oh yes, he'd see to it that
Sandor Clegane would be dead soon.
***
***** Most unwelcome developments (II) *****
Seven Heavens! Holy Mother! Was the Hound dying??
The evening before he had misjudged the distance they had covered, because they
were so slow with their horse and he couldn't see the landscape. So they hadn't
reached the inn where he had planned to sleep. Instead, they had stopped at a
barn full of hay.
For Sansa, it had been horrible that she had to unharness Stranger, because she
didn't know well how to deal with the tack. That had always been the task of
the stable-boys. Plus the courser was as wild as his master. Getting off the
horse in the first place was difficult enough – her legs cramped and her bottom
hurt horribly, so she could barely stand. Next, the steed had bitten her.
Sandor Clegane had exploded then: “Fuck, Little Bird, you really know nothing
about the useful things in life. The septas and your parents pumped you up with
songs and politeness and needlework, but I bet you don't even know how to
kindle a fire. You could freeze off your arse easily in the north then. Am I
right?”
What should she say to that? Tears started to well up in her eyes again, the
Hound swore in his typical vulgar way, and then fumbled the tack clumsily until
it came off the horse after what seemed to be an eternity. Stranger neighed
happily and started to feed on the hay at once while his master started to
groom him with a little brush he had brought along. The movements were a bit
awkward, but given the fact that the eyes that should coordinate the hand were
blind, it was impressive how well the job was performed, and it told of the
experience of a warrior's life in the saddle.
There would be no fire that night, just as Sandor Clegane had predicted, and
they had neither bedrolls nor food – only their cloaks.
“At least we've got enough straw around, so we don't have to sleep on the hard
ground, and I've got two wine skins in my knapsack”, her... husband announced
grumpily.
Sansa had rummaged through his bag and furrowed her brow.
“There are only two empty skins here – but there is no wine in them.”
“WHAT!?!? WHAT THE FUCK!?!? I TOLD THAT THRICE-DAMNED SERVANT!!!”
She had handed him the skins to prove her point and added that there was a
little stream close by, so they didn't need to go thirsty.
“Bugger the water – I want wine!” The Hound had bellowed, and Sansa was so
afraid because of his fury then that she had run out of the hay barn with the
empty skins. She had drunk her fill from the rivulet. When she had returned
with the water-filled vessels Sandor Clegane had still been rampant, had tried
to harness Stranger again, but the angry horse had kicked him.
The blind, scarred man had given up then, holding himself where he had been
hurt. Sansa had tried to soothe him, but he had only yelled at her and caused
her to retreat into the furthest corner of the barn and to curl herself up into
a tight ball. The dry straw had needled her all night, and she had not
understood how some people could call it romantic when lovers ended up in a hay
barn. At the hour of the wolf she had had to make water.
When she had passed her husband she had seen that the dark shadow that was his
body was writhing and twitching and moaning. Swiftly, she had come closer and
tried to see what was wrong, but her involuntary husband had just growled and
snarled at her in the most vicious way.
“What does a useless Little Bird want to do, hm? LEAVE. ME. BE!”
While Sansa had been making water outside then she had been sobbing like mad.
Finally, she was free from the Red Keep, but at which prize? And this was her
wedding night. As a girl she had always dreamed of a wonderful feast and a
gentle, good, loving man. Nothing in her life had turned out the way she had
wished for. Even the royal mercy for her father. She thought of how she had
betrayed her father, as thoroughly as if she had led him to the block herself.
And then, Sansa thought that she deserved her sad lot. That she deserved even
worse.
The gods seemed to support her attitude, for when she returned to the barn, her
sick bridegroom had started to vomit uncontrollably. At first daylight, he had
lost control over his bladder and his bowels as well. He was dirty and stinking
and half unconscious and still a mass of twitching muscles. But whenever she
came close he snapped and barked at her. A few times she managed to make him
drink some water, but that was basically all she could do.
Once, she offered to go to the next village and to get a healer, but the Hound
had only snarled between rattling teeth: “PAH! Stupid Bird! The poxy villagers
would steal our money, rape you and murder us both. They'd be predators and we
their prey.”
Luckily, Sansa had found some wild berries and even lots of nuts, because there
was a huge walnut tree nearby. Otherwise, they would have both starved, and
even so, she found she was hungry often enough. At least Stranger had enough
hay.
***** Bad conscience and cleanup *****
***
Seven bloody, buggering hells!! Never in his life had he felt so very bad. But
no, that was wrong. Nothing could be worse than being burned alive by your own
brother. This here, however, was not so very far off: his intestines were
broiling, his skin aflame and cold like the Wall itself at the same time.
Sometimes, he heard the Little Bird chirp some useless shit. She gave him some
water, but otherwise, she was a flaming drag for him. A few times she tried to
feed him some nuts. As if he wanted to eat! He needed some wine!
Oh, even in his feverish state he knew what it meant: he had become more like
that sodding Ser Dontos than it was good for him. Fuck, it was no bloody
wonder. And normally, he would not have cared, if he'd drunk himself to an
early death. Especially not now that he was blind and always woke up to black
night in front of his eyes.
But no. Now, he had the Little Bird at his heels. So he had at least to get her
as far as Harrenhal and to take care of her for a little while. Fuck the Seven!
Oh, of course, it wouldn't be for long. The Hound guessed that the Young Wolf,
Sansa's brother, who had been too damned busy to care about saving his sister
from the Lions' den in King's Landing, would sneak her away from him soon and
most likely kill him in the process. After all, Robb was a king now and needed
the Little Bird as a pawn for a profitable marriage – even more so since the
sod of a young man had fucked up his betrothal with the weasel-like Freys and
married a woman more to his taste. Sandor was convinced that Sansa would be
made to pay for her brother's foolishness – he knew what high lords and kings
were like well enough.
Bleeding Stranger, he was sure he was taking Sansa from one hell to another;
and being blind he couldn't do a thing about it. But ah, for crying out loud,
he had not been much of a help when he could still see. He'd been a bloody
craven, to be honest, had let the little shitstain of a king hurt and humiliate
her over and over again – and it wasn't the first time he had been incapable of
helping. When Robb would take the Hound's life that would make things at least
a little less deplorable for the Little Bird.
Sandor glided in and out of consciousness, his thoughts were frayed at the
rims... but when he tumbled out of the hay barn after an unknown period of time
and threw himself into the nearby crook with Sansa's help, peeled off his
bedraggled clothes and soaked his soiled, scarred body he knew that he had one
last task in his forsaken, buggering life: he'd make sure that Sansa could
return to her family. After all, her brother might have got his flaws – but not
all brothers were like his own monstrous sibling Gregor. No. The Little Bird
belonged into its nest. And to make it possible he wouldn't even drink the
tiniest drop of ale or Dornish Red.
***
They had been in the barn for two days and nights – and finally, Sandor Clegane
seemed to recover. Oh, he was still weak on his legs and trembling, but his
spirits were slowly coming back. And then, he managed to get up and leave the
building to clean himself in the stream. Sansa was relieved without end that he
was finally getting better.
In his feverish dreams he had snarled at her, had repeated the name “Syrella”
several times and had muttered he wouldn't leave her, and she couldn't leave
him. It had sounded painful. That had come to Sansa as a shock. So the fearsome
Hound had had a sweetheart in King's Landing! And she had been so naïve, so
ignorant and had chosen him for marriage and torn him away from the woman he
loved! It added even more to her permanent bad conscience. Gods, how he must
despise her for what she had done to him!
And now, The Hound was rolling himself in the shallow water like real dog,
long, dark, lank hair dripping – and he was as naked as his nameday!
Sansa blushed fiercely though she knew that it was meant to be normal to see a
spouse naked. Only... they had been joined under such strange circumstances and
without preparation, and it was the first time that she saw a man completely
without any clothes.
Sandor Clegane didn't seem to care if she was watching or not. At first, she
looked away, but she couldn't help it... she was also curious to know what a
huge, strong, powerful man like him looked like. And... it was indeed quite a
sight. Especially when he had cleaned himself adequately. Water was trickling
down his body and through the dark, curly hair that covered parts of him. The
skin was criss-crossed by many more scars, but they were not even a quarter as
bad as the ones that disfigured his face. Where Stranger had hit him there was
a big bruise – but at least, nothing was broken. The Hound's massive muscles
were bulging and flexing – and still trembling a little. Sansa could also see
his manhood for some moments. It teetered slightly from his movements. Joffrey
had once told her how the member would swell and grow so a man could “impale a
woman properly”. So... if or when the Hound chose to bed her... this... thing
would become even bigger?? She couldn't for the life of her imagine how it
should be possible to... she blushed even more. Inwardly, Sansa thanked the
heavens that he had used his fingers on her in the Godswood.
At once, she suppressed that memory. Instead, she focused on the fact that
her... husband – it was still so strange to think of him in that term – was
getting rather gaunt. Which was no wonder, after these days of illness when he
had not been able to eat.
Sandor got out of the little stream, knelt down on the bank and fulled his
dirty clothes. Oh holy Seven! Now that he was clean Sansa had a good view at
his broad back, the mighty shoulders, the soles of his huge feet... and his
buttocks. The way his muscles were playing there caused her heart to beat even
faster – so she turned around, walked back to the barn and got a tunic and
clean breeches out of his bundle.
When she approached him and handed him the clothes he growled under his breath:
“Right. I can't ride again yet, but we need to get to that bloody inn I was
talking about. So we'll have to walk and to lead Stranger by the bridle. And
you have to lead me so I won't fall. Understood?”
“Yes.”
What else should she have said?
“No more bloody chirping? Good. Then let's be off!”
 
***
Fuck, this was bloody cumbersome! And he felt weak. The Hound – weak! What a
sorry jape. He was stumbling and feeling his way. Stranger was impatient and
wanted to gallop, but it was simply impossible.
Sansa could tell him when there was a root or a stone or a furrow in the way,
but otherwise she was useless. He wanted to know how far they had got, but she
couldn't give him any useful characteristics about the landscape.
“There are some trees here.”
“And which kind of trees?”
As it turned out Sansa might probably recognize a Weirwood tree, if it had a
face and grew in a Godswood, but out here she couldn't even tell a birch from
an oak. At best, she could differentiate between needles and leaves.
“Fuck! Just HOW stupid did your family keep you? And why did you never ask and
want to find out any more? I'm bloody convinced that the rough little hellion
that is your sister would know more!”
Probably, she'd start to cry again now, but he couldn't help it; her ignorance
was simply too frustrating. At least, she didn't complain endlessly like other
high-born lasses. But even if she didn't lament her situation he could hear her
self-pity in the way she was silent. Seven hells, what could he do? Life wasn't
a song! Had she still not learned her lesson?
They came across a few travellers heading for King's Landing, and they told
them that it was a walk of one more hour until they'd reach the inn. Finally,
they arrived. Stranger was handed over to an impressed stable-boy. Normally,
Sandor would have insisted on tending to the courser himself, but blind as he
was the lad could take care of the horse better.
They entered the inn, and the Hound could tell from the publican's quavering
voice that he was recognized as the fearsome warrior everyone knew him for. His
frightening reputation guaranteed them good food, a warm bath and a clean bed
without any bugs. Plus he could give his befouled and only scantily cleaned
clothes to a washerwoman.
They started with a good plate of warm, hearty food. There were quails in brown
almond sauce to be had, alongside with pumpkin mush and big, yellow peas. It
was still very difficult for him to eat without being able to see the food. The
fact that he decided to drink milk instead of ale or wine – although he yearned
to down a tankard – didn't improve his mood one whit.
But he was cheered up a little when the water for the bath was brought up to
their room.
“You go first”, he told Sansa when they entered the chamber. Since he was blind
he didn't think it necessary to wait downstairs until she was done. Besides,
she was his wife, no matter, if he wanted it or not, and he didn't want to
evoke the impression he was distancing himself from the Little Bird. Who knew
after all which spy was here and could tell King Joffrey?
It was strange enough that they hadn't been caught by anyone yet. Probably, the
goldcloaks who should arrest them had ridden ahead, not believing that the
fugitives would be so slow.
Krschlsschlfs...
Sansa's clothes were rustling. Unbidden pictures of Sansa being stripped in
front of the whole court crept into Sandor's mind. Fuck.
He threw himself onto the bed. The mattress smelled clean, even sweet. Some
herbs had been put into it. It was only too short for such a tall man like him
– as usual in inns. On his military campaigns he had had an especially big
bedroll that had been made extra for him, and in King's Landing the bed in his
room was longer than for normal men. Come to think of it – the bed had been
longer, but not wider. The Little Bird wouldn't have fit in. This bed was
different. It was made for couples. Strange feeling.
He had had an occasional whore, but he had never really slept in a bed with a
woman. Well, with one exception, but that didn't really count: after he had
been burned he had been allowed to sleep in his sister's bed a few times. Until
he had recovered. Or rather – until she had died. But he had never slept in a
bed with someone, who was a potential partner for fucking.
Sandor heard the light splashing of water. Seven Hells. The Little Bird was
naked in the bathtub now. He could do what he wanted: his thoughts returned to
her sweet female scent and his normally notoriously unimaginative brain popped
up bloody explicit pictures. Bleeding Stranger, his cock was getting hard!
The Hound rolled from his back onto his front side so Sansa wouldn't see. It
was highly unnerving: He hadn't had a woman for ages, and normally, he could
use his hands freely. But now his... wife was always around him, and he
couldn't help it, but she was alluring. How the fuck was he supposed to let off
steam? He wasn't as mobile as he used to be and could leave her side in an
unknown place without his eyesight, could not sneak behind the stable for a
quick hand job. SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!
The slight noises from the water and Sansa's deep breathing were gnawing at his
nerves. He needed a good, Dornish Red. But bleeding crap, no, that was out of
the question!
When the Hound heard Sansa finally rise from the water, he snarled: “At long
last! I thought you wanted to wait until your skin came off. I'll never
understand how high-born women can bathe for so long!”
Before Sansa could say anything to that he growled: “And now – into your dress
and down with you! Whether you take a good, long piss on the privy or want to
eat a dessert or pray in front of the blasted Sevens' house altar – I don't
care. But leave me alone for the next fifteen minutes. Oh, and tell the maid we
need a second blanket. This one is too small for both of us.”
There was a tiny sob: “Why are you always so hateful?”
“WHAT, Little Bird!? You knew what I'm like when you chose to marry me.”
Sandor heard the rustling of clothes, and then, there was Sansa's tiny, shaking
voice again: “I didn't know enough, and I'm so sorry. But now, I know.”
And with those words she dashed to the door and swept out of the room, weeping
again.
The Hound felt as if someone had turned a dagger in his guts. He had always
known she didn't really want him, but now, she'd said it aloud.
Within an instant, his cock had gone limp again. Seven Hells, how much she
despised him! Fuck, from now on, he'd at least TRY to make haste to hand his
involuntary wife over to her brother some time soon!
Sandor got out of his clothes as fast as possible and soaked himself in the now
lukewarm water. After a little groping he found the soap. As soon as he was
sure he had scrubbed off all the dirt he rose again. On the rim of the bathtub
he found a towel and put it around his hips. Then, he put a stool for his feet
at the end of the bedside where he'd be sleeping and threw himself onto the
bed. Fuck, he was so tired after the forced withdrawal from alcohol! So...
tired...
It was dark when he woke up again – but it was always dark for him now, so it
unnerved him, but it didn't mean a thing. Still, it had to be night... for to
his utter shock the towel around his hips had come loose – and the Little Bird
was sleeping peacefully directly ON him, her arms around his neck, her face
nuzzling the crook of his neck, her warm, slow, deep breathing on his skin. And
she was only wearing a short, thin shift.
Seven. Hells.
***
***** Between dreams and nightmares/A king's vow *****
Hmmm. Warm. Safe. Shelter. That was what Sansa was feeling first.
Hmmm. She hadn't slept so well, had not been so relaxed for ages.
She snuggled closer into the warmth. Oh. This was so good.
There was a wonderful scent.
Home.
But then, she was slowly coming awake, gliding into consciousness.
Body? The warmth she was feeling emanated from a body under her. A big body.
Muscles. There were strong arms around her waist.
And the scent – it belonged to that body. It was a mixture of musk and pine.
Male.
Oh Seven help! She had been sleeping on Sandor Clegane!
Within an instant Sansa's heartbeat quickened.
The Hound was sleeping. His breathing was slow and even. But further down... he
wasn't quite so... relaxed. To Sansa's shock she realized that her... husband's
manhood... it was hard! Big. Holy Mother! And one of her legs had sunk between
his... and was draped right over and against his aroused member. Her face was
buried against the crook of his neck. Her breasts were pressing against his
broad, muscled chest.
Now, Sansa's heart was really pounding. She didn't know what to do. Sandor
Clegane was sleeping so peacefully – and since his arms ware around her middle
she couldn't move away without waking him up. But he would surely be angry, if
she disturbed his slumber.
Only she felt so uncomfortable... ashamed of the sudden closeness. Although –
if she was honest with herself the shame originated more in the foreign
sensations, and not in the fact that the Hound felt really bad. Sansa was
undecided. For a moment she just lay there and took in the new experience.
Yet, another point was nagging at her mind. How could his... manhood be like
this, while he was asleep? And then it hit her like a bolt from the blue: he
had to be dreaming! Likely of this Syrella he had been fantasising about in his
fever. The way he was holding her – it was nothing else but tender! Gods, he
was dreaming of his truelove! And he was accidentally embracing the very person
who had broken his heart! Oh no, she couldn't do that to him! She couldn't be
so cruel.
Carefully, Sansa said to the sleeping man: “Excuse me..., Sandor! I need to go
to the privy. Can you let go of me, please?”
Sandor stirred and withdrew his arms.
“What the fuck? – Hey! What are you doing on my chest? Does the Little Bird
want to build a nest there?”
Sansa shrank back.
“I'm... sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. You're so heavy and sink so much
deeper into the mattress that I must have rolled onto you.”
“Seven Hells. Still afraid of touching me. Anyway. Now, you've got your
freedom, see? Go, take a piss or a shit or both – whatever you feel like.”
Sansa's ears were burning because of the rude language; it simply couldn't be
helped. Oh my, how should they only go on? Like this, it was torture. She shook
her head and sneaked out of the room.
***
A_king's_vow
Robb had often felt sick in the recent past when he had heard of the many
Lannister atrocities high and low in the realm. Personally, his father's
decapitation had been the worst piece of news, of course. But this here... this
was as close to a low point as you could get. He crinkled the message that had
come with a raven in his spasmodic hand.
That horrible boy king on the Iron Throne had ended his betrothal to Sansa
about a week ago – only to marry her off to one of the worst human beasts that
walked the Seven Kingdoms! Oh, he remembered the horrible Hound with his
repugnant scars. The man had been proclaimed Lord Paramount of the Riverlands
by Joffrey – what a bad jape! Clegane, the horrible big brute – and he had been
entitled to have his ways with sweet, delicate, innocent Sansa!
Now that he was alone, Robb allowed himself a tear to run down his cheek. As
soon as he had got the letter, he'd run off to the imprisoned, caged Jaime
Lannister and had snarled: “Kingslayer! What do you know about The Hound?”
The grubby prisoner had been quite surprised.
“The Hound? Why do you ask?”
“That's none of your bloody business!”
“Oh, but it must be kind of my business, if you're asking me about him, don't
you think?”
“Is he... is he sexually perverse? A... rapist?”
Jaime had been really confused then: “Perverse? Rapist? Why are you interested
in Sandor Clegane's sexual preferences all of a sudden?”
“Just tell me, or I'll slit your throat here and now!!”
“Whoooops, now that must be an urgent matter then!”
“Just. Tell. Me. NOW!!!”
Jaime Lannister had been about to utter another nasty comment – but obviously,
he had spotted something in Robb's eyes that had stopped him from doing so.
Grumpily, he'd answered: “I know more about the Hound's fighting and drinking
competences, to put it mildly. I mean, with his face the women aren't exactly
lining up to get into bed with him. As far as I know he used to have an
occasional whore in the better establishments in Kings Landing. I never went
there myself, so I don't know any details. During our joint military campaigns
I witnessed more than one rape – but he never participated in any of the scenes
I came across. He rather quenched his bloodlust from the battle with wine. I
don't picture him as capable of much... tenderness, but he's not like his
brother either, who enjoys to rape somebody to inflict pain and humiliation. In
my opinion, he's rough and quick and straight to the point – with either kind
of sword, if you get my meaning.”
Robb had hissed on hearing this, and the Kingslayer had asked: “Will you tell
me now why you wanted to know these things?”
Robb had only spat: “Our families won't be connected by marriage in the future.
The only good aspect about it.”
And than he had stormed off, kicking a nearby bucket with fesces with his boot
so that the muck dirtied the ground, and leaving a puzzled prisoner behind. Ah,
what did he care about the golden-haired sister-fucker? The only thing was:
what could he gain from the man's statements? Not really much. He had sounded
as honest as any damned Lannister could possibly ever be. Still, the Hound no
rapist? But things would surely be different now with a wife. That blasted
Clegane had the RIGHT to take poor Sansa now, and the Kingslayer had admitted
that the Hound wasn't a caring one. Well, he himself had seen as much. Combine
that with his outrageous general demeanour and his taste for getting drunk...
Gods, if only he could do something to help her! To get her out of the city! He
had always hoped he could win the war before his sister could be married off to
a southron monster like Joffrey. Now that Sansa was married she couldn't come
back to her family just like that – actually, they could only exchange the
Kingslayer for Arya any longer. Grrrrrr!!! It was sososo frustrating!
Robb's Lady Mother, Catelyn, had been even more devastated than him. She had
had a real breakdown. That was no wonder, as she had already lost her two baby
boys, Rickon and Bran, to a man Robb once had nearly called “brother”.
The Young Wolf vowed to himself that he'd kill Theon, that he'd defeat the
Lannisters and their spawn soon and wipe them out for all the atrocities they
had committed. And he'd kill the big, scarred brute, who had wedded Sansa, if
he should ever fall into his hands. Oh yes, he'd grant that Clegane no mercy.
That monster would die a slow, painful death. He'd heard that the followers of
the R'hllor God sacrificed people to the fire. Well, the Hound was already half
burned – hopefully Robb was meant to finish the task.
***
***** Travelling *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
They had been on the street for several days now. Sansa asked herself, if her
legs and her bottom would ever stop hurting again. She hated riding, she
detested the aggressive black courser she was sitting on – and she didn't know
what to think of its master.
Their pace had been slow, of course, and riding double was still extremely
difficult for them. Sansa had the reins, and Stranger often shook his head
impatiently, which made her even more nervous. That she had to manage without
any stirrups didn't make things one whit easier for her to conduct the horse.
Since Sandor couldn't do much without his eyesight, he just held onto her. His
huge, calloused hands used to rest on her tummy and were warm and somehow
soothing – as long as he didn't open his mouth to rasp and snarl at her again.
Sandor's behaviour frightened her still; at the same time it drove her crazy.
Nevertheless, they were a little better off now, because they had some food
with them. The Hound had also gained a bit of his vitality back after his
strange illness. They had stayed at the inn for a second night – but ever
since, they had slept in the open, or once in another hay-barn. Luckily, the
weather had held, and the nights had been mild. Only they had had to sleep on
the hard ground. After a day's ride, that was nothing to look forward to for
Sansa. They didn't have a bedroll, just their cloaks. So at least she tried to
find resting places with soft moss.
Actually, most of the time, the two of them were silent. It gave Sansa the
chance to reflect about the recent developments.
Sandor Clegane.
Her husband.
But only by Joffrey's decree, not by either their own accordance or in front of
the Gods. The Hound had taken her maidenhood, true enough, but he had not
really bedded her in the classical sense, as far as she knew. Just how married
were they actually?? Could the wedding still be annulled easily? And even if it
could – did she want this union to come to an end?
She didn't know the answer to even a single one of these questions. On the one
hand, she felt miserable in so many ways, and for Sandor's sake she wanted to
release him from this unwanted marriage, so he could return to this Syrella,
whoever she was. On the other hand, there were... strangely good moments – in
spite of everything.
The Hound hadn't drunk any alcohol ever since their wedding. This left him
more... awake now. And even though his blindness and dependence nearly ate him
up (she could feel that clearly) Sansa also noticed a purposeful determination
in him she had never seen before. She wondered, if it was his new position as
Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and as master of Harrenhal that had caused
this development.
The best thing naturally was that Sansa wasn't in King's Landing any longer,
the air was fresh, not foul, there was no Joffrey around, no malevolent Cersei,
no brutal King's Guard, no vicious courtiers. For those facts alone she had to
be infinitely grateful, and she didn't complain about the difficulties of their
voyage.
The probably strangest thing while riding was that Sandor's hands on her belly
didn't repel her, although she could clearly remember the unpleasant sensation
of his fingers inside her womanhood. Instead of shying away, however, she often
looked at them in detail. They were really as big as shovels and various little
scars could be spotted on them. There was a bit of black hair on the back of
his hands and even on some parts of the fingers. One fingernail was partly
blackened from a recent bruise. Had it happened during the Battle of the
Blackwater? She didn't dare to ask. The horny skin of the palm was a little
cracky. Those were hands that had worked a lot in life. And fought. Killed,
too, of course, there was absolutely no denying. Then why on earth could they
still... feel good?
And ever since she had woken up in bed on top of her husband she kept noticing
his scent. When they hadn't bathed for a while it turned into an acid stench,
very much like her own sweat. But in general, his natural scent was nice. Very
nice, in fact. There were even moments when Sansa inhaled deeply, and then her
heart started to beat faster.
She didn't understand it. Did she start to... feel something for the Hound? And
if so – what exactly? Lust? More often than she would have liked her memories
returned to his impressive naked body... and then all of a sudden she wanted to
touch him. Was she getting wanton? Sansa blushed and felt ashamed and confused.
“No songs today, Little Bird?” Sandor Clegane asked suddenly, and she winced.
“What? – Oh, sorry, I was deep in thought.”
“And what was the Little Bird thinking?”
“Well, about many things. How do you feel about Harrenhal, for example?”
“That bloody shadow of a fortress? I tell you – if there's any advantage of
being blind now, then it's that I don't have to see that bleak ruin again.”
Like so many statements from the Hound this one surprised Sansa no end, but she
still tried to keep up their little talk: “You must have seen much of the Seven
Kingdoms – which fortress did you like best?”
The Hound seemed to be puzzled.
“Seven hells, I guess I liked those fortresses best that provided a good bed,
food and wine, and were run effectively. That's everything that counts.”
“Hmmm...”
“What, Little Bird?”
“I mean: should it not be easy to turn your new seat into a comfortable
fortress for you then?”
Suddenly, Sandor threw his head back and roared his bitter laughter.
“You've got absolutely no clue, Little Bird! My brother has been there until
recently, if I've been told correctly. Some of his men or folks as 'amiable' as
him will still be lurking around there. Comfortable fortress – I'm laughing my
hairy arse off!”
Sansa flushed a deep red again and was immediately reminded of the sight of his
buttocks. She fell silent, didn't know what to answer to his vulgarity, and her
taciturn husband didn't intend to go on with their conversation.
***
Chapter End Notes
     I'm planning to revise a scene or two a little bit, also from parts I
     haven't posted here so far.
***** Catching sight of the prey *****
Chapter Notes
     This is just a very, very short chapter, true, but I have not been
     idle with regard to the story. I've tried to work upon and to revise
     it, and I've changed parts of the chapter called "Duties", hoping to
     make it better/more vivid/more credible.
 
 
Jack Bling congratulated himself. This job turned out to be far easier than he
had thought! He had expected to ride much further and to track his victims much
more intensively. But the two had been slow and hadn't gone into hiding, surely
because of the man's blindness and the lady's delicateness. This way, Jack
Bling's expenses were smaller, and he'd earn more.
He had discovered the two in an inn where they had stopped to rest for the
night some two or three hours earlier than him. The description of the black,
mean, impressive horse in the stable had been exact, and the stable-boy had
told him readily about the two strange travellers.
 
In the common room, he had eaten and drunk and had found out from the grubby
publican for some extra coin in which room the couple resided. Jack Bling
fingered the well-filled purse on his belt. He hadn't got his nickname for
nothing, and the nobleman's advance payment was incredibly generous. Well, the
final payment would be even more so.
 
The owner of the “Pearl Slot” had addressed him personally, because Jack was
known to be as effective as unscrupulous with regard to certain tasks. The man,
who was called “Littlefinger” in his absence, had been quite a fop, even for a
courtier, but in the man's eyes there had been a gleam that told Jack that he
better didn't come for the rest of the money alone, after he would have done
his job.
 
One good thing was that the male he was supposed to kill would have more than a
little money with him, too, and then there was the fine horse. Perhaps Jack
wouldn't return to his employer at all, take what he could here and just send
this Baelish a note and the woman, telling the man he had been successful. Much
as Jack liked money – he liked his life even more, and he meant to keep it.
 
Anyway, all that was left to do was to bring everything to a good end now. He
scratched his crotch and looked forward to the sweet lady. This Littlefinger
had allowed him explicitly to have his ways with the woman, had even encouraged
him to “teach her some lessons that would put her in her place” – under one
premise: she should be forced to lick her husband's life blood. Well, that
order was kind of kink – but Jack had experienced so many abnormalities with
and grudges of his employers that this was little more than a mildly
interesting triviality.
 
With a contented sigh he drank his last swig, rose and made silently for the
dark corridor where the different bedrooms branched off.
 
 
 
***
 
***** Teamwork *****
Sansa glided back into consciousness after having eaten, bathed and fallen
asleep, exhausted as she had been. She didn't have a clue what had awoken her,
and she was still drowsy and was feeling so very good again – until she
realised she had rolled onto her heavy husband once more. This time, her cheek
was resting on his broad chest, her arms had sunk down on either side of his
body and...
Oh holy Seven! Their fingers were entwined! She was innocently holding hands
with the fearsome Hound!
Sansa's heartbeat started to rattle, and suddenly, she was over-sensitive and
focused on what she was feeling...where she was feeling him... his bare skin.
His scent was strong and close and warm now. Gods! She didn't know why, but
suddenly, she thought she wanted to... to taste his skin. Sansa blushed
fiercely at the mere thought of it.
The Hound had been snoring lightly, but when her body tensed involuntarily
because of her surprise he fell silent.
 
***
 
When Sandor had clumsily groped his way from the bathtub to his bed the Little
Bird had fallen asleep already. This time he should put on his breeches... but
he didn't do it, for some weird reason he didn't allow himself to think about.
No sooner had he sunk deep into the mattress than Sansa started to obey
gravitation rules and to glide towards him while still being asleep. After some
minutes she was sprawled across his body, her cheek on his torso. With a little
sigh, she even nuzzled his chest hair with her nose contentedly... and
sometimes when they were breathing her gloriously lush lips even touched his
skin lightly.
The Hound got an erection that soon started to hurt. He was a lewd bugger who
should be flayed alive, he told himself, but it was just impossible to move her
away from him. He wasn't accustomed to being touched like that, had only known
fellow men-at-arms huddle together in cold nights during a military campaign;
and Sansa felt so incredibly sweet and good, her hair so silky on his rough
skin, her female scent that was a little like vanilla from the Summer
Islands... Fuck, he'd rather go through some more days of the worst withdrawal
symptoms than to let go of her!
And then the unbelievable thing happened: her hands had initially been lying
limply next to his... but suddenly, her fingers crept slowly between his own!
Ohsevenhellsfuck... - - - !!!
He had had a tumble with a whore here and there from time to time. What he had
never done, however, was to hold hands with a woman. Strangely enough, doing
this with the Little Bird still felt somehow more intimate than anything he had
ever experienced with another woman. He didn't understand.
Sansa muttered something unintelligible. Was she waking up?
Hastily, he pretended to be asleep and uttered some snoring noises.
Yes, his... wife was waking up. The moment she twitched he knew she had
realized the position they were in. Fuck, it was always the same! Of course,
she was still afraid of him and would always be. Or at least as long as they'd
be together.
 
He was just about to snarl at her when his instincts told him that something
wasn't in order. So he didn't move one millimetre and stayed completely silent.
And then, he knew.
There was somebody outside in the corridor. If the person had been walking
normally, or even trampling heavily from drunkenness he wouldn't have given a
shit. But the one outside was SNEAKING. Stealthily like a shadow cat. But
Sandor possessed senses sharpened in a lifelong battle: against his monstrous
brother, nasty lads his age at Casterly Rock when he had been an adolescent,
all the enemies in battle... mankind in general.
Silently, he breathed “Careful!” into Sansa's ear, freed his hands, shoved her
to the side slowly, groped for the knife under his pillow with the right hand
and the dagger in his boots next to the bed's headboard with the left. Not one
moment too soon.
 
***
 
At first, Sansa was utterly confused, but then, she understood that there was
some kind of danger. She stiffened while Sandor was fumbling about him and
stayed as quiet as a mouse.
And then the door to their bedroom was opened extremely cautiously. The door
hinges were well-oiled, so that there wasn't the slightest creaking sound. If
they hadn't been awake they would have never noticed. A shadow that was even
darker than the night crept into the room noiselessly.
Sandor struck out and flung his knife at the intruder. How he managed to aim at
the man without seeing him was a mystery to Sansa.
There was a dark, painful grunt that told her the Hound had been successful to
some extent. But the man wasn't stopped completely and barged forward with an
aggressive growl in his throat.
Sansa was shocked for a split second... but then, she realised the attacker
wanted to kill them with a dagger. He was moving towards Sandor's side of the
bed!
Panicking, she grabbed a long, pointed hairpin from a beside table, struggled
to her knees and stabbed at the dark shadow's neck. A mixture of a squeal and
gurgling erupted. Luckily, it wasn't very loud.
After another blink of an eye, Sandor had a dagger in his hand and stuck it
into the man's chest.
The man – he had the shape of a big rogue – moaned a little, sank to his
knees... and was still.
“Seven help! He's dead!” Sansa thought. “I... I helped kill a man! OH GODS!!”
“Since when does the Little Bird have sharp claws? Anyway. Well done”, The
Hound muttered under his breath. “Now. Go to the blasted bugger and see, if
he's got anything valuable on him. Documents, jewellery, a sigil, money...”
“WHAT!?” Sansa bleeped. “You want me to loot the man!??”
With badly suppressed anger Sandor rasped back: “Seven hells, he wanted to
bloody kill us and rape you before, most likely. We must find out, if he was
working on somebody's order. And then, we'll leave.”
“Now?”
“Where there's one like him there can always be more. We'll leave through the
window. Pack your fucking things, put your clothes on and check on the body
like I've told you. If I could see I'd do it myself, but I couldn't read a
document, if I came across it, for example. Neither could I see a bloody sigil.
Oh, and before I forget it: retrieve the weapons from the body. We may need
them again before we reach Harrenhal. Or even after.”
Sansa was trembling madly now. She had seen her father's severed, half-rotten,
tarred head from close up... still... fingering a carcass and sifting through
the man's pockets was a new, abominable kind of horror.
There was no apparent sign that the man belonged to a noble house, and his
clothes were modest and in dull colours. He had been carrying his own dagger,
so she took it, after she had found the sheath. Dutifully, she removed the
knife from his side, the hairpin from the neck and pulled Sandor's dagger out
of the chest. There was a pouch with lots of money on the assassin's belt. Even
naïve Sansa could guess that this was a sign that he had been working by order
of somebody else. Her mind was strangely paralysed and overly active at the
same time. She worked like a puppet on some strings, moving awkwardly, but
doing what she had been told.
Sandor was putting on his clothes and boots, which wasn't so easy for him,
blind as he was. When he stumbled over the empty chamber pot he swore in his
vulgar way, but was still containing his volume.
Finally, everything was prepared. Sansa opened the window. They were lucky that
their room was on the ground floor, and everything had already been paid so
that the innkeeper wouldn't care much when and how they left. Carefully, they
clambered through the opening and made for the stable as quietly as they could.
The stable-boy was nowhere to be seen. When Stranger noticed them he uttered a
little snort, but kept quiet otherwise. Now, it proved good that Sandor had
practised how to harness his steed without being able to see anything, because
it was really dark in the stable and Sansa even less of a help than usual. To
her surprise, the Hound produced some pieces of cloth, which he must have torn
loose from the dead man's clothes, or probably it was the linen from their bed;
Sansa hadn't noticed in her panic. Sandor wrapped the texture around the hooves
and fastened everything with some threads, so as to extenuate the clopping
sounds of the horseshoes.
Stranger was led to the entrance gate, where the moon and stars provided at
least a little light for Sansa. There, she climbed onto some boxes, and further
onto the horse's back. Sandor followed with their bundles, which he had tied
onto his own back. In the end, they trotted off slowly. The muffled noises
luckily went unnoticed.
They rode and rode and rode. A short break to make water after some hours, and
on they went. No word was spoken by either of them. It wasn't until after
lunchtime that they stopped. Sansa was dead tired, but she didn't care. They
all – including Stranger – ate an apple each, which they had had in The Hound's
knapsack.
An hour later, they passed a hostel. The music of a fiddle was emanating from
the common room. They didn't stop, inviting as it all was. Only long after
nightfall did they halt at another inn.
 
***
***** Seizure *****
Sansa had been extremely quiet and stiff all day. Like a doll. Sandor wondered
which expression her Tully blue eyes had. Well, one thing was clear: she was
experiencing the aftermath of a shock. And he didn't have a fucking clue how to
handle the situation. In an army, you could slap a fellow fighter to wake him
up again, or pour a pail of could water over his head. But whenever he had come
across traumatized women or children, he had left the job of consoling them to
somebody else, knowing bloody well that his fearsome appearance would only have
added to the damage already done. Plus he wasn't a man of emphatic words.
In the common room, Sandor ordered two platters of food. The innkeeper was a
man with a squeaky voice, and judging by how it came from rather far below he
had to be a rather short manikin. But seven hells, the only things that counted
were a hearty meal, a refreshing drink, clean beds and an honest, decent
service in general.
 
“We've got a warm stew on the fire, jus' the right thing to revive yer spirits
after a long day. An' we've got a sweet chestnut cake, it's famous for miles
around.”
 
“We'll have both. And what do you have to drink?”
 
“We've got our own ale; we brew it ourselves. The same is true for the mead; my
goodson is a beekeeper, he sells honey an' produces candles as well. – Anyway,
for the fine lady we'd have milk, a herbal infusion an' mint water for the
thirst. There's a clear spring near the house, y' see.”
 
“AleAleAleAle”, The Hound's brain demanded greedily.
 
“Stop waffling. A jug of milk and mint water each. Little Bird, do you want
some tea as well?”
 
“That is not necessary, thank you.”
 
Always keeping her bloody courtesies.
 
Sansa sounded still strangely mechanic – a bit like in King's Landing where she
had chirped her niceties left and right, but with even less articulation and
not even a hint of false friendliness now.
 
“Right, you've heard her, innkeeper. Now: we need a room with a big, clean bed
and a bath.”
 
“That's no problem, Ser.”
 
“I'm. No. Ser.”
 
“My excuses, s... – Jus' mentioning, there aren't many people these days who
can pay for a room properly, so most rooms are free.”
 
“I can pay.”
 
“Oh yes, oh yes, I didn't want to say nothin' else! Would ya please stay in the
common room an' eat here while the tub is being brought up an' the water
heated?”
 
“Lead us to a quiet, dark corner then. We don't want to be disturbed.”
 
“Oh yes, oh please follow me then!”
 
Servile little bugger of a publican. Ah, fuck, what did it matter as long as
they were left in peace otherwise. While they were waiting for their meal
Sandor pondered their present situation. To be honest he was surprised that
until now they hadn't encountered any goldcloaks, who were intent on seizing
them and taking them captive. An assassin didn't sound like an official policy
of the king. No, that had to be somebody else's handwriting. Varys? Cersei?
Littlefucker? Who knew.
 
But why hadn't they been prosecuted properly so far? Had Joffrey accepted their
disappearance? Sandor had some difficulties believing that. Strange. Very
strange.
 
Bonk! Bonk! Two heavy bowls with stew were put in front of them. Ah, that
smelled good! A moment later, he could notice a sweet fragrance fill his
nostrils. So that had to be the chestnut cake. Good! Like the half-starved Dog
he was and as fast as his lack of eyesight allowed, he wolfed down the food. It
was delicious! What a positive surprise!
 
Next to him, there were no munching sounds, however.
 
“Little Bird, you must eat to keep your strength”, he insisted.
 
“Yes, my Lord Husband”, Sansa answered distractedly.
 
“Fuck, keep that title out of our conversations, and use my given first name!”
 
“Yes... Sandor.”
 
Seven hells, this kind of behaviour was even more maddening than her naïve
chirping!
 
As soon as they had eaten – The Hound had made sure that his... wife had at
least nibbled on her cake – they rose, paid for food and sleepover, frequented
the privy and were lead to their room on the first floor.
 
The bath had been prepared and was smelling of camomile and marigold. Sandor
couldn't see the candles, but from the honey scent in the air he judged that
quite a few had been lit. The publican obviously had a quirk for herbs and
spices and smells.
 
“You go first again”, Sandor told the Little Bird and groped for the bed. Like
before, he heard the rustling of her clothes as they were being peeled off. But
Sansa was still taciturn. Slowly, The Hound started to worry. There was the
splashing of water that told him Sansa had entered the tub and was cleaning
herself.
 
Slowly, Sandor started to undress as well for his own bath. Now that he was
blind, everything took so much longer – if he could do whatever he wanted to at
all in the first place! Sandor swore inwardly, cursing his affliction a
thousandth time.
 
Suddenly, he heard a well-known sound: it was a sob. So finally Sansa's shell
had cracked.
 
“What is it, Little Bird?”
 
“I... I... helped... kill...”
 
A snotty, heaving sob.
 
“Little Bird, it was him or us. Concentrate on that. You did the right thing.”
 
“He'd... have... killed... you!”
 
Sandor shrugged.
 
“He wasn't the first, and I guess he won't be the last.”
 
Sansa now lost control completely and cried, snivelled and hiccuped so wildly
that it sounded as if she could barely breathe.
 
“Fuck, Little Bird, get your shit together! You did what had to be done! End of
story.”
 
But Sansa wouldn't hear and wailed miserably.
 
The Hound had had enough. Even if he had already stripped bare he walked over
to the tub carefully and meant to take her shoulders and to shake some sense
back into her. Shit, if only he could see!
 
And then, the unspeakable happened: when he was next to the tub, there was
suddenly the splashing of water, and the next thing he noticed was a wet, naked
Little Bird clinging to his chest, arms going round him, and a lush mouth and
tearful eyes sobbing against his skin.
 
Within the blink of an eye, his brain switched to “overload”.
 
What. The. Fuck. Was. That?
 
Paralysed, he looked down at where the crown of her head had to be, even if he
couldn't see her.
 
Shitshitshit! That was her naked body against his own. Seven Hells!! So...
tender... so... incredibly tender!
 
Then, he suddenly realized that if the Little Bird actually sought his
closeness, all high-born maiden sense of shame gone, instead of flinching from
him as it would have been normal, she was really on the edge of breaking
completely.
 
Fuck! What should he do? What??
 
After another moment, he remembered how Lord Stark had once consoled Sansa
after her direwolf's death on the road to the south by embracing her and
hugging her close. Well, if the Little Bird didn't mind his touch in her
present fit... perhaps...
 
Gingerly, he put his arms around her – and she reacted by snuggling even
closer, as if she wanted to creep into him! Sandor hoisted her out of the tub
next and laid her onto the bed, dripping as she was. Since she was still
clinging to him so very desperately, he couldn't get up again and kept his arms
around her. Sansa was so wild now that she pressed herself against him
forcefully, in a strange mix of rocking and rubbing movements.
 
Sandor tried not to react with arousal, but it was simply impossible. Yet, even
when it was clear that Sansa must feel what was going on with his cock she
didn't seem to care. At least, he thought so at first. Suddenly, however, her
grip on him relaxed a little and the delicate hands started to roam over his
body.
 
Sandor gasped, goosebumps rising on his skin, and remembered how after a battle
often men suddenly needed to fuck like horny rabbits to celebrate their
survival. He had always doused that fire with alcohol. Which he didn't have
now. Shit. And he'd have never thought that someone like Sansa might react with
a similar kind of primal lust.
 
As if under some spell, his hands started to stroke her body in the same way
she was touching him. To his utter amazement, the Little Bird gasped, too...
and arched into him! Suddenly, a fever seemed to seize him. Seven hells, she
felt and smelled so feminine! So sweet!
 
An instinct awoke he didn't know he possessed, and he didn't even realize what
he was doing... until his twitching, partly burned lips were sucking on one of
her nipples. Sansa moaned – and tried to get even more of her body into his
mouth, judging by her movements.
 
Bleeding Stranger, Sandor had teased the Little Bird about having a song from
her back in King's Landing – but he'd never believed she might actually really
sing for him one day. Oh, and how very lovely her song was!
 
Spellbound, the Hound moved from one breast to the next. The nipple was already
a tight little bud, and he licked it hungrily.
 
“SANDOR!”
 
Oh fuck! She was... she was even moaning his name!
 
That was more than he could take!
 
Seven hells, she was feeling raw lust – and he, the ugly, scarred, blind Dog,
was causing it!
 
He needed to smell more of her. Taste her even more thoroughly.
 
Again, he wouldn't have known which instinct drove him, he had never done it
with a whore, but his head moved downwards, and he spread her legs wide.
 
“Sandor?”
 
That was the last thing he heard before his mouth made contact with her most
sensitive parts.
 
“What... AHHH!”
 
How the Little Bird was singing!
 
Oh. Oh all seven hells and heavens, this was divine!
 
Her scent and taste were strongest here. Dizzying. Not in his wildest dreams
could he have expected that anything as good as this existed! It was like some
nectar.
 
What he didn't know about techniques to please a woman the Hound made good with
eagerness, and he kissed and licked and sucked on the tender flesh with
abandon. He could feel Sansa's hands in his hair, she was moaning frantically,
and his cock started to leak from sheer arousal.
 
Suddenly, she cried: “Sandor!”
 
Then, she bucked into his mouth and started to tremble violently and whined
helplessly. When he felt the spasms with his lips and tongue it sent him over
the edge as well, and with a wild growl the seed streamed out of his cock and
onto the linen of the bed. Fuck! She had come! He had caused her to peak! That
was incredible!! It was a moment of extreme, unblemished joy.
 
 
 
Sandor's heartbeat started to calm down slowly, and so did his breathing.
Overwhelmed, he moved up his head and knelt.
 
Suddenly, he heard it: Sansa was weeping once more. It was as if an ice-cold
knife was drilled into his guts mercilessly. His brain started to work again.
Oh fuck! He had overcharged the more than half-innocent Little Bird! Where he
should have controlled himself and just consoled her like a man of honour would
have done he had taken advantage of her without second thought! Seven hells,
where was the hole in the ground where he could sink in and disappear!?
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
Gooods! Oh Goooods!!! This was the sweetest thing she had ever experienced!
Nobody had ever told her that a woman could be caressed like that! Nobody had
ever told her that a man's mouth could feel so good! HIS mouth! This was pure
glory! Bliss!
 
Sansa started to weep from sheer joy. With bleary eyes she saw Sandor sit back,
his scarred face flushed, his eyes full of wonder, and her heart blossomed.
 
The next moment, however, his features closed up; some kind of frustration or
hatred or disappointment crept in.
 
“What's going on with him??” Sansa asked herself, confused and anguished.
 
“Thrice-damned fuck! This should have never happened. What a bloody capital
mistake”, he rasped with a dark growl.
 
It was as if he had tossed her head over heel into a bucket of ice water.
 
No! No! Noooo! This couldn't be true!
 
And then, an idea popped up in her mind: by throwing herself at him so wantonly
she had lured him into something he had not really wanted! He was a man with
strong feelings, passions, so he had given in, but his heart was closed for her
– and now, he was angry with her, because she had driven him so far.
 
More tears spilled down her cheeks, and she felt deeply ashamed for hurting
him. In spite of her still damp skin and her wet hair she grabbed her
smallclothes, her dress and slipped into both. Next came her shoes.
 
“Little Bird?”
 
Sansa couldn't answer. She was trembling like mad.
 
“Take your bath. Please. We shouldn't waste the water. I... I need to be alone
for a while. I'll... I'll come back later.”
 
With those words she stood up and hastened towards the door.
 
“Little Bird!” The Hound called after her, but she didn't stop and ran
downstairs. Outside.
 
It was already dark, so she didn't run far and cowered behind a bush close by
the inn. There, she cried until she had no tears left. Then, the extreme
exhaustion after the last two days washed over her, and she returned to their
room, hoping with a fluttering heart that Sandor wouldn't be angry because she
had run away.
 
When she reached the chamber it was quiet in there. Sansa pressed the
doorhandle. Her eyes widened. The Hound's knapsack was still there... but her
husband was gone.
 
“What!? Where is he?? In his state! I must go ask the innkeeper, if he has seen
Sandor.”
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
***** Lion decisions *****
 
 
Tywin Lannister was pacing up and down his solar, and he was as ill-tempered as
one could possibly think. First of all, the wound he had received during the
Battle of the Blackwater still hurt horribly, but he just couldn't stay in bed
any moment longer. From what he had heard his grandson was blasting the Seven
Kingdoms to pieces, and he had to counteract.
 
Tywin had never shrunk back from any kind of cruelty – given that he deemed it
necessary for military or family reasons or power. Joffrey was perilously
different: he ENJOYED to hassle, to humiliate, to mutilate and even to kill
people, and he didn't refrain from any kind of gruesomeness, no matter the
political danger.
 
Little as he had liked Eddard Stark the execution had sparked off an
unnecessary war. Sending a confessing traitor to the Wall would have been
helpful, because it would have made many people clam up: the Young Wolf
couldn't have rebelled and Stannis's basis for any royal ambitions would have
been weakened. But no, the head had to be chopped off, just because it was so
entertaining.
 
And now, his grandson was even more stupid! Jaime was still imprisoned, and if
there was nobody left to trade him back for it was likely that Robb Stark would
just kill him. And there WAS no hostage left!
 
It was kept a secret, but Arya Stark had disappeared... and Sansa Stark had
been married off to The Hound (how could you possibly throw a pawn like her
away like that!?), and the couple had slipped away and left for the Riverlands
– exactly where the Young Wolf was lurking! What made it worse: Joffrey had not
even tried to catch them and to bring them back! Just how incredibly stupid was
the lad!?
 
Tywin's thoughts wandered further to Sandor Clegane. What a tragedy that such a
good fighter for the Lannister purpose was a useless cripple now! The Hound had
served his family well and had always been a shining example of loyalty. Yet –
in spite of what everybody else thought – the man had a brain and was capable
of forming an opinion of his own. Even so, bestowing Harrenhal onto him had
been absolutely ridiculous! Sandor Clegane was the younger spawn of a landed
knight, the grandson of a kennelmaster. He was neither in the position nor had
he been raised to own and run the biggest fortress in Westeros, whether it was
a cursed white elephant or not.
 
Another aspect struck the Old Lion as relevant: was The Hound still loyal?
Nobody else seemed to question the point, but Tywin trusted nobody. Especially
not someone who had a beautiful young woman in his clutches and was likely
thinking with his engorged nether parts now.
 
Tywin hissed in frustration. Joffrey had made it clear that Sandor Clegane and
Sansa Stark (no, he wouldn't think of her as a lowly Clegane) should not be
persecuted. As the Hand he had to obey – but he had to find out what was going
on in the Riverlands. So he decided to send some men after the Hound, who
should have an eye on him – and do more if necessary.
 
Now, it was a very valid question to ask who should be sent. Not many men were
dispensable in times of war, even less so after the bloody and costly Battle of
the Blackwater. There were almost no human resources left for the task.
 
Finally, he opted for a troop called the “Holy Hundred” under the lead of Ser
Bonifer Hasty. The men had fought for King Stannis in the recent battle, but
now, they had changed sides. They were a bunch of bigot (and at the same time
not overly successful) fighters, who had sworn themselves to the Faith of the
Seven – but when it came to the Hound, their religious orientation was their
greatest asset. Sandor Clegane, who was well-known to despise the Gods and the
Faith, and Ser Bonifer would certainly not fraternise under those conditions;
the reports from the “Holy Hundred” would thus be probably as credible as one
could expect.
 
Tywin rubbed the root of his nose with his thumb and index finger.
 
So that was that.
 
And now, he had to decide what he should do with his good for nothing grandson
on the Iron Throne.
 
 
 
***
 
***** Status quo *****
 
“Excuse me, good man – have you seen my husband?” Sansa asked the innkeeper.
“Yes m'lady, he came through the common room some time ago an' asked to be lead
to the stable. Wasn't in no good mood”, the publican answered and scratched his
chin.
 
“He's left??”
 
“Nah. Jus' went in to check on his horse. Must still be there.”
 
Phew. That was a relief. At least, he had not tried to abandon her, blind as he
was.
 
Sansa thanked the innkeeper and went to the stable as well. When she came
closer to Stranger's box the horse turned its ears backwards, but kept calm and
quiet. The animal knew her well enough by now.
 
There were other noises, however. Snores. And sure enough: When Sansa looked
into the box she found The Hound huddled in a corner and fast asleep.
 
“He must be as exhausted as me”, she thought.
 
She only wished he had not left her alone and decided to sleep separated from
her. It was always difficult at best to talk to Sandor Clegane, but with him
out here they didn't have the faintest chance to sort things out before the
morning. Of course, she could wake him and ask him to come back, but Sansa was
sure he wouldn't do that anyway.
 
So she sighed inwardly, turned around and went back to their room. She laid
down. At first, she thought she would be too upset to find any sleep... but
soon her thoughts blurred and blended into incoherent dreams.
 
 
 
The next morning, Sansa rushed down to the common room early. Sandor, however,
was already there, sitting in the recess of a window with outstretched legs,
seemingly being done with the breakfast already. One could see that he was in a
morose mood, but that was to be expected.
 
Sansa walked over.
 
“Good morning.”
 
“Morning. Eat and drink and use the privy – and then let's be gone.”
 
Sansa hastened to oblige. She sensed that the Hound was in no temper to start
any interaction about what had transpired the evening before. It made her sad.
 
 
 
Later, when they were riding on Stranger again (her husband smelling even more
of horse than after the usual day's ride...) and pondering in silence, Sansa
decided that she wanted to talk about another topic.
 
Even though the memory sickened her she asked: “Sandor, how could you hurl your
knife at that man and hit him, although you couldn't see him?”
 
“I could hear his bloody breathing. Many people know how to sneak with their
feet, but they don't check on their breathing. It's not the first time I
stopped a bugger like that. In the past, I survived more than one ambush in the
dark. Guess why. As a child I learned to anticipate when Gregor would tiptoe
into my room at night to beat me to a pulp. Fucking horrible as it was at the
time – it was a useful lesson for life.”
 
Sansa was deeply touched by that open and painful answer.
 
“Then even with your blindness you're not quite as defenceless as one might
believe.”
 
Sandor growled deep in his throat.
 
“Seven hells, I'm not even a bloody tenth of what I used to be. If there is an
attack by a gang of robbers there is no way to save you or me. To be honest,
it's a small wonder we haven't run into any bandits so far. Especially at this
wartime.”
 
“I've noticed three or four burned farms at a distance – is that because of the
war?”
 
“Fuck, aye, Little Bird. So far, all the inns were operating normally, but we
can expect that to change. I bloody swear that – irreligious Dog that I am –
I'll make the sign of the Seven, if we get as far as the God's Eye Lake
unmolested!”
 
Well. If Sandor Clegane knew one thing besides killing... it was how to depict
worst-case-scenarios in the darkest possible colours.
 
“In King's Landing I didn't want to hear your warnings – but you were right so
often. It's unsettling.”
 
“I'm The Hound. I can smell shit through a wall.”
 
Sansa winced. Why did he always have to use that coarse language? She reflected
on that for a moment. Probably he talked like that to express his frustration,
but also because it was the only way to obtain a hearing for the second son of
a lowly landed knight. Before her father had been arrested she'd have never
understood what it meant to be on one's own and to be disrespected – but now,
she did, and she'd learned it the hard way.
 
Sansa turned lightly back towards her husband and wanted to know: “Have you
been told what the situation is like in Harrenhal at the moment?”
 
“Aye, though it may have changed in the meantime. The last status was that Lord
Tywin had been there with my thrice-damned brother and his minions. There was
also a band of sellswords, “The Bloody Mummers”, fuck, I can tell you: those
men are really the scum of the earth. Anyway, the Old Lion has left, and so has
Gregor. Better for him – otherwise I'd have killed him, blind or not!!”
 
“But how can you say that!? Without your eyesight you don't stand a chance!”
 
Sandor grinned sardonically behind her, so that the burned corner of his mouth
started to twitch.
 
“Little Bird, you should know one thing: there may be this kind of bloody
knightly propaganda, but let me tell you: in a real battle there is no fair
play, and there is no honour. Forget that blasted shit of a concept. All that
counts is that you're alive at the end of the day.”
 
In moments like these it was difficult to remember the more than half-buried
good sides of The Hound. That he could have his honourable moments. Or his
tender ones.
 
Sansa flushed a deep red and rambled on: “These “Bloody Mummers”, are they
still at Harrenhal?”
 
Another dark growl behind her: “If it was as easy as that! Lord Tywin left some
of his own men and the sellswords at the fortress. They didn't get along.
Fucking jealousy and petty arrogance. One day, the “Bloody Mummers” returned
with some northern prisoners. Someone tried to free them and to cook the guards
with boiling soup alive, but it didn't work. Though I must say the idea is a
bloody entertaining one. I mean, it's creative, so it deserves some respect.
Well, back to what happened. Next, Tywin's men and the sellswords got so
nervous that they were at each other's throats. The sodding Lannister
castellan, Ser Armory Lorch, managed to win against the “Bloody Mummers”.
Amongst others he killed their leader, Vargo Hoat, by putting him into a bear
pit. With a hungry bear inside, of course. But some twenty sellswords or so
managed to escape, and now, they roam the Riverlands. Better not come across
them.”
 
“Do you know that castellan, Ser Armory Lorch?”
 
Sandor snorted.
 
“Imagine Joffrey as an adult, bloated, swinish, lowly knight. Then, you've got
him.”
 
Sansa shivered and The Hound commented with his steel-on-stone voice: “I see
you understand.”
 
“What will you do with him when we arrive?”
 
“Not when. If. Well. That remains to be seen. Or rather to be heard and smelled
in my case. Would be nice to hang him with his own entrails, but probably we
don't want to upset the bloody buggers in King's Landing by killing their man
right away.”
 
Sansa shivered again and fell silent. She'd never understand how one could talk
about such gruesomeness so carelessly.
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
Sandor was surprised that the Little Bird had... recovered enough from his...
mouth job to talk to him. Even more surprising was that she actually didn't
chirp any niceties, but seemed to be genuinely interested in his knowledge,
perspective, opinions. Oh, aye, her ladylike sensitiveness was shining through
again and again, he could clearly sense it in her reactions... but still.
 
When had he last had such an open conversation? He bloody couldn't remember.
When they fell silent again he felt strangely good. In spite of the fucking
disaster the evening before.
 
But after some minutes... Sansa blew it all to pieces.
 
“Sandor – do you think we'll have children in the future?”
 
Shit, what she was truly asking him was whether he intended to fuck her
properly. What should he say to that!?
 
“Seven Hells, a woman like you should have some pups. A man like me shouldn't.”
 
Luckily, the Little Bird didn't ask what that actually meant. Even so, The
Hound's temper had deteriorated within the blink of an eye. Unbidden pictures
of him playing with some red-haired, blue-eyed, laughing children bubbled up in
his mind. It was as if a mailed fist hit him square in the stomach, and his own
hands clenched. Thrice-damned seven hells, he had to stop that dream! It wasn't
meant for him.
 
Some time later, it started to rain, and within minutes they were soaked.
Grrrrr. Of course, this had to happen – and right now, of all things!
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
 
 
***** Weasel darkness *****
The girl that was called “Weasel” was sitting in her pitch black solitary cell
under the Widow's Tower. Her mind meandered back to the last scene she had seen
in broad daylight: how Jaqen H'gar, Rorge, Biter and some others had dangled
down the gallows' ropes in the yard. By now, their bodies had been used to feed
the bear.
Ser Armory Lorch had told her in detail what he had planned: first, he meant
the remaining Bloody Mummers to be sent to the Bear Pit. One man every second
day. Not every day. After all, the beast had to be hungry. There were still
some sellswords left, and some more had been caught a day or two ago. She could
hear them wail and beg for mercy like helpless children when they were led away
to their death. Those men, who had been ruthless killers themselves until
recently. Until the weasel soup.
 
But after the mummers... it would be time for the surviving northerners to meet
their fate. She had failed them! Had failed them so thoroughly. “Weasel” wished
she had her little sword “Needle” back. Then, she would show the castellan her
worth!
 
But she didn't have her beloved weapon.
 
“Fear cuts deeper than swords!” she admonished herself.
 
 
 
Ser Armory Lorch had told her with a nasty grin that she'd have to wait for her
own death until the day the new Master of Harrenhal arrived.
 
“There is only one God, and his name is Death. And what do we say to the God of
Death? - Not today!” the girl whispered with cracked lips.
 
The castellan had also enjoyed himself while telling her with a cruel smirk:
“And do you know who the new Master of Harrenhal is? No? It's The Hound, the
infamous Sandor Clegane. He's a bastard of an upstart, but he does know how to
kill. And he'll relish to deal with you himself. You're my little welcome
present for him, you know?”
 
The girl's head sagged against the wall, and she remembered the dead butcher
boy, Mycah, who had been her friend a lifetime ago. Mycah had been a better
friend than Hot Pie and Gendry. He wouldn't have tucked his tail between his
legs in fear like them, wouldn't have let her rot in this cell, no.
 
There were the shrill squeaking and the scurrying feet of rats to be heard in
the dark. Dripdripdrip, the dampness on the stones announced.
 
With a defiant sob the girl called “Weasel” spat: “Ser Gregor, Dunsen,
Polliver, Chiswyck, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Amory,
Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei, valar morghulis. VALAR
MORGHULIS!! ”
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
***** Domesticity (I) *****
Because of the rain they had stopped early and taken up residence in an
abandoned house in a little village. It was neither burned nor plundered, which
could neither be said of the local inn nor the other houses. Fresh graves could
be seen around the street altar of the Seven. A few refugees from further ahead
of the road were resting some other rooms of the empty house. Sansa and Sandor
introduced themselves as Lana and Grenn Rivers.
“You're travelling in the wrong direction!” a middle-aged, portly man named
Oscar told them. He didn't seem to be overly afraid of Sandor. Most likely
because The Hound was blind. And because he didn't recognize him, however this
was possible with his unique burned face and size.
 
Sansa asked, referring to the man's statement: “Why is that so, good man?”
 
She had become guarded in King's Landing, but she thought that this Oscar was
as trustworthy as one could expect in these dire times. After all, he had a
complete family with little children at his heels, and he looked clean and
trim.
 
“There are skirmishes between fighting groups of soldiers, m'lady. Someone like
you, who looks like a red-haired Tully, better shouldn't bump into them. And
there's a group of bandits in the northern direction as well. Only one out of
ten travelling parties gets through unmolested. My wife, my children, my
sister, her husband, her children and me have been incredibly lucky. But had we
stayed in our place I'm sure we'd be dead already.”
 
“Is it safe here at the moment?” Sandor wanted to know.
 
“I hope so”, the man said. “And we have discovered a field with salsifies and
carrots and turnips. In the backyard, there's also some parsley, thyme and
sage. The children are already cutting some herbs. If you help us with
harvesting a bit of the crop on the field we could all have a good, warm dinner
together.”
 
At first, Sansa was a little reserved – she had never worked in a field to
obtain a meal! Then, however, she thought that this was neither the time nor
the place for arrogance, and she said: “If you show me what I must to – of
course.”
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
“Fuck me sideways! The Little Bird doesn't feel it's below her to be a field
worker??” Sandor thought as he was trudging after her. Who would have thought
that of the fine lady, who had only dreamed of knights and songs and
needlework?
 
When they arrived where the plants were Sandor had to fumble on the earth,
blind as he was, and half of the time he pulled out weeds instead of the plant
he had aimed for. But if the oldest daughter of Eddard Stark wasn't too fine
for this task, bugger him twice, if The Lannister Hound was!
 
After a while, Oscar stated: “M'lady, it's clear as daylight that you have
never done this before. Judging by your looks – ARE you of House Tully?”
 
The Little Bird laughed nervously.
 
“Yes... yes... you're actually right. A... a natural daughter of Ser Brynden
Tully.”
 
Oscar erupted with hoarse laughter.
 
“HAHAHAHA, so that's why the Blackfish never wanted to marry! Had a sweetheart
amongst the commoners! How very romantic!”
 
Sandor wrinkled his hooked nose. Fuck, Sansa was such a bloody bad liar! They
could be grateful that her nervousness could be ascribed to her being a bastard
of the Blackfish! Well, at least the Little Bird had had enough sense not to
give herself away.
 
 
 
In the evening, they were all sitting around a nice fire in the kitchen and
enjoying their meal. Oscar's wife had really worked magic: the vegetable stew,
simple as it was, tasted bloody delicious! While they were all munching their
food they exchanged information about the status on the road. Afterwards, Sansa
started to sing. “Jonquil and Florian” and such rubbish. Her voice, however,
was so very sweet that it caused the children to fall asleep, and even Sandor
noticed how he was getting tired.
 
“Right, Little Bird, time for bed!” he finally growled.
 
Luckily, there were enough rooms for everyone: the children, the parental
couples, and Sansa and himself. Even some cots had been left behind by the
former owners. So they retired. No warm bath tonight like in that inn. Couldn't
be helped. The Hound stretched himself. Sansa lay down, and he scrambled behind
her. The blasted cot, happy as they could be to have one – was fucking narrow
for the two of them, so that they'd have to sleep like two spoons. How bloody
fantastic. Sandor growled inwardly.
 
Sansa seemed to have gotten accustomed enough to him to be pressed against his
oversized body without panicking. And Sandor tried not to think of her sweet
female scent and taste and actually attempted to sleep. At least until his
efforts were blasted to all seven hells.
 
 
 
It started with a female sigh next door.
 
“Oh shit, please no!” he thought.
 
A giggle. Followed by a moan. Followed by a darker, male moan.
 
Bleeding Stranger, did Oscar's goodbrother have to fuck his wife here?
 
Sansa tensed a little against him. Shit, so she had noticed, too. Noticed and
understood.
 
In the other room regular movements and gasps and moans could be heard. And the
speed and the volume increased.
 
“Oh yes, please, deeper, harder!”
 
Seven hells, the idea of becoming harder was bloody contagious! His own cock
was swelling against Sansa's little arse. And his wife surely had to notice by
now. It accounted for her deeper, faster breathing. That did nothing to help
him relax. The memory of her wonderful cunt and her lustful songs were too
fresh in his memory.
 
“Ahhh, you feel so good! Put your legs around me!”
 
Fuck, couldn't they get to an end? How long did the man want to pump into his
wife?
 
To The Hound's distress the sodding bugger seemed to be a very capable and...
enduring lover. Sandor's own cock was already leaking, just by listening and
fantasizing of the Little Bird's body that was pressed so flush against him.
What on earth was that other man doing? The woman was freaking out now. The
Hound hoped it would be over ... but no. The damned twerp wasn't contented with
one female orgasm.
 
Sandor was close to getting up and beating the man's face to mush.
 
Instead, he growled into Sansa's ear: “We'll both roll around now.”
 
“But you...”
 
“We'll. Both. Roll. Around. Now!” he snarled through gritted teeth and moved
his body accordingly. In this way, his cock wasn't pressing against the Little
Bird's bum any longer. He was still so hard that it hurt, but it was better
this way. No, he wouldn't give in to his primal instincts as he had done
before. If he could handle his need for alcohol and withstand, so could he with
regard to Sansa! He wouldn't overstress her again!
 
“Aaaaaah! Yesssssssoooooohhhyessss! Gaaaaaaaaads!!”
 
A simultaneous, deep, long groan.
 
At last the couple in the other room had had enough. Even so, it took Sandor
two more hours until he had relaxed – and softened – enough so he could fall
asleep. By then, Sansa was already snoring slightly against his broad, muscled
back. A seemingly perfect little lady. Snoring. Who'd ever fucking believe
that? Those were the last coherent things Sandor managed to think before
slumber took him.
 
The next morning, Sandor felt immediately that something was wrong with the
Little Bird.
 
 
 
***
 
***** Domesticity (II) *****
 
Sansa curled into a tight ball, although she half fell off the cot. Gods! The
pain!
“Little Bird!? What is it?”
Within a second Sandor had wrapped his arm around her, but another cramp
bloomed in her tummy, so she needed a moment until she could speak.
“Moon... Blood”, she gasped.
“What!? Your moon blood causes this fucking pain?”
Sansa nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“The same pain. Only... much worse this time.”
“Can I help you somehow?”
Sandor sounded really worried.
“Warmth. I need warmth. On my tummy. To relax. And perhaps... the women... can
prepare me a herbal infusion. Camomile. And I need some... rags.”
“Yes. Right, little bird. I'll go ask them.”
Clumsily, Sandor got out of bed and groped his way down towards the kitchen.
Some twenty minutes later he came back with Oscar's wife in tow. She handed
Sansa some tea.
When she was gone Sandor rummaged in his knapsack.
“Here they are! Can't be used for Stranger's hooves again, they're quite worn
through, but they're clean. They were washed in that other inn. Good that I
didn't throw them away. Here are the rags you wanted.”
Sansa took them and placed them in her smallclothes. Since Sandor was blind she
didn't feel too ashamed to do that in his presence.
Then, the Hound spoke up again, his voice a little hesitant: “The women
downstairs... about the warmth... they said I should put my hands on your tummy
and massage you there...”
At once, Sansa's heartbeat accelerated and she cut in: “Oh yes, that's a good
idea! Could you do that for me?”
“Do you really want me to...?”
“Oh yes, please!”
“Right... then... lie down!”
So they both crept back onto the cot, Sansa snuggled against her husband's
back, and he grabbed around her middle.
“I've never done that”, he admitted grumpily, but Sansa only answered by
putting her hands on his as they rested on her tummy.
Sandor was indeed a bit undecided and clumsy at first, not knowing what she
liked. So she told him when he was making small, slow circles that this felt
good. After some minutes, she could sit up enough to drink her tea. Then, she
lay back again and enjoyed the gentle ministrations of those big hands. At some
point they stilled on her tummy; they were just there, warm and soothing.
To her surprise she felt Sandor's breathing deepen and become slower – he had
actually fallen asleep again! It made Sansa smile. Her pain lessened to some
extent, and now, she was able to enjoy his closeness. And how very good he felt
against her! It was strange – somehow their bodies seemed to fit.
Sansa thought back to the throne room when she had had to pick a husband, and
it actually made her sick to think of any other man. She suddenly thought that
no-one else – except Varys, for obvious reasons – would have been so
considerate with regard to the bedding. She thought of Ser Ilyn Payne's and Ser
Dontos's touches and shuddered in disgust. And Baelish? He wasn't hard to look
upon, but now that she had made a first experience with Sandor's mouth on her
womanhood and her own passion she couldn't for the life of her imagine the man
with the goatee do that to her and her anywhere close to liking it. No. It was
so strange, and their start had been rough and it would probably always be
difficult with this big, scarred man behind her, but... strange as it was Sansa
was happy now that she had chosen him. In spite of everything.
 
***
 
There had been no travellers from the north, which was a fucking bad sign. It
meant that the road was still infested with scoundrels.
Oscar and his family had intended to leave again to travel to King's Landing
where they had a relative. Or perhaps they'd even try to reach the Free Cities,
if they couldn't stay there. Their departure was delayed, however, since one of
the five children, a girl, fell ill with a fever, so they decided to stay two
or three more days.
The Little Bird was happy enough that they'd have company for a little while
longer. Her pain had become better as well, and that was a good thing. Sandor
only hoped that next month she wouldn't suffer so much. He could still remember
Cersei to be in an especially foul mood for a few days each moon. Having seen
Sansa suffer so much, he could understand things a little better – and it had
also shown him the Little Bird's worth, since even in her pain she hadn't
snapped at him or been difficult.
Fuck, the way she had gratefully allowed him to massage her tummy was a little
wonder for him. She didn't resent his touch any longer! At least not his
“decent” touches. And it was so lovely to have her tucked away in his arms at
night! He had only known grown men huddled against him during their campaigns
to keep warm. He could still remember that one man had tried to... touch him in
search of a shieldmate. Since the only one allowed to take his cock in hand was
Sandor himself the man had been in search of a few teeth in spite of a
shieldmate soon enough.
Well, with regard to rubbing his cock he'd gladly make an exception for the
Little Bird, to be honest. Seven hells, she was pecking more and more holes
into his armour. When the lovebirds next door repeated their prolonged,
intensive lovemaking every single sodding night it drew him mad with need, and
he was remembered constantly of how divine Sansa tasted and of how wonderful
her song was.
She seemed to have accepted his regular hardening and didn't flinch from him.
At the same time, she didn't react noticeably at all and neither did she
address the topic, so he was insecure about her attitude here, and he didn't
want to press her. He was not worthy of her, true, but at the same time he was
not his buggering brother who wouldn't give a damn about what she might be
feeling or thinking. Well, her lack of... active enthusiasm with regard to
getting bedded was still better than some bloody air-headed chirping.
 
***
***** Getting to know *****
 
 
Sansa was standing in the kitchen and cutting vegetables together with Lya,
Oscar's sister. The woman was quite a few years younger than him and rather
small and wiry, with comparatively short, dark hair. The hairstyle reminded
Sansa suddenly of Arya, and she hoped and wished the unruly little Stark sister
was somewhere in safety.
After some time, Lya wanted to know: “How long have you been married to Grenn,
Lana?”
 
It felt still strange to be addressed with a false name.
 
“A short while.”
 
Better not be too precise here.
 
“You like him very much, don't you?”
 
Sansa wasn't sure what to say to that.
 
“He's a rough man and grumpy – but he's good. I could have chosen somebody
else, but I didn't want to.”
 
Lya laughed throatily: “Oh, I can totally understand that! He's so impressive!
The scars are extremely ugly, and his blindness doesn't make it easy, I guess,
but I could imagine that the rest of his body makes up for that.”
 
Sansa blushed fiercely and mumbled: “You're right... he's impressive.”
 
“Down THERE, too?”
 
Sansa choked. What!? Had she understood correctly? Had that woman really asked
her about the Hound's... the Hound's manhood?
 
Lya giggled: “Oh my, this is still quite new to you, I guess?”
 
“Y...yes.”
 
“No need to be ashamed, though! We women have to exchange information. If we
don't do that the men only thrust themselves in a few times and deposit their
seed, which isn't so very exciting for the woman. If you get to know some
details it'll be better for you both.”
 
“Oh.”
 
Sansa's voice sounded very small, because she didn't know what to say to that.
 
Lya looked at her sharply.
 
“You aren't still a maid, are you? He doesn't only have an affliction with his
eyes, but also with his member?”
 
“No! No. It's just... I was always told that this is private.”
 
“Stupid septas, I guess? Pah, they're deaf themselves but still think
themselves apt to lecture you about music. They don't have a clue! Tell me now,
does your Grenn do something to make you happy?”
 
Sansa's ears were purple now.
 
“He... strokes me. And he... kisses me.”
 
“Down there, too?”
 
Sansa couldn't even answer, only nod.
 
“Ah, that's very good! So many men don't do that, and then, it may hurt,
especially in the beginning. Right, so he'll know about your nub, too.”
 
“The what?”
 
Lya started to explain patiently, and Sansa's eyes went wide.
 
But what came next shocked her even more: “Have you ever done the same to him?”
 
“The same what?”
 
“No? That's strange, men usually like it to be touched like that.”
 
Lya went on and described some more. She also talked about different positions
and rhythms and places.
 
Sansa's head was swimming and she gasped in disbelief. In a pond? Against a
wall? In a chair? On a table? At once, she had a good look at the table where
she was cutting the vegetables. Then, she suddenly remembered Sandor's crude
comment to the guard back in King's Landing about consummating their marriage
on horseback, if necessary. Gooooods!
 
And still, Lya had not finished.
 
“Judging by your reactions you may not be a maid, but you don't know much about
lovemaking so far.”
 
Holy Seven, Sansa felt so ashamed!
 
“You... you see”, she stammered and had to remind herself of Sandor's false
name, “Grenn is very... reserved... sort of...”
 
Lya nodded at that.
 
“Oh, I see, you're still so young, and he doesn't want to get you with child
too soon, so that the risk of a miscarriage is smaller. But he doesn't have to
pull out in time to spill the seed on the earth. Yes, that is one way of how to
do it, but it ruins the fun, if he has to pay attention all the time. Using
hands and mouths is an alternative, and a really pleasuring one, but you could
also try your back opening. You won't get pregnant there.”
 
“The what?”
 
It took a moment for Sansa, because the concept was so alien to her that she
didn't grasp it at once. But then, her eyes widened in shock once more.
 
“THERE?”
 
“Yes, it's possible. Quite a few people like that. Others don't. You simply
have to find out for yourselves. And finally, there's still the Moon Tea that
can prevent pregnancy. It's not completely safe, but it's better than a
turtle's armour.”
 
“And... what is this kind of tea?”
 
Lya grinned: “Usually, it's only the maesters and the wise women, who provide
it, but where we used to live there was an old herbalist, a very kind lady, and
she told me all the details when she realised that the residents would be
scattered in the course of the War of the Five Kings. So let me tell you about
the herbs and their application now, too...”
 
 
 
Some minutes later, Lya had to laugh at Sansa's rather... discomposed face.
 
“Oh my, I guess it was all a little much for you, right?”
 
“Erm... yes. Possibly.”
 
“I know, but we want to leave tomorrow. Little Kessla is much better, you see,
so we likely won't get another chance to talk in private. And your Grenn will
be grateful for the theoretical lessons – once he experiences the outcome.”
 
Sansa swallowed hard.
 
“Oh... I'm... not really sure.”
 
“Don't you worry, Lana, he's so besotted with you – he'll absolutely like it!
One only has to see the way he looks at you, even if he can't see you. His
pupils widen whenever he hears you talk. Sweet, that.”
 
Sansa couldn't believe what she was hearing: “Are you sure? He has never said a
thing about it.”
 
That caused Lya to stop.
 
“Really? Oh, well, I guess it must have something to do with his... ailments.
Has he been blind and burned for a long time?”
 
“Blind – no. He only lost his eyesight in a fight recently. But he got his
scars when he was still a very little boy.”
 
“Ah, that explains a lot. He really does look quite the fighter. And if he was
burned so badly as a child I'd wager he's had lots of negative experiences, and
he's afraid of showing any deeper feelings. In that case, you've got to be
careful with him. Imagine you had to tame an animal. Have you ever tamed an
animal?”
 
“Yes!”
 
Sansa thought of poor Lady, and her heart went out to the big man that was her
husband now.
 
“That's fine! You have to show him that you like him and that he can trust you
without pressing him. I had to do the same with my sweetheart, because his
heart had been broken by someone else before – and now, he's the most faithful
person you could think of!”
 
That gave Sansa pause. So far, she had never thought Sandor might actually have
positive feelings for her – in spite of the way how he had kissed and licked
her to the Seven Heavens that one night. Was he really in the process of
overcoming his lost love? Could she have a better relationship with him?
 
She thought of the intimate things they had experienced, of how he had enjoyed
them so very much before he had shut himself off from her. And there were the
nights when she could feel him harden against her so regularly. He WAS in need
for sure, even if he never really bedded her. Was Lya right then? That she had
to show him he could trust her, even with regard to... the marriage bed?
 
There was a strange pulsating feeling between her thighs now, and she felt
strangely slippery there. Before, she wouldn't have known what it meant, but
thanks to Lya Sansa knew those sensations for what they were: signs of arousal.
She was still ashamed to some extent because of that – her comparative
innocence and her education were too deeply ingrained; but at the same time she
didn't try to suppress these things any longer. Still... how could she approach
Sandor with all of this?
 
 
 
Somehow, Sansa was sure that the Hound wouldn't take it well, if she just spoke
about undying love and the like. That would have been exaggerated, too much
like one of those romantic songs he detested – even more so, since she herself
wasn't sure what she felt for him. He would only become angry about something
like that and flinch from her. No. Sansa knew she had to be more subtle.
 
 
 
***
 
***** Bewildering friendliness (I) *****
Chapter Notes
     A little warning for fluff today. ;-)
 “Why are you fo fad?”
 
Sandor stopped digging out parsnips and froze.
 
“What!?”
 
“Why are you fo fad?”
 
A child's voice. It sounded female, but the Hound wasn't sure. Anyway. One of
Oscar's brats. Or a niece.
 
“Who are you?”
 
“I'm Beffie. Can't you fee?”
 
Ah, yes. Now, he remembered. The one with the bloody speech defect. Only he
hadn't paid her any attention so far.
 
“No, I can't see. I'm blind.”
 
“Blind?”
 
“Aye. I'm ill. I can't see a thing.”
 
“Ill? Like my fifter Keffla?”
 
Sandor growled.
 
“Well. Yes, sort of. Only your sister is getting better. I'm not.”
 
“Oh. Vat'f why you're fad ven, right?”
 
Sandor sighed inwardly, but at the same time, he was confused. Children never
addressed him, because they were afraid of him – so he didn't really know how
to react to this girl. She must be simply too small to understand any complex
problems, but he didn't know how to put an answer into words that were simple
enough to be understood by her. Another aspect was that the Hound usually
didn't think or talk about his feelings, which made a reaction even more
difficult.
 
His mouth started to twitch.
 
Suddenly, he heard the girl giggle.
 
“What now!?” he demanded to know.
 
“Hihihihi, can you do vat again wif your mouf? When it twitfes it lookf like ve
nuvvle of a bunny!”
 
Seven. Bleeding. Hells.
 
Perhaps the girl wasn't blind, but surely she had as much of a fucking visual
defect as she had a speech defect.
 
“I'm the hound! You will not compare me to a sodding bunny, understood!?” he
snarled, giving accidentally his identity away, and thought: “Now, I've scared
the shit it of her. Good. I only hope the others haven't heard me.”
 
“Mommy fayv I mufn't fout like vat. Fo you muvn't do vat eiver. It'f not good
for ve blood, and it'f not nife. But you can really bellow like a dog. Bow-wow!
Bow-wow! I like puppiev, too, fee?”
 
Sandor was nothing short of flabbergasted while the girl in front of him was
producing some more happy barking sounds.
 
Fuck, the girl had to be kind of balmy! Grown men shrank back from him in fear,
and for good reason! Aye, he had killed children before – criminal boys who had
ambushed him and his troops with a horde of fellow rogues and bandits, or he
had done it on royal orders; but however irritated he was now, he couldn't slay
a girl whose only mistake it was to be wrong in the garret.
 
“Bessie?”
 
“Yef?”
 
“I've got to work. Be quiet and leave me alone.”
 
“Pleave.”
 
“What?”
 
“You muft fay “pleave”. Havn't your mommy told you?”
 
Sandor was close to despair now.
 
Since he had no intention to talk about his mother whatsoever he hissed and
spat: “PLEASE then. And now: off with you!!”
 
“Fee you later ven!”
 
The Hound heard some hopping sounds and childish humming that told him the girl
was kind of jigging away. At long last! Sandor's nerves felt strangely frayed
at the ends now. It took him a few minutes until he had composed himself and
could focus on harvesting parsnips again. The other adults had seemingly
retreated to the house with their crop, because no-one could be heard, and no-
one addressed him and asked him about being the Hound.
 
A little later, when he had just come to the conclusion that he had done
enough, there were treacherous hopping sounds again.
 
“Look!”
 
Fuck. That girl Bessie again.
 
“I've told you I can't see!” he snarled.
 
“Oh, yef, I forgot. Wait!”
 
All of a sudden, a pudgy little hand grabbed his huge, calloused paw and
pressed something into it before he could even flinch.
 
“Here!”
 
“What's that, girl?”
 
“Flowerv! I picked fome for you, becauve you were fo fad! Hm, you can't fee vem
now, vat'f a pity – but you can fmell vem!”
 
Sandor was spellbound. He had been picked flowers?
 
That was so far beyond his scope that he didn't know how to react. Why, he
couldn't even snarl at the girl! Fuck, she had caught him with his pants down,
metaphorically speaking.
 
Lacking any other idea he finally opted for decency: “Thank you, Bessie.”
 
The words felt awkward on his tongue, because he wasn't used to them.
 
“Fine! It'f fo nife vat you like ve flowerv! And you are nife, too! You're my
friend now!”
 
Suddenly, he felt little arms around his leg. Bessie, who was still so very
short in comparison to himself, was embracing him the only way she could!
 
It was a major shock for Sandor. Being gifted with a present and being hugged
and called “friend” simply didn't belong to his range of experiences. He just
stood there, twitching mouth slightly agape and tried to... bear the girl's
incomprehensible signs of affection. In the end, he tried to come up with a
gesture that matched hers somehow and he ruffled Bessie's downy locks
awkwardly.
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
Oscar and his goodbrother were coming into the kitchen, chatting animatedly
about the next day when they wanted to leave the house. Sansa looked up and
waited for Sandor, but he didn't follow the two men.
 
Confused, she asked: “Where's Grenn?”
 
Oscar looked up.
 
“Oh. Not behind us. I thought he was following. Looks as if he hasn't noticed
we wanted to return. Or he wanted to harvest some more. Shall I go and fetch
him?”
 
Sansa shook her head.
 
“No, that's not necessary. I'll do that. But thanks.”
 
With some swift steps she left the house and made for the field where the men
had been working.
 
Suddenly, she stopped in mid-stride, eyes widening, and her hand flew to her
mouth in surprise. She saw little Bessie right in front of Sandor and she was
handing him some flowers with a broad smile. The expression on the Hound's face
was absolutely priceless, and Sansa had to suppress a giggle. Next, Sansa
watched Bessie hug Sandor's leg, and a completely confused big man patted the
girl's hair.
 
Suddenly, Sansa's heart started to beat faster, and she thought she was melting
into a puddle. Bessie had Lya's dark hair colour. Or Sandor's, if you squinted
a little. For the first time, Sansa envisaged the huge, coarse warrior as a
possible future father. He had told her that a man like him shouldn't have any
children – but was that true? No, she couldn't believe that any more.
 
Sansa felt the strangest tug in her stomach. She started to realise that since
everybody had told her it was the female role model she had always expected to
have children one day and had told herself she wanted to have some – but right
now, she felt the deep longing to really have a child for the first time. She
looked from Bessie to Sandor again, and then, she started to notice a weird
kind of gentle warmth deep within her core, and she had the strangest insight:
she wanted Sandor Clegane to be the father of her children, unbelievable as it
was! If anyone had asked her why she thought the Hound could make a good father
after all she wouldn't have known what to say.
 
 
 
From where she was standing she called: “Bessie! There you are! Shouldn't you
go home back to your mommy? And can you bring my husband along?”
 
The girl let go of the Hound's leg, turned around, beamed and laughed: “Hello
Lana! Yef, coming!”
 
At that, Bessie snatched Sandor's hand and pulled him towards the house. Sandor
was still so disintegrated that he didn't even show the slightest sign of
opposition and accepted being led by a little girl.
 
Now, Sansa was actually biting her lips so as not to let the slightest giggle
escape her mouth. The scene was simply too hilarious! At the same time it
became clear how little the Hound knew about positive human interaction. Sansa
resolved to be kind towards him and to help improve their forced marriage.
Silently, she thanked Lya for her good advice.
 
When the girl and the warrior arrived where she was standing Sansa said: “Hurry
up now, Bessie and run home to your mommy so that she doesn't get worried! I'll
take my husband's arm and lead him.”
 
With a squeal of laughter Bessie rushed ahead and darted towards the entrance
door. Sansa clasped Sandor's arm.
 
After a moment, he growled: “Fuck me sideways – that brat was giving me the
pip. Here, take those bloody flowers she has picked for me. If we get back
without them she'll only ask about them and continue to go on my nerves.”
 
A short while ago the Hound's coarse words would have upset Sansa, but now, she
couldn't be bothered any more. She even smiled instead. Sandor couldn't see
her, but she saw that he noticed her reaction was different – that she didn't
flinch from his snarl.
 
“Fuck, Little Bird, what's up? No chirping?”
 
“The Little Bird is thinking about our future nest.”
 
Sandor stopped for a moment, surprised, then growled something unintelligible.
Next, he resumed walking, but didn't ask any more questions.
 
 
 
***
 
***** Bewildering friendliness (II) / Of brooding, memories, resolve and vine
*****
Chapter Notes
     As I've mentioned before I've already written some 80 pages of the
     story, and over the last weeks I've been trying to revise the story
     here and there. I think that one of the main problems has been to
     pinpoint Sandor's sexual motivation. Thus, I have written a new
     chapter and tried to explain. I wonder whether his reasoning is
     credible now, but I'm still rather insecure.
 
Had all the females around him wacked out? This wanton Lya going to fucking
extremes at night, her daughter Bessie not being afraid of him – and now the
Little Bird pondering a joint future. Bloody seven hells! What would happen
next? Would his shit smell of roses? Well, at least this thrice-damned Oscar
and his clan would leave the other day.
During supper Sandor was even more morose and taciturn than usual and as soon
as he had wolfed down his food at an enormous speed he asked Sansa to take him
to their room. He could already imagine Bessie approach him again and ask him
to play with a bloody doll or something like that. Better to take no fucking
risks.
When he and Sansa arrived in their room he sat down on the cot and grumbled:
“You can go back to the others. I know you haven't finished eating and you want
to spend the evening with them, because they're leaving tomorrow. I'll get
along just fine.”
Actually, he meant to use the time alone for a good hand-job to let off some
steam.
“Oh, how mindful of you! And you've got everything you need? Good!”
Sandor expected to hear her retreating steps at once, so her next action caught
him completely off hand. Suddenly, she must have bent forward, because a
delicate hand was laid on his neck, which sneaked up into his hair; her divine
scent became stronger... and then there was an incredibly warm and sweet little
explosion on his mouth. It was over within a heartbeat, but it left Sandor with
his mouth agape and his heart thundering in his chest.
Fuck!
What!?
She...
Had she just...?
Holy shit!
She had kissed him!
Square on his burned mouth!
And then, he did finally hear her retreating steps and a merry call from the
corridor: “Good night then! Sleep well!”
Utterly puzzled, Sandor lifted a hand to his lips. His brain was still
dumbfounded, but it finally told him that he had been given a good-night kiss.
The only one who had ever touched him like that had been Syrella, his long dead
sister. But he couldn't think of her now. He could only think of the Little
Bird.
Why had she done that? Why had she kissed him? He simply didn't get it. Kisses
were signs of affection. Even much more than hugs. They were a sign of...
intimacy. Even a hard, coarse man like him knew that. Then why in all seven
hells should the Little Bird kiss him? It made no sense. Was it some... sense
of duty, some streak of her Tully heritage, and she thought that she owed her
husband a kiss? Until today that would have been the most likely explanation
for him, but the carefree voice with which she had wished him a good night and
her hand in his hair spoke a different language.
So... which other reason could she have had?
Like a bolt from the blue, Sandor had an idea: Sansa was seemingly discovering
the first signs of her evolving womanhood. And since they were married –
however awkwardly their sodding match had been made – she automatically turned
towards him. Simply for the reasons that there were no real male alternatives
around and that her conscience unknowingly told her that he was the one and
only she could possibly address without her bloody morals interfering.
Only... how should he react to that? Their marriage wasn't meant to last long.
Soon, Sansa would return to her family and be free of him. Free to really fall
in love with a better man than him. Or... free to be put into another cage. Who
knew. It was clear as daylight that others would want to have her for her claim
and her social position. And probably they wanted a nice vessel to fuck. And
that would be it.
The Hound knew that his and Sansa's forced relationship would be the only
marriage, the only togetherness, the only bond he'd ever experience. An ugly
brute like him wasn't meant for this. So he resolved to accept any morsel of
friendliness she'd be willing to feed him, and he'd try to be as careful as it
was possible for a rough man like him for as long is their wedded life lasted.
At least once in his life she should be cherished for the person she was – and
not for what she represented. He didn't have a clue how to do it, how to
contain his ever burning anger and how to be patient with her. Yet, he swore to
himself he'd try his very best. Life was neither fair nor a song, so he didn't
have to give much, but Sansa deserved no less than his most sincere attempt,
even more so after what she had experienced on the hands of bloody inbred
Joffrey.
Then, the Hound's thoughts swayed from these general meditations to more recent
occurrences. Sandor didn't want to profane the heavenly moment, but memories of
him kissing and licking Sansa between her legs, of her writhing under him and
of her crying out her release flooded him. He couldn't do anything against it.
Shit, his hard cock needed some relief now. It had started to hurt.
Desperately he started to tug on his codpiece...


Of_brooding,_memories,_resolve_and_vine
 
After he had released and could concentrate again Sandor started to think about
things again, and he soon got the imression he was running in circles. He felt
strangely fragmented. In the past, life had been simple and there had only been
few relevant columns that had upheld and marked his life: He had to obey. He
had to fight. He was a killer. He was feared. He was successful and knew how to
survive. Knights were bastards. Gregor was the worst bastard of all.
And all of a sudden, a Little Bird had fluttered into his life, had unnerved
him with her naivety, had touched him with her gentleness, had impressed him
with her ability to endure – and finally, she had even chosen him for marriage.
One part of Sandor's brain claimed he WAS Sansa's husband now; since she had
flowered she was old enough to be bedded, and his body demanded to consummate
their marriage. No other man would hesitate a second to take her, and Sandor's
lust was undeniable.
But life wasn't easy to understand any more, and not only because of his
blasted blindness. Far from it.
Sandor had started to feel the need to do what was best for Sansa, inexplicable
as it might be for a rough, remorseless warrior like him. Only... what WAS
best? He didn't know a thing about women and about relationships.
 
A memory from Casterly Rock came back to his mind. A very young soldier named
Terry had entered the soldier's barracks one evening and started to get himself
pissed with a bottle of strongwine. An elder soldier named Toby, who had been
so incompetent with his sword that he was only ever allowed to fight at the
rear, but who had had no less then four consecutive wives, three lovers and
seven daughters (and more sons and bastards as well...), had asked Terry what
had been wrong with him.
The youngster had answered that his sweetheart had broken up with him as a
direct consequence of him taking her maidenhood. Terry had not understood,
because they had been together for three months and had been so very much in
love and had pleasured each other in many different ways before; the girl had
even told him she wanted to do it with him – and when he had obliged, she had
suddenly started to screech and to wail and had sent him to all seven hells.
Toby had just laughed his raucous laughter, and Sandor would never forget the
man's next words: “Young women are like vine – you cannot harvest sweet grapes
during the first season. They need one year to flirt, one year to fondle and
only in the third year are they ripe to be fucked. The problem is: in all their
innocence they don't even know this and think themselves to be ready before
they actually are.”
Sandor's memories returned to Sansa, to how she had smiled at Joffrey and later
at Ser Loras.
“ One year to flirt...”
Sansa had matured a lot in many ways, if he was honest with himself – but even
so, it wasn't enough.
“ One year to fondle...”
That was likely her recent level. Fuck, and he did want to fondle her again,
like he had done in that inn. But he wouldn't be able to stand it, if he – the
bloody ruffian – did something too early, or the wrong way, so Sansa couldn't
stand his touch any more. He had only ever wanted her to look at him; now, he
realised that what he had wanted was her respect. He couldn't do without it. He
had never given a shit about what other people thought about him, but Sansa...
she was so good, so lovely... Seven hells, he needed some Dornish Red!
The next moment, he admonished himself he wouldn't drown himself in alcohol.
Sansa should never see him so miserable again.
 
Another unbidden memory bubbled up in his mind. His only intimate encounters
with women had been with whores. A few daring kitchen wenches had approached
him at the Red Keep, and Sandor had known them to spy for either the queen, the
Master of the Whispers, or the damned Mockingbird, so he had never reacted to
any of their offers. Or rather barked at them in such a way that it had caused
piss to trickle down their legs....
Over the last years, he had only met two harlots at Alayayas', Khameena and
Zinya, two exotic beauties – they had accepted his coin without too much
revulsion at the ruin that was his face, and they had been clean, healthy and
discreet. Of course, both had been drinking moon tea by the gallons, but in
spite of that, Khameena had become pregnant by one of her customers.
When Sandor had returned from his voyage to the north he had spent his first
night off duty at the brothel and had bathed with Zinya. Usually, he had only
paid for a quick tumble, but that night, he had felt the urgent need to clean
and to relieve himself. He had also brought along a little fox fur from
Winterfell, which could serve as a blanket for the little one, a kind of a
welcome present, so to speak. At some point, at the first light of dawn, Sandor
had asked his bedfellow how Khameena was, and Zinya had told him that she had
died during the birthing process – and the baby along with her.
It had been the last time Sandor had laid a hand on a woman.
Now, he was thinking of how big an unborn Clegane baby might be, and of Sansa's
increasingly female, but still slender, delicate body. He also considered how
Lady Lannister's death on giving birth to the Imp had embittered Lord Tywin,
and suddenly, he felt something like... compassion for the Old Lion. Bah, he
had to stop that at once; the man was the least one to deserve such feelings!
The point, however, was that Sandor felt that Sansa was really still too young
for a child, especially his child, and moon tea and the like were no safe
solution when it came to preventing a pregnancy. The Hound had committed many
atrocities over the years – but killing a wife by putting a child in her belly
would be the one thing he'd never be able to forget or to ignore. Losing Sansa
in this way would break him to pieces, he suddenly realised. Fuck, his feelings
for her were deeper than he'd ever have believed!
And then, there was one last thing he wasn't to forget: when the Little Bird
returned to her family they would take a child away from her to sell Sansa off
more easily to some other man. The Young Wolf would never accept a Clegane baby
– and a possible future husband even less.
 
The greatest responsibility Sandor had ever taken was to lead a unit of
soldiers into battle. Now, his responsibility was Sansa. He himself was doomed,
there was no doubt about that – but the Little Bird's life was not necessarily
forfeit; and whereas other people had only ever clipped her wings he wanted her
to spread them and to rise into a sunny sky. Even if it meant he had to keep
his cock under control.
***
 
***** Chapter 21 *****
 
Closeness_and_farewell
 
Sansa was smiling all evening as if she'd swallowed the sun. She had given
Sandor a kiss! And he had not been angry! And it had felt and tasted good! So
very good indeed – even short as the kiss had been.
She was sitting there together with Oscar and his families. The portly man's
children were already abed, recovered Kessla was dozing on Lya's lap, and
Bessie had clambered onto her own one and had asked to be sung a good night
song. Sansa obliged happily. After a while, the girls had fallen asleep, and
she and Lya took them to bed.
The wiry woman shot Sansa a knowing glance and whispered: “I feel you've made
some progress with a certain big man.”
Sansa giggled and nodded.
“Good for you! I really wish the two of you all the best!”
“Thank you, the same to you!”
They went back to the kitchen where the others were sitting and Oscar told her
about the relative in King's Landing that they wanted to reach. Sansa only
hoped they'd all find their measure of happiness. At the same time, she was a
little sad that she'd have to part with the people she had made friends with.
When it was getting late they finally called it a day and retreated to their
respective beds.
Sansa entered hers and Sandor's bedroom. The Hound was snoring on the cot,
obviously very relaxed and sound asleep.
Sansa peeled off her dress noiselessly, until only her shift and her
smallclothes were left. She was relieved that she had front laces so that she
didn't have to disturb her husband's slumber for help.
Finally, she slipped under the blanket and behind Sandor's massive body. He was
only wearing his smallclothes, which meant that she could snuggle against his
broad back and feel his skin there.
Hmmm... she liked his musky scent and nuzzled his hair slightly with her nose.
And his skin was wonderfully warm. Yes, he was hard and muscled, neither soft
nor sweet. But still, it was so very, very lovely to touch him.
Strange. Back in the throne room in King's Landing she'd have never believed it
could possibly be so nice to be close to the man people called 'the Hound'.
Yet, he was obviously much more than a reflection of the animal on his sigil.
Sansa laid her cheek against Sandor's back and allowed her lips to rest against
his flesh. It wasn't a kiss as such, but it meant much to her. Deep down, she
hoped there would be many and more gentle touches in the future. She wondered
if it could all work out between them – in spite of them being so very
different.
Apart from that... what did Sandor Clegane mean to her? What did she feel for
him?
Sansa remembered their meeting on the road, down from Winterfell to King's
Landing. She hadn't seen him and mistaken his big, warm hand for her father's
for a moment. Over the last months, the Hound had been the weirdest kind of
guardian for her. He had always been close, either in the open or in the
shadows. Even before Joffrey had glued them together in marriage they had
touched surprisingly often, come to think of it, and he had spoken more
honestly to her than any other.
Yes, he had snarled and been incredibly rude more often than not, and it had
hurt her repeatedly. When he had been drunk it had been worse. But now, Sansa
thought back on Lya's words, that Sandor must have been hurt in many ways that
went beyond the act of burning the face. Had he really endured so much that he
was so very scarred on the inside?
Then again, Sansa knew she had her own scars by now. On her back, but also on
her soul – and the latter ones were actually worse, if she was honest. Sandor
knew what had been done to her. Had seen it himself. He was the only more or
less well-meaning person who could really understand. Sansa realised that her
brother Robb and her mother wouldn't be able to understand her the way her
husband could. Their joint time in King's Landing had formed a bond between
them. Its nature wasn't quite clear yet, but Sansa felt that it was already
deeper and stronger than she would have expected... and that it was still
growing. And if Lya was right it was mutual.
It didn't mean that their relationship was an easy one. But in an awkward way
the basis felt just right. It could be neither explained nor explained away.
And it felt good. Peaceful somehow.
Sansa inhaled her husband's scent again. In his sleep, Sandor utterd a tiny,
dark, contented growl, deep down in his throat. It caused Sansa to smile warmly
against his back before her thoughts grew dizzy and she fell asleep.
 
***
 
It was a pressing bladder that woke Sandor. He couldn't say if it was already
morning, but judging by the fresh air mingled with a streak of warmth across
his feet, which could be a sunbeam coming in through the window, and the choir
of birds chirping like mad it felt like a definite possibility.
He yawned lazily, for once not quite as depressed as usual that he was only
surrounded by darkness, and realised that Sansa had rolled onto him once more
and lay sprawled half across him. Her thigh was pressing directly on his
bladder. Seven hells, no wonder he was thinking he'd explode any moment! He
wiggled a little so that her leg was a bit more to the side, and he could allow
himself to enjoy the closeness with his wife for at least a few more minutes.
Down in the kitchen the Hound could hear some sounds from the adults and the
five children. He could even detect little Bessie's happy voice. No doubt: the
others were preparing their departure.
Ah, well, it wasn't his Little Bird's departure. Not yet. So he didn't care
overly.
Hmmmm! Sansa's silky tresses were caressing his skin since he was only wearing
his smallclothes, and her sweet face was resting on his chest. Sandor
remembered her gentle kiss and thought that he'd give his eyesight a second
time if only he could live with Sansa as wife and husband as normally as other
couples did. Yet, he also thought of her bloody family, of the other noble
families, of the fucking war... they all wouldn't allow him to be happy with
the Little Bird. Never.
It pained him to think of the future, so he was glad when Sansa distracted him
by uttering a tiny sigh.
Immediately, Sandor asked himself how he should treat her in everyday life...
and especially right now, if he meant to be good to her. Well... He only had
his experiences with animals as a reference point for patience and gentleness.
Right... how would he treat a puppy that had shown him some initial acceptance?
Erm. He'd pat the head, fondle the animal behind its ears and say some soothing
words. Could the same work with regard to Sansa?
Hesitantly, he moved a hand, trailed her hair upwards to her head and sneaked
into the silky curls until he had found an ear. Then, he trailed the outer rim
of an auricle. Sansa twitched with a little giggle. Sandor was insecure. Was he
doing it wrong?
Then, Sansa moved her head lightly and rested her chin on his chest.
“Gummoargn, Sandor”, she murmured, not unkindly. His heartbeat started to
accelerate. At least she didn't flinch! Again his hand probed a little and he
found her earlobe. Tentatively, he stroked it with his index finger. Bleeding
stranger, his former fellow soldiers would be pissing themselves from laughter,
if they ever knew how clueless he was around women!
Still, Sansa didn't avoid his touch and uttered something akin to a relaxed
purr. Holy shit!
It was only good that he wasn't aroused for once. The evening before he had
pleasured himself thrice and judging by the stickiness in his smallclothes he
seemed to have had a... productive morning erection, which had left him so
spent that his cock seemed to have gone into hibernation. Fuck, that was even
better at present, otherwise patience would have been impossible!
“Is the Little Bird not yet ready for the morning song?” he asked in a low
rumble.
“The Little Bird is too satisfied with the nest to lift a wing”, Sansa answered
languidly.
Whoa, she was so relaxed! And she didn't reject him!
His finger moved away from her ear and trailed down her jawline ever so slowly.
Suddenly, Sansa moved her face towards his hands and kissed his fingers. Fuck,
what...?
Sandor couldn't believe it.
He could only freeze in wonder.
“Have you slept well?” Sansa asked.
“I was as dead as a doornail.”
Another little giggle.
“You didn't even wake up when I sneaked into bed.”
He uttered a low growl and found himself wanting to get another kiss. Sansa,
however, was getting more awake now.
“Oh my, Sandor, I think I need to go to the privy. And I can hear the others
downstairs. They're packing. We need to go and bid them farewell.”
“I need a piss, too.”
Just at that moment, there were jigging steps in the corridor and a heartbeat
later, there was a knock on their door. Next, it flew open and Bessie stormed
in.
“Good mooooorning, groundhogv! You're fleeping fo long! My mommy fayv I muft
wake you, or we won't fee you before we leave.”
Grumbling, Sandor answered: “Has your bloody mommy allowed you to open doors to
other people's bedrooms?”
But Bessie didn't care.
“Oooh, you're ftill in bed? Wait a moment!”
The Hound didn't have a clue what would come next. And then, the unbelievable
happened: narrow as the cot was, Bessie pressed herself into the middle between
them and crowed merrily: “Cuddling if nife!”
Sandor was paralysed. What was wrong with that girl, for fuck's sake?
Sansa was having a major fit of laughter.
All of a sudden, pudgy arms went round his neck, and he got a wet, hearty kiss
on his good cheek. Then, Bessie stopped dead, as if she had seen him for the
first time.
“Grenn, why doev your fafe look fo ftrange?”
Well, that explained a lot. Bessie had to be short-sighted indeed.
“I burned myself with fire, girl. And now – up with you, I need to have a
bloody piss.”
He got up and groped for his clothes.
“Lana, why doev Grenn alwayv uve vove bad wordv? Didn't his mommy tell him...”
Sandor hissed.
“Bessie, it's really better if you go down now. Come, be a good girl, and I'll
talk to my husband about his language”, Sansa helped out.
“All right, and you muft hurry up now, becauve we want to leave!”
The same instant Bessie dashed out of the door again.
 
***
 
Sansa sighed. That girl was really a little whirlwind!
“Well, I guess she's right; we really need to hurry up. Come, here's your
tunic.”
It was very visible that her husband's mood had deteriorated rapidly, and he
growled darkly. Oh my, what a pity! It had all started so nicely.
 
Some minutes later, they were both downstairs and helping Oscar and his family.
A mule that they had had in a barn with Stranger had been put in front of a
cart with their belongings. The five children were all running around as
excitedly as if they had stirred a hornets' nest. Oscar's older boys and
daughter would be able to walk beside the cart like their parents, but Lya
would sit on the vehicle to drive it, and Bessie and Kessla would sit next to
her on the box.
Sandor was – if possible – even grumpier, because due to his blindness he
couldn't help much. In contrast to that Sansa's heart grew heavy, because the
time to say goodbye was there. She only hoped she'd find some friends like
Oscar and Lya and the rest in Harrenhal... and she knew all too well that
chances weren't good in that respect if you considered what Sandor had told her
about the building and its present situation. Sansa sighed.
Then, they said their farewells and she hugged them all. Sandor seemed to be
surprised and a little self-conscious when Oscar and his brother-in-law clapped
him on the back. Obviously, he wasn't accustomed to those gestures.
Finally, the little trek left the yard and moved southwards. Sansa and the
children waved at each other until they had shrunk to the size of ants.
 
***** Earth and water *****
 
 
“They're gone”, Sansa stated and went on: “What do we do now?”
 
“We can let Stranger trot off into that grove now”, Sandor rumbled.
 
There was a little wood close by, with lush grass and a little stream. The days
before they had already set the courser free to enjoy his time there. The big
animal simply couldn't be kept in the barn all the time, even less so since
Sansa didn't like to remove his droppings – and Sandor couldn't really do it.
In the evenings, either the horse came back on his own, or the Hound only had
to whistle sharply. Sansa thought it strange that such a stubborn, irritable
stallion was so loyal to his master. Somehow, animal and man really matched.
 
When the barn was opened for Stranger he had already been waiting impatiently,
stamping his hooves, and without further ado he stormed off. Sansa could only
jump aside in order to not be kicked.
 
She looked up and around and said: “Oh, there are clouds piling up in the sky
in the east. Let's hope that Oscar and his family won't get drenched soon, now
that Kessla has just recovered.”
 
Sandor reacted with a low rumble and said: “Well – I for my part have to get
wet anyway. I need some washing. Can you handle the water pump?”
 
Sansa flushed red. Before, the men and the women had helped each other with the
water pump separately.
 
“Yes, of course I can help you. Come.”
 
When they had arrived Sandor undressed. Oh my! She had seen him naked before,
but never from so close up!
 
Sansa started to breathe faster, and her pulse quickened.
 
“Hey, Little Bird, where's the water? Or do you want to go on staring bloody
holes into the air?” her husband called.
 
Woken from her reverie, Sansa got even redder. Gods, how had he known?
 
Hurriedly, she answered: “One moment! Water is coming!”
 
Wildly, she started to work the handle of the pump.
 
A moment later, Sandor could splash the water all over his body.
 
Which didn't make things one whit easier for Sansa. Holy Seven, when his wet,
magnificent muscles were sparkling in the light she wanted to touch him
everywhere! She remembered what Lya had told her about arousing a man and about
caressing him respectively. The colour of her face and neck darkened even more.
Moreover, she remembered all too clearly how Sandor had kissed her breasts, and
now that she was seeing his male chest with its nipples... her mind started to
wander.
 
Suddenly, she noticed some water dripping off the tip of his... Gooods! A
pulsating feeling started to bloom within her womanhood once more.
 
Her husband, however, seemed to be oblivious of her feelings – and turned
around to give her an enticing view of his backside.
 
“That's good, Little Bird, the water is so fresh!” he stated, his mood
seemingly on the rise again.
 
By then, Sansa was – though heavily ashamed of that thought – close to rushing
at him and licking up and down his spine. Gods, Lya had given her all those
ideas, and now, she simply couldn't contain them any more! Well, what could she
do if Sandor's chiselled body was an epitome of temptation!?
 
Suddenly, she heard herself say: “Fine, I'd like to have a wash, too! Can you
just take over?”
 
“Errr... yes, of course, if you want to.”
 
 
 
Sansa's fingers were trembling when she let go of the handle and started to
undress. Her husband was still wet and naked as his nameday. And taking over
the water pump now. How could he be so relaxed when she herself was almost
freaking out? When everything she wanted to do was to be close to him, skin on
skin, and to kiss him?
 
Then, the cold jet of water exploded on her skin and she squealed.
 
And what did Sandor do? Bark his dark laughter at her!
 
“Cold, Little Bird?”
 
There was a definite undertone of mischief in his raspy voice!
 
“Ha! I'll give you cold!” she pouted... and went at him.
 
 
 
It all happened so fast then. The next thing she knew was that they were both
rolling on the wet earth, scrambling merrily and laughing and getting muddy and
dirty all over again. But when consciousness and the realisation that they were
both naked set in they stopped dead. Sandor was lying on his back, and Sansa
was sitting on his chest and holding his powerful arms over his head, although
it would be easy for him to hold her at bay.
 
And then, Sandor lifted his head, and his mouth met the underside of one of her
swelling breasts, where he kissed her. Once again. A whimper escaped her lips.
Immediately, she moved her body to give him better access.
 
Moments later, she had forgotten everything she'd ever known – and for her
husband, it was obviously the same. He was just as fervent as he had been back
in that inn!
 
Her breasts started to hurt in pure need, and he seemed to sense it and graced
her with wild kisses that were far better than good. The intensity of her lust
should have shocked her, but she was simply beyond all limitations.
 
At some point, she cupped Sandor's head with her own hands, and he stopped
dead.
 
“Little Bird?”
 
But Sansa was already slipping further down, craned her neck... and kissed him
on his mouth with all the passion she could muster. She had never kissed a man
like that, and she wasn't quite sure if she was doing it right... but when
Sandor moaned in sheer desperation, pulled her closer and nearly crushed her
she knew that at least for him it was just the way he wanted to have it.
 
What came then was so glorious that Sansa knew at once she'd never forget it in
all her life. They kissed and kissed and kissed and both couldn't stop.
Breathing was getting laborious soon. Where they had just been clumsy and wild
at first they soon started to tune in.
 
Sansa felt the corner where her husband's lips were burned and tentatively
flicked her tongue over that spot. Sandor flinched as if he had felt a whip –
only to invade her mouth with his own tongue. Oh! Oh! It felt so good! And
tasted so divine!
 
Sansa whimpered and pressed her naked body against his.
 
“That good, Little Bird?”
 
“Yes! Oh please... can you kiss me?”
 
“But I AM kissing you. See?”
 
And he proved his point.
 
Gods, he was learning fast how to make her even whine in sheer bliss. Still...
it wasn't enough!
 
Shyly, she took one big, calloused hand and though she was deep scarlet now and
finally, her relative innocence kicked in she still placed his fingers between
her legs.
 
Sandor stiffened.
 
“Little Bird?”
 
“Can you KISS me... please?”
 
Her voice sounded tiny, breathy, pleading, and she felt ashamed. A lady
shouldn't behave like that.
 
“You're bloody asking me to lick your cunt? Again?”
 
Sansa winced and started: “I'm sorry... I know I shouldn't – oh!”
 
She didn't get any further. Sandor flipped her on her back, growled: “The fuck
you'll be sorry for!”, parted her legs and put them over his broad shoulders. A
heartbeat later, his mouth made contact.
 
Sansa's world became a whirl of bright colours. She moaned again and again.
This time, Sandor tried different kinds of caresses: licking, nibbling,
sucking... only she liked them all and couldn't decide which one was best. Her
hands were in his dark hair and she bucked into his mouth like she had done the
time before.
 
“You like it?” he murmured once and looked completely enthralled himself.
 
Sansa could only answer: “O please! Don't stop!”
 
So Sandor went on, but now, he was more controlled, slower, drawing out the
pleasure. Gods, that was pure torture! Sansa thought she was dying from sheer
joy. And when she couldn't take it any more her body heaved and she screamed
her husband's name. Tears shot into her eyes.
 
Then, her memory set in and she feared Sandor might withdraw again, so she
wriggled herself free, moved down his body, which was already tensing, threw
her arms around his neck and whispered desperately: “Don't you dare run away
now!”
 
The huge warrior's body relaxed on hearing this and his voice was thick with
emotions when he answered: “As if I could run away, mole that I am!”
 
Sansa pressed her cheek against the good side of his face, and suddenly, there
was more salty wetness. Sandor was weeping, too! Who could have ever believed
that!
 
Sansa jested: “Mole and hound and bunny. My, you've got multiple identities
these days as it seems.”
 
That caused her husband to chuckle: “Ah, I see! So you did eavesdrop on Bessie
and me!”
 
“Let's say I overheard you.”
 
“Whatever.”
 
And then, Sandor kissed her once more. She could taste herself, which made her
feel ashamed again, but also happy, and though she didn't say it aloud she
thought for the first time: “I love you!”
 
***** The finding *****
Chapter Notes
     After the fluffy-sexy interlude w e're getting back to the dark stuff
     now...
 
 
 
Ser Bonifer was irritated. It had been raining for an hour now and he and his
men had been riding for days and days, obeying an order Ser Bonifer didn't
like. Lord Tywin had been exceedingly clear about what they had to do, and he
didn't like it one bit. If he and his men hadn't just been pardoned by the king
he wouldn't have accepted.
“Leave at once. Find Lord Sandor Clegane and his wife, the Lady Sansa. The king
wants them to reside at Harrenhal. So you will escort them there. You will be
his castellan, Ser Bonifer – on royal orders. And you will report to me. As
soon as you detect a sign of treason you are entitled to execute Lord Sandor
and to bring his wife back to the capital.”
As he saw it this order was a charter for murder, and nothing less. The Lord
Hand couldn't act against the king's orders, but he could make sure that the
Hound would cause no further problems. Ser Bonifer wasn't stupid. He had been
picked as castellan, because he despised Sandor Clegane. The Hound was a
ruthless killer, and a heretic besides, because he didn't believe in the gods.
And one only had to think of the multiple ways he must have dishonoured and
mistreated his poor, young wife by now. It would take very little for Ser
Bonifer to decide that the man's behaviour was treasonous. And he hoped he'd
find this Clegane and the Lady Sansa soon.
 
“Dead people ahead!” he heard his scout, Ser Will Leysten, shout. At once, he
focused and looked ahead. There were trees along the road, and in the distance
he could just make out that one of them looked a little different. The men sped
up on their horses. Soon, they were getting a clearer picture: two naked men
and two women had been mutilated and hung, not so very long ago. There were no
signs of rotting yet, and neither seemed wild animals to have gnawed on the
bodies. The men had been dismembered, the women seemingly been raped.
Ser Bonifer looked to the ground. Hoof prints, signs of heavy boots and lighter
feet, as far as he could tell in all the mud. A cart must have been there, too.
It had seemingly been used for the hanging. Bah. Disgusting. But it was what
war was like. He and his men had come across two similar findings before. He
made the sign of the seven-pointed star.
“Ser Cody and Ser Gilroy, cut those poor souls off, dismount, bury them and say
a prayer.”
“Yes, ser.”
The men got out their daggers and set to work. Ser Bonifer was just about to
trot slowly on when there was suddenly a whimper from somewhere. Various horses
snorted.
All the men drew their swords. After a moment, however, it became clear that
there was no imminent danger. So they started to look for the source of the
sound. Again, it was Ser Will whose sharp eyes spied first where the whimper
had came from. He dismounted and disappeared behind a bush. What followed was a
heart-wrenching squeal.
“Look, who we've got here!” he called.
Will appeared again – and he had nabbed a little, dark-haired child. It was a
girl, wearing a dirtied, torn dress, and snot was running down her nose. Her
eyes were wide with unspeakable horror. At once, Ser Bonifer shooed several men
to ride in front of the dead bodies and to bar them from sight.
Next, he got off his horse, too, and approached the girl slowly. The little one
was so frightened that she tried to wriggle free and to run away from him, so
he said: “Don't be afraid! We won't do you any wrong. We want to help you! Now
tell me: who are you?”
The girl was so traumatised that she didn't even hear him.
“Right”, Ser Bonifer said with a sigh. “See if you can find any other children.
Looks as if she has witnessed the murder of her family. We'll take her to the
next village. They'll know her there and take care of her. At least I hope so.”
A few minutes later, it was apparent that there were no other people around –
neither dead nor alive, neither children nor adults. Ser Bonifer had taken hold
of the girl, who was squealing ceaselessly as if he wanted to gut her any
second. Given what she must have experienced it was no surprise. Ser Bonifer
kept a good grip on her.
He and the majority of his men rode on, leaving only those behind who would
bury the dead. Poor child. She had survived, but her soul had obviously been
broken. These were moments when Ser Bonifer asked himself how the gods could be
so cruel.
 
***
 
***** Unbidden visitors (I) *****
Chapter Notes
     Right. I won't be able to post for the next days. Real life calling
     for duty. So another dark, revisioned update today. With a proper
     cliffhanger to keep you interested, of course. ;-)
 
 
 
Sandor still couldn't believe what was going on between Sansa and him. Seven
hells, what the fuck had he done to deserve so much goodness? So much
loveliness?
After he had sent her to the seven heavens with his mouth she hadn't rejected
him although he had been rather wild again. Quite the contrary: she had kept on
kissing him, had embraced him... and after a while, she had become curious.
Ever so shyly she had started to stroke his body. After some minutes, she had
even been brave enough to take his cock into her hands. He had been limp for a
long while, but a little before Sansa's peak he had come alive again – and when
she started to caress his member it only took a short while until his seed
spurted out. Her ministrations had been so different from everything he himself
or a whore had ever done. She was timid and tender, but also curious and even
charmed. Never before had his ugly body felt so fucking good!
Not even his climax had shocked her, and all of a sudden, he had turned into a
blabbering oaf. They had kissed again and again.
Then, they had decided to clean themselves and each other again under the water
pump. Their stomachs had told them that they hadn't had a breakfast yet. Not
that there was much to be had, but still. The fire had gone out, but Oscar and
his family had left them a little food. So they had wolfed down their
breakfast, Sansa sitting naked on his likewise bare lap, and they had fed and
also nibbled playfully at each other. Fuck, from one moment to the next he had
started to act like a lovesick fool!
 
Yet, they knew they couldn't stay like that all the time and had donned some
clothes. They needed to go back to the fields where he had left the parsnips he
had harvested the other day. Hopefully, they were still good. It had started to
rain outside.
Moreover, they put all their moveable things into their bundles and deposited
them in the kitchen. They wanted to leave as soon as any travellers from the
north got through again.
 
It was then that Sansa suddenly came up with a question, and it was like a bolt
from the blue: “Sandor, can you tell me something about Syrella?”
Sandor flinched as if Gregor had punched him in the stomach.
“WHAT!? Syrella? Why are you talking about her?”
“You mentioned her name when you were feverish in that barn. You sounded as
if... as if you were anguished. And as if you... loved her.”
Sandor snorted: “She was the only one of my family who I loved till the end.
The only truly good soul in the Clegane family I've ever known.”
He felt a little twitch on Sansa's side: “Family? Who was she?”
Irritably, Sandor answered: “Why, my long-dead sister, of course! Who do you
think she'd be?”
“I... I didn't know. Perhaps... a lost love.”
Sandor was incredulous, and then, he threw his head back and laughed bitterly:
“A lost love!? That would have meant to have a sweetheart in the first place.
No, no. Most CERTAINLY not.”
Unfortunately, the Little Bird was getting curious now: “You say she's been
dead for years – how did she die?”
Sandor froze and rasped: “Seven bleeding hells of shit! You don't want to know
that. You really don't want to!”
Yet, Sansa objected: “I've seen my father being humiliated, slandered and
murdered. What could be worse than that? And besides, I'm your wife now, and I
want to share your grief.”
Though it had no effect whatsoever, Sandor pressed his eyes together and was
silent for a long time.
Then, he started with a whisper: “It's an even greater secret than the one of
how my face was burned. Syrella... she was the only one who really helped me,
held me, comforted me when I was crying because of all the pain. Slowly, my
face healed into the ruin you can see now, though the fresh scars were likely
even worse to behold. She was about your age at that time. Father... I think he
was ashamed of his lie, that the bedding had allegedly caught fire, but he was
too weak. He wasn't as steadfast and relentless as my dead grandfather had
been. Didn't have it in him to stop Gregor. One evening, while Gregor was on a
holiday from his squiring duties and on a visit at the keep, he beat me up and
father saw it and threatened him to spill the beans about my burns so he'd
never become a knight. At the hour of the wolf...”
Sandor paused, his throat working wildly and his mouth twitching like mad from
all the pain that had been bottled up in his soul. Sansa kissed his brow,
leaned a soft cheek against his own good one and trailed with her finger
through his hair to soothe him.
So Sandor tried to get a grip on himself and started again: “At the hour of the
wolf I suddenly had an unbidden visitor in my bedroom. Guess who it was. Gregor
gagged and bound me and dragged me along to the stable. He tied me to a wooden
beam. I couldn't free myself, and I can tell you – I really tried. A few
minutes later, Gregor returned with Syrella. She was gagged, too. And then...
he... he... did the unspeakable. I pressed my eyes shut, but I couldn't close
my ears to her muffled screams. He hurt her so much, she was already very badly
injured and unconscious when he finished. And at the very end... he made sure
she'd catch an infection. So she did, Syrella got a fever, and she must have
had inner bleedings as well. After some days, she died. Father was so broken...
he never threatened or oven criticised Gregor again.”
Tears were streaming down Sandor's cheeks by now. He had never talked to anyone
about this chapter in his life. He realised that Sansa had pressed a hand on
her mouth in shock – and then, she hugged him tightly and rocked him as if he
were still the little, helpless boy who had already experienced the worst
things one could possibly fathom. He didn't know for how long they were there
like that. After a seemingly endless period of time he felt empty – but also
strangely relieved. And unbelievably grateful for the Little Bird's reaction.
No chirping. No condemnation of his incapability to help Syrella. Just...
warmth. He'd never forget that. Never ever.
 
Suddenly, Sandor's sharpened senses noticed some sounds outside. Approaching
hooves! And the horses seemed to be galloping! At once, his hair stood on end,
and he pushed the sad stories of the past to the back of his mind at once.
“Little Bird! Riders! I've got a bad feeling. Is there a good hiding-place
somewhere?”
“What!? Why... wait a moment! Yes, there's this trapdoor. It's hidden in a
corner, behind a protrusion. If you don't know it's there you don't see it.”
“Right, Little Bird. Lead me there!”
Together, they opened the door, threw their used wooden kitchenware in, as well
as their bundles, and at last, they climbed down the ladder that led into the
cellar and closed the trapdoor. Not one moment to soon.
 
A mere minute or so later, heavily booted feet entered the room.
Then, a metallic voice sounded: “Well, let's see if anybody is still here.”
“We've just looked. The barn is empty. No horse”, someone else bleated.
“Hm, the fire is out too, and it has been at least for a while. Look upstairs,
just to be sure.”
 
Sandor could feel his wife trembling in his arms, and her heart was beating
madly. He himself was as tense as a bowstring, dagger ready in hand. They were
both holding their breath.
***** Unbidden visitors (II) *****
 
Boots were trampling up the stairs.
“Nobody here, boss. Fuck, I didn't get my share with those sluts, and my cock
wants some entertainment.”
“Your purse should be interested in entertainment first and foremost! Then, you
can have as many whores as you want! And you know that the woman is for me
first.”
“Sweet redhead – they're the most passionate ones.”
“We still don't have her. The man neither. So nobody upstairs?”
“Nah. The birds have already flown out.”
“Shit. Let's hope they've followed the street. Better we make haste, then we'll
catch up easily.”
“Right, boss.”
 
The men left the house. A moment later, horses could be heard galloping away.
Still, Sandor and Sansa didn't make a peep. Then, the Hound noticed a
suppressed sob.
Sansa whispered agonizedly: “They knew about us! They've got Oscar and his
family! Did you hear them? Do you think they...?”
Sandor couldn't lie at his Little Bird: “Seven hells, from what we've heard we
can only assume that they must be on the lucky side if they've died a swift,
clean death. Those scoundrels are no people to fool with.”
Sansa stifled another sob and pressed herself against him in sheer agony. After
what she had witnessed around her father's execution she knew all too well what
death meant.
So he tried to distract her: “Well, Little Bird, it doesn't help – let's get
out of this hole, find Stranger and hide in a better place, not so close to the
road.”
Sansa nodded against his chest, although she was still weeping. Sandor didn't
want to think of him and her experiencing those blissful moments while the
others were being robbed, raped and slain. So he fought those mental pictures
back with all his might, like he had done with the ones about his sister.
“Right, let's climb that bloody ladder. Up you go!”
Sansa moved upwards, every inch the dutiful wife. But then, she had to stop.
“Sandor, the door is stuck somehow, or it's simply too heavy for me.”
“Then come down again and let me do it.”
The Little Bird did as she was asked and Sandor heaved his large body upwards.
He had made six or seven steps and was already starting to push against the
trapdoor when there was suddenly a creaking sound, and the next second, the
ladder splintered apart under his weight.
Bomp! He landed on his feet and knees and hissed because a jolt of searing pain
shot through his body.
“Fuck! Fuck! Thrice-damned seven hells of shit!”
“Sandor! What is it!?”
“I must have sprained my ankle.”
“Oh no!”
Sansa sounded close to panicking now. And for good reason! The trapdoor was too
heavy for her, the ladder was gone beyond repair and he was hurt. Fucking
great! Either they'd be found and killed by the outlaws in case they came back
and found them, or they could rot in this hole. Sandor had always thought he'd
die in battle. He'd never thought the Stranger would play a trick on him and
let him shrivel like a mole stuck in a molehill! What made it worse was that
Sansa would share his fate! Sansa, who had been the only one to show him some
gentleness in his adult life. Fuck, this couldn't be the end! At least not for
her! Shit, he'd dig into the earth with his bare hands for her!
Suddenly, he stopped dead.
Wait a minute!
“Sansa, we need to get out of here. Tell me, what is in this cellar, and what
are the walls like?”
“There are some empty shelves, but they cannot be used for climbing up. The
walls are nothing but packed dirt.”
“Hmhm...”
“Do you have an idea?”
“Let me think.”
The Hound's thoughts rotated. In his younger years he had been in Lord Tywin's
gold mines several times. Not as a worker, but to deliver delinquents who had
been sentenced to forced labour. On those occasions he had lingered for a while
to listen to the foremen. The gaffers had always liked to talk about their
trade and in the near darkness his horrible facial scars had mattered less. So
he had learned at least some basics about mining.
Perhaps they could dig themselves out of this house! There was the very real
danger that the tunnel might crash and then, they'd suffocate. Still, if they
did nothing they were as good as dead anyway!
At once, his sense of direction – which had always been good and was even
sharper now after having lost his eyesight – told him where they had to dig.
Luckily, they were right next to the outer walls; if they weren't hindered by
any poles deep in the earth they could probably make it. From their work in the
fields Sandor knew the soil wasn't sandy, but rather heavy, a bit like clay, if
not exactly. They had just had their breakfast and were still strong.
Hopefully, the greensward and the roots of the lowly plants growing next to the
house provided some kind of fixing which would help the earth not to sag.
Determined, he weighed the dagger in his hand.
“Little Bird, there is only one way: we must dig ourselves free. I'm not a mole
now for nothing as it seems. Do you still have the little knife that I gave
you, and do you know where the wooden bowls have fallen? We'll need them for
our task.”
“The knife is here. And the bowls... wait... Ouch!”
There were some clattering sounds that showed Sansa had obviously tumbled over
the kitchenware.
“Everything all right, Little Bird?”
“Yes! I've got all the items we need now.”
“Fine! Come here then! We must scratch the packed earth with knife and dagger
now before we can use the bowls as makeshift shovels.”
So they started. They were both quiet and concentrated. Now that Sansa had
something to do she had also got a grip on herself and wasn't close to
panicking any longer. It all proved to be cumbersome, but Sandor had expected
no less. After an hour or so they were drenched in sweat and as dirty as if
they had not used the water pump earlier on.
Suddenly, there were sounds from above to be heard again. Horses. Many horses.
Men's voices.
Fuck, the bandits had come back with some reinforcement!
Suddenly, there was the squealing sound of a little child.
Before Sandor could react Sansa cried out in shock: “That's Bessie!”
Shit! Oh seven hells of shit!
“What was that?” a male voice asked above.
It bore the accent of the Stormlands, as far as he could make out from those
few words, and he had not heard that man amongst the previous rogues. But what
did it matter after all which cut-throat had detected them due to Sansa's
bloody foolishness? He cursed their bad luck inwardly.
And then, the trapdoor swung open. Sandor could hear a man wearing chainmail
and braced himself stoically for the inevitable – though his heart bled when he
thought of Sansa and what would happen to her.
“Oi! Who's that!? I can't believe it! Is that you, Clegane? And the Lady
Sansa?”
At that, Sandor pricked up his ears. No outlaws then. Well, he could die on the
hands of a soldier just as fine.
“It's bloody difficult to mistake my size and my face I'd say. Who are you?”
“I'm Ser Bonifer Hasty. My men and me have been sent by the Crown.”
“Have you now?”
“Yes. If I may ask – what are you doing down there, being all dirty?”
“We were hiding from some bloody knaves and got stuck in this fucking cellar.
So we tried to dig a tunnel.”
“Oh. Well, this isn't necessary any longer. We'll get you a ladder from
outside. Lady Sansa, are you all right?”
“I'm fine, good ser, but my husband has sprained his ankle. And do you have a
girl with you?”
“Yes. Found her on the street. Do you know her?”
“I think I know her voice.”
“Well, we'll find out in a moment. Here comes the ladder from outside.”
Sandor could hear the scratching of wood on earth and he sent Sansa up first.
He himself was thoughtful. Ser Bonifer Hasty. And his bloody Holy Hundred. Oh
yes, he remembered them indeed. They had been pardoned by the king after that
accursed battle, and now, they seemingly wanted to please the monarch by
hunting him down. Fuck, what else could he have expected!?
Just at that moment Sansa cried: “Bessie!” Her call was followed by a wailing
cry and some running.
So the little girl was really there.
 
***** Travelling escort *****
 
 
 
Sandor got up the steps to the ground floor, all the while trying not to put
any weight on his bad ankle. When he had finished he tried to knock off the
dirt to some degree.
Suddenly, there was another cry, more running and the next moment, a little
body bounced into him like a ball and sent him reeling so that he fell almost
back into the earth hole.
“Bessie!” he called, grabbed and held her and finally found his balance again.
The same instant, little arms went round his neck, the girl burrowed her face
in his long, lank hair, and she started to sob uncontrollably.
At once, Sandor's instincts switched to “horrified-puppy-mode”, and he started
to growl: “Hey, hey, little one, what's happened? Something bad?”
Bessie could only nod.
“Hmmmm. Now, you're safe. See? Good girl, you don't need to be afraid any more.
Hush. Hush.”
Suddenly, he noticed that everybody around him was absolutely quiet.
“What!?” he asked irritably.
“Erm. Nothing”, Ser Bonifer retorted. “Could we... could we just talk about the
imminent situation?”
Ah. Right. The man was said to be fucking religious and honourable. Perhaps he
didn't want to have the girl around for the Hound's execution.
Sandor snorted: “Aye. Let's get ahead then. – Bessie, can you let go of me?
Please? See, I've learned my lesson.”
But the girl only clung to him even more in her terrified state and wouldn't
let go of him.
Then, Ser Bonifer spoke up: “Anybody bring Lord Clegane a chair or a stool! –
Well, hold the girl then if it must be.”
A moment later, Sandor felt his wife's delicate hands on his arm and smelled
her scent, and she guided him to a seat. There he sat, with Bessie standing on
his thigh, still hugging him tightly and trembling, which caused him to support
her with his hands.
Finally, the Hound growled: “Now. Let's speak in plain language.”
Ser Bonifer cleared his throat: “Yes. Well. I've been sent to Harrenhal by the
Lord Hand in the name of the king. I'm supposed to be the new castellan.”
“I see.”
“So it's good we have found you. There are so many outlaws here these days that
we doubted we'd find you alive. Especially after we... had found the girl's
family.”
The way Ser Bonifer said it Sandor didn't have to ask for any details –
especially not in front of Sansa and the child, who had likely witnessed
everything. Apart from that, his wife had understood already bloody well enough
herself, because she started to weep.
“There were indeed some buggering bandits in this house. If we hadn't hidden in
the cellar we'd be dead now, too. The men thought we were gone and rode
northwards.”
“Good for you then. Now, you'll be safe with us as your escort to Harrenhal.”
Sandor nearly choked on his own spit then.
Escort? They were allowed to travel on? Wasn't he to be punished for leaving
King's Landing? Fuck the Seven, he couldn't believe what he was hearing!
Sansa cut in then: “Oh, Ser Bonifer, we're so very grateful for your help!
Honestly, I can't stay in this house one more minute and without you it would
be so very dangerous!”
“Yes, my lady. But what about the child?”
Sandor snorted again: “What do you think we'll do? We'll have to take her with
us! We'll find her a place in Harrenhal. – Hmmmm, little Bessie, what do you
think: shall we find you a safe place where you'll get some cakes and a soft
bed?”
There was a tiny nod of the girl against his good cheek.
Another awkward silence. Seven bleeding hells, what did they all think of him!?
That he'd suggest to roast and eat her? Well, yes, of course. He was the
Mountain's brother. And he himself was a killer of the worst sort, too. What
else should they think of him!? Fuck!
Ser Bonifer coughed and uttered: “Well. Right. That's settled then. Do you
still have any belongings? And where's your horse?”
 
***
 
***** Passage to Harrenhal *****
Ser Bonifer had expected a lot – though nothing good, to be precise. Reality,
however, was so very different from what he had thought! He had anticipated
he'd meet a traumatised woman and a blind man who was nothing less than a
monster whose wings had been clipped due to his ailment. But the Lady Sansa
only turned out to be sad about the death of the travelling acquaintances.
Otherwise, she actually seemed to be far more stable than she had in those
short moments when he had seen her in King's Landing.
Incredible as it was she didn't appear to be overly afraid of her husband. Over
the years, Ser Bonifer had seen many and more women who had been being
mistreated by their husbands, be it sexually or otherwise. The young Lady
Clegane showed none of the respective characteristics when she was around Lord
Sandor.
Quite the contrary, they even seemed to be rather close. Lady Sansa's eyes
started to smile whenever she laid eyes on the huge, ugly, burned man. The same
was true for the Hound when he heard his wife's voice. Moreover, it was usual
for them to talk amongst each other, to confer as if they really cared about
each other's opinions. That was something Ser Bonifer had rarely ever seen
between arranged matches.
True, Sandor Clegane didn't believe in the gods, even showed some disdain,
which was a shame, but he didn't forbid his wife to pray with the Holy Hundred.
So much tolerance from his side came as a real surprise.
Where was the horrified woman who had barely known which husband to pick in the
throne room?
And where was the man who allegedly only cared about fighting and Dornish red?
Not only did Lord Clegane avoid any kind of alcoholic drink and show some
affection for his young wife – he was even the most important point of
reference for the little girl his men had found near her slain family!
Traumatised as she was Bessie trusted Lord Sandor of all like no-one else. Even
Lady Sansa, who she liked very much as well, only came in second place. Ever
since she had been discovered next to that unholy tree the girl was mute. At
night, she had the worst nightmares. She slept in the lord's tent, because
Bessie couldn't accept any other arrangement, but even so, her piercing shrieks
could be heard everywhere in the camp – as could the soothing sounds of both
spouses.
Before they all had met the lord had ridden double with his wife, on that black
demon horse with the heretic name Stranger. Now, the arrangement had to be
changed since the couple couldn't ride together with the child as well. So the
best horse-whisperer amongst his men, Ser Gilroy Springstorm, rode next to Lord
Clegane and Bessie and directed the blind man and the horse as best he could
while Ser Bonifer himself had to ride double with lovely Lady Sansa since they
had no spare horse.
Progress was slow in this way. There were also various showers, but nothing
they couldn't handle. Well, it couldn't be helped anyway.
But since the lord and lady had managed a part of their voyage on their own it
wasn't far to the eastern shores of the Gods Eye. They crossed a wood – and
then, they were there.
On seeing the green, warm waters for the first time Lady Sansa's eyes widened
and she jubilated: “Oh, how beautiful! That colour! Magical! It's so different
from the open sea! Can you swim in it?”
“Yes, my lady – but I'd advise not to do it here in the wood where surely those
outlaws must have one of their retreats. It will be safer when we reach open
ground.”
“I see, good ser. Hm, what's that island over there in the distance? I know my
maester told me once, but I have forgotten.”
“It's called the “Isle of Faces”. Mythology has it that the Children of the
Forest negotiated a treaty with the First Men there.”
“Ah, yes, now I remember, too. Sandor, have you been here before?”
Lord Clegane, who was riding directly in front of them, turned around slightly
and answered matter-of-factly: “There's barely a region in western and central
Westeros I haven't seen, Little Bird.”
There it was again: the relaxed air when they addressed each other. There was
even this strange pet name. Why on earth “Little Bird”? Ser Bonifer guessed it
was her beautiful singing voice that played a part in it.
In King's Landing, Sansa had barely made a peep, and her voice had been
unintelligible for those who hadn't stood close to her in the huge throne room
when she had had to choose a husband. Now, she had discarded her shyness, and
in the evenings, her songs rang loud and clear in the camp and sometimes moved
Ser Bonifer's men to tears. It was as if the Maiden herself had descended from
the Seven Heavens. Though Lady Sansa wasn't a maid any more she had retained
part of her innocence – which was nothing short of a wonder, given that she was
married to the Hound.
Another thing that struck Ser Bonifer as odd was that Lord Sandor probably
didn't like him very much, but he had already accepted him as his castellan!
While they had been sitting around a camp fire on their first evening the Hound
had stated: “It's good I won't have to fall back on fucking Ser Armory Lorch
once we arrive in Harrenhal. Where are you from?”
“The Stormlands, my lord.”
Sandor Clegane had nodded then: “I guessed as much from your dialect. It was a
reasonable decision to send you here. But then again, Lord Tywin knows exactly
what he does. And when and how. You've got no old connections here in the
Riverlands and you haven't been involved in the bloody atrocities that have
been committed in Harrenhal in the past – and that are likely still being
committed there, for all I know Ser Armory and the Bloody Mummers.”
Ser Bonifer had been dumbfounded after that statement. He hadn't foreseen the
Hound wouldn't put any spoke in his wheel, nor had had the man done anything
less than acknowledged the Lord Hand's abilities and declared himself against
tyrannising the commoners. So far, there wasn't even the slightest shade of any
treasonous behaviour to be detected.
Over time, Ser Bonifer had to scratch his head again and again. His assignment
seemed to turn out differently from the set-up. To be honest, though, he liked
the current development much better.
 
***
***** The banks of the God's Eye *****
They were one day away from Harrenhal now – and only one day, because they were
so slow. Sansa was getting nervous. What would they find in the castle? The
stony shell of the fortress could already be spotted and small as it still was
one could yet detect that the famous – or rather infamous – five towers were
not quite erect, not quite straight.
Sansa couldn't imagine how a building that was so far away could already be
seen. Oh my, how unbelievably big Harrenhal had to be! Joffrey had talked of a
“big, burned kennel”. He could have never seen the castle, or he wouldn't have
dubbed it in such a pejorative way!
Right now, the travelling party were camping close to the banks of the Gods Eye
lake. The scenery was simply picturesque. It was a pity that Bessie had no eyes
for the beauty around her. Sansa reprimanded herself of being egoistic: as much
as she liked the poor girl it disturbed her that the little one had to sleep in
her tent. Sansa knew she had to understand, what with all the horrors Bessie
had experienced and that cost her her family. Still, Sansa wanted to spend some
private time with Sandor; she simply couldn't help it.
Now, that they had shared some intimacies and caresses she wanted, no, needed
more. At daytime, it was impossible to be alone with her husband, because they
had to travel with Ser Bonifer and his men, useful as the escort was. At night,
Bessie needed to sleep in their tent and was afflicted by the worst possible
nightmares so that relaxing sleep was practically impossible – and lust
completely out of the question.
She and Sandor could only exchange friendly words and gestures. True, that was
a great improvement in comparison to everything before. Granted, Sandor
preserved his overall rough demeanour and always spoke candidly, but in many
ways he was gentler with her nowadays.
They had also talked about the murder of Oscar and the others. After Ser
Gilroy's latest pieces of information it had turned out that the fate of the
other four children was unknown. Sandor pointed out that it was impossible to
look for them, painful as the thought was. It was also unclear how Bessie could
have escaped the outlaws. Since the girl didn't speak any more many details of
the horrible incident stayed a mystery.
And though Sandor didn't discuss once whether Bessie should sleep in their tent
or not Sansa detected many signs that he wanted more closeness with his wife,
too. They had to stay decent at night, but they allowed themselves some short
kisses, or stroked each other's hands and the like. Only... it wasn't enough.
Simple as that.
Right now, the sun was about to set, but there would be some light for a while
longer. The men had said their evening prayer and looked after the horses; at
present, they were lighting some fires and setting up the few tents for the
people with the higher ranks. Around them, there was no wood any longer.
So Sansa addressed the leader of the Holy Hundred: “Ser Bonifer, do you think
it would be possible to go swimming this evening? Bessie needs a bath, too.”
The man, who always reminded her a little of a stork, looked up, let his eyes
scan the surroundings and conceded: “It should be possible here. But make sure
that the water is shallow where you bathe. No sports. No swimming. Just a short
wash. I'll make sure my men will avert their eyes to give you some privacy.”
Sansa smiled and thanked the man and sought out Bessie who was sitting on
Sandor's knee, her face serious as ever since she had witnessed the murder of
her family, while the big man was telling her stories about Harrenhal's
history.
“Bessie! Good girl! Come here to me! What do you think about the lake? Let's
have a bath!”
The child stood up, though without any sign of enthusiasm.
“Could need a bloody bath, too”, Sandor rumbled and got up as well.
Sansa couldn't exchange any meaningful glances with the Hound, but his tiny,
telltale smirk showed that he had to be thinking of their sweet moments next to
the water pump. Hmmm... if you squared the problem correctly, perhaps they'd be
able to bill a little without Bessie interfering.
 
When they arrived at the bank of the lake Bessie was bathed first. The girl
accepted everything like a puppet on a string. Sansa's heart bled and she asked
herself how they could possibly get access to her.
After Bessie had been cleaned she led the child to Ser Gilroy, who was
preparing the evening meal. The horse-whisperer of the Holy Hundred also had a
good hand with children as it seemed and Bessie could at least be around him
without becoming afraid.
“Right, my sweet girl, you're a clean, rosy little piglet now, aren't you?
Please stay with Ser Gilroy now so that I can have a bath with my husband.
We'll fetch you later. It won't take long. And Ser Gilroy will tell you some
lovely animal stories in the meantime.”
Bessie said neither yes nor no, and her eyes were empty. In contrast to that,
the knight in question beamed at the child as if he had swallowed a sun and
started to talk about a colt he had known when he had been her age.
With a sad sigh Sansa turned around and walked back to the lake. She had a
terribly bad conscience, but at the same time, she couldn't give up herself
completely. Herself and her love. When she arrived her breathing hitched in her
throat. Luckily, there were some bushes that would shield her and her husband
from any accidental onlookers.
Sandor was already stark naked and up to his knees in the water. He was still
limping after the infraction in the cellar, but it couldn't be seen now. What
could be seen instead was the red-golden, gleaming light of the setting sun on
his scarred skin with the mighty muscles underneath – and since he had already
splashed himself the beams were reflected by countless little drops. Gods! What
a man! And he was hers!
Sansa smiled and suppressed an abashed giggle. Judging by the state of his
manhood she was also his. That specific part of his body was still a bit of a
riddle for her, even if Lya – oh my, poor Lya! – had said that male bodies were
so much easier to handle than female ones when it came to lust. Ah, well, this
was not the place for pondering.
In no time, Sansa was out of her dress, shoes, shift and smallclothes. Her
cheeks flushed a deep red, because she knew she was wanton, but after all those
days... somehow, the need for closeness was superior.
And then, she was on him. Their kisses were nothing short of greedy, and they
rubbed their bodies against each other in a frenzy. Sandor cupped her buttocks
with his big, calloused hands. Sansa tried hesitantly to reciprocate that
gesture then, but the scales were quite different now, and she couldn't grasp
everything of his muscled backside. Even so, Sandor gasped.
“Har! What a bloody eager Little Bird we've got here. Do you want to stroke the
mole's fur?”
Now, Sansa really had to giggle and trailed with her hand through his dense,
coarse, dark chest hair and elicited an excited growl.
Then, her hand stilled on his tummy, on a little bump, and she teased him: “Uh-
oh! What's that? Are we getting into the pudding club?”
From one instant to the next, Sandor got very serious.
“Fuck! I don't have enough exercise these days, blind, useless cripple that I
have become. Shit, I'm getting soft and weak!”
Those words shocked Sansa no end, and she wanted to bite her tongue for her
stupid, insensitive remark. The light, joyful mood was gone.
“No, Sandor! You're not useless! You're wonderful! And I'm sure the men can
organise a training programme for you in Harrenhal where you can stay fit, also
without your eyesight.”
Sandor snorted frustratedly and answered: “Fitness doesn't help if you can't
use it, Little Bird.”
Sansa was desperate now. Their whole meeting here in the lake was going to
pieces! But she didn't want to give up yet.
With something akin to anger she huffed: “You could use your fitness now, for
example, just in case you remember we're supposed to be having a tête-à-tête.
For example, you could lift me, or whatever it takes to bed a woman properly.”
Sandor started to snarl then, his hands turned into fists and pumped.
Within a heartbeat, Sansa landed on her back, the little waves lapping at
her... and it wouldn't stay the only lapping thing. Gods! Sandor really loved
to do that! Sansa had to bite her lips hard so as to not scream and to alert
the knights in the camp. After a while, her husband knelt between her legs and
started to rub his manhood against her sensitive folds.
Sansa gasped, but then a partly-burned mouth landed on her lips to stifle her
lustful sounds. She wiggled a little with her lower body... and then, the angle
was just right to touch the spot Sandor had caressed with his mouth.
Desperately, she moaned while kissing him.
Suddenly, just when it was getting really good, her husband hissed and peaked.
“Fuck! Seven bloody hells! I'm simply too sensitive and impatient around you.
Wait!”
And then, his calloused thumb replaced his softening manhood while he kept on
kissing her. At first, he was rather clumsy, but then, he found a good rhythm,
and finally, Sansa went over the edge as well. Still, she was a little
disappointed. She would have liked it so much to take the last step with
Sandor!
Ah, well, that would come in due time she comforted herself. In Harrenhal,
they'd even have a real bed with a good mattress. Sansa looked over to the
distant shape of the castle and asked herself just how big a lord's bed in such
a building had to be.
 
***
 
***** Arrival (I) *****
 
 
It was the afternoon of the following day when they finally arrived. For Ser
Gilroy Springstorm it was a strange feeling. His comrades perceived the
fortress as a dark, looming, foreign threat. For him it was different. The area
around Harrenhal was his home. Or rather: the region where he had been born and
where he had passed his first years. He still remembered Lady Whent, whose
family had held Harrenhal for a while until the War of the Five Kings. One of
his early memories was the famous tournament that had been held at the
fortress. Seeing all the fine destriers and coursers, it had been then that he
had realised just how much he loved horses – and how much they loved him.
But then, his father had died and as soon as propriety allowed his mother had
married another man in the Stormlands. So they had moved away. His stepfather
had loathed him at once and had sent him away for squiring.
Finally, after so many years, he could see the biggest fortress in Westeros
again. Of course, the five gigantic towers were still as bent and blackened as
he remembered them – and now that they were close to the cliff-like walls you
couldn't see all of them if you craned your neck, because the battlements were
so extremely high above you. Still, it looked as if the fortress had gone more
into decay than he remembered.
Ser Gilroy wasn't quite sure about what he was feeling. Was this home? This
gloomy, scorched, creepy complex of buildings? He had heard what must have
happened here over the last months, and it didn't cause him any warm, fuzzy
feelings.
“What will Lady Clegane be thinking now?” he asked himself.
He looked ahead to where the young woman, who had barely left childhood, was
riding double with Ser Bonifer. He had come to appreciate and to like Lord
Clegane's young wife. She was beautiful and kind and gentle – she even found
something good in her infamous husband, surprising as it was. It looked as if
the Seven had meant a very special fate for her and had equipped her abundantly
with all the virtues a lady could possibly wish for.
Ser Gilroy smiled sadly. What a coincidence! He thought of his own beloved
Sansa. His deceased wife had had the same first name – and her outward
appearance had been the complete opposite of young Lady Clegane: small, dark,
curvy, with a tan and freckles. When she and their firstborn had died during
the birthing process his heart had broken; he had turned to the Seven and
become a member of the Holy Hundred, knowing he'd never bed another woman
again.
Now, he looked further ahead – to where the man people called “the Hound” was
riding with little Bessie in front of him. His heart went out to the poor,
traumatised girl. He himself was a father without a child and she was a child
without a family. Over the last days, he had resolved to leave his company and
to stay where Bessie was. If only Lord Clegane allowed it, he'd even adopt her
and stay in Harrenhal; at least assuming the fortress was a place where anybody
could stay for more than a couple of hours.
He also remembered the stables, which could house a thousand animals. And there
were rich, fertile grounds around the fortress. Wonderful horses could be bred
here, something he'd love. Ser Gilroy flicked his eyes to the lord's courser,
Stranger. What a stallion! A strong – though difficult – character as well as a
magnificent, powerful body. He resembled his master in a way. And that master,
who was said to be so aggressive and brutal and heartless, had a good hand with
his horse. That and the fact that Lady Sansa and Bessie obviously cared for the
burned giant of a man told him that the new Lord Paramount of the Riverlands
had to have a core that wasn't as blackened as the towers of Harrenhal.
The most important questions, however, were now what awaited them inside the
huge castle – and if blind Lord Clegane would survive the next 48 hours. Only
then would he stand a chance to become a leader in his own right.
 
They reached the Water Gate with the Gate House, which in itself was as big as
the main building of a small castle. Luckily, the drawbridge had been lowered.
On the battlements, three flags could be seen: the Lorch manticor, the
Lannister lion and the three Clegane dogs. But those pieces of cloth fluttering
in the wind were not the only “embellishments”. Lots of tarred heads on spikes
could be seen on either side of them. Luckily, they were up high enough so that
you didn't see any ugly details.
Suddenly, Lord Clegane stopped and rode back to where he himself was.
“Ser Springstorm”, the blind man rasped.
“My Lord?”
“Bessie has fallen asleep. Bloody good for her. She doesn't need to see the
shit that we'll find inside. Take her, wait in the Gate House and keep her
safe.”
Ser Gilroy complied with the order and was handed Bessie's limp, relaxed form.
She uttered a little sound, but didn't wake up. When they had passed the
various Murder Holes of the gate and traversed the dark, tunnel-like outer wall
he held himself to the right where an entrance to the Gate House was,
dismounted with Bessie still in his arms and sought out the relative safety of
the building.
 
***
***** Arrival (II) *****
Chapter Notes
     Special warnings for physical and sexual violence in the next part
     (s).
 
***
 
Cold shudders were running up and down her spine. The heads on the battlements
reminded her of how Joffrey had shown her her own father's severed head back in
King's Landing to torture her. For a split second, she envied Sandor, because
he couldn't see that gruesome spectacle, but at once she scolded herself. Only
why did she always have to be so sensitive? She had helped kill a man –
shouldn't she be beyond that kind of squeamishness?
They passed through the gate and entered the outer yard. To her relief Ser
Gilroy retreated with Bessie to keep an eye on her in the Gate House.
From behind her Ser Bonifer murmured: “The Seven will keep an eye on her.”
Sansa didn't smile, but she was grateful for the gentle words.
So far, the grounds were deserted. It wasn't a surprise, but creepy
nevertheless. After Lord Tywin had left Harrenhal only a few men had stayed
behind, and the internal fights between Ser Armory Lorch's men and the Brave
Companions – or rather the Bloody Mummers, as Sandor called them – had
certainly reduced the numbers even more.
On they rode to the middle yard and then to the centre. Suddenly, before the
men could shield her eyes from the horrible scene, Sansa spotted something on
her left, which was incredibly shocking: there were various wooden makeshift
pillories with naked women. A fat, middle-aged, grubby soldier was just in the
process of taking a poor servant from behind. Her face was so swollen with
purple bruises that her features were beyond recognition. Only her eyes could
be seen clearly, but they were empty, like Bessie's, and the woman didn't put
up the slightest resistance to the man who was pumping into her.
Sansa pressed her hand onto her mouth. Bile rose in her throat.
The rapist hadn't detected her amongst the Holy Hundred and laughed between
gasps without stopping what he was doing: “Welcome! Want to have some fun, too?
Female flesh for free!”
Now, Ser Bonifer noticed as well what was going on and immediately put his
hands in front of Sansa's eyes, but she had already seen enough.
“Ser Will?” she heard him order curtly.
Sansa heard a sword being drawn, the clop-clop-clop of hooves, then, then
soldier called frantically: “Hey, what in the seven h...” – next, there were a
telltale gurgling sound and screams from the women... and then silence.
Sandor, who was being told of what had been going on, bellowed: “Away with the
women! At once! And remove the swine's fucking carcass!”
The sounds and the major commotion finally attracted more inhabitants of the
fortress.
After a while, Ser Bonifer removed his hands from Sansa's eyes and apologized.
Sansa blinked. The women were gone and so was the soldier's body – only a
puddle of blood that reflected what had transpired moments ago remained.
“Where is the thrice-damned castellan?” Sandor roared.
A man emerged from the biggest tower and hastened to excuse Ser Armory Lorch:
“He'll be here in an instant, my lord! He's gone to the bear pit.”
“The what?”
“The bear pit, my lord. We've got a fine specimen of a bear, all black fur, and
it needs to be fed once in a while.”
“Fuck, get Ser Armory Lorch here at once, or you'll share the fate of that
flaming bugger who we've just dumped. Understood?”
“Yes, yes, my lord! Just a second, my lord! I'm getting him!”
The man was dashing away as if he had been stung be a hornet.
Now, the Holy Hundred started to dismount. Sansa, who still felt nauseated,
wanted to get down to the earth as well.
Sandor, however, addressed her with a stony face: “Stay where you are, Little
Bird! Seven hells, I wish you hadn't witnessed that scene. If anything goes
astray you ride out of this flaming fortress as if a fire demon were after you.
Understood!?”
“Yes. Yes, Sandor.”
Sansa could tell her voice sounded small. Like a bird that had fallen out of
its nest. Gods! She had expected a dark scenery, but this was a nightmare!
Finally, Ser Armory Lorch turned up. He was easy to identify. Middle-aged,
portly, little eyes like an angry swine. But also servile, in the manner of a
lickspittle. Someone who arched his back for his superiors, but kept kicking
those below him. Like so many people in King's Landing. Sansa felt as if
someone had walked over her grave and immediately activated the cold, polite
lady's shell that she had worn in the capital in order to survive.
Ser Armory bowed and scraped: “My lord! I apologise for my delay. We didn't
notice you approach the fortress.”
Sandor's steel-on-stone voice was as cold as the Wall now: “Fuck, you didn't?
Now, that is even worse than anything else! The drawbridge was lowered. Any
enemy could have walked in! Just how bloody stupid is this!?”
There was a cold sweat on the castellan's brow now: “My lord, there are just
not enough men left for even the simplest tasks, I regret to say. We've fought
successfully against the Bloody Mummers and we managed to reject an attack on
the castle led by Roose Bolton. However, this has taken its toll.”
“You managed to win against the Leech Lord?”
The disgusting man was becoming more self-confident again, and Sansa couldn't
believe that he didn't recognize the ire in Sandor's eyes for what it was.
“Yes, my lord, we won. And we've even made some prisoners. First amongst the
Brave Companions and then amongst the Northerners.”
“I see.”
Sandor's voice was so cold that the temperature around started to drop.
“What has happened to those prisoners?”
Sansa was curious now, too.
Ser Armory Lorch straightened himself and looked positively proud.
“We don't have a bear pit for nothing, my lord. We've fed the beast a sellsword
every second day. And now that the Bloody Mummers have been extinguished –
including the bloody goat Vargo Hoat – we have fed the bear two insidious
Northerners so far. Oh, and we have an extra-special prisoner for you: one of
the fomenters who tried to free the prisoners and who stirred up the revolt of
the sellswords.”
Sandor, who was still sitting atop Stranger, looked down with unfocused, but
fuming eyes at where he supposed the castellan to be. Meanwhile, Sansa was
feeling even sicker than she had already done and kept as quiet as a mouse.
Her husband, however, spoke up clearly while fishing for something in his
pockets: “Let us summarise. You won against the Bloody Mummers and killed the
fucking goat? Right. Take this Golden Dragon as a reward.”
Ser Armory's eyes looked greedy. He smirked and answered: “Thank you, my lord.”
“You drove Roose Bolton and his men back? Bloody fine. Take this second Golden
Dragon as a reward, too.”
The castellan's grin broadened: “Thank you again, my lord.”
Sandor went on: “Right. What next? Oh, yes. You put four women into the
pillories?”
“That's true. They had to be punished, because they spread their legs for the
Bloody Mummers.”
“Aha. In that case I'll be lenient for the way you tortured them. Ten strokes
with the whip for each. Forty altogether, that is.”
“What!? But they're bloody sluts!” Ser Armory shrieked, and Sansa was relieved
that Sandor had stopped rewarding the horrible man. In the meantime, the Holy
Hundred had encircled the castellan so that he couldn't escape.
Sandor was unmoved and went on: “My wife had to witness how one of your men
raped a woman – an injured woman at that. You are responsible for your men. So
you are also responsible for this as well. Ser Bonifer, make sure he's put into
a pillory and that his dirty arse is buggered with a sword to give him an
impression of what the women were feeling.”
Ser Bonifer didn't look quite comfortable, but answered: “It shall be done, my
lord. Which type of sword shall be used? A longsword or a short sword?”
“What!? But this is... this is...”
Ser Armory started to blabber and to stammer in panic.
“A short sword. Up to the hilt. And leave it stuck until he's released from the
pillory. Only turn it around every hour or so. His men will learn their part
from this.”
And still Sansa's husband wasn't finished: “Ser Armory. You killed Northerners,
who could have served as hostages. For an exchange, for example. The Kingslayer
is still in the Young Wolf's hands – just in case you have forgotten. How can
anybody be so incredibly daft? Our first priority must be not to endanger Ser
Jaime Lannister's life. And you didn't fucking care. This is nothing short of
treason. For your stupidity you're removed from your position as castellan.
With regard to the treason... Ser Bonifer: as soon as the bear is hungry again
dispose of Ser Armory by making him the final meal for the beast. When he's
dead – kill the bear as well. It has developed a taste for human flesh, which
cannot be tolerated.”
Ser Armory was squealing and wailing and raging now. Sansa could see that
Harrenhal's contemporary inhabitants were watching from windows, doors,
niches... but nobody lifted so much as a finger. After all, the Holy Hundred
(who were actually 86 after the Battle of the Blackwater) looked very
impressive with their fine horses and armour.
While Ser Armory was being dragged away Sansa was addressed by her husband once
more: “Little Bird, you don't have to see that. Ser Will, lead her away to a
safe place.”
Now, Sansa objected: “Why should I avert my eyes? I've watched my father's
execution. This can hardly be worse.”
“Little Bird, I'll have none of that! Ser Will, I've given you an order!”
“Yes, my lord!” the man answered.
Sansa ground her teeth while she was being led to what turned out to be the
kitchen wing. It was as oversized as everything in Harrenhal. Behind her back
she could hear a whip bite into human flesh for the first time, followed by a
scream. The process was repeated. And again. By then, Sansa saw the wisdom of
her husband's order to send her away.
In the kitchen, she noticed a big pig on a spit, smelled the scent of roasted
meat... and was so sick that she needed a bucket at once. A frightened,
overweight youngster handed her an empty bowl, and Sansa retched. Afterwards,
he handed her a wet cloth with a trembling hand.
“Thank you”, Sansa said and asked: “What's your name?”
The boy's teeth were rattling and it took him a moment until he could answer:
“I... I'm called Hot Pie, my lady.”
 
***
 
***** The shadow of doom *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning for graphic violence with regard to the beginning of the
     chapter.
 
***
 
 
 
Fuck, what had he expected!? He had known that the situation in Harrenhal would
be dire. He should have left the Little Bird at the Gate House with Bessie and
Ser Gilroy! The only reason why he hadn't done so was that he had intended to
present her as the strong, respected woman at his side so that no bloody rogue
would dare touch her. But Seven Hells, he had been so wrong! The first thing
she had noticed was a man raping a woman. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
 
As soon as Sansa had turned her back and bloody Ser Armory Lorch had been
stripped and bound he had swung the whip himself with all the force he could
muster. The people around him were surprised, even shocked that their blind
lord knew exactly how to strike home in spite of his ailment. Bleeding
Stranger, what did they think? It was an easy task, what with all the fucking
noise the former castellan was producing! Still, the eyewitnesses of this
spectacle served him well. They'd think twice, even thrice before they called
him a cripple, or weak! That, in its turn, would help keep Sansa safe. And
right now, the Hound was still so incredibly angry that he had to bite the one
who was responsible for all the crap they had encountered so far. Plus Ser
Armory had always been disgusting. After all, which man stabbed a toddler fifty
times of his own accord like he had done? Not even his bloody brother Gregor
usually did, because dead was dead, unless a special message had to be conveyed
for the survivors.
 
The doomed man had no stamina and was unconscious soon.
 
“A bucket of cold water! Over his head! At once!” Sandor boomed, panting
slightly.
 
When he heard splashing sounds and the moans of Ser Armory he resumed whipping
him until he had counted forty strikes.
 
Then, he growled: “Ser Cody? You take over now. Poke the bloody bugger with his
own sword. I trust you to extend the procedure until the last one in this
thrice-damned fortress has heard him scream. I'll leave and look after my wife.
Ser Bonifer? You'll accompany me. You're the new castellan from now on, and I
want to have you around me.”
 
To be honest, Sandor needed someone to guide him and to tell him about their
surroundings in detail. He cursed himself for the hundredth time for being
blind. Even under better circumstances the owners of Harrenhal had always met a
tragic ending, and soon. So it was only a question of how long he could hold
out. Hopefully long enough to see to it that the Little Bird was gone and safe.
 
 
 
Later, he, his wife and Ser Bonifer were sitting in the solar and dined
together. The room could have served as a great hall in a small castle. Sansa
had had a bath in the bathhouse and recovered a little, though Sandor still
sensed an air of preoccupation from her side. He didn't hear many noises from
where her cutlery met the plate with roasted pork, barley and little fancy
cakes with cream cheese, nuts and fruit – obviously she had no appetite after
what she had seen.
 
He and Ser Bonifer had had a quick tour of the fortress. Now, they needed to
discuss matters.
 
The bloody pious knight spoke up: “What a pity that the sept is in ruins – the
substitute cannot match the original by half.”
 
“I don't care about the bloody sept. But in the years to come you may restore
the building if that is what you want – and if you can find the time. However,
there are more pressing problems we have to deal with. First, we must gather
provisions for the winter. The fields are either burned or lying fallow
although these are the last mild days and we're on the brink of autumn. We
cannot grow any corn or the like any more, it's simply too late for that. We
can only give a few fast-growing crops a try. Wild fruit and mushrooms have to
be collected. Fish has to be caught in the Gods Eye and to be dried or smoked.
Whatever cattle we can find we have to let graze on the meadows close to the
castle so that it cannot be stolen so easily. Deer and wild boars have to be
hunted and preserved. The same is true for fowl.”
 
“The problem is that there isn't much left and too few people live here to
carry out these tasks.”
 
“Drum up the few remaining people in Harrentown and make sure they move inside
the castle walls. We need to pool our forces. The same is true for the nearby
villages. They have been plundered and not much has been left anyway. As soon
as the first snow falls they'd have to look for shelter anyway. Make sure that
only those families who are still cultivating any crops are left where they are
– the others have to come here. Tell the people that after the winter they can
use the stones of the two most decayed towers to build new homes in Harrentown,
or to renovate their old homes if anything is left of them. This castle is too
big and too expensive to maintain. That's one of the reasons why no owner can
hold Harrenhal for long. So two towers have to be pulled down in the long run.
I hope that that will also reduce the problem with the bat-infested rooftops. I
hate bats' shit!”
 
“What do you intend to do with the extra space?” Ser Bonifer asked.
 
It was Sansa who came up with a good idea: “In Winterfell we've got greenhouses
to grow vegetables for which the climate would usually be too rough. Thanks to
the lake we'd also have enough water.”
 
Sandor clicked his tongue: “Sounds bloody good, Little Bird. A pity that this
project cannot be realised before the winter.”
 
Ser Bonifer nodded and added: “Ser Gilroy has also talked about the possibility
of horse breeding in the future.”
 
The Hound snorted: “First, we have to survive the next days, and then the
upcoming winter. Only then can we talk about such plans.”
 
“Yes, my lord. Coming back to the most imminent tasks: What do you intend to do
with the prisoners?”
 
“First, somebody has to count them and to find out their names. If there are
any noteworthy men amongst them, I need to be told at once. Tomorrow or the day
after, I'll talk to their leader. Make sure they get fresh straw, empty buckets
for the excrements, acceptable food and clean, fresh water. As I said before, I
want to use them as hostages to get the Kingslayer back. And we don't have to
put fuel into the fire, so they must be treated at least halfway decently. Ser
Armory has already done enough to breed more ill blood by killing two of them.”
 
It was then that Ser Gilroy entered and approached them.
 
“My Lord, Bessie has been put into the servant's room close to your bedroom,
just as you have ordered. She woke up and it took a while to put her to sleep
again though she was dog tired if I may say so. Ser Will is keeping an eye on
her now. The Lord's bedroom is being prepared for you. I have also inspected
the kitchen, the forge, the barracks and the armoury.”
 
Sansa peeped up: “There is a boy in the kitchen; his name is Hot Pie. He was
attentive and kind when I was sick.”
 
So Sandor snipped his fingers and cut in: “Ser Gilroy, give that lad a little
reward as you see fit. What else can you tell us?”
 
“There are enough weapons left in the armoury for our modest numbers. Our men
have been accommodated in the barracks. The wing has been rather run down by
the... previous inhabitants, so the men have started to clean everything. They
have also started to dig new latrine ditches, because the faeces were already
oozing out of the old ones.”
 
“I had already guessed as much from the stench on my tour round the castle.
Good point. What next?”
 
“There are three smiths left in the forge that are worthy of being called such.
One of them is an old fellow named Ben Blackthumb. I know him from my
childhood. His soul is as gentle as his arm is strong. There is nothing to be
feared from him. The master smith named Lucan was killed recently. Oh, and one
apprentice is left. All in all, still enough men for our purposes for the time
present.”
 
“Hmhm”, Sandor rumbled. “What about Lorch's men?”
 
“They've got their tails between their legs, my lord. You were very...
impressive down there in the main yard. They have already taken in the manticor
flag.”
 
“Bloody better for them to do that. By the way, that makes me think. I want
people to differentiate between my brother and me and to found a new family
branch.”
 
At that, Sansa uttered: “You mean – like Starks and Karstarks?”
 
“Exactly, Little Bird. What do you think of the name “Harrenclegane”?”
 
All of a sudden, there was a smile in Sansa's voice to be heard: “A bit long,
perhaps, but a logical choice. It makes sense, and it tells everyone where
you're located now. But then, you'll also need your own flag.”
 
“Oh, that's easy”, Sandor mocked. “The green of the Gods Eye waters in the
background. Or the green of the fertile meadows. Whatever. And in the forefront
one dog, a molehill and a bird perched on top.”
 
Sansa giggled, which caused Sandor to grin, too, and she asked him to be
allowed to sew the new flag. After a moment of general exhilaration, the Hound
became serious and sad. What had he been thinking!? Founding his own family
branch. As if that was possible! He'd be the only Harrenclegane ever. Fuck, he
was being stupid! But oh, the Little Bird sounded so enthusiastic, and if she
could sew some flags she'd have a task that was relatively safe.
 
Sandor put a hand on his chest furtively. Why did his heart suddenly hurt so
much? Ah, he couldn't belie himself. He knew it all too well...
 
 
 
***
 
Finally, finally, this horrible day was over. Sansa felt completely exhausted.
Now, she was leading Sandor to their bedroom. As could be expected of the
lord's lodging the rooms above the solar were very spacious. When they entered
Sansa looked at the bed that had been prepared for them.
 
“I think this bed will be big enough for you. One thing less to worry about.”
 
Sandor growled in response: “Lord Lannister has slept in it recently. I don't
like that. We'll have to see if we can get hold of another bed.”
 
Sansa sighed. Ever since they had outlined the design of the new family flag
Sandor was in an extremely morose mood. Not just angry, that would have been
more or less normal. No, he was... kind of depressed and she simply didn't know
why. And the sadness had infected her, too, somehow.
 
She helped her husband out of his clothes since they had forgone a personal
servant for the moment. They had to find out first whom they could trust here –
if anybody at all.
 
Sansa undressed herself now, too, and slipped between the cool sheets of linen.
Sandor followed suit and hugged her close with his strong arms. Sansa turned
around in his embrace and leaned her cheek against his broad chest, inhaling
his scent deeply. They were both naked now, and it was wonderful to feel her
husband skin on skin everywhere. Only... there was no arousal between them.
They absolutely enjoyed the closeness, Sansa trailed his scars with her
fingertip and they kissed, but his... his manhood was limp, and she had no
pulsating feeling between her legs. They stroked each other a bit, and Sansa
was surprised how gentle Sandor's touches could be. No words were necessary
here. They kissed languidly – and there was peace between them.
 
“As if our souls were touching, too”, she thought.
 
For such a long time, she had been blind and dumb, a stupid, spoiled girl, all
the way down from Winterfell to King's Landing and later in the capital, too.
But now that Sandor was blind in a much more literal sense and had become her
husband she herself had really opened her eyes and been able to see. Her father
had promised her a better man than Joffrey before he had died. Well. Sandor was
that better man. He had been made for her by the gods. Of that she was
convinced.
 
“Sandor?” she whispered.
 
“Yes, Little Bird?”
 
“You are my life.”
 
There was a long silence then. Just when Sansa thought she'd get no reaction
from her big man, there was a low rumble in her ear: “And you are mine.”
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
***** Howling wolves *****
 

 
Weasel heard the jailer arrive. It was a different man this time. This bloke
was clean and looked like a knight. If she saw it correctly in the semi-
darkness he had a seven-pointed star stitched on his tabard. What did that
mean? Did he consider himself to be some kind of holy man? But there had also
been some kind of septon amongst the Bloody Mummers – and he had liked little
boys. Not the one ounce of holiness to be found in him. And this one here might
look cleaner, but Lord Tywin was cleaner than the ordinary soldiers, too, and
still he was a bloody bastard.
“Food”, the man said. “And water. Hand me your bucket. Here is a new one.”
For a moment, Weasel considered to spill the contents of the old pail over the
man's feet, but then, she decided against it. She'd probably still need her
strength, so she had to eat and couldn't use any beating or other kind of
punishment. Weasel had heard hours before that a second Northerner had been
taken away to the bear pit – and judging by the sounds she had heard he had
been raped before by Ser Armory's men.
“You're a girl, aren't you?” the foreign man suddenly asked.
Weasel scowled.
“How come you don't know?”
“I only arrived yesterday with the new lord.”
Shit. Weasel's heart sank to the floor.
Sandor Clegane. The Hound.
Ser Armory's words rang in her ear. She could say her last prayer. This here
was supposed to be her last meal!
She whispered to herself: “There is only one God, and his name is Death. And
what do we say to the God of Death? Not today. Not. Today!”
“What are you murmuring, girl?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“What's your name, girl?”
“Weasel.”
“Funny name.”
Weasel tried to brave herself. She would not wail. She would not beg for mercy.
She would not shame her pack. She was a wolf.
“I'm not hungry. Will you take me to the Hound first, or to the torture
chamber, or will you take me straight to the bear pit?”
The man shot her a confused glance: “Why should I do that? And apart from that
– the bear pit has been closed down for good. The black beast was killed this
morning after it had feasted in Ser Armory Lorch.”
Weasel's head snapped up.
“He's dead?”
“Dead as a doornail. The Lord had him executed.”
Weasel scowled again. She was delighted that Ser Armory was dead, but she
didn't like it that it was the Hound of all who had reduced the character list
of her prayer. After all, the Hound was on that list, too.
“Here, take the water and the food. I haven't got time all day.”
Weasel was confused now. So she wouldn't be killed right away?
BAM.
The cell door swung shut.
Weasel breathed in and out deeply.
Not. Today!
 
***
 
Sandor heard the door of his solar open and shut again. He was conferring was
Ser Bonifer again while Sansa was sitting close by and sewing. His new
castellan was unnerving him more than a little with frequent comments like:
“With the help of the Seven...” However, if you ignored the pious blabbering,
most of his statements were more or less acceptable.
There was a cough.
“My lord, may I speak?”
“Is that you, Ser Cody?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Seven hells, how he hated to be called “my lord” all the time... but that was
what he was now, so he couldn't snarl at the people who addressed him like
that.
“Well, speak up then!” he growled.
“I'm coming back from the prison cells. I talked to the inmates. The most
prominent Northerner has turned out to be Robett Glover. Another important man,
some Aenys Frey, was the last man who was killed by Ser Armory Lorch yesterday.
Ser Robett is relieved that there will be no more executions under normal
circumstances, and he would like to discuss the chances of being traded back
against the Kingslayer.”
“I'll talk to him later, after dinner.”
“Right, my lord. Oh, and I met the one who tried to free the Northerners and
who triggered off the open fights between the Brave Companions and Ser Armory
Lorch's men. You'd never believe she could be dangerous; she's inconspicious,
looks like eight, because she's short and skinny, but perhaps she's ten years
old. And she's spirited. Fascinating. She thought I'd lead her to her
execution, and she didn't even cry. She has more guts than many men I've seen.”
“Hmmm...”, Sandor rumbled after Ser Cody's assessment. “In that case I'll have
to go and meet her, too, to decide what we'll do with her. Hopfully, we can
find an alternative for her detainment. Perhaps we can win her over so she can
be with Bessie as some sort of companion or the like. I'll seek her out before
the encounter with Robett Glover.”
With those words Ser Cody was released, and Sandor returned to his talk with
Ser Bonifer.
The castellan started again: “Now, there is another problem I've heard people
talk about. The war and the bands of outlaws are one big problem, but there is
another one. A huge pack of wolves is prowling the Riverlands of late, and
they're led by a giant wolf-bitch, who is so aggressive and cunning that no
cattle is safe from her. Sometimes the guards on the battlements can hear them
howl at night.”
Sansa looked up on hearing that.
“A giant wolf-bitch? Why... that could be Nymeria! My sister's direwolf!
Sandor, can we do anything?”
The Hound growled: “Oh, we could do lots of things. Hunt her down, for
example.”
“Sandor! You don't mean that seriously!”
He sighed: “What do you want? I mean – honestly? Your sister drove her away
with stones. The most likely thing is that the animal started to hate humans
then. Or she has forgotten you. Besides, she was never YOUR bloody wolf, but
your sister's. And Arya and you weren't exactly best friends if I remember
correctly. So what could you fucking do? Walk into the wood and wait for her
and cluck her with words like: “Ooooh, good direwolf! Sweet Nymeria! My, you've
grown! Goodiegoodiegoodie!” Fuck, no. And even if she could still recognise you
or even dreamed of rejoining her human pack – the most likely thing is that you
won't encounter her first, but some other wolf who has no friendly intentions.”
The ensuing silence told Sandor that the Little Bird had to be disappointed,
probably even hurt. Yet, at least she didn't raise any objections. So Sandor
and Ser Bonifer decided to put any possible cattle left within eyesight of
humans and onto meadows where there were barns or stables that could be closed
at night. And each wolf that was clearly no direwolf should be killed, Stark
sigil or not.
 
 
***** What voices can reveal (I) *****
 
All day long, the Hound moved here and there with somebody's help, found out
this and that and made one decision after the other. He had barely time to
think, nor did he really know where to start, because there were just so many
pressing problems.
However, he resolved to get to know each soldier and servant in Harrenhal, the
Holy Hundred and even the lowest kitchen boy included. Since he couldn't
recognize people by their faces he went down to the kitchens, the smithy, the
stable, the brewery and the soldier's barracks and had one person after the
other taken in front of him for a personal interview. In this way, at least he
could hear their voices and the way the people moved and breathed. That told
him a lot.
Soon, it became clear that many of those people who had been here before his
arrival were depressed, traumatised, aggressive, introverted, frightened, or a
mix of various of these aspects. While Ser Bonifer was supervising that the
lord's orders were carried out and therefore rotating about the castle grounds
Ser Will was sitting next to Sandor with a long list where he entered peoples'
names and some notes about their personal background. Whenever a person was
released after an interview Sandor made a little sign that reflected how he
judged the character of the respective person, and Ser Will jotted down an
according icon. In this way, they could keep track of who might cause problems
and who was worth a better position.
Sandor was surprised how easy this part was for him. Since he was blind he
didn't see the people flinch from his face and though he could hear fear in
their voices he could always assume that his looks weren't the only reason for
it. Moreover, their voices and word choices told him so much that in many cases
he didn't feel the need to know anything about their outward appearances.
Soon, he found out that the servant who had been being raped on their arrival
was named Pia. The poor thing was still so badly injured that she could barely
speak – his godsforsaken brother had beaten her with a mailed fist so that her
nose and zygoma had been broken, and she had lost some teeth. Pia was in such a
state of shock that she didn't care if he knew who had done that to her; she
was beyond fear, beyond feeling much of anything. The other women who had been
bound to the pillories were in a slightly better state with regard to their
faces, but they had all been raped as well. Bah, this was so ugly. He had seen
much of this kind during the military campaigns he had participated in, but he
had never taken a fancy to raping.
His talk with the brewer was kept extremely short. He didn't want to have
anything to do with somebody who produced an alcoholic beverage. Already his
head had started to pound and to demand a beer, but he kept an iron grip on
himself.
The smiths were much more interesting, because he could talk shop with them
about weapons. Old Ben Blackthumb was as harmless as Ser Gilroy had presented
him. The most interesting person, however, was the apprentice.
“What's your name?”
“Gendry Waters, m'lord.”
Sandor pricked up his ears, although he didn't know why.
“Where are you from, Gendry?”
“King's Landing, m'lord.”
“What did you do there?”
“I was an apprentice in a smithy, m'lord.”
“In whose?”
“In Tobho Mott's, if it please m'lord.”
Sandor was surprised. The name “Waters” indicated that he was a bastard – and
he had been able to pay the fee for an apprenticeship in one of the best
smithies in the capital? That sounded fishy, to say the least.
“Do your relatives have the same profession?”
“I don't have any. My mother worked in a tavern, but she is dead. Has been for
a long time.”
“What about your father?”
“I've never known him.”
“Then Tobho Mott was more than an instructor for you?”
“Yes, m'lord.”
“So why did you leave him?”
“I was sent away.”
Slowly, but surely the shortspokenness of the young man was going on Sandor's
nerves. And the voice with its young, but rich timbre still reminded him of
somebody, and he simply didn't know of whom. It was like a flea bite he wanted
to scratch. He tried to remember all the low dives he had frequented in King's
Landing and the innkeepers he had known there, but at the same time all
instincts told him that that was the wrong direction for his thoughts.
“Why were you sent away, Gendry?”
“I don't know, m'lord. I was a good apprentice.”
“Hm. Now tell me what you look like since I can't see you.”
“Right, m'lord. I've got... a smith's physique if you get my meaning. A few
little scars from minor burnings. I've got no beard, dark hair, blue eyes.”
“Ah. Well. That was it for the moment, Gendry. You may go back to your work.
You'll do your very best for this castle, will you?”
“I'd never do anything less than my best, m'lord.”
A moment later, the smith was gone. The pride in the lad's voice about his
profession and his capability was still echoing in Sandor's mind and he
signalled Ser Will that the youngster was promising and should be watched more
closely. And then suddenly something snapped shut within the Hound and
everything fell into place. Now he knew who else had had such a rich timbre,
only in an older version, more jovial and with a noble accent instead of the
slang of a low-born. The physical description fit as well, and so did the
background story of the boy. Whoa. Now this was interesting. Bloody interesting
indeed...
 
 
 
***** What voices can reveal (II) *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry, just a very short chapter today.
 
Towards the evening Sandor was suffering from a severe headache. Ever since the
Battle of the Blackwater he had felt some pain now and then, but this evening,
it was worse than usual. Fuck, no wonder! He had started to feel he didn't know
himself any more. The blindness and the dependence that went along with it. His
new social position. The unwanted location. All the new tasks until his head
was buzzing. The withdrawal effects with regard to drinking.
And then... the Little Bird...
Seven Hells! The way she had opened up for him since their marriage! He still
couldn't believe it. He couldn't even fathom how it was possible, but she
relished touching him! The evening before she had treated him as if she
actually adored the scorched, scarred ruin that was his body. She had touched
him so gently... he hadn't even known that such tender caresses existed, much
less expected that he could ever become the object of such wonderful
ministrations. In so many ways he was more experienced than the Little Bird,
but there and then he had been nothing more than a pupil. Oh, but how he had
enjoyed it to learn!
Before he had married Sansa he had only ever used his mouth for eating,
drinking and swearing, or perhaps biting as well when he had been a child
surrounded by bullies at the rock. But otherwise...
And now, he was addicted to using his mouth in completely different ways. He
simply couldn't keep his lips off his wife. Her body was so divine, her scent
and taste so delicious and she welcomed him with so much enthusiasm – he simply
had to kiss and lick and suck and nibble everywhere! Her mouth was like the
first and her womanhood the last one of those bloody heavens.
Causing her lust with his mouth, his tongue and sending her to the stars until
she sang her sweetest songs for him held so much fascination that it was way
better than any fuck he had ever had with a whore. Oh, and how her trilling
voice told him she wanted more! If he was honest his mouth was even more in
need than his cock. And Sansa's arousal was so natural and it felt so right to
do these things with her! Fuck, it was completely different from the artificial
spectacle the harlots simulated.
But this wasn't all. Since the evening before things had reached a new level.
Had the Little Bird only chirped something about love he could have snarled at
her, raged about knights and courtly songs. But no. She hadn't used the word
“love”. No.
She had said: “You are my life.”
Seven hells. There was no defence for that.
He had swallowed her confession – hook, line and sinker. That single sentence
had gone right under his skin and seeped into his heart.
What on earth had happened? How had she come to develop such feelings for him?
And when and where had it started? He didn't know.
It made the fact that she would have to leave him soon even more painful. But
there was no other way. Blind as he was he couldn't keep her safe, even less in
these dire times and surroundings. That they had survived so far was more than
a little wonder. And she deserved to be reunited with the people from the north
and her family.
Sandor sighed inwardly while he was walking down to the prison cells. Sansa
would be sad to leave him, she might even be lovesick for a while. But she was
young and so much stronger than one might expect at first sight. She was a
survivor, that much he had seen clearly ever since King's Landing. She'd
finally adapt and get over him. After all, there was a bit of Tully blood in
her – and with it went the family motto: “Family, Duty, Honour”.
Sandor snorted. What was honour? A brittle mock camouflage for real life.
“What is it, Lord Clegane?” Ser Cody, who was leading him down the staircase,
asked.
“That's none of your bloody business. How many more steps?”
“Erm – wait, eight, my lord.”
Under his breath, Sandor growled into his non-existent beard.
Then, he announced: “I'll meet the prisoners in the guard's room. Lead in the
girl first, but keep her bound. If she's capable of burning you with hot soup
she might do other things as well. Never underestimate an possible adversary.”
“Yes, my lord.”
When they reached the chamber where the sentries stayed, Sandor threw himself
onto a chair and sprawled out his long legs.
“Any weapons in this room left, Ser Cody?”
“No, none, my lord.”
“Good. Now let's meet the girl – what's her name again?”
“Weasel, my lord.”
“That's no name. At most, that's a description of the bloody Freys. Ah, fuck,
whatever, let's go ahead.”
With that Sandor heard Ser Cody walk away and open and close some heavy doors
within the entrails of the castle. While he was waiting the Hound stretched
himself, yawned and massaged his throbbing temples. Bleeding shit, he'd keep
the two planned meetings as short as possible; he could barely await to be at
the Little Bird's side again.
 
***
***** What voices can reveal (III) *****
 
***
 
Aha. So it was time to meet the Hound. Weasel squared her slender shoulders
while the soldier with the seven-pointed star on the tabard was tying her hands
on her back. Damn it. This way it would be more difficult to wrench herself
free, or to stick a sword into the huge, scarred man. However, she schooled her
face so that her inner turmoil couldn't be detected.
Then, they walked off. To her surprise Weasel noticed that her legs had become
weak during her confinement, and it made her even more morose.
Finally, a last heavy door was opened. It lead to a guards' room.
And true enough, there was the Hound, very much like she remembered him,
sitting on a chair. The fact that he had become a lord had not prompted him to
change the practical, old, dark garb he had always been wearing. However,
something was strange about him.
Weasel cocked her head, but she didn't get a chance to inspect the Hound any
further, because the soldier pressed her down and ordered her to kneel.
Grudgingly, Weasel obliged.
Seemingly, the Hound had not recognised her at once, for he spoke up with a
vacant stare that went right through her (at least as far as she could see from
her kneeling position): “So you're the girl who knows how to cook a good, hot
soup?”
“Yes, m'lord. Though it wasn't as good as it could have been.”
Damn it, what was she doing? She couldn't speak to him like that!
The Hound snorted: “You're an outspoken one. Your name is Weasel I've been
told. Is that right?”
“Yes, m'lord.”
“And what is your real name?”
“I don't know any other.”
“A dog like me can smell a lie, best believe that – and right now, it's
stinking in here like the flaming Stranger's fart. I ask you again: what's your
real name?”
Shit! But at least he didn't recognise her.
“I may have had another name once, m'lord, but it died together with my
father.”
“Do you have any family left?”
“Perhaps, far away. Perhaps not. I haven't been able to keep track lately.”
“Such a young girl and already so bitter. Well. Wasn't any different at that
age. Tell me – have you already killed someone?”
“Yes.”
The Hound whistled and seemed to be surprised, but it was also clear he
believed her. Strange when nobody else would do that easily with regard to this
specific point.
Then, the scarred man suddenly changed the topic in the strangest possible way:
“Could you keep a little child safe? Could you be a friend to her?”
Weasel was confused: “A child? No idea. Why do you want to know, m'lord?”
Sandor Clegane cleared his throat: “I wonder how someone like you can have
become so insolent, and at that age. You don't sound like a servant. But I
could need someone spirited. There's a little girl in this fortress, and like
so many children she has seen bad things in this war and lost her family. Could
you take care of her?”
“Do I look like a wetnurse?”
Oh shit, what on earth was going on with her that she couldn't keep her sharp
tongue inside her mouth?
The Hound roared his ugly laughter for a moment, then he turned deadly serious
again and rasped: “Weasel, I don't KNOW what you look like, and honestly, I
don't care. The only thing I want to know is the following: Are you willing to
take care of the little girl or do you prefer to rot in a cell?”
Weasel was even more confused now: why didn't he know what she looked like? It
wasn't broad daylight, but there were enough torches in the sconces.
“Well, that isn't much of a choice, is it?” she asked, but didn't even sound
half as defiant as she had done moments before.
“I take it as a “yes” then,” the Hound stated.
“Hmhm,” she murmured darkly.
“Then swear on your dead father that you will look after and shield Bessie and
that you won't pose a threat to Harrenhal and to me and my people again.”
Damn. Now she couldn't lie. Not if she made an oath on her father. And...
Bessie!? Why did the Hound talk about a child as if he cared?
A few silent moments passed by.
Finally, she gave in and ground out: “I swear.”
“Good. I had hoped you'd see the wisdom in it. – Ser Cody, take her to the
bathhouse now. After the time in the dungeons she stinks like the arse of a
bloody giant. Give order that she's cleaned thoroughly and that she gets a new
dress.”
Again, Weasel couldn't keep quiet: “No dress, please, m'lord. I don't like
dresses.”
The Hound knit his eyebrows, and he looked deep in thought.
There was a heavy moment's silence.
Then a final rasp: “Get her some squire's clothes then, Ser Cody. And when
you've got her in the bath bring me the other northern prisoner I wanted to
meet. – – Oh, and if you hear any news about the direwolf bitch, tell me at
once.”
Weasel gasped quietly. Direwolf bitch!? Could it be? But what...?
Behind her Ser Cody answered: “Yes, my lord, understood. – Come, Weasel!”
And without further ado the soldier grabbed her by the shoulder, cut her
manacle, steered her out of the room and shoved her up the stairs, into the
evening light.
Weasel felt as if a thousand worms were crawling in her belly, and her heart
was beating rapidly.
 
***
 
One little gasp. In the crucial moment. That had been enough. Then, he had been
sure. Incredible as it was.
As soon as the girl had started to talk, Sandor had been sure he had heard that
voice before. Only without the servant's jargon. And though she had hidden it
well there had been a slightly northern accent. Plus the defiant attitude and
the cleverness.
Weasel was no humble peasant girl. Never ever. When she had refused the dress
his musings had taken a decisive turn, and as an afterthought he had brought up
the topic with the direwolf.
And now he knew.
He was in high spirits.
The later the evening, the sweeter the surprises – and this evening promised to
become an especially sweet one.
 
***** Pack (I) *****
 
Weasel was sullen. Baths had never been her favourite pastime, but after the
dungeons of Harrenhal it had been a necessary course of action to get herself
cleaned – and that the Hound had granted her a squire's clothes didn't make
things better. This way she couldn't nurse her burning grudge against him.
Well, she resolved, her hatred for Mycah's killer didn't need much nourishment.
Notwithstanding, her belly had demanded some food and she had been given a
simple, but tasty meal. For a moment she had wondered if Hot Pie had baked the
bread she had been served and that had still been warm from the oven. Then,
however, she had just dug her teeth into the crust and wolfed her portion down.
She needed to be strong.
 
 
After the bath, she had met another soldier, Ser Gilroy. He was tall and broad,
but not really thick. For a Lannister minion he treated her in a surprisingly
gentle way, and under his shock of light brown hair that was growing long and
behind his bushy sideburns his smile in the clean-shaven face was friendly
enough. But Weasel wasn't fooled. When the man had started to talk about horses
she had understood his strategy: he was acting the good man to win her trust,
to lure her into something or to make her talk about what she knew. Pah, he had
to get up earlier if he wanted to fool her!
In spite of that, she had itched to ask him about the direwolf the Hound had
mentioned. After a moment, she had decided against doing so. There would be
other opportunities to find out more.
 
 
Now, Weasel was being led into the gigantic lord's solar. Even Sandor Clegane
looked rather small in it. The tall warrior and new Lord of Harrenhal was
sitting in a chair with a high backrest, his hands propped on his knees,
fingers loosely entwined. For once, he looked rather relaxed and didn't gaze
her way, but rather faced the hearth fire whose flickering light cast ghastly
shadows across his ugly scars.
Weasel got nervous. Was this some sort of trap?
Next, the Hound spoke up, though not in her direction, as if he wasn't paying
her much attention: “Weasel, are you clean and have you filled your belly?”
“Yes, m'lord.”
“Good. – Ser Gilroy, is Bessie still awake?”
“Yes, my lord, but she won't be for long.”
“Lead her in for a moment then, so that she can get to know Weasel a little.
And when she's here, please fetch the lady.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
The lady? Weasel was confused. There was no lady in Harrenhal. Had the Hound
brought a visitor along? Very strange. No proper lady would travel here in
these times of war. Well, she'd find out soon enough.
After Ser Gilroy had left, Lord Clegane addressed her again: “You're from the
north.”
Weasel's eyes widened a little, but then, she nodded.
“Won't you speak to me, girl?”
She pouted. Why didn't he just look at her? Where was that piercing, measuring
gaze she remembered?
“M'lord, it doesn't matter where I'm from. It matters where I'm now.”
“I see. Well, one should live in the present, true enough – but you mustn't
forget your past, whether it's horrible or not, or you'll never learn from any
mistakes. And sometimes your past stalks you from behind and bites you in the
ass.”
Weasel pouted again, but she had no time to stay sullen.
A moment later, the door opened and Ser Gilroy entered with a little, dark-
haired girl on his hand.
As soon as the child saw the Hound she did the unspeakable: she tore free from
the soldier's hands, ran up to the big, ugly warrior, hopped onto his lap and
threw her pudgy arms around his neck! And Sandor Clegane? He was laughing and
hugging her!
Weasel gaped open-mouthed and thought she was having hallucinations.
“Bessie!” he rumbled with a gentleness she had never heard in his voice. “Look
around! We've got a visitor here. This is Weasel. Weasel wants to be your
friend now.”
But the little girl only buried her cheek against the curve of his neck.
“Now it's happening. I'm going crazy. Too many bats in the belfry. Like
Harrenhal,” Weasel thought.
What she didn't know yet: she wouldn't get a minute to recover.
Behind her, the door of the solar creaked again.
A sweet voice started to speak. A ghost from the past. It was like a blow
directly into Weasel's stomach.
“Sandor, Bessie is still awake?”
It couldn't be. It was impossible.
Weasel spun around and gasped: “SANSA!?”
 
 
***
 
 
“ARYA!?” Sansa called.
When she had entered she had only seen a little squire boy, and her eyes had
been focused on Sandor and Bessie anyway.
And now... she was looking into her younger sister's face! She was thin and
pale, yes, but there was no mistaking her! She'd always recognise those dark,
clever, rebellious eyes.
Sansa's hand flew to her mouth. For a moment, they both stood rooted to the
spot, but then, they started to move, hesitant at first and finally running.
They crashed into each other, hugged each other fiercely and sobbed, even
unruly Arya.
“Sansa! Sansa!” she called repeatedly.
Gods! Oh gods! How was this possible? Tears of joy were streaming down their
faces. Moments later, they were even rolling on the floor in sheer elation.
After some minutes, Arya sniffled: “Oh, I'm sorry, Sansa, your dress! I'm
ruining your dress.”
But Sansa only laughed: “As if that mattered. I've got my little sister back!”
They were both giggling then.
Arya teased her: “Who would have thought that? The fine lady not caring about
her dress any more.”
More sounds of levity. Oh my, this was a wonder! An absolute wonder!
It took them both quite a while until Sansa came back to her senses, and she
looked up at Sandor. He was sitting there with Bessie on his lap (in the face
of the sisters' reunion she had put a finger into her mouth in confusion).
Sandor, however, didn't look surprised at all. No, he was even grinning his
widest houndish grin, which caused the burned corner of his mouth to twitch as
usual.
It caused Sansa to ask: “Sandor, did you know about her?”
Arya stiffened then and reprimanded her: “Sansa! You can't call him by his
first name! He's the Hound!”
Meanwhile, Sandor answered: “Well, let's say that after meeting her down in the
prison cells I had an inkling. And judging by your sister's reactions she's
been locked away for quite a while and hasn't been told about anything.”
Arya furrowed her brow, and her eyes flitted back and forth: “What have I not
been told?”
Sansa got an uneasy feeling then, but she started to report nevertheless: “You
see, Arya, after Sandor was blinded in the Battle of the Blackwater in King's
Landing...”
“He's blind!?” Arya cut in.
“You didn't notice?” Sansa asked, surprised.
After a moment, her sister nodded and stated: “Now it makes sense he didn't
look at me. Whoa!”
So Sansa went on: “Right... well, after the battle Joffrey ended his betrothal
to me. He wants to marry Margaery Tyrell now.”
Arya beamed.
“How good for you! That m...”
Her sister fell silent again, seemingly thinking she shouldn't say anything
treasonous now in front of the Lannister dog.
Sansa cleared her throat and came up with the most delicate piece of
information: “Arya, Joffrey bestowed Harrenhal on Sandor – and then, he forced
us to marry.
“WHAT!? You are married to the Hound!?” Arya yelled.
Next, she fell silent again and could only gape in shock.
Sansa nodded.
 
 
Sandor used the moment to call for Ser Gilroy and to have Bessie taken to bed.
The upcoming storm was nothing for the little girl. And Sansa could feel it in
her bones that her sister was about to turn into a hurricane.
Sure enough, the younger Stark daughter started to hyperventilate. Her next
reaction, however, came as a surprise: she embraced Sansa in a compassionate
way.
What was far more shocking was what she whispered into her ear next: “I'm so
sorry for you! Nobody deserves HIM! Damn, if I hadn't sworn on father's grave
to not attack him I'd kill him now.”
Sansa gasped and whispered back: “Kill? No! Oh no! You mustn't do that! He's
saved my life so many times ever since father was executed.”
On instinct, she didn't tell her sister she had fallen in love with Sandor
Clegane. She had the strange feeling that this would likely backfire. And her
apprehension was confirmed. Disbelief was written all over Arya's face.
“He did what!?”
Now, Arya was talking in a loud voice again so that Sandor could listen as
well.
“I did what had to be done,” he stated in a matter-of-fact countenance.
The younger Stark daughter was panting now and asked in a shrill voice: “You
mean this is your husband? This killer? He'd make father turn in his grave! And
he's bedding you? By the Old Gods, this is disgusting!”
Sansa wanted to answer, but no words would come to her.
Her husband, however, rasped: “You call me a killer? Very well! Then let's talk
about you. If I'm a killer – what are you?”
Sansa was confused. Had she missed something now?
A heartbeat later, Arya yelled back: “I only killed for self-defence! I didn't
slaughter someone innocent by riding him down like Mycah!”
What!? Arya had killed someone!?
At the same time, Sandor snorted and growled: “And the wolf-bitch thinks that
her butcher friend would have survived if I had let him live? Bugger that! I
got an order that day and I carried it out. Do you know what Joffrey and Cersei
looked like on that day? As if they wanted to skin someone alive like a Bolton.
If I had not killed the boy at once they would have ordered Ilyn Payne to
torture him to death slowly. Do you remember what happened to Sansa's wolf? You
had scared your own bitch away, but Sansa didn't do that with hers. Her wolf
had to pay with its life – and it was as innocent as your dead friend. The
Lions wanted to see blood on that day and if I had not given them what they
wanted they would also have taken mine on top of your friend's. Have you still
not learned that life isn't fair and neither of us can do anything about it? If
you try you can as well piss against the wind! Just don't be surprised if you
have yellow breeches afterwards.”
Arya lost it completely now; all the frustration that had been bottled up
within her exploded, and Sansa covered her ears and writhed in agony – only she
could still hear each word, because her sister was so loud: “Ha! Funny that the
Cleganes have got yellow as one of their sigil colours. Only that hasn't
anything to do with the wind, but with moral incombi... grrr... incontinence!
And someone as disgusting as you is allowed to rape my sister now, because
you're her husband. Oh yes, I've seen what men do to women! If you had a spark
of honour in you you'd kill yourself to give Sansa her freedom back. THEN, and
only then would you have really saved her life! But of course you won't do
that, no. I hate you!”
Tears were streaming down Sansa's face again, but this time, they had nothing
to do with joy. She could only whine.
And Sandor? He shot back: “Aye. It has become bloody clear indeed that you hate
me. And you have proven that you judge people without knowing what is actually
going on. How very honourable. If I was my brother I'd kill you on the spot.
You're lucky I'm not – though I'm in no mood to bear your face one more instant
this evening. – SER GILROY! Come and take the girl to her chamber.”
Arya hissed something hateful, but Sansa couldn't understand any longer. She
had sunk to her knees and her body was heaving from her sobs. How could it all
have gone so very wrong?
Sandor was fumbling his way to her now and took her in his arms. She let it
happen, snuggled closer and was grateful for the embrace. But the silent look
Arya gave her while her sister was being dragged away was so full of shock and
disgust that she could have yelled “turncloak” as well. It hurt more than Ser
Boros Blount's mailed fist.
Sansa had been so extremely happy to see Arya again – but now, it turned out
that one thing was still the same: they were as different as night and day and
couldn't get along. Only now it was much, much worse.
 
 
***
 
***** Pack (II) *****
 
He had heard more than he wanted. Even outside in the corridor the angry voices
had reverberated. Well, who would have thought that? The upset, loath girl he
was pulling along with him was late Lord Eddard Stark's younger daughter! Ser
Gilroy would have smiled if the situation had not been so serious.
Lady Arya – for that was her name now again – was shaking from anger and grief.
The knight knew that right now she was inconsolable, but he wanted to give her
something to think about.
“Lady Arya, I was as surprised as you when I learned about the new situation.
One should assume that someone like Lord Clegane would make your sister
unhappy, and their beginning must have been horrible indeed – for both of them,
by the way. The marriage was a shock for the lord as well.”
The girl snarled then: “What do I care what HE felt? He's a bastard! And Sansa?
Did you see that? She has accepted him! She's a traitor! Ha, but for you it
doesn't matter, you're a Lannister man like the others. I hate you, too!”
Ser Gilroy was only momentarily astounded by Lady Arya's wild emotions; then,
he thought that it was quite understandable that she reacted like this after
everything she'd been through.
So he ignored her insulting behaviour and went on: “Lady Sansa was given a
choice by the king, you know? She could have married Ser Ilyn Payne as well.”
Lady Arya winced then, but didn't say anything to that.
So Ser Gilroy went on: “By the way, I thought Lord Clegane to be a monster in
human disguise, too, until shortly ago. I used to fight for Stannis Baratheon
in the past.”
“Then you're a turncloak! Like my sister!”
“Lady Sansa has fallen in love with Lord Sandor, but she has no love for the
Lannisters and the king, I can see that.”
“Sansa? Love? What does she know about love!? She started drooling when she saw
Ser Loras ride in a tournament and thought herself in love!”
“Now, it's different. For the two of them. And they have changed both. Didn't
you see Lord Clegane with Bessie? He took care of her personally when we found
her family butchered near the road. Whoever the lord used to be, he's different
now. I wonder...”
Arya gave him a snide look and spat: “As if a monster and a brute like him
could really change! And what do you wonder?”
Ser Gilroy gave her a sad smile: “I wonder if it was my doing that triggered
all of this off.”
The young lady furrowed her brow and commented: “What could an average knight
like you have possibly done to change the course of history?”
Ser Gilroy coughed into his hand and explained: “During the Battle of the
Blackwater I and a friend from the Holy Hundred got separated from our
comrades. We were still on Stannnis's side at the time, but we had lost our
swords. My friend caught fire somehow, I don't know exactly what happened. It
was green wildfire. Really mean stuff that cannot be extinguished. The
Lannisters had been using it to set the Blackwater aflame to save King's
Landing from our troops. Anyway. To make bad things worse my friend stumbled
into Lord Clegane and he was cut down by him. I went berserk when I watched it
happen and didn't fear death any more. I grabbed a wooden log that was lying in
the mud, attacked Lord Clegane from behind and crashed it onto his head with
all the force I could muster. He fell like an ox that had been slaughtered and
I thought him dead. Only later, when King Joffrey celebrated his victory, did I
see him again and learned what had happened to him.”
Lady Arya stared at Ser Gilroy now, thunderstruck.
“What!? You blinded the Hound and he still lets you be around him?”
“He doesn't know. But he will soon, I guess – now that I've told you. You hate
all the people so much that you'll fling any bad word you can come by into
everyone's face. By some miracle your body has survived all the horrible things
that have befallen you, but your soul is dead. As dead as little Bessie's soul,
I must add. She has watched her father's death, too. And not only his. Her
mother's, her uncle's, her aunt's – and her siblings are gone. I guess you've
got an idea what that must be like, only she's even younger than you. Well, and
she has chosen Sandor Clegane as some kind of guardian. He's the only one she
really trusts. That says a lot, doesn't it? Don't take that away from her.”
Lady Arya was very quiet now and didn't resist him any longer.
A few moments later, they had arrived at a heavy, wooden door. They both
entered a bedroom. Ser Gilroy made sure everything was all right.
Then, he stated: “No fire tonight, and I have to lock you in. I'm sorry.
Security matters.”
The girl in front of him shrugged and mumbled back: “Can't be colder than in
the dungeons.”
Ser Gilroy nodded: “Yes. And you've got a real bed. Good night.”
Then, he left Lady Arya and made sure the door was well locked.
Afterwards, he breathed deeply. He hoped that his words might germinate and
grow into the right plant, but only time would tell. Now, he'd make a tour of
the castle like he always wanted to do late in the evening nowadays.
 
The sun had set, and in the dark the castle looked even emptier and quieter and
bleaker than usually. Ser Gilroy made sure that the bathhouse was deserted now
and barred it. In the kitchen, he came across the meaty boy who had comforted
Lady Sansa on her arrival. The lad – Hot Pie, he remembered – was willing to
hand him a toad-in-the-hole, which he had just prepared, and the little
delicacy turned out to be very tasty.
In better spirits Ser Gilroy moved on and finally, he reached the gatehouse. He
clambered up to the battlements, because he wanted to have a relaxing look at
the waters of the Gods Eye in the moonlight. The drawbridge had been closed
ever since Lord Clegane's impressive tirade about the safety of the castle.
A man he didn't know well, some Dillon, was on duty there as nocturnal vigil.
They chatted a little about this and that, about the war and the possible
outcome, and the man looked grateful he wasn't alone for a while. Ser Gilroy
felt even better now. He wondered if there was hope for the huge fortress at
long last.
 
Suddenly, there was a movement down at the foot of the castle walls. At once,
the knight prodded the arm of the guard silently.
“What's that down there?” he whispered.
Dillon murmured back: “Whatever it is – it's not human.”
A moment later, the moon, which had been covered by a cloud for a moment, was
shining again brightly and revealed a huge, furred creature, something like a
pony – only it wasn't a pony. And then, the animal threw it's head back and
howled so loudly that the dead could surely be woken by the ghastly sound.
Dillon uttered a little squeal.
“A wolf! That's a wolf! And a big one at that! Ser Gilroy, can you hand me the
crossbow? I had just put it down for a moment when you arrived.”
But the knight shook his head.
“You won't shoot this one. This is a direwolf. And judging by its behaviour it
wants to enter the castle.”
“WHAT!? But why?”
“I guess that this is the infamous wolf bitch you must have heard of. And I've
got the feeling she's in search of her pack.”
***** Give paw! *****
The lord arrived some fifteen minutes later on the battlements with his excited
lady wife. Because of his blindness he wasn't as fast as he usually would have
been. Ser Gilroy had watched on while Dillon had fetched him.
The wolf howled again.
Sandor Clegane bellowed down then: “Nymeria?”
An angry bark from the foot of the wall was the tell-tale answer.
“Right. Sounds like her mistress”, the blind man stated.
“Nymeria, I'm here, too!” Lady Sansa called.
What followed was a heart-wrenching whine. So the wolf obviously remembered her
human pack.
At once, Lady Sansa ordered them: “When I'm down at the gate so that I can
welcome Nymeria lower the drawbridge for her. And fetch Arya.”
Lord Clegane rasped back then: “Seven hells, what are you thinking? She's a
direwolf! She'll rip us all apart!”
But the lady only answered: “No, she won't. And now, I ask you to trust me.”
Her husband erupted in a fit of swearing. Even a brave warrior would have
flinched from his aggressive outburst, but it didn't perturb the lady at all,
and she called down the castle wall as if it was an everyday matter to converse
with a direwolf: “Nymeria, I'm coming down to meet you, and Arya will be here
in a few moments.”
Another whine. If the big animal understood what was said, or if she only
recognised the voice was difficult to tell. Ser Gilroy prayed to the Seven that
Lady Sansa was right with her prediction about the wolf's behaviour while he
was watching the young woman descend the steps to the gate.
Finally, the drawbridge was lowered slowly and with major rattling and creaking
sounds.
 
 
***
 
“SANSA!” Sandor bellowed, but the Little Bird couldn't be stopped.
Fuck! If only he could see! Then he'd be able to follow her and to keep her
safe with his sword – or to hinder her from descending these damned stairs to
meet the wild beast yonder on the other side of this wall in the first place.
As it was, he was as good as helpless. A toothless dog. Damn it!
He heard the dark, rattling sound of the drawbridge and gripped an iron bar
that was running down the battlements harder. Never since his face had been
burned had he been so close to praying.
And then, there were wild, ecstatic whining sounds to be heard – from two
throats to be precise. Sansa was obviously proving she was a real northern wolf
by heritage. The whining blended into wild yapping on one side and carefree,
chiming female laughter on the other.
Next to him Ser Gilroy uttered: “My lord... if I didn't see what I'm seeing now
I wouldn't believe it.”
“WHAT do you see?” Sandor asked sharply.
“Well, this pony-sized direwolf... and your lady wife... they're... they're
scrimmaging on the earth and frolicking and rolling around. Like... like
children.”
Sandor relaxed, snorted, remembered the intimate interlude back at the
abandoned house and commented inwardly that seemingly his wife had a soft spot
for mud games (in spite of her alleged ladylikeness). He didn't get any further
with his thoughts though, because the same instant a hollering girl's voice
could be heard from the yard. Which meant that Arya was joining the fun.
The sentry called Dillon stated then: “Haven't heard so much happy laughter
inside these castle walls ever before – not even if I count every instance
together.”
Sandor couldn't see it, but he heard a smile in the man's voice and –
unrealistic as it was – it felt like a spark of hope.
 
Later, he gingerly scrambled down the stairs and met his wife. Even from afar
he could smell the wolf, and he could only hope that the huge animal would
accept him... and that the little hellion that was Sansa's sister would keep
her word and not shout: “Get him!”
Down at the bottom Sansa came running at him and called merrily: “Sandor!
Sandor! She's here! Nymeria is here! Come here and greet her!”
And without further ado she snatched his hand and pulled him on.
The Hound could hear a confused little “whoof?” when he arrived.
“Bugger that, I'm sceptical too, Nymeria, but now I'm kind of a master-in-law.
How do you like that?” Sandor growled.
Another “whoof?”, and Arya harrumphed: “Pah! As if Nymeria had a master! She's
a leader in her own right now!”
There was quite a bite of pride in the girl's voice – until a moment later she
squealed in delight, probably because the furred beast was licking her or
something like that.
A moment later, Ser Gilroy, who had descended the stairs as well to help his
lord, could be heard with his most humorous and amiable tone: “Hello Mrs
Direwolf – Ser Gilroy, at your service. I'm kind of Lady Sansa's pack. Pleased
to meet you.”
Sandor heard the Little Bird gasp, and then, she whispered to him: “You won't
believe it! Wild Nymeria is giving paw! Ser Gilroy is really an animal
whisperer!”
The Lord of Harrenhal chortled then and mumbled back: “A night of neverending
surprises. But if a wild direwolf is capable of some basic politeness it
probably means that not all is lost for your 'charming' little sister.”
Sansa giggled and retorted under her breath: “And what about you? Is there any
hope for a certain Lord Mole?”
“YOU!”
Without thinking about any possible onlookers, Sandor reacted and took hold of
a squealing Little Bird, crushed her to his chest and kissed her.
“Shit, Nymeria, don't watch! Don't watch, I tell you! – Bah, shit, I think I'm
running the risk of getting blind as well.”
That was Arya, and she was lamenting like a washerwoman, but somehow Sandor got
the notion that earlier that evening she had sounded far more vicious. If only
he was right! He wanted Sansa to be happy, and not to be alienated from her
family.
 
***** Plans for the future *****
Chapter Notes
     I have revised the first version of this chapter a little before
     posting the result; I hope that it is more credible now. This part
     was pretty difficult for me to write. I hope you can live with it...
     Concrit welcome, as always. :-)
 
Much, much later, the Little Bird was finally in bed with him. She was still
totally over-excited and twittering like mad, a clockwork that wouldn't stop.
He couldn't deny her her happiness. The tiniest smile played around the good
corner of his mouth.
 
“... and the way Nymeria tore the mutton leg out of Hot Pie's hand! Gods, that
was sososo funny!”
Sandor chortled then: “I'm bloody convinced Hot Pie wouldn't agree with you.
The poor lad nearly pissed himself, by the way he squeaked and from what I've
been told.”
“Oh, I didn't think of that! Should Arya have fed the meat to Nymeria herself
then?”
“I don't think her wolf would have waited until she'd have been handed the meat
to pass on.”
Sansa giggled and laid her warm cheek on his chest and nuzzled his hair there.
“They've become even wilder over time. Nymeria and Arya both.”
“Aye, I think so, too.”
With his hand Sandor stroked the silken, auburn tresses he couldn't see but
remembered so well. Only weeks before such gentle touches wouldn't have been
possible. She had been Joffrey's betrothed, and he himself had been an angry
drunkard without an aim in his life (if you didn't count a quick death on the
battlefield). How different things were now. He suddenly knew that at least in
some ways his life had become better. If only he weren't blind... But he'd
always choose the Little Bird over his eyesight, he wouldn't even think twice.
“So thoughtful, all of a sudden?” Sansa asked.
“Aye. I'm thinking about the future.”
“What about our future?”
Sandor breathed in deeply. 'OUR' future. How natural and good that sounded from
her lips!
“Don't you remember? We're still at war, and the Riverlands have been torn
apart and scorched. I'm still on a different side than your family. So what do
we do?”
“Can't you change sides? You know that Joffrey is no worthy king.”
Sandor sighed and answered: “No, I cannot change sides. Especially not with my
handicap. For once, your family would never accept me. I've been made Lord of
Harrenhal, but they wouldn't leave me in that position, even less since I've
been made Lord Paramount. How could your uncle, Edmure Tully, ever tolerate it?
Bugger that! What's more, they hate me – and rightly so – for the atrocities I
have committed on the battlefield. I'm not a good man, Sansa, and my reputation
is even worse. I'm Gregor's brother after all, and they'll never forget it. Oh,
and then, there's one last thing.”
“What, Sandor?”
“Ser Bonifer.”
“What about him?”
“He has been sent by Lord Tywin.”
“What do you want to say?”
“I've known the Old Lion long enough, and I know his policy. Family first. I
think he was pretty pissed off when he heard we were married. You could have
been sold to a better, a more important man to get a claim on the north, in
case your brother dies. So I'm convinced that Ser Bonifer is entitled and
supposed to blame me for high treason and to kill me. I can only count myself
lucky that he's not a born killer and swallowed the bait I prepared for him.
I've accepted his hypocritical religious waffling as well as his position as my
castellan. So there's hope my head won't be chopped off, if I don't step out of
line.”
Sansa's head shot up a little in surprise, though her hair was still trailing
over his torso.
“No! You don't say so! I can't believe it! Ser Bonifer is such a nice man!”
“Little Bird, he may not be as bad as others, but he has fought at the Battle
of the Blackwater and he has killed people – just like me. And he's not brave
enough to willingly risk to call Lord Tywin's wrath upon himself.”
Sansa's cheek returned to his chest. She was mulling things over.
“If this is true – which plans do you have for the future?”
Sandor put a calloused finger gently onto the tip of nose and answered: “It's
too early to call them “plans”, but there are a few things I've got to
consider. This evening – before all the hubbub with Arya and her wolf – I met
and talked to Ser Robett Glover down in the prison cells. We discussed options,
and I think he's understood that I'm willing to be more reasonable than bloody
Armory Lorch. Perhaps it would be possible to carry out an exchange, and I
could get the Kingslayer back. Lord Tywin would barely call it high treason, if
I got him his son, even if the cost was considerable.”
“You would release the prisoners for Ser Jaime?”
Sandor snorted at that: “The prisoners, precious as they are, would hardly be
enough.”
The Little Bird stiffened then.
“You'd send Arya back as well?”
“Aye.”
Sansa's response sounded very sad: “It's a very reasonable thought. I only
wished I'd have more time with her after having found her alive only today.
There are still so many things that need to be sorted out between us.”
It was then that Sandor shoved the metaphorical dagger into his heart and
rasped: “Little Bird, I've thought about that, too. We may be married, but it
doesn't mean you're in fetters here. You're a free person. Do you want to go on
a trip and to visit your mother and brother for a while?”
“What!?” Sansa exclaimed. “A visit!? I could see... Mother and Robb?”
“Aye, Little Bird.”
A second later, Sansa threw herself at him in sheer joy, and she hugged and
kissed him wildly on his mouth – and drove the metaphorical dagger deeper into
his heart.
Suddenly, however, she paused.
“But Sandor – you said that we're at war, that Lord Tywin is breathing down
your neck and that Mother and Robb don't like you. How could I go and see them?
And how long should the visit take? Won't it be difficult to cross the lines?”
So his young wife was rather clever if she came up with these worries so soon.
“Aye, it won't be easy. I'll make Robb swear on his honour that you'll be able
to come back after two months – and I'll tell Lord Tywin that you're loyal to
me and that I've sent you to spy on your brother's plans.”
“Robb is honourable, but Lord Tywin won't believe you!”
“Oh, he will, or at least as much as he will ever believe anything. Ser Bonifer
will report to him how fond you've grown of me and that you'd do anything for
me. – At the same time, your brother might come to the conclusion that I'm not
such a mean bastard after all.”
Inwardly, Sandor knew that Robb was a king now first and foremost. Noblesse
oblige. And honour was just a concept to soothe the trustworthy. He didn't know
if he should be happy that Sansa had retained some of her innocence, even after
all the shit she had experienced at the hand of Joffrey and his buggering
knightly cronies back in King's Landing.
He didn't get any further with his musings, however.
All of sudden, the Little Bird landed a blow he'd never have expected from her,
and she'd have blasted him out of his boots if he had been wearing any:
“Sandor, please... before leaving... please bed me and make me your wife in
truth. And... perhaps... I could be with child then. Our child.”
Sandor started to pant and his inner demons were yelling and whining in the
face of this enormous temptation. Their future. Their child. He had never even
dreamed of such a thing, because it had been so far away from his own reality.
And now she was offering him what he had never imagined!
He had a lump in his throat.
“Little Bird, you can't fathom what your wish means to me. There is nothing I
want more than to live with you properly, as wife and husband. And if we
could... a baby would... I mean I'd be the happiest man on earth. Only... if I
knew you might be with child I couldn't let you travel, even less in these
times. You know, I don't want you to miscarry. A journey – it would be too
risky for the both of you – and then, you couldn't visit neither your Mother.
Nor Robb. And doesn't he have a direwolf, too?”
“Yes, Greywind. But Sandor...”
“When you come back to me... then we can make a child. I promise. I'll take you
into bed, hold you all night and enter your body – and I won't let you go until
you've forgotten your name from sheer ecstasy, until I've got your sweetest
song, Little Bird. That's what I want to do. And I want a family with you.”
Shit, why was he saying these things? His statements were as useless as the
Harrenclegane flag, he knew it all too well.
 
Oblivious of his brooding Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck again.
“I hope the little one will have your grey eyes, Sandor.”
Seven Hells, he was touched beyond measure and damned close to weeping!
Yet, his sweet wife still wasn't done: “But Sandor, I want to be close to you,
body and soul! What can we possibly do? I need you so!”
Right, now he really needed some bloody diversion lest he not start to sob, so
he rasped shakily: “Ah, Little Bird, you know well enough what we can do with
our mouths, don't you?”
He didn't give her time for a lengthy answer, slipped down her body in one
fluid motion and started to feast on her body like a starving man. It didn't
take long until Sansa quivered and moaned blissfully – and afterwards, she paid
him back measure for measure. Bloody Seven, this wasn't the shy maid from
King's Landing any more! Nor did she wear her porcelain armour here, no. She
was so warm, so alive, breathing and so very breathtaking at the same time...
And she was also hungry.
They stayed awake until the hour of the wolf and pleasured each other in ways
Sandor would have never deemed possible. He hadn't known much beyond in-and-
out-movements, and he could only try to remember what he had heard from other
men. And he could experiment with Sansa. To his surprise she was responsive to
each kind of touch, each flick of his tongue or rub against her skin. If she
blushed or not he couldn't say, but she was eager to enjoy his caresses. Only
when they were both completely exhausted did they drift off into a peaceful,
well-deserved slumber; even then, the Little Bird was snug in his arms as if
she belonged there, and Sandor committed this Elysian sensation to his memory.
 
***
***** Three ravens (I) *****
 
 
“This is a trick Mother, isn't it? Some kind of trap.”
 
“I only wish I knew. Oh Robb – if there is the slightest chance to get the
girls back – and our men – we must consider this offer very well.”
 
“I know. I want to have them back, too.”
 
“What about Sansa? She's married to this horrible Clegane, and he asks you to
swear on your honour that she will be allowed to return to him after two
months.”
 
“Well, it doesn't really matter what I allow or don't allow if Sansa simply
doesn't want to return to the Hound. Besides – they're only married by the
decree of a usurper. And since Joffrey is no rightful king it means that their
marriage isn't valid anyway.”
 
“But Robb, you can't interpret the situation like that! It would peg her as a
whore!”
 
“No, no. There would be an official annulment. The situation is a difficult one
for her anyway, but she isn't the first woman in history whose marriage would
be undone. And she is so lovely that we'll certainly be able to find her
another match.”
 
Lady Catelyn sighed: “I only hope that she's still the sweet girl she used to
be – I mean... after having been bedded by this horrible brute... Gods, it
makes me feel sick all the time!”
 
Robb embraced his mother and rumbled: “Yes, I feel exactly the same. And things
don't get better here. I wish I hadn't conceded that Arya should marry Ramsay
Bolton – as a bastard, he's even more below Arya than Sandor Clegane is below
Sansa. And Sansa... once she's free of the Hound the Freys will claim her and
blackmail us – and there isn't much I can do about it. Tell me – which sort of
king am I if I can't even make sure that my own beloved sisters marry really
worthy men? I'm a wolf without teeth!”
 
Lady Catelyn hugged her son back then and answered: “You've shown your teeth in
recent fights; they're shar p. But we have already lost the Karstarks as our
allies and have been weakened until we'll have the Freys on our side again – at
least as much as you can ever have a Frey on your side. Anyway, Roose Bolton
knew he could demand anything from you under these circumstances. The bastard's
legitimisation, the marriage... And wit h regard to the weddings – perhaps we
can delay them. Arya is still too young to marry, and we can always say that
Sansa has to recover after her ordeal in King's Landing. Many a betrothal has
already been ended because the fiancé died in a war.”
 
Robb snorted and answered: “Well, that might be a possibility for the Boltons,
but it doesn't work with the Freys. There are simply too many of them for an
impromptu replacement. Still, I'll do what I can to prolong the betrothal. And
uncle Edmure's marriage will take place first anyway – that may soothe some not
quite so old grudges about mine and Jeyne's marriage.”
 
“Let's hope so. And let's also hope that Lord Walder's contemporary wife is
strong and healthy so that he can't claim Sansa for himself.”
 
“Whatever the price Mother – I could NEVER allow that to happen. – – And now, I
need to speak to the Kingslayer again. I have to find out what he thinks about
the Hound's credibility. After all, we can speculate as much as we want about
Arya and Sansa, and it won't help us one whit if Clegane's offer isn't worth
the paper it was written on.”
 
 
 
When Robb arrived where Jaime Lannister was imprisoned he could see that the
Lion was only a shadow of his old self. His eyes had a haunted look, the colour
of his normally fair hair could barely be recognised under all the grime and he
was gaunt, smelly and in rags. And he had befouled himself. Having been in
fetters for so long had clearly had a weakening effect on the man's
constitution. Yet, even so the man had retained his acid tongue and welcomed
him with some sarcastic insults.
 
Robb, however, was in no mood to fool around and came straight to the point:
“Kingslayer, let's make it short and talk about an old friend of yours again.”
 
“Friend? Who? I've got no friends.”
 
“I'm speaking about Sandor Clegane.”
 
Jaime Lannister snorted.
 
“He's no friend, he's a dog. That's as much a difference as there is between a
king and a wolf.”
 
CLANK!
 
The iron chain at the man's neck was taut within a moment when Robb pulled on
it forcefully, and the Lion started to choke and gasp for air.
 
Robb hissed: “Still big words from your mouth. But if I were you I'd tread very
carefully now. The next things you say may decide over life or death. Your life
or death.”
 
When the iron chain was released from Robb's grip the prisoner coughed and
gasped some more.
 
At length, he managed to utter: “Life and death don't mean much for me any
longer.”
 
“What about freedom then?”
 
That finally caused the Kingslayer to prick up his ears and to answer grumpily:
“Well, what do you want to know then?”
 
Ha, so Robb had the man by his balls now!
 
“Is the Hound a man who plays foul?”
 
“Pah! In battle you do what you have to do to stay alive. If you had more
experience you'd know that.”
 
“I'm not talking about battle. I'm talking about the man in general.”
 
Jaime shrugged his shoulders and said: “The Hound is cleverer than many men
take him for. He wasn't made Cersei's and later Joffrey's sworn shield for no
reason. Of course, he knows how to win a fight if necessary, and he's into
tactical thinking as well. But I don't know him for a trickster. Actually, he's
cleverer than me in at least one way: he doesn't swear any oaths so he can't
break them. When he does make a statement you can usually believe it's a sound
one, rude language or not. He doesn't lead people up the garden path, and I
think one can say he dislikes all the scheming that's going on in the Game of
Thrones. A straight kill is more to his liking.”
 
Robb arched his brow and retorted coldly: “Let's hope you're speaking the
truth, Kingslayer. Otherwise, you might soon find out whether there are indeed
seven hells and whether they're worse than your current situation.”
 
The kingslayer only harrumphed and spat back at him: “And what about you, Wolf?
Would you find out about your Old Gods in that case?”
 
Robb turned on his heels silently and heard the Lion croak something after him
that sounded like embittered laughter.
 
 
 
***
 
***** Three ravens (II) *****
Chapter Notes
     Ha! Finally, my mind came up with an ending for the story (though
     it'll still take a while, i.e. quite a few chapters).
 
***
 
Lord Tywin banged the message onto the table. What on earth was this Bonifer
Hasty thinking!? The old Lion hissed. He should have known it. A representative
of the Faith, even if it was a knight capable enough of fighting, was useless
at best.
What had the man focused on? Ha! Since when was the Lion known to be a
spectator of romantic mummers' shows!?
 
“To King Joffrey, First of His Name, and his Hand, Lord Lannister of Casterly
Rock –
Report from Harrenhal –
Lord and Lady Clegane have fallen in love, surprising as it may sound. Until
now, there has not been the slightest trace that Lord Clegane's loyalty could
be doubted. Quite the contrary, he and his wife have started to take
innumerable measures to improve the situation in Harrenhal and to rule over the
people justly; apart from that, they show their mutual affection openly. Even
though Lord Clegane unfortunately does not support the Faith he tolerates it
and allows his wife and all of us to worship the Seven properly. Lord Clegane's
blindness is certainly most unfortunate, and to some extent, it is an obstacle,
but the lord holds himself in a way that can only be termed as admirable. Lady
Sansa plays an important part in this. She supports him in a way no-one who was
present at their wedding in the throne room would have deemed possible. Her
strength is admirable. From my point of view things at Harrenhal could not
develop in a better way.
I remain the Realm's humble servant, Ser Bonifer Hasty, Castellan of
Harrenhal.”
 
Lord Tywin hissed. The damned knight had not written about the truly important
things, only waffled about religion and romantic mush. No words about forces
and movements in the region, no information about the soldiers he had left in
the fortress, Ser Armory Lorch, for example, no word about the northern
prisoners he had heard of, nor about the situation with the Bloody Mummers.
Just nondescript blabbering instead. What did he care about whether the Hound
tolerated the Seven; it was nothing more than a halfway interesting detail!
And love? Between the burned ruffian named Sandor Clegane and the delicate,
noble Lady Sansa Stark? Pah!
Lord Tywin had lived through enough wars and upheavals to know that sometimes
hostages formed a bond with their warders, and that was nothing more than a
survival technique.
The Old Lion tapped his fingers in his desk.
Come to think of it – even if these relationships were not normal, at times
they could be surprisingly intense and lasting. Perhaps Lady Sansa could be
exploited in a way that wouldn't have been possible in King's Landing. After
all, one always had to see the positive aspects that might even be found in a
misguided policy. Though what Joffrey was doing didn't even deserve the term
'policy'. And for his incapable grandson he had prepared according measures.
Joffrey was on his best way to ruin his family and kingship, the last weeks had
shown that more and more clearly; so extraordinary solutions were necessary.
But that was another chapter altogether.
Still, it was indeed surprising that the younger Clegane and the girl had found
together, for whatever reasons. Lord Tywin couldn't picture the Hound with a
woman, even less with such a young, beautiful, innocent, rather stupid one as
Lady Sansa was reported to be. The Old Lion knew her mother Lady Catelyn, and
if the girl had inherited only ten per cent from her the combination of her and
Sandor Clegane was nothing less than inconceivable.
 
Lord Tywin rubbed his face with his hand in an annoyed way. Bah! He was getting
weak and sentimental himself! He hadn't had a woman for too long. It was a good
thing that he had ordered a whore for the night. He didn't allow himself this
foible often, but when he had been in King's Landing over the last years from
time to time he had had a woman brought from Alayaya's through a secret tunnel.
It was unnerving – someone his age shouldn't be so virile, but he couldn't help
it. He had always been someone with a fierce temper and with a vitality even
younger men lacked. So from time to time he needed a woman to let off some
steam, unwelcome as it was.
Ah, anyway, he had had enough for today, Lord Tywin thought – and it was the
truth. He had been working for no less than twelve hours already. So he bundled
his papers on the desk and made for his bedroom.
 
When he woke the next morning the whore was still there with him, snoring
softly. They had simply fallen asleep. In his bed. Around any other woman he
would have thought that she had done it on purpose to get a nice tip, or some
other kind of favour. But he had booked this woman occasionally over a longer
period of time, and she had never asked him anything; it wasn't any different
now.
Swiftly, he put on a tunic and some simple breeches and walked over to the
adjoining room where his breakfast was already waiting for him. When the harlot
appeared in the doorframe he felt obliged to offer her a snack, which she
declined, called for his squire next and sent her away.
The Lion's thoughts returned to the message he had received from Harrenhal, and
strangely enough, he was more understanding than the evening before. Even so,
these specific news from the Riverlands wouldn't change his plans for the
future.
 
***
***** Three ravens (III) *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
***
 
Petyr Baelish was stomping around the solar in one of his brothels angrily. In
public, he'd never allow himself to show his emotions, but here, in private, he
didn't hold back.
Shit! His assassin had failed him! And now, his spy at Harrenhal had sent him a
raven and told him about the recent situation in the huge fortress that should
have been his, Petyr's. As it looked, Sandor Clegane was actually trying to
behave like a true lord, and to rule competently – in spite of his blindness.
It was unnerving that the huge cripple was being respected now instead of
pitied, as one should have expected. After all, why should any man serve a
blind freak willingly!?
To make things worse, the Hound was getting along with the little Tully bitch
well! There suddenly seemed to be... mutual affection. Bah, there mere concept
tasted like ash in his mouth! How on earth was that possible!? The girl had
been meant for him, like the blasted fortress!
In his frustration, Petyr opened the door and told a servant – the son of one
of the whores, a probably nine-year-old boy – to get Cessie for him. She was
his latest acquisition, a young, fair-skinned redhead. Of course, she was
neither as young as Sansa Stark nor really first class, but she was acceptable
enough, her face was a little plain, but kind of sweet, and she had been a maid
until very recently. Normally, he would have auctioned her maidenhead like he
did with all the other innocent whores in his brothels – but for once, one kind
of greed had won over another one, and he had broken her in himself.
A poor substitution, actually, but at least she was already learning sedulously
how to serve a dominant man. Well, he'd take what he got – and always fight and
plot for more.
 
When he had finished his interlude with Cessie he focused on Sansa Stark again.
For the moment, it was difficult to get her. He had to be realistic about that,
frustrating as it might be. Sadly, his spy at Harrenhal was no murderer, and it
would be difficult, risky and time-consuming to get an assassin into the damned
burned building. As far as he knew, Lord Tywin disliked the overall situation,
too, so the cleverest mode of action would be to support and to fuel the Lion's
aversion.
In the meantime, he'd woo Lysa Arryn. He had already managed to evict some
people from the land bordering on the one he had been bestowed upon by King
Joffrey, and he had bought and blackmailed the others, so that now the tenure
was at least a little more acceptable than it had been.
Besides, the king had awarded him another – though landless and therefore
rather meaningless – title. Still, it was better than nothing, and Petyr hoped
Lysa Arryn would accept him now as a suitable husband. Once he'd have a safe
grip on the Vale he could dispose of the old hag and her sickly brat as he
deemed adequate.
 
***
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry that it's so short, but it's brrrrr to slip into Petyr's
     mind...
***** Restauration *****
 
***
 
Things were going well in Harrenhal. Too good to be true, actually. Sandor
enjoyed his days and nights with Sansa as best he could without risking a
pregnancy, and his sweet wife was reconciling slowly with her sister and also
getting along better with her than in the past. Nymeria had stayed for two
days, but then, she had left to lead her big wolf pack to a different place
where there was new game. Arya was a little sad about her direwolf's departure,
but she understood the necessity of taking care of her animal family. Moreover,
it was a consolation to know that Nymeria still liked her mistress, and she
wouldn't be too far away.
Sandor was also very surprised when he found out that Arya was friends with
Gendry and Hot Pie. Of course, the girl didn't tell him any details, because
she still disliked him, and the smith was too taciturn a fellow, but the
kitchen boy proved to be rather talkative, especially when around the master of
the fortress; Sandor didn't even need to utter the faintest growl. The story
that Hot Pie told him was a grim one, just like Sandor had already expected –
still, it helped to understand the little wolf-bitch's behaviour better.
 
Things in the huge castle were developing surprisingly well, too, given that it
was supposed to be a white elephant. The people from Harrentown had been
installed on the castle grounds, and the building didn't look as deserted as
before. They had also brought along their working utensils as best they could,
everything from loom to last, so one could say that now they had a town within
the castle walls.
Moreover, plans were developed about the harvest and the storage for the
upcoming winter, which would surely be very hard and long. Luckily, the God's
Eye provided lots of fish, which could be dried and smoked. Most of the cattle
had been slaughtered or stolen in the course of the war, which was a pity. Ser
Bonifer tried to calculate all the assets and had a good look at the area
around to find out which fields had not been destroyed and where they could
expect some crops.
Nymeria's wolf pack had decimated the game in the woods, but there was still
some left. Men were sent to the “Isle of Faces” where they caught more animals.
It looked as if there would be quite a bit of rabbit on the bill of fare in the
future, judging by the furred population on the island. Some specimen were also
caught alive to build up to breed them in big cages, so that a basic amount of
meat was always at hand. In addition, mushrooms were collected and pickled, and
luckily, the range of edible sorts was big. Even some (though not all) battles
over the forest nuts were won against the local squirrels.
Ser Cody started a self-defence training program for the new castle
inhabitants. Old and handicapped people, who couldn't do much else, were
detailed for the sentry posts, the stable, the kitchen or the toddler's
nursery. Bessie stayed in the latter place at daytime as well, and the mothers
were grateful that their children were being cared for – they even got a little
food there – and thus, the adults could work on other tasks without worrying
about the little ones.
Even the northern prisoners around Ser Robett Glover were integrated in the
work, rather than just being kept in the dungeons. Naturally, they were heavily
chained and only lead up in pairs consecutively in order to keep them under
control easily, but the men were so very relieved to see the daylight again for
a while that even noble Ser Robett accepted to clean and to pare salsifies. It
was still better than late Ser Armory Lorch's bear pit.
 
Sandor was grateful by now that he had Ser Bonifer as his castellan. The man
was still a sodding hypocrite when it came to religion, and he was certainly
not the world's best warrior, but he was a nobleman through and through and
knew how to organise a castle and to give out orders. Since Sandor had not been
raised for this kind of task, being only the second son of a landed knight, he
could congratulate himself he was supported in this way.
 
The good news that Harrenhal was ruled more effectively now and that there were
no fights there at the moment, caused refugees to approach the castle walls
from everywhere in the region. They were all redistributed according to their
abilities, and there was certainly enough space in this giant of a fortress.
Sooner than Sandor would have expected people started to reconquer the long-
abandoned, bent towers, and the bats were expelled from the rooftops.
One day, a few people approached him with a really incredible piece of news:
“We've found Lord Harren's original bed!”
“How do you know?” the Hound rasped in disbelief.
Well, he needn't have asked. When they lead him into the room where it was he
could trace the carving of Lord Harren's sigil on the headboard with his
fingers – yet, this was even the weaker argument to prove the bed's origin. The
decisive point was the sheer size of the bed: it was as colossal as the rest of
the castle. Sandor walked around it, and his mouth started to sag. This was by
far the biggest construction for sleeping he had ever seen! The length and
width was four times his own size in each direction!
When he returned to his solar and told Arya and Sansa, who were talking about
the latest production from the brewery, his wife smiled: “Finally a bed that is
big enough for us!”... whereas Arya commented: “Boah, is that true? Fat King
Robert must be biting his ass in the afterworld now that he didn't have such a
thing for all his whores.”
“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed in ladylike shock about her sister's rude words – while
Sandor threw back his head and laughed so heartily that after a while his
midriff started to hurt.
 
And this was not all. The same day, a wiry elderly man arrived at the castle
with his family. His name was Brent, and he was blind like Sandor, only he had
been born like that. The men took to each other at once. When Brent was lead in
front of the master of the castle they talked about their ailment and exchanged
impressions and opinions. How good it was to talk to someone who could
understand! Brent had two things around him that raised Sandor's interest: a
big staff and a big dog named Salmon (however the animal had earned himself
that name).
“Very helpful,” the elderly man stated, “they can both lead the way, only a dog
must be intelligent and needs some training. Plus the staff can be used as a
weapon and the dog is your friend and guardian.”
“Would you like to be kennelmaster and dog trainer then?”
Brent only laughed back: “Sure! And I guess you know how to swing a sword, but
I'd wager I could teach you a few things about fighting with a staff while
being blind.”
Sandor's enthusiasm knew no limits then. Finally, he was able to train again!
And the man had spoken truly – during the first days, he received many bruises,
but that had never been a deterrent for him. Sandor had always believed his
senses to be sharp, and they were certainly better than the ones of most
others... but in comparison to Brent's he sometimes felt like a helpless
toddler. However, he hadn't been called 'the Hound' for nothing in the past:
once he had dedicated himself to a task he wouldn't give up, like a good
hunting dog who wouldn't let go of his prey.
 
With his senses sharpening even more he sometimes also overheard talk amongst
the servants and normal folk that wasn't meant for his ears. In this way,
Sandor found out something so surprising he didn't believe his own judgement
when he first picked it up: the people had all started to call him “Lord Mole”
– and when they said it, it had an affectionate ring.
 
 
***
***** Lust for living *****
 
 
 
During her time in King's Landing, after her father had been killed, Sansa had
thought she'd never be truly happy again. And now, she was. In fact, she was
even happier than she had ever been able to imagine. She thought that perhaps
you had to see the ugliness of life before you could truly appreciate and
welcome the good things.
She had never pictured she'd be the mistress of a ramshackle, huge monster of a
castle, married to an equally huge man all scarred and blind besides, and
reunited with her bratty, unnerving little sister after having been separated
for a long time. Had anyone foretold her so she wouldn't have believed a word,
would have giggled about it immaturely with her childhood friend Jane and would
have never figured out that this could, in fact, be an arrangement that would
make her soul bloom like a winter rose.
 
Most of all, she loved every single minute she had with Sandor. Ever since this
other blind man, Brent, had arrived her husband was so spirited and so eager to
learn to live with his handicap! Sandor was beaten black and blue with a wooden
staff every day in the training yard – and he could only laugh about his
bruises and patted the dog Salmon when he and Brent left the training ground at
the end of a fighting unit!
Arya had been fascinated by this kind of fighting with a staff at once, too,
and had started to participate in the training. The men had not chased her
away, which had caused Arya to slowly accept Sandor as well. Their relationship
would likely never be an untroubled one, but Sansa could see a beginning of
mutual respect. And if her little sister couldn't kill 'the Hound' for riding
down her friend it helped that she could at least 'lambast the giant sod on a
daily basis', as Arya put it herself.
At first, Sansa had been put off by the rude training, but when she saw the
overall positive effect she soon started to watch on and to bring her work
along to the training pit, rather than to stay in the solar.
And there was an awful lot to do. Sandor trusted her and let her decide many
things when it came to organising the fortress, knowing she would come to him
with anything that had to do with the soldiers, the fortifications or the
prisoners – and even then, he conferred with her though he was the true expert
there. In this way, she learned a lot and became more and more self-confident.
That the men around her, Ser Bonifer Hasty included, acknowledged her was like
a balm for her soul after all the humiliations she had endured in the capital.
 
Oh, and the sweet, intimate moments she had with Sandor! She had tried to make
her peace with the fact that her husband wouldn't penetrate her with his
manhood until it was either clear she couldn't go and see Robb and her Lady
Mother, or until she had come back from her family visit and they could finally
start their own family. In every other way, however, they got every ounce of
pleasure from their relationship they could.
Sansa adored every inch of her husband, and she showed him what she felt. After
all, he was a man who liked actions over words anyway. She kissed him from head
to toe, and there was really a lot to kiss, so it took a while and it left
Sandor incredulous and panting from arousal again and again. His scars had long
ceased having a deterrent effect, and she caressed them as devotedly as the
rest of his body. Sansa had also taken her time to inspect his private parts in
detail, and she found them unbelievably enticing, despite her her septa's rigid
education about moral affairs. Sansa now rather adhered to poor late Lya's last
advice. It was wonderful to see how sensitive Sandor was when it came to
intimate touches. Sometimes, he looked as if he had not known it himself, so
Sansa had been proactive and started to pleasure him with her mouth the way he
did with her.
When she saw Sandor in the throes of his lust, or when he was so deeply
satiated that his eyes were hazy, her heart sang. Plus his manly scent and
taste made her dizzy on a regular basis. True, he couldn't focus his gaze on
her, which was a pity, but in the slate depths there was so much warmth that
was meant for her that Sansa knew she'd never find as much love elsewhere.
 
To her surprise Sandor appeared younger now than he had done before their
marriage. He allowed himself some carefree moments when they were amongst
themselves, and a few times, he behaved as if HE was the youngster, the one who
still had to grow up, not her.
One day, for example, they were alone in the stable. Sandor had wanted to be
led to Stranger, because he had had too little time for his stallion of late.
Sansa was happy to guide her husband, and Sandor groomed his horse and gave him
an apple, promising he'd ride him again soon.
Suddenly, however, Sandor turned to Sansa and stated, a mischievous smile on
his lips that caused his mouth to twitch: “The last stable-boy has just left
the building. I can hear his steps retreat.”
“So?”
Sandor answered her by pressing her against the wall of the box, front side
first. Next, he positioned himself behind her, rubbed his hardened member
against her backside, hoisted up her skirts, and mere moments afterwards, his
big, calloused fingers sneaked into her smallclothes, and further, into her
body.
Sansa gasped and breathed: “Sandor! But.. what about Stranger?”
“Ser Gilroy is always blabbering about establishing horse breeding – won't harm
Stranger to give him some impressions of the task ahead of him.”
Sansa was shocked, but at the same time, she giggled like mad, her husband's
fingers already working their sweet magic on her. With his second hand, Sandor
pulled down her smallclothes to her thighs, so he had better access, and then,
he unlaced himself and freed his hard manhood. An instant later, he rubbed
himself between her buttocks and her female folds, and they both moaned
happily.
Stranger seemed to be confused and snorted a bit, not knowing exactly what he
should do in the face of such outrageous behaviour.
After some ecstatic minutes, Sansa came with a high-pitched mewl.
“Yesssss, Little Bird, that's the song I like!” Sandor rasped, enthused... and
then, he drew back a little and spilled himself with a deep groan. Seemingly,
he had already been holding back himself.
While they were rearranging their clothes Sansa blushed deeply, looked at the
nonplussed horse and chuckled: “I think I start to understand why Lya and her
husband were so loud during their nights in the abandoned house. It's...
special to have some kind of... witness.”
Sandor threw back his head and barked his laugther.
“So it is, Little Bird, so it is. Seven hells, I think I'm liking your new
wanton attitudes.”
And Sansa blushed even more.
She thought to herself that she didn't want this time of relative carelessness
to end – but deep down she knew the truth of her family words: “Winter is
Coming.”
 
To distract herself from her worries she came up with an idea.
“Sandor, we still need a motto for the Harrencleganes.”
“Do we? And you sound as if you already had an idea.”
“Perhaps. It sounds a bit orthodox, but what about 'candour, devotion and true
strength'?”
Sandor bethought himself for a moment, and then he growled contentedly: “Those
words are damned good ones for a Dog. And even better ones for you.”
There was pride in Sandor's raspy voice, and suddenly, Sansa thought:
“'Candour, devotion and true strength' – these words mean we could live through
anything.”
It was this idea that gave her strength for the future.
 
 
***
***** Fare thee well, my love! (I) *****
 
***
 
 
 
Two days later, the raven arrived, the raven that they had all been waiting
for. In his message, Robb Stark declared his consent to carry out an exchange
of Arya, Sansa and the northern prisoners on the one side, and Jaime Lannister
on the other. At once, the tension in Harrenhal rose.
 
Sandor felt a constant leaden clump in his stomach. The decision had been made,
his light-heartedness was gone, and he could only try not to appear like an
empty shell, so as not to make things too difficult for his Little Bird.
 
Sansa was very excited, torn between the wish to stay with him, and the joy to
be finally able to see her family again. She flitted here and there like an
over-active hummingbird, so nervous was she. Soon, she had to pack her
belongings. After they had arrived in Harrenhal Sandor had seen to it that she
had got some fitting dresses, not the tight fabric she had been forced to wear
in the capital, and now his wife had enough things to at least fill a chest.
 
Arya was in a fidget as well.
 
“What a pity that Jon won't be with Robb and Mother, and that Father and Bran
and Rickon are gone forever, but oh, we others must be strong together now.
We're pack,” the girl declared determinedly.
 
For her sake Sandor hoped she'd get what she wanted – and the way she wanted
it. That was what his head told him – but his heart felt as if it was being
tortured and stretched on the rack. There were moments when he suddenly grabbed
the Little Bird when she was nearby, crushed her to his chest, breathed in her
wonderful scent, tasted her mouth and listened to her little gasps and rugged
breathing, just because it was impossible to behave differently.
 
Nevertheless, he ordered a cart to be prepared for Sansa and Arya. This time,
his wife would travel more comfortably than she had done from the blasted
capital to Harrenhal. The prisoners would walk, of course. He himself had to
stay behind in the castle, loath as he was to it. Yet, he had to expect a trap
or an ambush and blind as he was he'd pose too easy a victim. Not that he cared
overly for himself, but if the Young Wolf managed to kill him Sansa would hate
her brother forever and that was something Sandor wanted to avoid. After all,
he knew all too well what it was like to feel a deadly hatred for a brother,
and it was nothing he could possibly wish for his wife.
 
Come to think of it, his feelings for Gregor had retreated a little over the
previous weeks, because Sandor had been so very occupied, and Sansa's love had
soothed his anger. Yet, it wasn't gone. But Sandor had understood that good
feelings were so much sweeter a motivation in his life. Without Sansa he feared
he might lapse into his old desolate state – or a worse one, actually. In the
past, he had not known what he was missing in life – soon, however, it would be
different. Would it kill him?
 
 
 
The evening before their farewell, they crept into bed – Harren's huge bed,
which had been repaired and transported to their room –, and Sandor was so
desperate, so full of need, that he wanted to take his Little Bird properly, to
plant his seed into her so in the end, she wouldn't be able to leave... but no,
he chastised himself; he wouldn't ruin everything. Sansa wanted to see her
family, she deserved to see her brother and mother, and if he spoiled
everything he might well lose her trust. That would be something he couldn't
bear.
 
So Sandor got a grip on himself, at least as well as possible, and made love to
her in those ways they had already explored together. Around the hour of the
wolf, they were both sweaty and totally exhausted.
 
Panting, Sansa asked: “Sandor?”
 
“Yes?”
 
“Am I wrong, or are we having a better... intimate life than most spouses in
Westeros? I mean... in spite of... not doing everything.”
 
Sandor smiled wistfully against her collarbone.
 
“What we're having is unique, Little Bird.”
 
 
 
A moment later, he felt Sansa's delicate hand stroke his hair.
 
“Sandor, you've turned out to be such a wonderful husband. I'll be missing you
and counting the days until we'll be reunited. And then, you won't get a chance
to bed me properly, because I'll be the one who'll be bedding you first.”
 
The Hound uttered a little moan on hearing her daring words. Next, he kissed a
swelling breast, the collarbone, wandered up her neck, to her earlobe, to her
cheek, to her mouth. Their tongues played, like they had already done again and
again all night long. Sansa wasn't holding back one whit, not any more. She had
grown, not only on the outside, and was mature beyond her age. When it came to
the two of them all that counted was their mutual love – not propriety.
 
Finally, Sandor drew back a little.
 
He burst out: “And you are a wonderful wife, Sansa. Seven hells, I don't want
to let you go! I want you to stay with me, and I want to have a family with
you. I've never known what a loving family is like. I hope that everything will
go well, you must promise me to take care of yourself, please promise me! If
anything bad happened to you it would fucking kill me.”
 
He had sounded alarmingly pained.
 
Sansa sighed and pressed his head to her chest: “Oh Sandor, please don't fear
anything! I've learned so much, I'll look after myself – and in case anything
goes wrong, Arya will save me with either Needle or her staff. You've trained
her well. And once we're with Robb, he'll protect us. He and Greywind. Perhaps
even Nymeria. Oh, I promise that I'll count the days until my return. – – And
now, there's something I'd like to ask you, my love.”
 
Sandor's heart cramped.
 
“What is it?” he whispered in his raspy voice.
 
“Sandor, please, you have to be strong! I mean – you are already the strongest
man I know, yes, only... please don't start drinking again. Keep your wits
about you. There are so many dangers on every side, from King's Landing, from
Stannis, from the upcoming winter... the people here – they need you. You are
responsible for them. Please be strong for them as well. You are such a good
man, and with Ser Bonifer's and the other people's help you can do so much
good. Father wasn't prepared to become a lord either, you know, and it wasn't a
position he had wanted, but in spite of that, he did everything for his people.
I know you're as worthy as him. And Bessie. Please take special care of Bessie!
I love her as much as you do. Help her to overcome her horror and pain as best
you can. Oh, and Gendry. Make sure he's safe, or Arya will want to skin you
alive...”
 
Sandor pressed a finger on her lush mouth and rumbled: “Hush! My chirping
Little Bird. Your song is getting jumbled.”
 
“Only promise me!”
 
With a very grave voice, Sandor answered: “You know how I hate vows – but now I
bloody swear I'll do everything I can to make you proud and happy.”
 
Sansa breathed back: “'Candour, devotion and true strength', my love.”
 
And from one moment to the next, they were both weeping and kissing each
other's tears away.
 
Sandor had never grasped what lovers had to be feeling when the man went to war
and had to leave the woman behind. Now, he started to understand. Only their
roles were reversed.
 
They clung to each other as if they were in the midst of a horrible storm and
fighting for dear life.
 
In all honesty, Sandor didn't know how he should survive without Sansa. She was
his spark of life. How could he possibly go on without her? He, the blind,
useless bugger dubbed “Lord Mole”?
 
Without finding an answer, they uttered endless words of love. Neither of them
thought of sleeping that night; they didn't want to waste their time and Sansa
could sleep on the cart the next day. They mapped each other's body one last
time with their hands, kissed and kissed...
 
… and finally, it was dawn.
 
***** Fare thee well, my love! (II) *****
 
They got up, dressed, and both of them felt wooden, like puppets. Breakfast was
impossible, but the travellers would have enough provisions for later.
Down in the yard, everyone was already busy. Sandor could hear the two mules in
front of the cart; the tack was jingling. Men were running around, and Salmon
was barking excitedly from out of another tower.
The Hound could also hear some regular stomping movements: the northern
prisoners were being led up from their cells to join the little trek. Ser
Cody's voice was booming in the yard. He was supposed to lead the travellers
with some of his knights, and to receive the Kingslayer from Robb Stark's side.
Sandor felt like shit that he couldn't do these things himself. It was all
wrong.
From behind he heard lighter steps, though they were not as lively as usual.
“Arya, is everything all right?” he asked without turning around.
The little hellion murmured sullenly that she hadn't slept well. Sandor pricked
up his ears. There was something in her voice... no, she wasn't lying, but
something was weird about her tone. Yet, if she didn't want to talk it wasn't
his role to find out more. Besides, he wasn't in the mood for talking anyway.
His heart was an open wound.
Sansa was at his side, and they were holding hands silently. He was still
feeling his Little Bird's wing. Seven hells, how could he let go of her? He
noticed he was trembling, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Lord Clegane?”
Sandor recognised the voice.
“Ser Robett?”
“You didn't continue Ser Armory Lorch's killing policy. This is also what I'll
tell King Robb. I wonder how long this war will go on. Perhaps one day this
here can be a first connecting point for a future time of peace.”
Sandor's scarred face was stony.
“Perhaps,” was everything he managed to grind out.
 
Finally, it was time for the departure.
Sansa tried to be like a lady, to be strong, she tried to reactivate the shell
she had worn in King's Landing to save herself some pain – Sandor could feel it
clearly. Yet, it was all futile... and he himself wasn't faring much better. So
he dragged the Little Bird behind the cart. With a sob, she embraced him, threw
her arms around his neck and kissed him, not caring one whit any more whether
anybody saw their open display of love.
Sandor didn't want to let go, his breathing was rugged, and the pain in his
heart increased to a level that could easily compare to that distant moment in
his childhood when half his face had been seared away.
“Little Bird! Oh.. my... Little Bird!”
 
At long last, their bodies parted, and the immediate sensation of emptiness was
acute.
Sandor heard Ser Cody take Sansa's arm, to help her onto the cart, and Sandor
rasped at the knight: “If anything happens to my wife you'll wish you had never
been born.”
“My lord, I'll guard her with my life!”
Ser Cody sounded offended, and Sandor thought: “I'm already starting to behave
like the Hound again!”
It sent a chill to his bone. He breathed in and out deeply.
“I know, Ser Cody. I'm just concerned for my Lady Wife.”
“My lord.”
The knight appeared already to be slightly mollified, though Sandor didn't
truly care. He couldn't care. He couldn't feel Sansa any more; that was the
only relevant point, and it was eating him up. The withdrawal effects he had
suffered from back in the barn after their escape from the capital were nothing
against this. NOTHING.
 
Sandor bellowed some last words, though he didn't know exactly himself what
they were. The world was spinning around him. He could hear Sansa address him
one last time with their new house motto, and her sweet voice was so full of
pain and love – but also strength. It made him feel proud of her.
Sansa was a survivor. She was alive where everyone else in her place would have
died in the capital. She'd be able to find and pick her way now. His Little
Bird would be able to rise into the sky. And he could tell himself he had
helped her. So he had at least done one thing in his wretched life that was
right. In spite of everything, he managed to show her a short, sad last smile.
And then, the trek started to move. He could hear the turn of the cart's
wheels, the clop-clop-clop of the mules' and the horses' hooves, the steps of
the many men, the clanking sounds of the knights' armour...
 
Suddenly, there was a little form at his side and a pudgy little hand tugging
on his tunic.
“Where'v mommy going?”
Sandor's grief-stricken heart rattled.
“Bessie!?”
The girl had not talked since the day she had been found next to her dead
family. But what was she saying now?
“Where'v mommy going?” Bessie repeated, her voice rising.
The implications of her words hit Sandor with the force of a ram.
Before he could react the little girl let go of his clothes, and he could hear
her run after the people who were leaving the castle.
“BESSIE!” he called. Seven hells, she'd get under the cart, or under the
horse's hooves!
The same instant, however, he could hear Ser Gilroy move and grab her. The girl
was shrieking and obviously fighting him, and not even the knight's gentle
voice that told Bessie that Lady Sansa was only visiting her family and would
come back soon helped the child to calm her down. No, she was wailing like a
banshee.
Sandor's headaches, which were always lurking at the background of his skull,
emerged with full force. Where was the sound of the cart? Where was Sansa? He
couldn't hear her any more! NOOooo!
White, hot needles stabbed him in the head, and suddenly, he was so sick that
he vomited with heaving spasms into the yard. A moment later, everything turned
dark.
 
 
***
***** Reunion (I) *****
 
***
 
 
 
Sansa had been weeping a lot. She should have been looking forward to seeing
her family again, but her grief about parting from Sandor had outweighed any
other feeling. The nights without his huge, warm frame at her side had been the
worst.
 
Arya hadn't been of much help and had been gloomy herself. That was a bit of a
surprise for Sansa. True, her little sister had left two friends in Harrenhal,
but even so, she should have been happier about the imminent meeting with Robb
and her mother.
 
They had travelled for a few days and now, early in the morning, with a
sparkling sun rising above a misty sky, they were nearing the meeting point. It
was a bridge across a little river Sansa didn't know. On the other side, there
was a grove close by. Were Robb and her mother already waiting for them, hidden
by the trees?
 
“Ser Cody?” Sansa addressed the knight who was riding at her side.
 
“Yes, my lady?”
 
“Are we in time?”
 
“Even a little early, my lady. Luckily, we didn't have any problems with the
cart wheels, so we didn't lose any time.”
 
“I see. Thank you, good ser.”
 
 
 
Finally, Sansa's heart started to flutter. Yes, she was looking forward to
seeing her brother and mother again, but she was also nervous about how they
would treat her and think of her, now that she was a married woman. Married to
the Hound. She sighed, and slowly, but surely she started to fidget.
 
They all got off their horses and the cart and made a makeshift camp where they
could eat and drink something, and Ser Robett and his men could relax their
sore feet. Sansa and Arya had exchanged some friendly words with the northern
prisoners over the last few days, and while they got along well enough together
and the men were nothing but respectful, there was also some polite distance as
well.
 
“Ser Robett doesn't know exactly what to think of me. Or perhaps he only sees
little more than a child in me, or just a woman who has married an enemy, not
much better than a collaborator,” Sansa concluded gravely. Well, she could only
hope that visiting her family would restore her good reputation in the north.
She didn't only wish so for herself, but also for Sandor. If she was received
in good graces, so might he one day.
 
 
 
After having waited for approximately six endless hours, there was some
movement under the canopies of the trees.
 
A rider emerged.
 
Now, it was Ser Cody who spoke up: “Ah, someone is checking on the situation to
report whether we have already arrived. Please stand on the cart and wave your
hand, my lady – you are tall enough and your hair can be seen even at a
distance.”
 
At once, Sansa obeyed and waved her arms. Arya jumped onto the cart as well and
jumped and hopped and thrashed her arms around wildly at her side.
 
The rider had obviously noticed them: after a moment, he turned on his horse
and galloped back into the forest.
 
Some minutes later, there was some more movement amongst the trees: a unit of
soldiers emerged – and amongst them was a man with the same hair colour like
Sansa. For a moment, she thought the man had to be uncle Edmure... until she
saw a big direwolf next to the horse.
 
Robb!? Oh! How he had grown! He was a man in armour now! A real warrior! Sansa
squealed in delight, and an increasingly excited Arya next to her yelled at the
top of her lungs: “ROOOOOooobb!”
 
The soldiers advanced, swiftly, but also purposefully and orderly.
 
So did Ser Cody and his men.
 
When they came closer to the bridge Sansa could also detect a very weird-
looking figure on a bony crock. Seemingly, it was a man, but dirty and grimy,
in tatters, and only skin and bones. After a moment of inner puzzlement it
dawned on Sansa that this had to be Ser Jaime Lannister, who was to be
exchanged against the northern prisoners, Arya and her.
 
What a shock his sight was! She had seen an impressive, radiant, handsome man
in Winterfell... and now she didn't even recognise the wretched person an that
old horse! Sansa wasn't sure, if her feelings were adequate, but her heart went
out to the poor man, who had obviously not been treated well. She told herself
that Sandor's men would take good care of him from now on, and she saw another
reason for why it was good that she had come to meet her family again.
 
Her heart was beating wildly.
 
And then they were at the opposite ends of the bridge. Arya looked as if she'd
start to run towards Robb any moment, so wild was she. From here, Sansa could
see that Robb was excited, too, but he controlled himself and looked grave.
 
“So you have come indeed and brought us what is ours,” he called and went on:
“Where's the Hound?”
 
Ser Cody shouted back: “I am in command here. Due to his ailment, Lord
Harrenclegane had to stay behind in Harrenhal, but as you can see he is true to
his word. Here are our northern prisoners with Ser Robett in the lead, and here
are Lady Arya and Lady Harrenclegane.”
 
“Harrenclegane? Ailment? What is this rubbish?” answered Robb, clearly annoyed.
 
So Sansa spoke up: “Robb! Let's talk about these things later! There is no trap
here. Let's just come to your side, and send Ser Jaime Lannister over here!”
 
At once, Robb's eyes turned brighter when he heard her, and he ordered the
dirty figure on the old mare: “Right, Kingslayer. Ride ahead. And don't do
anything stupid. My arrows are pointed at you.”
 
Sansa couldn't believe what she was hearing. The man even still seemed to be in
chains, was about to get his freedom back, was visibly weakened – and yet, he
was being threatened with arrows?
 
Sharply, she called to Ser Cody, so that everyone could hear it: “You won't
point any arrows at anyone. I forbid it.”
 
The knight didn't look happy, but inclined his head dutifully.
 
“My lady.”
 
In a much smaller voice Sansa said to him: “Thank you for everything you've
done so far. See to it that Ser Jaime is well-cared for from now on. And tell
my husband that I love him and that I'm looking forward to the day I'll be
coming back.”
 
“Can we go now?” Arya cut in, unnerved.
 
Ser Cody just answered: “I will, my lady. The Seven be with you.”
 
Now, it was Sansa, who inclined her head, smiled... then turned around, let
Arya pick up the reins (when had her sister learned how to navigate a cart with
mules?) and off they trotted, towards her waiting brother.
 
 
 
When they reached the middle of the bridge they passed Ser Jaime, who had
started to move as well.
 
Sansa looked at the man, smiled and said politely: “Ser Jaime, I wish we had
met again under different circumstances. Under better ones.”
 
The ragged man answered sardonically: “Spare me your lies – I'll hear enough of
those again once I'm back in King's Landing. And now – have fun with your
“lovely” family. By the way, I don't intend to enjoy their “hospitality” again
any time soon. The nest of vipers, which King's Landing clearly is, is still
quaint in contrast to the whereabouts of wolves and trouts.”
 
And with those words Ser Jaime averted his face and rode on.
 
Sansa's gaze followed him for a moment. How bitter the man was! Well, given
that this proud Lion looked like the lowliest sod from Flea Bottom it was
hardly a surprise.
 
Arya only shook her head about Ser Jaime's words, wrinkled her nose, flicked
the reins, and on they rolled with their cart.
 
And then they were there. At long last!
 
 
 
“Robb! Robb! Robb!” Sansa and Arya shouted. Tears of joy were already streaming
down Sansa's cheeks, they jumped up from their cart, and the next moment, her
younger sister was pinned to the earth by a whining Greywind, while Robb was
clutching Sansa to his mailed chest.
Gods! Oh gods! How he had grown! He was a man now! And he looked so proud, so
fierce, so regal!
 
His voice was thick with emotions when he stammered: “Sansa! By the Old Gods!
Let me look at you! Oh, how relieved I am! You look so good! So very good!
You've become a woman! And so beautiful! Mother will be overjoyed to see you
safe and sound!”
 
Sansa was laughing freely now and threw herself at her brother again.
 
“Where is she?”
 
“Mother is in a camp about a mile away. She's already waiting impatiently, as
you can imagine. In the meantime – look who has come to meet you as well!”
 
While Robb was turning to a merrily crowing Arya now, Sansa faced an elderly
man with an armour that showed a sigil with a dark trout. It was the Blackfish!
Her mother's brother!
 
“Uncle Brynden?” she called, and the man grinned widely.
 
Sansa noticed at once the spark of friendliness, but also of intelligence and
cunning in his eyes. Yes, this was a man right after her heart!
 
“Surely, Sandor would come to like him, too,” she thought.
 
The next moment, it was Sansa's turn to be thrown to the ground by Greywind's
huge, furred paws, and the direwolf licked her face wildly. She could only
squeal and wriggle and laugh.
 
What a merry reunion it was!
 
 
 
When they had calmed down after a few minutes, Sansa noticed that on the other
side of the river Ser Cody and his men had already left after they had
obviously sent the northern prisoners across the bridge as well. She sighed
inwardly for a moment, but then smiled again brightly when Robb offered her to
lead her to a palfrey he had brought along.
 
“Or do you want to travel on the cart again?” Robb asked, obviously remembering
that she had used to dislike riding.
 
This had changed, however. Ha, she had ridden Stranger! After they had arrived
in Harrenhal she had even sometimes taken it upon herself to move him a little
since Sandor couldn't do this, due to his blindness. She had been afraid of the
wild, black courser for quite a while, but over the last two to three weeks she
had gotten more or less accustomed to the horse, also thanks to Ser Gilroy's
good advice. To ride a gentle palfrey now was harmless in comparison!
 
With an animated motion she wanted to mount the horse, but then, she noticed
two things: unlike Stranger this animal was wearing a saddle for women...
whereas she wasn't wearing her riding clothes! Since her husband's steed only
accepted saddles for males she had simply parted her widest skirts and had sewn
the new edges together, so that she had had a mixture between skirts and
trousers, so that she still looked female and didn't show her legs either. The
more relaxed riding position had also helped her to learn riding better.
 
Here, however, this was all out of the question. She sighed again and mounted –
without needing anyone's help, much to her brother's obvious surprise.
 
For Arya, things were easier: she was still wearing trousers and simply rode
double with Uncle Brynden. Together with the accompanying soldiers they
cantered back to the camp Robb had talked of.
 
 
 
“Sansa! Sansa! Oh, my sweet little girl! And Arya! Oh, the Seven be blessed
that they have given you back to us!”
 
Sansa laughed and weeped and laughed and couldn't stop, threw her arms around
her mother's neck, and they both clung to each other like mad. Arya's embrace
was fierce, too; true, she had had some conflicts with her mother in the past,
but after all the hardships they had been through it all didn't count at the
moment.
 
After the first blissful minutes, Lady Catelyn stepped back a little, dabbed at
her eyes and looked at her daughters, her Tully blue eyes big and round with
wonder.
 
“Sansa! Arya! How much you have grown! And how good and healthy and strong you
both look!”
 
Sansa cast a side glance at her little sister and thought that her mother was
right with regard to Arya, too. After her imprisonment, her little hellion of
her sister had put on some weight in Harrenhal, thanks also to Hot Pie who had
kept imposing delicacies on her each time she had been lurking in the kitchens
again; it had been Ser Gilroy, who had told Sansa that little detail, and she
had been happy to know of it.
 
At that moment, a grinning Rob cut in and teased them: “If I wasn't a married
man now and the brother of these two young women besides I would be very
intrigued.”
 
Arya thumped him as if she wasn't dealing with the King of the North, and Sansa
giggled and asked: “Where's your wife? Will we get to know her soon?”
 
“Jeyne is in Riverrun at the moment. The same is true for uncle Edmure, by the
way. Anyway, Jeyne is already looking forward to getting to know you. You'll
like her; she's lovely.”
 
Sansa clapped her hands together happily and exclaimed: “Sure! Oh, I can't wait
to meet them both!”
 
Robb laughed back: “Everything in due time. And now, tell me: do you need a
break, or shall we start to travel back to Riverrun?”
 
Arya retorted: “We had been sitting on our behinds and waiting for six hours
before you arrived. No, no, let's ride on now.”
 
Their brother chortled: “Now, if this isn't the unruly little sister I
remember! Well, I certainly don't mind to use the rest of the day and to travel
some more. Sansa, do you agree?”
 
“Yes, absolutely!”
 
In no time, her mother's tent and some utensils from the camp were packed and
stored on the cart. Lady Catelyn intended to travel in another, smaller cart.
 
In the past, Sansa would have sat with her without thinking twice, but now, she
said to Robb: “I am still so very excited from the trip, I simply can't sit
still. May I ride on the palfrey again? We could talk so much better then. And
I think there is a lot we have to talk about.”
 
Her brother could only gape at her for a moment, but then he uttered: “Well,
dearest sister, you surprise me! I didn't expect you to have developed such a
liking for horses, but yes, of course you can come along with me. I had
intended to converse with Ser Robett, but I guess that it can wait until later.
Arya, you'll travel with mother then.”
 
“Can I have a horse, too? I'd ride next to mother, of course.”
 
Robb was a little embarrassed now.
 
“Arya, we don't have a horse left, if Sansa is going to ride.”
 
Her little sister wrinkled her nose in distaste then.
 
“Oh.”
 
However, the reunion with her family was still having a gentling effect on
Arya, and at least for once, she didn't start to argue, which was a relief.
 
Robb called out some orders to his men, and once again Sansa thought that he
looked like a king. A true king. Unlike Joffrey back in King's Landing.
 
 
 
***
 
***** Reunion (II) *****
 
***
 
 
Robb was deeply impressed. Even during their first hour after having been
reunited he had already noticed how much his two sisters had changed. It was
still rather easy to recognise Arya. She had grown, and she seemed to have an
air of seriousness about her, but her skittish core could still be detected
easily.
With Sansa, things were different. She had grown, too, of course, and looked
more like a woman now. But where he had expected her to be frightened, humble,
even traumatised, she was healthy, composed, thoughtful, but also self-
confident. Robb had imagined she would be a broken creature after the Hound had
had his ways with her – but this was as far away from the reality he was
confronted with as one could possibly imagine.
Sansa had started to like riding a horse, and on the other side of the bridge
she had ordered the Hound's men not to point their arrows in the prisoners'
direction... and the men had obeyed her! And now, she had even voiced her wish
to talk to him while riding to Riverrun. The girl he had known would have never
done that, would only have hidden herself behind her mother's skirts and asked
for an embrace and a lemon cake, a soft bed and a bath. The new Sansa, however,
wanted to know more about the recent situation in Riverrun and the course of
the war, since she claimed to have missed the latest events because of her
voyage to Harrenhal. Sansa – talking about politics! It was unbelievable.
“What has happened?” Robb asked himself in wonder.
So he gave her a very brief account of the latest fights, which he had all won,
and then asked his sister: “And what about you? You have married, Sansa.”
His sister only smiled and answered: “So have you, and well before me.
Shouldn't you start to tell me something about your Jeyne?”
Robb was amazed, smiled and answered: “Well, that's true, but I'm very curious
about your situation. After all, it was seemingly this new arrangement that
made our reunion possible. And you said something about “Harrenclegane” and an
“ailment” to excuse the Hound's absence during the exchange. What does it all
mean?”
Now, it was Sansa's turn to look surprised.
“You haven't heard of Sandor's blindness?”
 
Robb nearly fell off his horse... though he couldn't say what shocked him more:
the news that the Hound was a cripple, or Sansa's natural usage of the
disgusting man's first name.
“What!?”
“So you really haven't heard? Oh my. Let me tell you then. Sandor was wounded
during the Battle of the Blackwater, and ever since he's been blind.”
Robb gaped like a carp, while Sansa went on: “And “Harrenclegane” is the new
name for our family, because Sandor wanted to distance himself from his
brother.”
Robb's brain really had some difficulties to process these pieces of
information now.
Finally, he stammered: “What does it mean... family? Are you... with child?”
Sansa blushed and answered in a low voice: “Not yet.”
The King of the North was really having a hard time then. Sansa was speaking of
the Hound in a nearly... affectionate way. It didn't make any sense. He had
assumed his little sister would be incredibly relieved to be freed from that
horrible man, but, in fact, she was implying she might have children with him
in the future – as if she thought she'd go back! And on top of that, the Hound
was blind! What a weird situation!
“But... is it true, Sansa, that Joffrey forced you to marry the Hound?”
His little sister wrinkled her nose in distaste then: “Joffrey forced me to
choose a man from a selection of various bachelors.”
“And you chose Clegane, of all men?” Robb burst out.
Sansa snorted: “Would you have preferred me to marry Ser Ilyn Payne, our
father's executioner?”
Robb paled on hearing that and muttered: “By the Old Gods!”
Sansa reached over next and patted Robb's hand.
“Don't fret, brother. I made the right choice in the Throne Room. Sandor has
proven to be a good husband for me.”
It was then that Robb stopped his horse in sheer shock – which caused everyone
else to stop, too.
“He what!?”
Suddenly, Arya's laughter was rising from the cart, which had been a little
behind.
“Look at his owlish face, Sansa! I don't know what you've just been telling our
dear brother, but from the look on his face I can guess that it must have
something to do with you cuddling...”
“Arya, stop it!” Sansa cut in with quite a bit of steel in her voice.
Robb was so flabbergasted he couldn't even talk. Cuddling!? Surely Arya was
referring to Sansa and horses now... not to Sansa and... no, the Hound didn't
even know how to spell that word!
“Robb, what is it? What's wrong?” he heard her mother call in a clearly alarmed
tone.
The King of the North cleared his throat.
“Erm, nothing important, mother. I was just surprised by some news, but it's
nothing bad. At least I think so. We can find out more later. And now, let's go
on!”
The trek started to move again.
Robb wasn't sure, if he wanted to know any more details of his sister's
marriage with the Hound, so he cleared his throat again and went on awkwardly:
“Well, Sansa, you wanted to know about Jeyne. Shall I tell you how I got to
know her?”
“Oh yes, please!” Sansa chimed in, clearly just as eager to change the topic as
him.
His own marriage was not an easy matter either, since he had ignored and broken
his betrothal to the Frey family, but at least he already knew everything about
the story and didn't have to fear any shocking news.
The next surprise was thus not anything he said... but his sister's reaction.
Sansa listened intently – but she didn't start to rhapsodise about the fact
that he had married for honour and love. Instead, she stayed deeply serious and
thoughtful.
Hence, he asked incredulously: “Do you condemn me for treating Jeyne honourably
after what I had done?”
Sansa shook her head then and answered: “No. I can understand that you had to
follow your heart, and if you've come to love your Jeyne she must be a
wonderful woman. Only... the question of honour is not an easy one here since
you humiliated the Freys, so you could only choose between one kind of
dishonour and another. What worries me is that father tried to act honourably,
too, he did what his conscience told him, even though he knew it was dangerous.
And it cost him his head, because the world around wasn't honourable towards
him. I've seen it myself, I was forced to watch, was forced to look at...
father's head. Please, please don't let the same happen to you! We have been
separated for so long, and we have already lost two brothers. I don't want to
have to mourn my last brother as well.”
At first, Robb had been almost angry about the fact that romantic Sansa wasn't
enthusiastic about his marriage – but when he had heard her next words, his
heart started to hurt, and he reached out and took Sansa's hand. By the Old
Gods, the horrors she had experienced! How could she still be so calm and
strong – and wise beyond her years? No, this young woman at his side wasn't a
lovely, but a little vain girl any more. Suddenly, Robb got the notion that
perhaps his sister would have to say more prudent things, if he cared to
listen.
***** A stop at Harrenhal (I) *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
***
 
 
When Jaime arrived at the huge ruin he was surprised to find it bustling with
activity, like an oversized beehive. He had never seen the giant castle so
alive with everyday business – not that he had been here often, but still. He'd
stay for a few days to recover a little, and to regain a more human appearance.
He had already shaven his beard and washed and cut his dirty, matted hair;
Clegane's men had also provided him with clean breeches and a tunic, but he was
still underfed and weaker than he could possibly like. Thus, Jaime was looking
forward to a clean bed, regular, healthy food and a bit of sparring to become
fit again. It was a pity that the Hound was blind now and couldn't train with
him any more, but hopefully, there was someone else around in the training
yard, who'd prove to be something akin to a match for him.
 
Granted, this escort of a huge, ugly woman named Brienne of Tarth, who had been
sent along with him by Lady Catelyn to accompany him to King's Landing, posed
as a warrior woman, but Jaime was certainly not interested to put her stupid
pretensions to the test.
 
The wench had followed him as soon as Lady Sansa had reached the end of the
bridge, but in the hullabaloo of the Stark reunion and Clegane's men awaiting
him her leaving one side and reaching the other had gone nearly unnoticed. On
their way to Harrenhal she had kept to herself and remained sullen. Well, she
was Lady Catelyn's minion, so he didn't mind her hermit's behaviour. Jaime only
wanted to get back to Cersei.
 
 
 
In front of the stables, he was greeted by Ser Bonifer Hasty, the recent
castellan.
 
“Ser Jaime, it is a pleasure to have you back safe and sound. I am sorry to
tell you that Lord Harrenclegane is unwell and cannot receive you at the
moment, but everybody is at your service, and you will miss nothing with regard
to your personal wants. How long do you intend to stay, if I may ask?”
 
“Harrenclegane? What's that rubbish?” Jaime asked, astounded.
 
Ser Bonifer – or rather Ser Stork, Jaime commented inwardly – explained: “The
lord has adopted a new name for his family branch.”
 
On hearing this, Jaime nearly collapsed from laughter. Family branch! Now this
was a fine joke, if he had ever heard one from the scarred Hound. The man had
fucked the red-haired Stark girl Jaime had come across on that bridge, and had
sent her away for good, back to her family. There would be no Harrenclegane
family. Unless he had put a child into the girl's belly without knowing or
caring. And even in that case and assuming that the babe survived there would
be no family, as such a child would never grow up with its father's name.
 
“Excuse me, Ser Jaime, but what is so funny?”
 
Ser Stork was wrinkling his brow.
 
“Haha, oh, it's just the concept of a family with reference to Clegane.”
 
The castellan, however, shot back, deadly serious now: “Ser Jaime, you should
be more grateful, and it is most inconsiderate of you to laugh about his
Lordship. He is deeply in love with his wife, yet because of his loyalty to
House Lannister, he broke his own heart and sent Lady Sansa away to get YOU
back for your family. Ever since his wife has left he has been so shattered
that he has barely noticed his surroundings any more. If he didn't have the
orphan girl around him, who he has saved and more or less adopted, he would
have already gone mad from sorrow and grief; I'm convinced if that.”
 
Jaime usually prided himself to be a witty man, but now, he could only gape at
Ser Bonifer. His brain was having a hard time to process what he had just
heard.
 
Unable to react to these news, he just coughed, cleared his throat and
declared: “Well... if that is so... Ahhh, you wanted to know how long I intend
to stay. I guess I'll need a week to recover from the imprisonment before
travelling back to King's Landing.”
 
“I see,” Ser Bonifer answered curtly – but suddenly, he stared at a spot behind
Jaime's back, his eyes going wide.
 
“Is that a woman? Who is she?” that man stammered in confusion.
 
Jaime looked around to where the warrior wench in her armour was tending to her
mare.
 
“Oh, that's Lady Brienne of Tarth. Lady Stark's escort for me. She'll accompany
me to King's Landing, little as I may like it. Since I'm no expert with regard
to respect you might want to treat her honourably to make up for my
shortcoming. And if you don't mind – I'd like to sleep in a bed now, to have
some food, some alcohol – Arbor gold, if possible, but I'd also take fermented
horse piss, as long as it can serve to make me drunk – and a nice, hot bath in
the end. In that exact order.”
 
The castellan glowered at him, but inclined his head and answered: “Of course,
Ser Jaime. Please follow me to your guest room.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     It's very difficult to get back into the story, I must confess, plus
     I'm working on this other long fanfic at the moment and an original
     fantasy story as well (http://www.bookrix.com/_ebook-alandra-
     ossenberg-pseudonym-the-obsidian-mirror/ , in case you're interested)
     . But I wanted to show you that I haven't given up on "The Day is
     Dark".
***** A stop at Harrenhal (II) *****
 
They had arrived in the late morning, and it was arrogant to intend to sleep at
daytime, but Jaime didn't care. He was known to be supercilious anyway. So he
followed Ser Bonifer to the tower that housed the lord's rooms, as well as some
chambers for guests. Behind them, the big wench was following them after having
handed her horse over to a stable-boy. At the entrance gate of the tower they
came across a little dark-haired girl.
“Bessie, aren't you with Madam Tilda and the other children?” Ser Bonifer
asked, mildly intersted. The wee lass looked up at Ser Storkleg with strangely
serious eyes for such a small child and answered: “Oh, Uncle Bonny, I waf wif
Daddy Fandor, becauve he'f fo fad again. Uncle Gilboy fayv he muvn't be alone,
but he had vefe headachev again, and he took vif pofion to fleep, and now, I'm
off to Madam Tilda. – Erm, hello, who are you?”
Jaime was having a hard time not to gape like a codfish.
Daddy Sandor!? The girl had not really called the Hound her father, had she!?
The Kingslayer coughed and replied: “What, haven't you heard of me? I'm Jaime,
the Lion of Lannister. Do you know what a lion is? A very big and dangerous
cat, really big, you know, as big as a donkey, and it doesn't meow, it roars
and eats little children. ROARRR!”
He had intended to frighten the girl with his story and his sounds, but
somehow, he triggered off the opposite reaction: the girl started to smile and
to giggle.
“Way-me, vat'f a funny name! And a big cat? Like Arya'v direwolf? Vat wolf if
wild, too, but nife. You only have to know it better. Fo you're nife, too?
Vat'f good! And I can roar as well. ROAAAR! Fee?”
Ser Bonifer was shooting Jaime a surprised look... and Jaime was so nonplussed
that he didn't even know what to answer. Cersei had always kept him away from
their sons and daughter, so he wasn't really experienced around children.
Still, he had the distinct feeling that this Bessie reacted differently from
others her age.
And the girl was addressing Brienne now: “Oh, hello! Wow, you're almoft av tall
av Daddy Fandor! You muft be really ftrong ven. Who are you? Way-me'v wife?”
The Kingslayer nearly exploded with laughter again. The ugly wench as his wife
– now, if he had ever heard an absurd idea this was one. And how the Maid of
Tarth blushed! It was too funny to be true.
The warrior woman went to one knee to be more of one height with the little one
and tried to explain: “My name is Brienne, Bessie. And no. That man over there
is not my husband. I've been told to travel with him, nothing else.”
The girl looked from Brienne to him and back and commented: “Vat'f a pity.
You've bof fair hair, and you're bof tall knightf. You look good togever. –
Uncle Bonny, don't you fink fo, too?”
Ser Bonifer proved to be astonishingly capable of blushing, Jaime had to
discover.
“Bessie,” the man chided her gently, “this is not for us to decide. And you
should really go to Madam Tilda and the other children now.”
The girl nodded sensibly then, hugged first Ser Bonifer's and next Jaime's leg,
gave the still kneeling Brienne a kiss on her cheek and darted off on swift
little feet, leaving three thunderstruck adults behind.
The castellan was the first one to recover and stammered: “Well. This is the
lord's little girl. And... she's often having this effect on grown-ups, just so
you know. Only until the lady's departure she hadn't talked for weeks, after
she had watched the slaughter of her family. She was found near the dead
bodies, and she was in a state of shock, as you can imagine. But she took to
Lord Sandor and the Lady Sansa, and now, we're relieved she has found her voice
again.”
Jaime didn't feel the need to say anything to that. He knew the horrors and
effects of war. Yet, he realised he wished Bessie well for the future. And
since he couldn't imagine the Hound with a child he was suddenly curious to see
the two together.
Without further delay, the trio entered the tower, and a few minutes later, The
Kingslayer rejoiced in the softness of the first soft bed after ages. True, he
was a battle-hardened man who could live without comfort in times of war, but
he was also a Lannister who welcomed the luxury of his rank when it was
accessible – and this mattress was the epitome of his needs after his dire
imprisonment. Only Cersei was missing now.
Suddenly, Bessie's voice echoed in his mind: “You've bof fair hair, and you're
bof tall knightf. You look good togever.”
Jaime closed his eyes and grinned into the cushion sarcastically. The mere idea
was so absurd – and therefore entertaining – that he'd actually have been half
intrigued, had he ever desired another woman next to his twin. The Kingslayer
was still smirking when he fell asleep.
***** A stop at Harrenhal (III) *****
Chapter Notes
     Ok, so here comes the rest of Jaime's intermezzo in Harrenhal.
In the evening, during dinner, Jaime was feeling like shit, his befuddled mind
was a bedlam – and this in spite of him usually not feeling any remorse about
anything. He wanted to blame the innocent little girl that was sleeping on his
knees for what had transpired, but he was man enough to know that he had to
ascribe the latest events to his own weakness, not to some harmless earlier
comments from her side. Shit.
Jaime looked over at Sandor Clegane who was pecking as listlessly as clumsily
at his plate, grey eyes staring into nothingness. For his own reasons, the
Hound seemed to be in no better mood than himself, Jaime thought. What a sorry
sight! If he had ever seen a broken man it was the scarred warrior. Clegane
looked like a wraith. Frail, in spite of his size. It was downright shocking.
And everything because of his blindness and his loyalty towards a liege lord
who had only ever seen a fighting automaton in him. The Kingslayer had not had
a clue what Ser Bonifer had meant when he had stated that the Hound had broken
his own heart by sending Sansa Stark away to get him, Jaime, back for his
family. Now, Jaime could see it first-hand, and though he certainly didn't want
to go back to Robb Stark and the Young Wolf's cages and cells the Kingslayer
felt pity for Sandor Clegane.
 
The wench was sitting next to Jaime, silent and brooding. He wondered what she
was probably thinking. He couldn't even guess, and his mind wasn't in a state
of being able to think much anyway. He took a deep swig of Arbor gold from his
goblet and ruffled little Bessie's downy locks. The girl uttered a contented
sound and snuggled even closer.
Damn, what had he done to deserve the girl's affection? And what was worse:
Jaime started to realise what he had been missing all those years when Cersei
had forbidden any close contact between him and his children. Gods, he had been
denied so much! He had never felt anything like that before, but all of a
sudden he wanted a child he could truly be a father for, and his yearning was
increasing by the minute.
His memories returned to the late afternoon, and he asked himself, if the gods
would grant him his unexpected wish. Not that it would make anything any
better. He sighed inwardly.
 
After his extended nap, Jaime had felt refreshed, eaten a snack and started to
drink. He had been without proper food and good wine for so long that he had
felt like a child on his nameday that was given a special treat. The problem
was that because of his abstinence he had been tipsy – and thus careless – all
too soon.
He had been in high spirits when he had entered the baths of Harrenhal. Nobody
had been there. With one exception. The big wench had been bathing in a big
basin. On noticing this, Jaime had started to grin sardonically, had approached
the basin, had stripped himself and had slid into the warm water, much to the
tall maid's dismay.
He had found it damned fascinating to see her so embarrassed, and even if she
didn't have any supple, full, female curves, her more sportive, fit body had
had an effect on him as well, much to his surprise. He had ascribed it to
having been without a woman for too long, had tried not to pay it much
attention and had teased the woman with some naughty comments.
In order to defend herself and to outplay her embarrassment, Brienne had shot
condescending, dogmatic replies back at him. Somehow, the whole conversation
had slipped through his fingers, and he had related how it had come to it that
he had killed mad King Aerys in spite of his vow to protect the monarch, and
how he had saved King's Landing from being burned on the king's orders.
After he had ended with his account, the wench had been deeply upset and had
looked at him with her sapphire blue eyes as if she were feeling with him. That
had been worse than any other possible reaction.
Jaime hated pity, so he had tried to make her despise him again and had japed:
“Ah, yes, I'm a tragic hero, am I not? And the tragic hero has even got a very
tragic boner, because the maid related to that boner would certainly feel too
decent for the implied task.”
Brienne had flushed scarlet and stammered: “WHAT!? No. Not again. Not another
joke. Not another wager.”
Jaime had been confused, had turned serious and had pressed the wench with
questions until he had learned how some men had wagered in Renly's camp about
who would take her maidenhood. It had been the Kingslayer's turn then to be
upset.
He had rumbled: “Wench, just in case you haven't noticed: there's no-one around
who I could gamble with, and I'm from the richest family in Westeros, so I
don't feel the need to get Tarth into my clutches. If I've got a boner it's
because I can't control my body, and because my cock feels the need to inspect
the fair bush there between your thighs.”
Brienne had looked at him sceptically and had been as red as a cooked lobster,
but next, something had seemed to snap shut inside of her, and she had uttered
darkly: “I guess that maidenhood is overrated anyway, and it's not as if other
men would line up for my charms. Perhaps we she should get it over and done
with so that we can concentrate on more important things again.”
 
The Kingslayer had first been thunderstruck... and then, he had lost control
and had taken Brienne then and there. No thought of Cersei. Not one single
thought. He had only been focused on the body who was with him in the warm
waters in the basin. Even worse: after the painful first moment, the wench had
started to respond. The involuntary lust in her eyes had driven him mad with
need... and after the first time, they had started it all over again, moving
more lazily and more deliberately this time. Brienne had become so
enthusiastic, so downright eager that Jaime had thought he was hearing some
divine singing from the seven heavens while thrusting into her again and again.
And afterwards, she had kissed him so tenderly that he had thought it to be a
deathblow for his soul.
From one moment to the next, he had remembered Cersei and had realised that he
had betrayed his sister; consequently, he had broken away from a confused and
obviously hurt Brienne, and he had fled the baths like a haunted hare.
 
What a formidable bastard he was, Jaime was musing now and gulped down more
wine.
“You're quiet tonight, Kingslayer. Has the Young Wolf taken your tongue?”
Sandor Clegane suddenly rasped.
“I'd say it's rather the overall mood here in Harrenhal, Hound. I didn't expect
you to be a jovial host, but you're even glum in comparison to your normal
self.”
In the past, Clegane would have barked back something coarse. Instead, the
scarred warrior didn't even answer and simply sipped on his drink. To Jaime's
surprise it was no Dornish red, just... water.
“Interested to share some Arbor gold with me then, to cheer you up?”
As a response, the Hound hissed and growled: “Do you remember Ser Dontos? I was
becoming like him. I needed wine. Every day. Sansa helped me to live without
it. I won't throw her gift away. No more wine for me.”
Jaime was deeply impressed by the man's words. Touched. And he could see that
Brienne was feeling the same, even if she kept quiet. The wench's face was like
an open book.
The Kingslayer coughed and replied: “I see. Now... we have to talk about
official matters. I'll stay here in Harrenhal, maybe for a week, and then I'll
return to King's Landing. Lady Brienne will accompany me, because it was Lady
Stark's wish. Since I'm free now, perhaps there will be a chance to negotiate a
truce between the north and the south, which in its turn might allow your wife
to return to your side.”
Clegane uttered a bitter scoff: “And tomorrow you'll believe your fart smells
like roses. I mean – we both know your father. What he wants is a clear-cut
success for his family and the south. And I've seen what your … nephew, the
king, has turned into lately. He had Lord Stark's head hacked off when he could
have sent him to the Wall and kept the peace. He had the King's Guard beat
Sansa bloody regularly. He made her pick a husband, and if she had not chosen
me she could have opted for the man who dishonoured her aunt, the man who
nicked off her father's head, the eunuch and the greatest drunkard at court. I
ask you – can you know these things and still believe in a truce!?”
The following silence in the room was answer enough.
Jaime was frustrated and drank more Arbor gold. He decided he'd return to
King's Landing as soon as possible. It was necessary to see personally how
things stood. And even if chances weren't good, but he would try to influence
his father nevertheless. It was the least that he could do for Sandor Clegane.
 
***** Rifts and bonding (I) *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry, this is short today; got a lot on my plate in real life this
     week.
 
When Sansa reached Arya in her room after the girl had run away from Robb's –
or rather Uncle Edmure's – solar her little sister was already weeping angry
tears.
“I won't do it! I won't! I won't!” Arya hissed and yelled and spat.
And for once, Sansa supported her wholeheartedly. Little as she would have ever
believed it before they were suddenly on the same side in this matter. If only
things weren't so complicated!
“I'll try to talk to Robb again, and I'll try to make him see that he can't do
this to you.”
But Arya only hollered: “You've heard him! He's a blockhead, I tell you! He
plays king, does what he wants to do – for example marry the woman he's
slobbered all over – and is otherwise only good at bossing the weaker ones
around. Father would have never let that happen! Never!”
 
Suddenly, Sansa got angry and answered what Sandor would have retorted in that
situation: “Father let himself be beheaded; he let me get betrothed to Joffrey,
in spite of not liking the Lannisters. And he only had the best intentions.
He's not so far off from Robb now, if you ask me.”
Arya looked at her with huge, shocked eyes then – but only moments later, she
went at her elder sister, screeching: “How DARE you talk of father like that!”
Sansa fended her off as best she could and upbraided Arya: “Father was a good
man, yes, I'd never say otherwise, I'm only saying he wasn't perfect or
omniscient – and neither is Robb. And you've heard him: he's upset about having
been forced to betroth you Ramsay Bolton.”
“Pah! He! Upset! Blahblahblah! I'M THE ONE who's supposed to marry this
scoundrel. Have you heard the rumours about the Dreadfort? About the fact that
the Boltons' sigil of a flayed man is seemingly more than just an icon? And
when I was at Harrenhal I heard someone whisper: “Like father, like son.” And
do you know what the man was referring to? Rape! I'm not going to marry a
rapist! You may have been lucky with your forced match, Sansa, but believe me –
you took a pot-shot, nothing more. I've seen what men do to women. I won't let
this Ramsay marry me and do this to me, no. I'll stick him with the pointy end,
if necessary, that's what I'll do!”
Sansa sighed: “Arya, Arya, please! I can understand you, believe me or not, but
we have to be clever now. Usually you're the smart one of us – you should know
that open rebellion will only backfire at the moment. What you need is a plan;
wailing like a banshee will get you nowhere.”
 
Her little sister's shoulders slumped, and defeated she admitted, sniffling: “I
know – only it's so damned unfair.”
“Do you know what Sandor would say now? Life isn't a song. He kept telling me
that sentence in King's Landing, and I never wanted to listen to him, but he
was right about that bit. Him getting his face burned as a child wasn't fair
either. Bessie's parents getting murdered wasn't fair. Father being executed
wasn't fair.”
Arya's anger burned out itself like old wildfire. She was still weeping,
however, and Sansa took her and embraced her.
“Little sister, we'll stick together now,” she whispered soothingly. “And thank
you for what you did for me earlier on.”
Arya snorted: “I can't believe I did it for you, but here we are. And the
strangest thing is that it felt right. I hope Mycah will forgive me in the
afterlife.”
Sansa hugged her sister even more and pondered what had transpired in the
solar, knowing that things would never be the same again with her family. Too
much had changed since the day they had set off from Winterfell. Sansa could
only hope that what little was left of the Stark family wouldn't get fragmented
beyond repair.
***** Rifts and bonding (II) *****
 
Robb had summoned her earlier, and he, Greywind at his feet, her mother, Uncle
Brynden and Uncle Edmure had already been waiting in the solar with serious
faces. Heavy vibes had been in the air.
After their arrival at Riverrun she had already given her mother and brother a
very brief account of how she had been fotced to choose a husband, how she had
opted for blind Sandor, how he had made it possible for her to leave King's
Landing, that they had fallen in love on their way to Harrenhal, and that his
love for her had allowed her to come to Riverrun for a visit.
Robb and her mother had both been so shocked by her admission that she loved
“this brutal, scarred monster”, as they dubbed her husband, that they had been
well besides themselves, and her mother had been weeping in disappointment.
Robb had not even introduced her to his new wife afterwards and had not met her
again.
Sansa had been really hurt. She had always been the one who had been praised by
her family for her qualities; she was accustomed to being rejected by Joffrey,
by the court back in the capital – but not by her family! She had come to
understand then how Arya must have felt all those years when she had been
considered a failure.
These days, however, her sister had been the one who hadn't ostracised her any
more for her loving relationship with Sandor. It was also Arya who had
maintained some contact with their great-uncle, the Blackfish, and who had got
to know Queen Jeyne.
“Kind of nice,” she had commented noncommittally on Robb's wife and had
shrugged.
Otherwise, Arya had often been in the stables with Sansa, because she wasn't
allowed in the training yard, other than in Harrenhal. And Sansa, who had not
used to like horses, was always around the animals these days. Or rather one
animal. The one she had arrived on. It reminded her of Sandor, of what she had
come to think of as “home”.
 
And then, Sansa had been standing in the solar as if a tribunal had convened to
judge her.
“Sansa, have a seat. We have to talk about a few things,” Robb had started
gravely.
Silently, she had obeyed and waited. No childish, gentle chirping, not any
more.
Her mother had spoken next: “We need to talk about your future, my dear.”
The way she said it a cold shiver was running down Sansa's back.
Politely, but also in a very clear voice she had answered: “As far as my future
is concerned my husband should be included in such a talk, shouldn't he?”
The people in front of her had exchanged meaningful glances, and Brynden had
smirked about a joke only he seemed to know, or to understand.
Robb had cleared his throat and continued: “Now, this is the actual problem.
From a legal point of view, Sandor Clegane isn't your husband.”
“WHAT!?”
Sansa had been truly bewildered, and Rob had started to explain: “You see – you
were married by Joffrey Baratheon, who isn't the legitimate king. And a
marriage sealed by an illegitimate king can only be illegitimate, too. Now –
under different circumstances I would be willing to accept this marriage in
spite of everything, but it's part of a bigger framework, you see. I've lost
the Karstarks, our allies, so if I want to win this war I'm dependent on those
allies that are still left. The Freys, for example. I've insulted them by
marrying Jeyne, and now Lord Walder and his family want some sort of
compensation. Thus, Uncle Edmure has to marry one of their daughters...,”
Sansa's uncle looked as if he had bitten into a lemon, “... and they claim you
for a second match.”
These words caused Sansa to gasp in shock.
Her mother cut in to soothe her: “We've already tried to postpone the wedding,
saying that you'll have to... recover from your time with... Clegane. But your
obviously splendid health will cause them to put us under pressure again very
soon.”
At that moment, Sansa's thoughts had run rampant, and somehow, she had come up
with the statement: “But I can't marry anyone else! Sandor and me, we're truly
wedded. You're right, Joffrey forced this upon us, but this isn't all. In
Harrenhal, we spoke our vows in front of the heart tree as well. Sandor... he
doesn't like religion, but he did it for me, and in the proper northern
fashion.”
Sansa had blushed and had looked at her feet. Damn, she was still such a bad
liar!
Her mother had shrieked on hearing her story, Robb and Uncle Edmure had gaped
at her, mouths hanging open – while her Uncle Brynden had just arched an
eyebrow. For a moment, she had feared he'd call her a liar, but he had kept
quiet.
“Is this true? Are there any witnesses you can present?” Robb had spluttered.
Lacking a better choice Sansa had simply shrugged and retorted: “Ask Arya.”
Robb had paused for a moment; then, he had sent for their sister.
 
When Arya arrived their brother had ambushed her: “Tell me, did Sansa marry the
Hound in front of the Heart Tree in Harrenhal?”
Arya's head had snapped around; she had looked at her sister with wide eyes.
“You...,” she had begun, had stopped, had shaken her head like a wet wolf and
had started again: “Sansa, how could you tell Robb such a thing?”
Sansa's heart sank.
Angrily, Arya went on: “I can't believe it! I simply can't believe it! Why on
earth did you tell them? You could have been free of the Hound! I didn't
understand it why you thought you had to do it then, and I don't understand it
now. The Hound is such a monster! He killed my friend! I was so sick when
Clegane gave you his cloak. I wish you had come to your senses – at least now.
Honestly, I'll never understand you.”
Sansa was breathing faster, and she wanted to jubilate and to embrace her
sister. Arya was backing up her story! Robb and her mother looked truly
crestfallen now.
 
A moment later, their brother had sighed, had started again and had looked bent
down like an old man: “Well, that's that. Sansa, the way I see it the Freys
will try to murder your husband now to get access to you, but it is the way it
is. And Arya, there's something I've got to tell you as well. I fear you won't
like it...”
Minutes later, Arya had fled the solar, running and screaming and swearing.
Sansa had been about to run after her when a heavy hand had landed on her
shoulder outside the door. She had lifted her head and had looked into the
Blackfish's eyes.
“Your little sister is a better mummer than you. Be grateful for that,” he had
murmured into her ear – and had winked.
Sansa's heart had hammered away, and she had stuttered: “I... I don't know what
you mean! Excuse me, I've got to find and to pacify Arya now.”
Ser Brynden had smiled knowingly and had let her go.
 
It was while she was embracing Arya that Sansa came to understand that she had
not found one accomplice. She had found two.
***** Sunrise (I) *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The Kingslayer had left, together with Brienne of Tarth. Sandor had heard how
the people had commented on her size and her unattractive looks, her rather
taciturn, but kind demeanour, her prowess with the sword. He had also noticed
how they had compared her to “Lord Mole”, to himself, that was.
The castle inhabitants seemed to like her. And not only the castle inhabitants.
Sandor couldn't say, if Lady Brienne was really ugly; what he knew, however,
was that Jaime Lannister, the arrogant man who had only ever adored his sister,
was falling for this woman: line, hook and sinker. Of course, the Lion hadn't
wanted to see it yet, but it was happening nevertheless.
Sandor didn't know Brienne as he did the Kingslayer, and moreover, he wasn't
experienced with regard to women, but even the Hound could tell that the
feelings were mutual. There had seemed to be a momentary conflict, so he had
tried to conciliate between the two... without them noticing. Brienne wasn't a
Lion, but they were both proud little lovebirds.
Sandor had never adopted the role of a matchmaker, and he hadn't wanted to
force them together, so he had effaced himself. What he had been able to do had
been to ask questions, and to point out positive traits of character, or to
analyse and to explain attitudes and behaviour. What he had not done had been
to give open recommendations. Their quarrel had not been completely settled
during their stay – after all, Queen Cersei was still a factor that was on the
Kingslayer's mind, but at least certain positive developments had taken place.
 
And this hadn't been all.
Ser Jaime had always been the cocky, aloof, battle-hardened fighter, and he had
never been close to... Cersei's children. Consequently, Sandor had never
believed the man to be capable of assuming a fatherly role – and likely the
Kingslayer had thought the same. Now, however, Bessie taught them they had been
utterly wrong about this point.
The Hound would never understand the girl and her strange soft spot for
difficult warriors; he could only affirm that Bessie knew how to smart men. Her
victory over Jaime Lannister was as instantaneous as it was complete. During
his stay he had loved to have her at his side, on his lap, or to whirl her
around in circles until she had been screeching happily and excitedly. Sandor
hadn't been able to see how much or in which way the Kingslayer's looks had
changed during his imprisonment; what WAS apparent to him was that his laughter
sounded different.
Ser Jaime had been famous for his quick smirk and sarcastic chuckle. The Hound
could still hear these things in his voice, especially when he was teasing his
“wench”, as he called Lady Brienne... and yet. The man's laughter had gained
depth, and when he had heard her around Bessie there had been a carefree, warm
naturalness in it that had never been there before. The little girl was truly
luring out the best sides of the worst men and changed them for the better.
 
Besides, Sandor and he had talked about many things – and surprisingly often.
Shared memories of Casterly Rock, or their military campaigns, but also about
the future. Sometimes, they had laughed, but there had also been quite a bit of
bitterness.
At some point, Sandor had given him an account of Joffrey's tyrannical,
sadistic behaviour. Jaime had fallen very quiet then, and the man's silence had
told the Hound more – and more sincerely – what the Kingslayer had been feeling
than any other reaction could have done. Once more, Sandor had realised that he
didn't need to actually see the man to understand.
 
When the two visitors had left early in the morning after six days Sandor had
felt the first rays of sunshine on his skin. Bessie had been weeping, because
she had understood what was about to happen: another goodbye.
Jaime had knelt in front of her then and had explained: “We're sorry we have to
leave, too. But you see, there is this war, and I want to go to the capital, to
the king, and I want to help to end this war, you know? It will be easier for
Lady Sansa to come back here. And you want to see her again, too, don't you?”
Bessie had nodded, had embraced Jaime and Brienne and had sniffled: “Pleave be
careful! Pleave be careful! Vere are fo many bad men out vere.”
Sandor had understood well enough what Bessie had meant – after all, she was
still scrambling into his bed each night because of the horrible memories that
kept flaring up in her dreams. The girl didn't talk about it, but even though
she referred to him as “Daddy Fandor” these days, it was clear that she had not
forgotten what had had happened to her real family.
“Yes, Bessie, we'll be careful,” Lady Brienne had promised, and finally, they
had trotted out of Harrenhal on their horses. Sandor had heard their receding
clop-clop-clop and had sighed.
 
He didn't want to foster vain hopes with regard to Jaime being able to convince
Joffrey of a truce with the Young Wolf, and of Sansa being able to return to
him. His heart was still bleeding and raw from their separation, and he was
pretty sure that Bessie didn't only keep seeking him out at night for cuddling
because of her bad dreams, but also because she sensed his grief and because
she wanted to solace him.
Sandor smiled sadly. There was no realistic chance that his Sansa would be
allowed to come back to him... and yet, the Kingslayer's words were like a
little ray at sunrise, still cold and weak, but nevertheless a promise of a
brighter day.
Chapter End Notes
     I had thought I wouldn't mention Brienne and Jaime so soon again, but
     they keep creeping back into the story. I realised I wanted to have
     some Sandor-Jaime-bromance-vibes to show how they've both developed,
     or are still developing.
***** Dilemmas *****
Chapter Notes
     As you can see this is not the chapter "Sunrise II" - I've split that
     chapter apart.
     I must say that I'm a bit insecure about the following lines. With
     regard to Sansa I've been assuming the following: 1.) Sansa has
     adopted a great deal of Sandor's pragmatism in the course of their
     weeks together, thus replacing to some extent her family's rather
     rigid concept of honour. After all, she has already killed someone in
     my story herself. 2.) In canon, the Starks don't get the chance to
     meet and to sort things out, but I think that if they had had the
     possibbility Sansa would have felt moments of bitterness with regard
     to her brother and mother. After all, Robb's efforts to get her out
     of the capital were not very intense, there was basically just this
     Jaime-in-exchange-for-the- girls-policy, and Sansa's suffering in
     King's Landing was considerable. So I hope my writing in this chapter
     makes sense in a way.
 
“Sansa, love, may I talk to you?”
 
“Mother? Yes, of course. Come in!”
 
Lady Stark entered her daughter's chamber. She looked tired and years older
with those new lines around her eyes.
 
“What can I do for you, mother?” Sansa inquired politely. Like a true lady.
 
Lady Catelyn asked back: “Can we sit down and talk a little?”
 
Sansa smiled guardedly and replied: “Yes, of course.”
 
She made an inviting gesture towards two armchairs where women could usually
sit to do their needlework.
 
 
 
When they had lowered themselves her mother started hesitantly: “You see...
there are so many things I don't understand about the time when we were
separated – but I would like to understand you better.”
 
“What would you like to know?”
 
Sansa was still careful. As a child she would have run at her mother and hugged
her and done everything to please her. These days things were difficult. She
couldn't be as open and carefree any more as she had been in the past.
 
“You see, love,” Lady Stark began, “your maid came to me an hour ago, after she
had left you. She told me that you've got... a criss-cross pattern of horrible
scars on your back. What happened?”
 
Sansa bristled at the thought that her maid had simply passed on such an
intimate detail about her. She made a mental note that she'd dismiss the maid.
 
To her mother she said: “Joffrey was angry when father didn't want to accept
him as the true heir to the throne, and he was even angrier when Robb rose
against him. Those scars are a testimony of Robb's won battles.”
 
Her mother winced.
 
“How horrible! Oh dear, Robb and me, we both wished we could have freed you.
You and Arya.”
 
Sanse uttered a little scornful snort.
 
“Oh yes, right. That may even be true. But my dear brother wants to win his
war, first and foremost.”
 
Lady Catelyn looked at her.
 
“Is that so wrong?”
 
Sansa was getting annoyed now.
 
“Why, of course it is! And not only because he intends to sell Arya and me to
disgusting houses like cattle. No, he's sacrificing thousands of lives where
things could have been done differently.”
 
“What do you mean, Sansa?”
 
“I mean that it only needed a single blind man to take me out of King's
Landing. This shows that a single person could have dealt with the tyrant on
the Iron Throne as well. It wouldn't have needed a complete war for this.”
 
Lady Stark was horrified.
 
“You're not talking of murder, are you, Sansa? Don't tell me you've changed so
much! Have you forgotten honour? Have you become Clegane's mouthpiece?”
 
Sansa stopped for a moment, bethought herself and answered with determination
in her voice: “Indeed, I have become my husband's mouthpiece – because I've
come to understand his reasoning. You see, it is true that Sandor is a killer,
but at the same time he's effective and not a sadist. He simply does what he
thinks that needs to be done to stay alive, and not more. Tell me, what is more
effective: one killing that extirpates the evil – in this case tyrannical
Joffrey –, or a war that costs thousands of lives and that leaves even more
people raped and maimed and traumatised? I've seen the results of war along the
road while I was travelling with Sandor to Harrenhal. Don't tell me that war is
honourable. Just don't. And don't tell me knights or kings are honourable per
definition, for that matter. My scars sing a different song, and so do my
memories.”
 
Lady Catelyn looked at her, grief-stricken, and choked out: “Oh Sansa, how much
you have changed! How bitter you've become, and at your young age! Sweet
Maiden. We always tried to keep you from harm, but now...”
 
Sansa sighed: “Indeed. You tried to keep me from harm – and then, I wasn't
prepared for it and had to learn my lesson the hard way. If Sandor hadn't been
there and hadn't given me good advice I wouldn't have survived.”
 
At that, her mother murmured: “You really love that man, don't you?”
 
“Yes, I do, mother. He's more than meets the eye. And he's better than his
reputation. It took me a while to find it out, because I was prejudiced, but
it's true.”
 
Lady Catelyn was still distressed, looked at a tapestry on the wall and
uttered: “You see... I guess I'll never understand it. I can't even envision
you and him together. I only remember him as the big, coarse, ugly, brutal
Hound. To be honest, it is a mystery to me how you could endure him – as a
wife, if you get my meaning.”
 
Before she had met Bessie's mother Lya Sansa would have already blushed on
hearing an indirect reference to wedded intimacies, but she had become much
more self-confident in that respect, and she answered: “You mean the marriage
bed? I can say nothing bad about it. Quite the contrary, I assure you that
Sandor loves me as much as I love him, and he respects me. He makes me happy,
and I couldn't wish for a better husband. Like you and father did in the past
we have become friends, consorts, and even if his ancestry isn't as noble as
mine I'm proud to carry his name – because of him and the way he is.”
 
Her mother's eyes were still sad, but there was a small smile on her lips when
she answered: “As I said – I'll never understand it, but I'm relieved to hear
you found a measure of happiness in spite of everything. I wish Robb's love
would bring him more happiness in the future. He's so torn about everything.
You must believe me when I tell you that he doesn't want to marry either of you
– both Arya and you – to the families he mentioned in our previous meeting. The
problem is that those families are basically blackmailing him. I can tell you –
if the Freys and the Boltons are your allies you don't need any enemies. Robb
is desperate. The problem in these circumstances is that sometimes you can't
see clearly any more when you're engulfed by problems and moral dilemmas.”
 
Sansa looked at her mother and stated lowly: “Whatever it takes – Arya
shouldn't pay for Robb's decisions by having to marry Ramsay Bolton.”
 
“We're still hoping it won't come to that. Robb plans to play for time. First,
however, we'll have to go through your uncle's marriage at the Twins. THAT's a
thing we can't avoid any more.”
 
Sansa cocked her head and commented: “I won't travel to the Twins, that much I
can tell you. And Arya won't either. Leave Uncle Brynden with us here in
Riverrun. I fear that otherwise someone might try to abduct me or my sister to
blackmail Robb even more.”
 
There was a sudden, tiny spark of amusement in Lady Stark's eyes.
 
“Sansa, I can't shake off the feeling that your husband has also taught you a
fair bit about tactics.”
 
“I don't consider this a bad thing, mother.”
 
“Certainly not in these times of war. I'll talk to Robb, love. You're right –
you should stay behind at Riverrun.”
 
As an afterthought Sansa came up with another idea: “When you're talking to
him: suggest a truce with Lord Tywin. Not with Joffrey, he cannot be trusted
under any circumstances. Well, Lord Lannister can't really be trusted either,
but in contrast to his grandson he's more reasonable and not mad. If Lord Tywin
thinks he'll get enough out of a peace treaty he'll accept it. Perhaps it will
mean that Robb has to resign and that Arya will become Lady of Winterfell under
the southron king's rule again. That would be hard for Robb personally, but it
could bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms, and then, the Freys and the Boltons
couldn't blackmail him any more. Besides, winter is coming, and soon, keep that
in mind. The north needs peace to prepare for the upcoming winter. Sandor would
be willing to help and to act as an agent, I promise. My brother should know
that.”
 
Lady Catelyn nodded and replied: “I'll tell him that, love, I'll tell him.”
 
 
 
 
 
***** Sunrise (II) *****
 
***
 
“Gendry has met someone near the lake. The man looks quite run down, my lord,
but he claims to know you and to have important issues with you,” Ser Cody
reported.
“Did the man give you a name?” Sandor wanted to know, his suspicion rising.
“No he didn't,” the knight answered, “but he seems to be some sort of priest.”
“A bloody priest of all people? I'd care more about a wet fart than about a
priest. Let Ser Bonifer confer with him. He's the pious one amongst the two of
us. If the man is still around, or if it turns out that he's really somehow
important you can admit him to my solar tomorrow evening. Not before.”
“Understood, my lord.”
Ser Cody clicked his heels together and left.
 
Sandor sat back in his chair, continued with his dinner and snorted inwardly. A
priest pretending to have dealings with him – now this was a bad joke, if he
ever heard one! What made things worse was that his head had started to pound
again. Angrily his teeth tore into a large chunk of warm, crisp bread. Hmmm, at
least the food was good. This Hot Pie, who had cheered Sansa up on their first
day at Harrenhal, really knew his trade, so Sandor had promoted him.
Behind the Hound the door opened again. This time it was Ser Gilroy, who
announced: “My lord, here comes Bessie to accompany you over dinner.”
At the same time, little feet came running at Sandor.
“Daddy Fandor! Daddy Fandor! You won't believe it! Tatya haf got a little foal!
I could watf everyfing! It waf fo fweet! And ve baby horve if healfy! And it'f
got a white dot on ve nove!”
Despite his headaches Sandor smiled and opened is arms.
“Is that so, Bessie?” he commented while the girl clambered onto his knees and
threw herself at him with a happy laugh.
“Yef! Yef! Afk Fer Gilroy!”
The knight, who was still in the door, chuckled, too, and explained: “Bessie is
right. It's a healthy foal, and Tatya as a fine, reliable mare. A good sign,
this birth.”
“I hope you're right.”
“My lord, is there anything else you need at the moment?” Ser Gilroy inquired.
“No, no, I've got Bessie here now, so everything is fine. Go, have your own
dinner. I assume that there's more fresh bread to be had where this one is
coming from.”
The knight assented and took his leave.
Next, Sandor fumbled for another crispy crust, because Bessie liked this part
most, handed it to her and said: “So you seem to have had a really good day.”
The child was munching on her crust happily and Sandor could feel her nod
wildly in his embrace.
“Yef! It waf fooooo fweeeet! Can I name ve baby horve?”
“Yes, why not? Do you have an idea?”
Another fervent nod.
“Yef! I want to call it Topple, becauve it waf toppling over when it firft
wanted to ftand up.”
Sandor chortled: “That's perfect reasoning, girl. So it looks as if we've got a
Topple in the stables now.”
Bessie squealed in delight and hugged him.
“Come, eat up your dinner now.”
The girl obeyed eagerly, and for two or three minutes there were only little
smacking sounds to be heard from them.
 
Suddenly, Bessie spoke up again: “Daddy Fandor?”
“Yes?”
“I've been finking about fomefing,” the child started with all the seriousness
she could muster at her young age.
“Must be mighty important, if you start like this,” Sandor rasped. “What is
it?”
“You fee – I like Fer Gilroy a lot. I mean REALLY a lot.”
“I can imagine that. He's a nice man – for a knight. And good with animals,”
Sandor agreed and took a deep sip from his tankard with milk.
“Daddy, can I marry Fer Gilroy?”
The Hound choked on his milk and coughed. Bessie tried to clap him on the back.
When he had recovered a little he grinned and chortled: “Well, I must say I
didn't expect such a question from you so soon. Bessie, you're still too young
for marrying.”
The girl seemed to be disappointed and asked: “Why am I too young? And can I
marry him when I'm older?”
Sandor thought: “Uh-oh – now things are getting tough. How can I explain this
to a child?”
Aloud, he said: “Well... you see... between a husband and a wife there's some
special kind of cuddling that you can only do when you're much older; old
enough to have a baby. And don't you think that Ser Gilroy is a little too old
for you?”
“You're mutf older van Mommy Fanfa. And fpefial cuddling? Do you mean vif fing
when people ftart making ftrange noivef?”
Sandor coughed again. She was having a point about him and the Little Bird –
and she was a curious little one, if she had already found out so much about
the ways of men and women.
“Yes. Yes indeed, Bessie. I mean – you're really good at cuddling in general,
but you can't do this special form yet. I'd say that you'll have to wait about
ten years, more or less – and if you both want to marry then... I'd say you can
do so.”
There was a definite pout in Bessie's voice to be heard when she retorted:
“Vat'f long! Vat'f unfair to have to wait fo long.”
“I know, girl. Sadly, life isn't a song. And by the way: Ser Gilroy would still
have to agree to that marriage, too. It's not all about whether you want him or
not. He has to want you, too.”
“Oh. Oh, I fee. Yef, you're right. I muft go to him at onfe and afk him.”
Before Sandor could react Bessie had hopped off his knees and was darting
towards the door.
Click – squeak – bonk!, he heard the heavy door slam shut. The Hound couldn't
help himself and had to grin until his mouth twitched. Bessie seemed to be
quite strong for her age, if she could open and close such a heavy door so
easily. And Ser Gilroy would be exposed to the most unique and dedicated kind
of wooing now. It was simply hilarious!
The next moment, however, Sandor became deadly serious again, and his heart
started to ache. He was thinking of Sansa and of how he couldn't have this kind
of “special cuddling” with her any more. The momentarily forgotten headache
returned and became worse.
Seven bleeding hells! This was about to become another long, long night...
 
***
 
Dillon was yawning. It had been a boring shift and the night had been rather
chilly on the battlements of Harrenhal. But now, there was the first red of
dawn to be seen on the horizon. In about half an hour his replacement would
arrive and he'd be able to go to sleep. Dillon smiled.
Of late, he had befriended Pia, who kept him and his bed warm when he was not
on duty at night. True, Pia had lost her beauty in the attack before the new
lord had arrived, but she was a sweet girl nevertheless, because she had a good
heart, and she was grateful for his gentle care.
Contentedly, he dreamed away the minutes atop the wall. Slowly, the sun was
rising and hailing a new day.
 
Dillon expected his colleague any moment... when suddenly he noticed a movement
from the corner of his eyes. He looked down – and froze in shock.
There was this direwolf again! And it was dragging a limp body after it!
Frantically, Dillon rummaged in his memory and finally came up with the wolf's
name again: “Nymeria? Nymeria! Is that you? What are you doing there?”
The wolf looked up and whined. It sounded very urgent. Unceremoniously, Nymeria
dropped the body at the closed main gate and headed off again, seemingly not
interested in meeting the humans in the castle again.
Dillon was completely thunderstruck. He shielded off his eyes from the morning
sun and looked at the body. From this high up it looked as if the carcass was a
man. If he was dead. But if the direwolf had dragged him here all the way...
 
Behind him there were heavy steps now. The other guard he had been waiting for.
“Dillon! Everything all right? Man, you look as if you've seen a ghost!” his
comrade-in-arms called.
“Well, reality comes close to it,” Dillon commented and pointed downwards.
“Look!”
 
 
***
 
 
***** Lion considerations *****
 
Lord Tywin breathed deeply. Things had taken unexpected turns again. He had
toyed with the thought of declaring the Hound a traitor, because he had decided
such important things as the exchange of his son against the Stark girls high-
handedly. The Clegane Dog – or rather “Lord Mole”, as rumours from the
Riverlands had informed him lately – was getting conscious of his power, and
this wasn't good.
Moreover, Jaime could still be whole, if the exchange hadn't happened at this
time. Robbers had ambushed his son on his way back to King's Landing, and the
unsettling point was that it had happened close to the capital. The streets
were really not safe any more, not even within the direct royal sphere. To make
things worse Jaime had lost a hand. His sword hand.
Lord Lannister gnashed his teeth.
“His greatest asset has been taken away from him,” he thought angrily.
At least, his son would live, according to Maester Pycelle. And thus, Clegane
would be allowed to live as well. More than that, it looked as if something
good could still come out of this calamity for his family.
The woman who had accompanied his son had been injured as well, too, though not
as badly. She'd likely retain some scars on her face, but there was no real
harm done, ugly as she was anyway. One interesting point about this female
warrior abomination was that she was the heiress of Tarth, and thus a high-born
woman. The second – and rather disconcerting – aspect was that she was
pregnant. And both of them, Jaime and Brienne of Tarth, had admitted right in
front of the maester that Jaime had sired the babe.
Lord Tywin didn't get it. Yes, true, his son was considered an oathbreaker, so
nobody would be overly shocked, if it became public that he couldn't keep his
cock in his breeches, despite being an allegedly celibate member of the King's
Guard. The weird thing was that – as far as Tywin knew – Jaime, in contrast to
knights like Ser Osmund, had never shown any interest in the women at court,
not even in the most beautiful ones. With one abhorrent exception, if late
Eddard Stark's accusations contained a single grain of truth. Anyway, on his
way back to the capital Jaime had obviously lost control and stuck his member
into the unprepossessing Maid of Tarth. The imprisonment had clearly had a
negative impact on his Jaime, this was the only conclusion one could draw from
this most surreal affair.
Well, be that as it may: the woman's pregnancy and his son's mutilation gave
him all the reason Lord Tywin needed to remove Jaime from the King's Guard (as
he wasn't capable of keeping a king safe without a sword hand) and to force him
into a marriage with a socially acceptable woman, who was already in the
process of breeding a Lannister heir. Yes, from this point of view things were
not quite so bad. Jaime would finally inherit Casterly Rock; this was all Lord
Tywin had ever wanted.
 
The Old Lion's thoughts travelled to the next item on his list: Cersei's
marriage. His daughter had proven to be unacceptable for the family. If the
rumours about her and Jaime... and some more anonymous lovers... were true she
had to be removed from court to limit the considerable damage she had already
done. The way alone she had spoiled her children! Joffrey was a walking and
breathing shame for the family. Not because he was cruel, no. A political
leader needed to be cruel at times. But Joffrey was a weak, whining, sadistic
oaf. THAT was the big problem.
Well, first of all, Cersei had to go. She had been given the chance to be queen
– and she had failed the family. Consequently, Lord Tywin was already arranging
things in private. A high-born nobleman from Braavos, who was also involved in
the Iron Bank, should do the trick. In this way, two or three birds could be
killed with one stone: Cersei would leave the Seven Kingdoms and couldn't do
much further mischief here, and she could establish better overseas
connections; the Iron Bank could be appeased and would remit some debentures as
a sign of goodwill; as a result, the Crown's debts would become mostly a
Westerosi matter.
 
With regard to Joffrey, Lord Tywin mused, action had to be taken. His grandson
wouldn't see to live old age, that much could be grasped even by a blind, old
rooster. He had already managed to stir up too much hatred, and if the lad
wasn't removed from the Iron Throne he'd only manage to make his family share
the Targaryen's fate.
Luckily, there was still Tommen. The boy apparently wasn't the brightest card
in the deck, but the basis was better than Joffrey's, and the boy was still
malleable. Yet, the question remained what exactly should be done with Joffrey.
Lord Tywin, who had no intentions of becoming an evident kinslayer, as it would
only bring his family an even worse reputation, wondered who could do the dirty
job for him.
Hm...
The Roses from Highgarden came to his mind. If the whole thing was done deftly
the Fat Flower might be lured into the deed, and Lord Tywin only needed some
substantive proof that he could produce afterwards to blackmail Lord Mace
Tyrell. The old Lion tapped his cheek with his index finger and came to the
conclusion that the idea itself wasn't a bad one.
 
What he still had to keep in mind was the little disgusting aberration that was
his younger son. Lord Lannister took a measured sip from a crystal goblet
filled with Arbor gold, furrowed his brow and pondered further.
There were basically two alternatives, depending on how things would develop in
the near future. Tyrion would make a good scapegoat, in case Joffrey was
murdered and there was no immediate culprit at hand. Yet, as much as he
detested his deformed son, he just might have some tactical value for the
family after all. He could still obtain access to Winterfell by marriage. Sure,
Tywin had already promised the castle to someone else, but that had been before
the little she-wolf of the Starks had reappeared. The elder daughter had been
bound to the Hound in marriage – why not repeat the procedure? Or if the girl
didn't survive, some other northern lord might be willing to sacrifice a
daughter to gain more political power at Winterfell. And Tyrion would be far,
far away, basically out of sight and could even rule his own castle.
 
Yes. Yes, this was a feasible policy. Still, Lord Tywin had to steer events
into the right direction and swiftly so.
Content, he nodded to himself, took a piece of parchment that would be bound to
a raven's leg later on; next, he grabbed quill and ink, sand and seal wax.
With energetic moves, he started to write to his sister, a Frey by marriage:
“Dear Genna,
please deliver the following information to Lord Walder: in the upcoming events
he shall make sure that the Flayed Man gets a taste of his own knife.”
 
Finally, Lord Tywin stood up and stretched his legs. He had been sitting all
day, first on the Small Council and now in his solar. His body was calling for
some movement now. He decided to take the message to the rookery himself, just
to be sure, and then to have a training session down in the yard.
 
With powerful strides, the Lord of Lannister was next seen to sweep through the
corridors of the Red Keep like a lissom predator who had detected some kind of
prey, and just by looking at him the accidental witnesses knew they better
shouldn't get into the Old Lion's way.
***** Sunrise (III) *****
Chapter Notes
     Ok, I've been typing all weekend, and this is the outcome.
 
***
 
 
“Dead as a doornail,” Ser Bonifer concluded unnecessarily after having had a
look at the body. He felt tense. The victim had been bitten to death, and by
very big jaws. The missing throat wasn't a nice sight, and after having been
dragged over the earth for a while the rest of the body didn't look much
better.
Ser Cody mused: “Why would the direwolf bitch kill that man and carry him here
afterwards? I mean – it would be more convenient to feed her pack with the prey
she's hunted down.”
His comrade-in-arms, Ser Gilroy, replied: “This direwolf is a very intelligent
animal. I can't help the feeling that she was getting the impression that this
man was an enemy, and this was her way of telling us. Hmm... This man isn't
recognisable any more, but we should organise a search party and look for
further details. Perhaps he wasn't alone, or he left some traces behind.”
“Do you think he might be one of those robbers, who murdered Bessie's family?”
Ser Cody asked back.
“Who knows,” Ser Gilroy shrugged. “Did he have any weapons with him?”
“As a matter of fact,” Ser Bonifer explained, “in the one remaining boot there
was a dagger. A good-quality dagger. Not a rusty knife like the one that would
by used by an ordinary criminal. No. The hilt is made of precious Weirwood. So
if the dagger wasn't stolen from a nobleman, or given to this person by a
nobleman for some very good reason – this person was a nobleman himself. The
remaining boot was remarkable, too: fine leather and no holes in the sole. So
I'm convinced that this man wasn't a lowly peasant, if you get my meaning. Very
mysterious, all of this. Dillon, what do you say – from which direction did the
wolf come?”
The guard pointed and stated: “Over there.”
“Right,” Ser Bonifer sighed. “Let's form a search party then. Ser Gilroy, take
five men and scour the area for some more hints. And be careful. Let's hope
that this Nymeria doesn't develop an appetite for our men as well.”
 
 
Only three hours later, his knights were back, and with more alarming news.
Lord Clegane had already been informed of the incident in the morning, so the
latest news were exchanged in the spacious lord's solar.
Ser Gilroy pointed at a spot on a map that showed the region around Harrenhal,
the God's Eye Lake and the wood.
The knight reported: “This is where we found the rests of the camp. Not far
away, as you can see. There must have been a group of six or seven men on
horses, but we only found... a few remains, if you get my meaning. By the look
of it, Nymeria's pack must have effaced the men as well as their steeds. We
found rests of three tents, bloodied tack, armour and weapons, and we believe
that at least some of the travellers must have been warriors. Moreover, we
discovered a bedraggled banner – with two towers on it.”
“Freys!?” Lord Clegane erupted and banged his fist on the table. “What do they
want here, so close to Harrenhal? I'm glad Nymeria made short work of those
ferret-faced bastards. Intelligent animal indeed. I may be ugly as the seven
hells, but in contrast to them my face at least doesn't look like my behind.
Disgusting sods, all of them.”
“What if they were here on purpose? For a truce between the north and the
south? What if they were sent here to establish a contact to the Young Wolf?”
Ser Bonifer asked.
“Pffft!” Lord Clegane blew up his gaunt cheeks and rasped at him: “And tomorrow
you'll tell me your fart smells of roses! No. The Freys might use a truce as an
official pretext, but they've got their own policy, I tell you. Robb Stark
should have married one of their mares, remember? Only he shat on the folk from
the Twins and bedded and married someone more to his taste. Don't you tell me
that the Freys would ever be reliable on a diplomatic errand. If Sansa's
brother ever believed such a nonsense he wouldn't see another day before waking
up with a knife in his back. Speaking of “knife” – this detail about the dagger
is interesting. I can't shake off the feeling that Nymeria wanted to tell me
she's just save my arse. Like her mistress, I'd say. Arya would also love to
rub a vitcory in on me.”
Silently, Ser Bonifer tended to agree to his lord's coarse, but sharp-witted
evaluation. The people had come to call Sandor Clegane “Lord Mole”, but often
Ser Bonifer got the idea that the scarred, blind warrior actually saw more than
all the people around him. If only he could see the glory of the Faith as well!
The castellan of Harrenhal sighed.
 
 
***
 
It had been a long, busy day – and the news Sandor had learned were all shitty.
The dead body on his threshold, the extinction of a complete Frey travelling
party (Lord Walder from the Twins would want to feather him now with arrows
until he looked like a giant hedgehog) – and then the priest. BAH. The priest
was probably the worst of all. Sandor remembered the man from King's Landing.
Disgusting red bugger.
Thoros of Myr had told Ser Bonifer he needed to see him. It confused Sandor no
end. The man was worshipping the God of Fire – what in the seven hells should
Sandor, whose face had been partly eaten away by fire, have to do with such a
weirdo? He could only hope the man didn't intend to hire him as a mascot for
his religion. In that case, he'd be able to get a taste of his own belief and
would get the hair on his arse set on fire.
 
Sandor snorted while he was waiting for dinner and for Bessie in his solar. The
girl was still his only ray of happiness ever since Sansa had left. Each day
she came up with new, crazy ideas.
Her latest victims were Gendry and Hot Pie. She kept stealing the cook's rough
dough for pies and cakes and breads until she had an aching tummy and felt
sick. When it came to the smith she always tried to work the bellow when Gendry
was standing in front of it and was bowing down over the his metal work;
Bessie's sole intention was to ruffle the lad's black hair with the wind she
was causing. She was still too small to really have much of an effect, but she
was already strong (and especially headstrong) enough to try her very best.
When Sandor heard her little feet and her laughter, he managed to smile, and
moments later Bessie had hopped onto his knees and started to cuddle him
shamelessly, and she gave him a wet, hearty kiss on his good cheek.
“You're not hungry, Bessie,” Sandor observed. “You've been stealing food in the
kitchen again. Don't deny it. And you know you mustn't steal!”
The girl giggled and replied: “I'm forry, but I'm not forry. I mean – Hot Pie
if fooooo flow! It'f no wonder you want to fnatf fomefing away from under hif
nove. If you could fee, you'd do ve fame!”
Sandor had a hard time now not to grin – he could suddenly remember a scene
from before his face had been burned, and he had stolen a cookie in his
father's kitchen as well.
“Bessie, I couldn't steal anything, because the dough would be mine anyway.”
“Fee? You weren't vere, fo it waf meant for me! I waf faft enough, fo it waf
mine.”
Here children's logics were compelling, Sandor had to admit, but he knew he
still had to chide her for her behaviour. The problem was – how did you chide a
child while the child in question was standing on your thigh so she could hug
you around the neck properly?
“If Joffrey ever saw me like this with the girl he'd choke on his dinner in
shock,” it occurred to Sandor.
Damn, that was too alluring a vision. He had to think of something else.
“Who'v vat man in hiv pink clovev?” Bessie suddenly asked.
“Pink clothes?” Sandor asked, puzzled, and he felt Bessie nod against his neck.
“Yef. Ve man who talked to Fer Bonifer.”
It started to dawn on Sandor who the girl was talking about. But pink clothes,
instead of red? Hm, perhaps the red garb had been reduced to old shreds, and
the colour had washed out. Yes, that was a possible explanation.
“Did you hear the man's name?”
“Forof, I fink.”
“I see. The man is a priest, but he doesn't belong to the Faith of the Seven.
Why do you ask me about him?”
Bessie was very serious now: “He'v giving me ve creepf! Vere'v fomefing about
him I don't like.”
Sandor chortled in response: “That's my girl! Keep up that spirit. Don't put
your trust into priests.”
 
Later, Ser Bonifer picked up the girl, who was becoming tired, and handed her
to Ser Gilroy, who would take her to her chamber. Sandor sighed. There were too
many men around Bessie these days. Oh yes, she had charmed them all, but she
also needed more motherly guidance. Well, at least she could stay with the
women and the other children at daytime – only Bessie was very shy there, and
while she loved to play with animals and wasn't afraid of him or the other
battle-hardened knights, she always withdrew from other children and didn't
dare to play with them. Sandor wondered, if this still had something to do with
the loss of her family. It was certainly possible.
 
But for now, he had to concentrate on something else. He was about to receive
the red priest, who was still determined to meet him. Some minutes after Bessie
had left Ser Bonifer admitted Thoros of Myr to the solar.
“Lord Clegane? Or rather Harrenclegane, as I've been told?”
Sandor recognised the voice, and he didn't like it any more than he had done in
King's Landing.
“Red priest – what do you want from me? I don't feel the need to meet the likes
of you. I spit on religion and I loathe fire, as you knew so very well in those
melees where you used that goddamn fiery sword of yours against me. Remember?
So I don't know what we should talk about.”
“It's a pity you're so unwilling to recognise R'hllor's glory, but I didn't
expect you to be willing to convert, from all I know about you from King's
Landing. May I probably still come a little closer? It's not very comfortable
to raise my voice so you can hear me across this big room.”
Sandor could be sure that Ser Bonifer had searched the man, so that Thoros was
as good as naked and couldn't carry any dangerous items with him. So he waved
the priest closer with an indignant grunt.
He heard steps coming closer, and somehow, he had expected them to sound
heavier, because the man had been rather portly in the capital. But if the
clothing wasn't much more than rags any longer, according to Bessie, Thoros of
Myr might have lost some weight as well, or gained some stealth. Likely both.
“You've come a long way, Lord Sandor Harrenclegane,” the priest began anew.
“But be that as it may. Normally, I wouldn't assume I could or should have any
dealings with you.”
“Now that's a bloody surprise that we should agree on anything, point you're
right about this point. And now stop blathering and get to the point.”
“All right. You should know that I've been in the Riverlands for a while now,
and I've seen and experienced much and more, like anyone in times of war. There
is something, however, that has been bothering and upsetting me a lot ever
since the Battle of the Blackwater. I've been dreaming of you every single
night.”
Sandor was thunderstruck, and all he managed to say was: “What do you mean? Are
you like Loras Tyrell, all of a sudden? Well, I can tell you: I AM NOT.”
“You are blind.”
“Tell me something new,” Sandor snapped.
Thoros of Myr sighed and went on: “I didn't mean I had any romantic dreams.
They didn't even feel like normal dreams. I'm not sure, but I think I'm having
visions.”
On hearing this, Sandor barked his laughter.
“So you really want to sell me that your God of Fire is speaking to you at
night!? Seven hells, you must have had too much Dornish red in those times when
you were in your cups with late King Robert.”
The red priest stated: “My lord, you're a heathen at heart, which is a real
pity with your... fiery mark – but I'm not so arrogant as to believe that I
could convince you of R'hllor by just talking about a few dreams. Actually, I'm
just seeking relief for myself, and if you allow I'd like to carry out a tiny
experiment that doesn't require your belief.”
Sandor furrowed his brow.
“What do you mean, priest?”
Thoros of Myr started to explain: “Well – my dream about you is always the
same. You're in this room. I recognise it now as your solar here in Herrenhal.
Anyway, you're here in my dreams, and I put my hands onto your head and start
to recite R'hllor's Creed. If you don't mind... I'd like to try this out. I
don't know what R'hllor wants to tell me, but I'm convinced I won't find my
inner peace again until I've done this procedure. I'd be grateful, if you
allowed me to touch you in the way I described. As I said: you don't have to
believe anything, you only have to sit there for two or three minutes.”
Sandor wanted to laugh about the priest's madness, but at the same time, he was
irked.
“Ser Bonifer!” he bellowed.
His castellan appeared a moment later with his clinking chainmail.
“Yes, my lord?” he asked.
“You've searched this man for any weapons?”
“Indeed, my lord, and thoroughly. What about it?”
With a derisive snort Sandor told Ser Bonifer: “The red bugger here wants to
put his hands on my head for some kind of a religious ritual. So you say he
doesn't pose a threat?”
“I can see none.”
Knowing how bloody insistent religious people could be, in case they were
denied their wishes, Sandor snarled at Thoros of Myr: “Priest, if you promise
to leave Harrenhal at once after you have carried out this procedure... go
ahead, for fuck's sake. I'm in a generous mood today, but don't you overdo it!
I'm not famous for my patience. – And Ser Bonifer: you stay here, right next to
me, just in case. I don't trust pious fanatics.”
“Thank you, Lord Harrenclegane, thank you so much!”
Thoros of Myr's voice actually sounded relieved, which was creepy enough.
 
The priest stepped up to Sandor without further ado and put his hands onto his
lank hair. The fingers felt repugnant and nothing like Sansa's sweet touches.
Sandor could also smell the priest now, and obviously, the man hadn't made use
of the baths in Harrenhal since his arrival. A chill crept down his spine.
Disgusting man. The Hound tried to breathe through his nose.
After a moment, the red priest started his incantation in old Valyrian. Sandor
wanted to yawn, because the process felt rather boring.
SSSSSsssssssssssssssss.
Suddenly, there was a searing pain in Sandor's head, and he howled like a real
dog that was about to be torn apart. His hands shot up blindly to where the
priest had to be standing, judging by the man's breathing.
SEVENBLEEDINGHELLSTHEPAIN!
This had to stop! At once! It was too much – even for a man who had known fire
and so many wounds in battle.
Sandor got hold of the Thoros's neck, put his hands around it before anyone
else could so much as blink... and with a dry krsk! the priest's backbone
snapped like a dry twig.
With a thump the body sagged to the ground, and Ser Bonifer gasped in shock:
“My lord!”
At once, the horrible pain receded, but Sandor was panting and weeping now
nevertheless. A heartbeat later, he started to feel dizzy and sick. Losing
control, he puked onto the floor – and finally, his tortured mind was slowly
enveloped by soothing darkness. In that moment, it didn't matter to him, if
he'd live to experience another sunrise. All he wanted was peace. All he wanted
was Sansa.
***** Conspiracy *****
 
***
 
Things were definitely turning from bad to worse. Lord Bolton and his minions
had arrived from a field campaign in Riverrun and intended to accompany Robb to
the Twins. At the same time, Sansa knew, the man was putting her brother under
pressure with regard to the looming marriage between Arya and his bastard son.
Sansa didn't like Lord Bolton's pale eyes. They reminded them of Old Nan's
stories and of how the wights' eyes were supposed to be creepy. Well, the lord
from the Dreadfort was certainly alive, but somehow he radiated something
inherently evil just the same.
During the welcome dinner Arya was forced to sit next to him, and she was as
taut as bowstring, so that Sansa wasn't quite sure whether she spilled her red
wine over the man's doublet on purpose or not. Lord Bolton uttered a curse,
rubbed uselessly at the stained fabric, then controlled himself again and spoke
softly: “Well, girl, you seem to have strayed a good deal from the path of a
lady; but this won't be a problem at the Dreadfort.”
The words themselves seemed to be harmless enough, but Sansa had the feeling
that they had an omoinous ring.
Arya was much more outspoken and defiant in this context: “I'm no lady, that's
true. And I'll never be one. I DON'T WANT to be one. And I won't go to the
Dreadfort.”
She jumped up as if she had been stung by a bee and rushed out of the hall with
angry tears in her eyes.
Lord Bolton looked from where Arya slammed the door shut to where Robb was
sitting, raised his eyebrows, and his accusing, cold gaze said clearly: “You
promised her to me, Young Wolf. You won't betray another lord with regard to a
betrothal, will you?”
Robb was unnerved, apologised to his vassal for his sister's rude behaviour and
assured him that he'd talk to Arya later to make her more compliant.
Sansa felt sick and could barely eat.
Suddenly, she thought: “Why should I actually not show what I'm feeling?”
So she clutched her belly, whimpered, started to retch and to slide off the
chair.
At once, her mother jumped up and called: “Sansa! What is it?”
A moment later, she was at her side.
Meanwhile, Robb tried to explain her behaviour to Lord Bolton: “I'm sorry to
say that my gentle sister Sansa has been in a very delicate state of late. She
can barely keep any food inside and is always exhausted after only a few
steps.”
The lord from the Dreadfort eyed her up and down and inquired: “Has the Hound
planted a whelp into her belly?”
The cold man's voice, combined with the coarse comment, caused Sansa to really
puke.
“Gods!” her mother shrieked and started to fuss around her.
Servants came running with water and a cloth.
Sansa's face was wiped clean, and she was supported when she tried to stand up
again.
Lord Bolton looked mildly disgusted, and Robb answered: “This is what she's
like even without being with child. Sansa is so broken by her time in King's
Landing and by her marriage that a babe wasn't necessary to put her in this
deplorable condition. As you can see she isn't strong enough to travel
anywhere. So I've decided to leave the girls here at Riverrun while we're on
our way to the Twins.”
“This is NOT a good idea,” Lord Bolton retorted. “Put the girl onto a cart.
Lord Walder feels already insulted enough. Do you want to risk his support by
leaving the girls here? Apart from that, they should see their uncle's
marriage. There will be a splendid feast, and girls like splendid feasts.”
At that moment, the Blackfish spoke up: “We've already consulted our maeaster,
because we were thinking along the same lines, but unfortunately, my dear
grandniece is really too sick.”
By now, her uncle Edmure had arrived at her side, gave her a little kiss, and
murmured gently: “Come here, girl.”
Next, he hoisted her onto his arms, carried her out of the hall and all the way
up to hers and Arya's room. Panting, he put her down there, knocked and opened
the door.
Arya, who was still sniffling, yelped and rushed towards her sister.
“Sansa, what is it? You look like a ghost!”
Edmure cut in: “I'm sorry for intruding like this, but your sister suffered
from a sudden feeling of faintness. Come here, Sansa, come over to the bed.”
“And I'll open the back laces of your dress. These corsets are rubbish!” Arya
announced.
 
When Sansa was starting to feel a little more comfortable their uncle spoke up
again: “It's actually good that all of this happened. I must tell you about
some news, and with Lord Bolton around there was no opportunity to do it any
time sooner. You see, there is something worrying with regard to... Sansa's
husband.”
“Sandor? Sandor? What is it! Speak up!” Sansa cried out, at once upset.
Edmure tried to calm her down – to now avail.
So he started: “Well, a group of Freys was seen in the Riverlands, heading for
Harrenhal, by the look of it. It could mean that Lord Walder and his men are
planning to betray us, and that they try to get into contact with King's
Landing – via your... husband.”
“NO!” Sansa hissed. “No, that's impossible. Sandor is famous for his loyalty.
He'd never negotiate with traitors.”
Her uncle sighed: “In that case... I fear they intended to assassinate the H...
your husband under some pretext in order to get a grip on you.”
Sansa pressed her hands in front of her mouth and whined in shock.
“Please, Sansa, don't cry! There has been a raven from Harrenhal an hour ago.
Since the H... Lord Sandor is blind I believe the text was written by the
castellan. Here. Have a look at it.”
Sansa tore the message from her uncle's hands, and she was shaking like a leaf.
When she unrolled the parchment the first thing she saw was the date, and she
breathed: “That raven was extremely fast! Faster than any rider! It must have
been written after a possible murder attempt.”
Full of panic she sifted through the letters, which seemed to be dancing across
the page. After a first try she needed to read the message all over again.
When she had finished she recounted the content of the letter in a trembling
voice: “Your observations were correct, uncle. Some Freys made it close to
Harrenhal, but they were killed by Nymeria and her pack.”
“Ha! That's Nymeria!” Arya beamed at once. “Why are you still so upset then,
Sansa?”
“It's not all. Gods! Ser Bonifer, he's imploring... Arya, something else has
happened to Sandor. I don't know what it is, but I need to go back and to see
him. I must go home. I MUST! Uncle Edmure, pleasepleaseplease talk to Robb. He
has to let me return to my husband.”
The lord of Riverrun cleared his throat and said: “First, we have to talk about
something else. As you can see Robb has already started to explain and to
excuse yours and Arya's future absence with regard to my wedding.”
“I'm so sorry that I won't be able to be with you, uncle,” Sansa sobbed.
“Shshsh, don't get agitated about this. I'd rather stay behind with you, if I
had a choice, but here we are. Yet, there is another problem. Lord Bolton
arrived with some of his men, as you will have noticed, and Robb and Cat and
me, we've got the strong feeling that he'll leave someone behind as well now.
Somebody, who could try to abduct you once we're gone.”
“What!?” Arya shouted then.
And Edmure explained: “It's the easiest way to force you into a marriage with
Ramsay Bolton.”
Arya balled her fists and Sansa gulped.
“We can't let that happen, uncle. We must do something about it!”
Edmure uttered a tiny chuckle and went on: “This is exactly what we've been
planning in your brother's solar. There's only one question now: Arya, what do
you prefer – going back to Harrenhal, or being sent to the Dreadfort? What do
you want?”
The fervent answer didn't even need a heartbeat's time of consideration:
“Harrenhal!”
“Good, in that case we'll arrange your “flight” from Riverrun – but you'll have
to travel on your own. I'm deeply sorry for that, but a missing man would cause
more suspicion, and we didn't have the time to find a secret guide. It'll be
dangerous, so the question is: can you do it on your own?”
Sansa's voice was thick with steely resolution when she answered: “Sandor and
me – we managed to flee from King's Landing, though we had only one horse and
Sandor was blind. We'll manage.”
“Yes, we'll get along,” Arya intoned.
Inwardly, Sansa thanked Robb and her mother and the others that they had come
to their senses. Her heart was beating, and in a weird way she felt disembodied
– as if she were watching her own body, her uncle and her sister from above.
Yet, it didn't really matter or scare her. There was only one thought left in
her mind: she'd go home to find out what had happened to her beloved.
 
***** The drinking bout *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
***
 
“The gods must have a very shitty kind of ironic humor,” Jaime commented darkly
and looked into the goblet filled with Arbour gold in front of him.
They – he and his brother – were sitting in one of the better wine sinks of
King's Landing and had already downed two wineskins. A musician was weeping on
a fiddle in the background, but the sound mingled with the overall chatter of
the many other customers. The air was rich with smoke and sweat and the smell
of beer.
 
“I know,” Tyrion agreed, “but what exactly are you referring to now?”
Jaime snorted: “Two things, actually. First: there was one thing I was really
good at. Fighting with a sword. And now look at this!”
He held up his stump.
“Let me assure you that you've been very competent in more than one way,”
Tyrion corrected him. “You're also good at smirking, at being arrogant and at
making a fool of yourself – though these qualities may not be exactly
fulfilling, I must give you that.”
Jaime hissed back: “Yes, do it, rub more salt into my wounds, just go ahead.”
He took a deep swig from his goblet and felt even more miserable than he had
during his confinement under Robb Stark – a thing that he'd never have deemed
possible previously.
Tyrion grinned wrily and retorted: “Rubbing salt into wounds is certainly one
of my qualities. But tell me: what's the second reason for you to believe in
the crookedness of the gods' humour?”
 
Jaime uttered a short, bitter laugh and explained: “Well, you see – when I was
sworn to be a bachelor I sinned all over the Seven Kingdoms. And now that I've
been released from the King's Guard and my dearest father has forced me to
marry the wench my bed is suddenly cold and empty.”
“Ah, I see,” Tyrion uttered and murmured: “though I must say that I'm surprised
that you're talking of your bed. Did you ever do it there?”
Jaime rose and towered over his brother like a predator on the jump. His blood
was boiling in his veins from sudden anger.
“If you weren't my brother I'd kill you now!”
Tyrion looked up, unimpressed.
“You've lost your sweet sister. Do you want to lose your ugly, but at least
entertaining brother now, too?”
Defeated, Jaime slumped back on his chair.
“Why did Cersei have to go to Brienne right after the wedding and to reveal all
the... private details to her, little brother? Tell me!”
Tyrion shrugged.
“Misguided Lannister pride.”
Jaime threw his hand and his stump into the air in despair.
“But I don't get it! Really, I don't! I mean – you told me she's been having
many lovers for years. Why should she be angry with me then, because I was with
Brienne? She even found me physically disgusting, crippled as I am now. You
should have seen the look she threw me when she discovered my injury!”
“See, that's the differende between pride and misguided Lannister pride.”
Jaime grumbled something unintelligible and took another swig.
After a silent minute or so, he stated: “Well, she's gone now, our sister.
Father must be congratulating himself. Putting sweetsleep into her drink and
shipping her off to Braavos was indeed a clever move. I'm just wondering what
will happen when she arrives – Cersei will surely be breathing fire and
brimstone from sheer anger.”
Tyrion nodded: “Sure she will – but her only chance will be to marry the
Braavosi from the Iron Bank. I mean – she was sent away without her precious
dresses, jewellery, without a penny and, most of all, without father's support.
On her arrival she won't have any options.”
Jaime commented on that: “I wonder if father's wedding deal won't backfire in
the future.”
Tyrion shrugged.
“Who knows.”
They drank deep; Jaime's little brother patted a serving maid's plump bottom,
and gave her a stag for some more booze.
 
When they had another skin of wine Tyrion asked: “How's your wife, by the way?
Still sick in the morning?”
Jaime sighed: “Yes, she is. Otherwise – I don't really know. She doesn't talk
to me. And I can't be cross with her, not after my behaviour. I must have hurt
her so much and broken her heart. That she's such a wonderful woman makes me –
if possible – even more of a monster. You should have seen how she defended me
out there on the road in front of King's Landing. The wench risked her life for
me although I didn't deserve it. It still breaks my heart when I think of the
moment when I saw that arrow stick out of her leg, and another one out of her
left arm. You can't believe how relieved I was when I learned from Maester
Pycelle that they were no serious injuries, and that they were healing well.
Anyway – it was in that moment when we were beset by robbers that I realised
that if Cersei had been allowed to learn how to wield a sword... she wouldn't
have tried to save me with the same ferocity.”
 
Tyrion yawned and asked: “So you you love her? Brienne, I mean?”
Suddenly, Jaime's eyes burned.
“Yes. Oh yes. With all my heart. You know – in the past I used to think that
I'd die the same moment like Cersei. She always told me it would and it should
be like that, and I believed her. She also told me we were one soul in two
bodies, and I believed that, too. What an oaf I was. When I came together with
Brienne I was an individual for the first time. And the wench would deserve so
much better. As it is, she can't love me any more, now that she knows of all my
sins, but I'll try to care for her and the child as best I can. I want to be a
real father. A good father – at least once.”
On hearing those words, Tyrion teased him: “Don't you think Brienne's too ugly
and too big for you?”
Now, Jaime could show that probably he wasn't as deft with his left hand as he
was with the one he had lost – but he wasn't weak either: he started a second
time, and this time, he grabbed his brother, lifted him up and pressed him
against the wall. All around, people started to stare... and then to quickly
look away. No-one interfered with Lannister problems.
The Kingslayer didn't care one whit for their reactions and roared like a true
lion: “How DARE you? You, most of all! You take that back! Understood?”
Tyrion could only groan: “Yes. Sure. Understood.”
So Jaime let go of his little brother, but he was still angry. To cool down, he
emptied his wineskin with big gulps and noticed the alcohol go to his head. He
welcomed the feeling. Welcomed the increasing numbness.
 
Tyrion rubbed his throat, panted... and when he had finally caught his breath
he spoke up casually: “You can come out now!”
Drunk as he was, Jaime needed a second to realise his brother wasn't addressing
him; and he needed another moment to look up and to understand who had been
waiting for his brother's words, hidden in an alcove, and who had surely heard
every single word.
“You!” Jaime called. And then: “Tyrion, you treacherous bastard!”
The Kingslayer was so far beyond himself that he only wanted to leave. He made
for the door. The only problem was that befuddlement hit him like a ram now; he
tripped, toppled over, banged his stump, yelled in pain and found it impossible
to get up again. He moaned.
Far above him, Brienne complained: “I'm not sure, if this a good for a pregnant
woman, Tyrion, but I fear I've got to carry my husband back to the Red Keep.”
And further down, closer to Jaime's ear, his Little Brother answered: “I fear
the same, especially since I'm not in the physical position to carry out this
task myself. Let's see, if we can hire anyone for help. Shouldn't be too
difficult in this case, and a Lannister always pays his debts.”
Jaime thought he could see his brother hold up a golden stag, but his thoughts
were becoming hazy, and he couldn't see clearly any more. Mere moments later,
the Kingslayer passed out.
Chapter End Notes
     Ok, so these were the three new chapters.
***** Sunrise (IV) *****
The headache was even more horrible than usual. Sandor groaned and hid himself
under the blanket. He had a hard time trying to figure out who he was and
where. Desperately, he rubbed with his palms over his scarred face. Even under
the blanket the morning light was simply to harsh.
Once he realised what he was thinking he stilled.
Morning light!?
Seven bleed...
He opened his eyes.
It was as if daggers were being thrust directly into his brain.
Sandor yowled helplessly in pain.
The door to his bedroom opened, and he heard Ser Cody's voice, which reflected
a mix of worry and relief: “My Lord! You're awake! What is it?”
The Hound could only growl: “Put some shutters in front of the window! The
light. I can see the brightness of the morning light! And it's killing me.”
Within minutes, his bedroom had exploded into a frenzy of activity: someone
covered the window – Sandor had never been more grateful for a thing in his
life –, Ser Bonifer came in to to tell him he had been unconscious for three
and a half days, the boy named Hot Pie arrived with food and a jug of mint
water...
… and all the busy work around him was too much for Sandor, who had covered his
head with a dark piece of cloth; so he bellowed and cursed at the top of his
voice, causing everyone to flee.
With one exception, of course: a joyful little Bessie darted into the room.
“Daddy Fandor! Daddy Fandor! You're awake!”
Like a bolt of lightening she slipped into bed, under the blanket, and threw
herself at him.
With another groan, Sandor embraced her, buried her face in the folds of her
little dress and allowed her to stroke his hair.
“Are you having vif pain in your head again?” she asked and sounded like a
worried nurse.
“Yes, Bessie. But you're here now, and I'm already feeling better.”
Sandor needed all day to recover from this shock in the morning and to realise
how things actually stood with regard to his eyesight: he could distinguish
between light and dark again (and due to the many weeks in complete darkness he
was overly sensitive when it came to the former), and he could see some blurred
colourful blotches, which could turn out to be either people or objects. It
really wasn't much, and yet, Sandor wanted to weep... for two reasons even, to
be precise: on the one hand, he was absolutely thankful for the little he could
see again, but on the other hand, it was eating up his heart that one certain
auburn shape was missing.
It was at least a small consolation that he could see a bit of Bessie for the
first time, and he thought to himself that she was indeed a beautiful little
girl. It was weird; he had never thought of children as beautiful, but even
though he could barely make out any more than her dark locks he was already
feeling that he had never seen a lovelier lass.
“Already getting as bloody biased as a real proud father,” he admonished
himself.
In spite of feeling mostly wistful there was, in fact, also one real source of
entertainment for the Hound in the evening when his headache had lessened
somewhat; though his vision was so limited he was able to understand one very
specific point: why the Kingslayer had often referred to Ser Bonifer as a
stork.
Around midnight, Sandor went to bed again after having been filed in on the
latest developments in Harrenhal: the dead Frey bodies had been laid to rest,
and the red priest had been burned. The Hound nodded his approval.
“Oh, and there was a raven from King's Landing,” Ser Bonifer added.
“Dark wings, dark words?” Sandor wanted to know.
The knight weighed his head and replied: “Depends on the point of view, I
presume. Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne of Tarth have been married.”
So at the very end of the day, Sandor finally DID weep – but what he was
shedding were tears of laughter.
***** Sisters (I) *****
***
It was difficult to say goodbye again. The last time they had parted it had
meant a farewell for good for half the Stark family. Sansa could only hope that
the rest of them would be able to meet again in the future – under better
circumstances. Perhaps Jane would have given birth to an heir by then – who
knew?
Sansa sighed. She was sad.
Arrangements had been made. Robb, their mother and Edmure would leave with
their troops in the morning, leaving the Blackfish, Jane, Arya and herself
behind. The Freys and Roose Bolton had protested repeatedly, but Robb had made
it absolutely clear that it would be sufficient, if his mother represented the
female Starks at the Frey wedding, and that he wouldn't force a weakened
sibling to travel all the way to the Twins.
After their brother's departure, Arya and Sansa were supposed to stay with
their great-uncle and his men all day, so that nobody could abduct them... and
at night, they'd leave Riverrun. Two mares had already been chosen and hidden
with all the necessary equipment: food and drink, a bedroll, a dress for
changing and a map of the Riverlands. They had also been given a dagger and a
knife each, even if only Arya had a clue of how to handle these items.
When their mother came into the room in the evening for a quiet goodbye, her
eyes were dark with sorrow.
“I wish our reunion hadn't been so troubled and we had had time to sort
something out. Had the conditions been different it all wouldn't have been so
strained. I know it's late, or even too late to make amends, but there is
something...”
She faltered and handed Sansa a metal buckle. It wasn't ornate or anything.
Lady Catelyn explained: “It belonged to your father. The belt was cut during
the Rebellion, and your father never fastened the clasp to a new one.
Perhaps... your husband will be willing to wear it. Otherwise... just give it
to your first-born son. And Arya, I've got something for you, too. These silver
buttons belonged to your father, too. You can't wear his tunic, being a woman
and too small, but I thought you'd like these things nevertheless.”
Suddenly, the girls were weeping and hugged their mother. At least their last
meeting had turned out conciliatory.
Later, there was a scratching sound to be heard on the door, followed by a
whine. Greywind!
Arya opened the door and let the huge animal in. One look into the wolf's eyes
revealed that Robb was there as well, and they embraced Greywind and sobbed,
and he licked their faces tenderly. Another way of saying sorry and goodbye.
In the morning, the farewell weighed heavy on their hearts. Jane was crying
most of all.
When Robb rode out of the castle Sansa could only think: “He's too young to be
king, especially in times of war. Back in Winterfell he was only growing his
first fuzz of a beard, and now, he's already king. Yes, he was raised to be a
lord, but he wasn't prepared for THIS. It must all be so difficult for him. No
wonder he sometimes doesn't know which decision is right or wrong. But he's not
indifferent like Robert, nor cruel like Joffrey, nor too stubborn to realise
he's made a mistake and to learn from it. The new and the old gods give him all
the wisdom he needs from now on.”
A single tear was making its way down her cheek. For a moment, Sansa remembered
the day when she had been forced to see her father's head on the battlements of
the Red Keep, and she was grateful that Robb had been spared this sight.
The rest of the day seemed to be endless. Sansa was incredibly nervous and
hoped everything would go well. While she had been on the road with Sandor she
still knew she wasn't really prepared for surviving in the wilderness. Likely,
Arya would have an easier time than her.
In the late afternoon, Ser Brynden, who had left them for a short moment, came
back into the armoury where he had been training with Arya. His face looked
stony.
“What is it?” Sansa whispered.
“We had been thinking of sending a guide along with you. A private person. A
trader. We're lucky we decided to keep these plans a secret until the very last
minute, and he doesn't know he was taken into consideration for the task. It
has turned out that the man lived at the Dreadfort before he came to Riverrun.
It's not clear whether the man still works for the Boltons in secret or not,
but he can't become your guide now, of course. You'll have to travel alone,
little as I may like it. Well, Arya is good with her metal toothpick, and I've
taught her well enough how to throw a knife. There is no other way, by the
looks of it. I wish I could come with you.”
“Quick like a squirrel, deadly like a snake,” Arya murmured, looked up and
declared: “I can do it. I've learned how to survive, and Sansa is a survivor in
her very own way. She can take a lot.”
Suddenly, Sansa's heart was beating faster, because her sister was talking so
positively about her.
“I don't know, Arya, but be that as it may – out there, you'll be my big sister
for a change.”
Arya looked taken aback for a moment, but she quickly switched to a fierce and
proud appearance.
Their uncle Brynden clapped them on the back, grinned and chuckled: “That's the
spirit of the Tullys. The family coming first.”
Sansa had to smile now, too, but the next moment, she turned serious again and
said: “Hm, now that you're talking about the Tullys – my telltale red hair is a
bit of a risk, wouldn't you say? I think I'll shorten it by half and dye it
with walnut extract so that it looks brown afterwards.”
Their uncle nodded appreciatively and lauded her: “It's good you're so
practical, Sansa. Let's go to your room then. I won't let you alone until
you're sitting on your mares and trotting into the night.”
***** Love and death *****
Brienne had thought that she'd react more strongly, but actually, she didn't
feel very much when she glanced down at the shock of golden hair. The waxy,
formerly handsome Lannister features looked nondescript now.
Brienne breathed in the scent from the incense cones. The death vigil had just
begun – and she knew well enough that outside the sept there was even less
grief about this demise than on the inside.
As Brienne didn't want to stress the unborn life that she was carrying under
her heart any more than necessary she tried to empty her mind.
 
However, this proved to be too difficult a task. Her thoughts kept drifting
back to the voyage to King's Landing. To the bath in Harrenhal. To the days and
nights that followed. When she and Jaime had been on the road.
It had been seven days until they had made love again. It had been a difficult
week. Tense. Full of bickering. And one particular argument at a camp fire had
suddenly tilted into another direction and ended in a wild, passionate tussle.
They had been busy all night and had forgotten to hold vigil. They'd have been
easy prey, but luckily, nothing had befallen them.
 
After that, Jaime had seemed to be strangely conflicted, and Brienne had not
understood. Of course she had not. There had been moments when Jaime had been
so hungry for her love that it would have frightened her, if she hadn't been so
smitten herself. She had been new into the field of lust, and she had drank in
everything that had been offered to her. Yet, there had been moments when Jaime
had suddenly been mysteriously detached, and when he had kept himself aloof.
At first, Brienne had thought that it had something to do with her ugliness; in
fact, she had hated herself for both her looks and for feeling so strongly for
the infamous Kingslayer. But then, she had seen the joy in Jaime's eyes
whenever they were together, how he had relaxed and had opened up to her. She
had also realised that he was obviously feeling some sort of pain or shame in
those other moments, and that he was using sneering comments to outplay his
feelings. Stupid as she had been, she had thought it had something to do with
him falling for her while being a sworn bachelor as a member of the King's
Guard.
 
Things had become even more complicated when she had found out that she was
with child. At first, she had kept it a secret and had thought of sneaking away
from Jaime once she had delivered him at his target point. Things had turned
out differently. After some days, Jaime had noticed that something had been
amiss and had pestered her with questions until she had spilled the truth.
Brienne had thought that Jaime would react negatively, that he would become
angry or that he would ridicule her. None of that. He had stilled and had been
incredulous for a moment.
And just when she had wiped off a tear angrily and had choked out: “I know I
should have taken moon tea, but as I wasn't prepared for all of this I had
none. But I'll see to it that I won't be a burden for you...” Jaime had just
embraced her, had called her his “stupid wench”, and his green eyes had been so
radiant, so completely over the moon, that her heart had hammered away, and she
had suddenly found herself in a state of utter bliss.
 
Had she still had any doubt about his feelings she would have felt even more
confirmed when they had been ambushed near the capital. She could still recall
all too vividly how he had ordered her to stay behind and how he had tried to
shield her off from the scoundrels. It had cost him his hand. Never would she
forget the moment when it had been hacked off. Jaime's screams. She often had
nightmares and dreamed of that scene.
 
After they had been found and taken to the Red Keep just in time Jaime had
received all the medical need one could wish for. Once he had recovered enough
to be more or less sure he'd survive his injury his father had visited him.
Brienne hadn't been present during the meeting and had been confused when the
Lord of Lannister had called her to his solar a bit later.
The man's words were something else that she'd always remember: “Lady Brienne,
since my son is a cripple now and thus useless for the King's Guard he has been
released from his post. I've just told him the news. To my positive surprise he
has voiced the wish to marry, and he has mentioned your name. While I don't
understand why he didn't opt for a more presentable noblewoman I appreciate
that he chose at least a high-born heiress – and he's apparently fond of you. I
guess that after all the problems he's given me by entering the King's Guard I
can't be picky about his decision. Casterly Rock needs a proper heir, not my
gnarled younger son. With Jaime's feelings for you I can also expect that he'll
put a cub into your belly soon enough, if he hasn't already done that,
emotional fool that he is.”
For a moment, Brienne had been so thunderstruck that she hadn't been able to
utter a syllable, but when Lord Tywin had wanted to wave her away like an
insect, she had finally managed to say: “I think you've forgotten something,
Lord Hand.”
The Old Lion had simply looked at her with a fixed stare and waited for her
explanation.
So she had coughed and ventured forth: “Shouldn't the bridegroom in question
ask the possible bride, if she's willing to marry him? Perhaps she's got some
different plans.”
The Lord of Lannister had simply snorted in response and had dropped casually:
“We can also play the “Reines of Castamere” at your funeral, Lady Brienne.”
 
Well... married they had – quickly, right at the sickbed. No opulent wedding in
the sept. No feast. No bedding ceremony. Jaime had still been too weak for any
celebrations, but his kiss after the seven vows had been sweet.
Not even half an hour later, when she had been on her way to transfer her few
belongings to Jaime's private room, Queen Cersei had suddenly grabbed hold of
her, had pulled her over into a niche (for such a comparatively short woman she
had been strong and even more determined). It had taken her less than five
minutes to break Brienne's heart into tiny little shards.
“We've been lovers since before our birth. Do you think a big, ugly cow like
you could ever mean anything more than an interim diversion for him? Sure, you
may give him an heir for Casterly Rock – but the first-born that I've given him
is already KING. And just so you know: if you ever breathe a single word of
this to anyone else you'll share late Eddard Stark's fate.”
Those had been Queen Cersei's words – and they had left Brienne a hollow shell.
She hadn't been able to deal with the truth, and she hadn't moved to Jaime's
side, as she had intended to do. And when she had told Lord Lannister that she
was with child he didn't force her to move into his son's chambers. It had also
been the spark of new life within her that had caused her to prevail. She had
told herself she had to be strong for the baby, no matter which position it
would have in society in the future. The only thing she knew was that it would
be far away from the cesspool of courtly life.
 
Jaime's love declaration in the wine sink had improved their situation again...
though some troubles had remained. It wasn't easy for her to accept that Jaime
had entertained an incestuous relationship – and with such a vicious person at
that. Another problem was that she couldn't look at the king and Prince Tommen
the same way she had done before. All she ever saw were Jaime's features.
True – with little Tommen it had become easier. After his mother had been
shipped away he had been desperate and had looked for a substitute mother.
Strangely enough, he had believed to find it in the most unlikely person:
herself. From then on, the boy had been following her everywhere and had
pestered her with his questions and his cats and his signs of affection...
Finally, she had warmed up to him and had started to spar with him in the
training yard. The Seven knew he needed some training. But he was a good lad,
and persistent at that, which was promising for his future development.
With regard to King Joffrey, things had been all the more difficult. Brienne
wouldn't have believed it to be possible, but he was much worse than even his
mother. Within his short reign he had turned into a real tyrant, and only cold-
hearted Lord Tywin had been able to keep him under control to some extent...
but even this had turned out to be an increasingly fragile state.
At the same time, public opinion about the king had deteriorated and had
reached one low point after the other.
Brienne's thoughts returned to the present, and she looked at the body again.
No wonder it had come to this. She had heard of the Bread Riots. That they had
started with some kind of cow pat that had been flung at the king and that had
struck home. This time, it had been the arrows of an assassin.
The killer had been feathered with crossbow gibs in defence, but it had already
been too late for the king – and for Margaery Tyrell as well. Shortly
afterwards, Lord Varys had been arrested and had been charged with having
pulled the strings of this murder. The execution had taken place the same day.
Now, Prince Tommen would be proclaimed king. Poor child.
Brienne looked at him, at how he was suppressing his tears. Of course, he had
not wanted to participate in the death vigil, but Lord Lannister had forced him
to do so and had ordered him to stay strong.
 
But what was Jaime thinking and feeling? Brienne looked at her husband, who was
standing a little before her. His face was stony and betrayed nothing of what
was going on behind his brow.
When the vigil was over, Tommen was finally allowed to retreat.
Brienne was feeling queasy – and not only because of her pregnancy. So she made
for the suite that she inhabited with Jaime now.
Suddenly, in a corridor outside the sept, her husband embraced her, pulled her
silently into a dark alcove and started to kiss her like mad. Brienne couldn't
believe what was going on when she realised Jaime's intimate intentions. Apart
from that, the scene when Cersei had pulled her into another niche was still
too new and raw in her mind.
So she pushed Jaime aside forcefully and hissed between clenched teeth: “What
do you think you're doing?”
Her husband's face fell, and Brienne came to understand that he didn't know how
to deal with Joffrey's death. So she took Jaime's good hand and murmured:
“We'll go into our room now, and there you'll have a good cry. My shoulders
will be strong enough for that endeavour. And you may be a proud Lannister, but
I won't allow you to mourn in the way your father does – by ignoring your grief
and by becoming cold-hearted.”
 
Jaime laughed and scoffed at her in equal measures... but no sooner had they
reached their bedroom when he broke down.
In the hours that followed, they talked about his past relationship for the
first time. How he had never been allowed to get close with Joffrey. Nor with
Tommen, for that matter.
Brienne felt hurt several times and wept, too, but at the same time, it was a
cleansing experience. Some details about the affair would likely stay a secret
forever, but she didn't really want to know all of them anyway. She and Jaime
talked about those things that mattered.
 
Much later, her husband fell asleep, completely exhausted after the vigil and
all the sorrow. Brienne found she needed some fresh air and left their suite.
In the corridor, she met Lord Tyrion, who had seemingly been on the way to
visit them.
“How's my brother?” he wanted to know.
“He's very sad and still weakened after the loss of his hand, as you know. He's
asleep now. I'll go to bed soon, too, but I need a short stroll in the garden
first.”
“Would it be possible for you to make short steps, Lady Brienne? I could
accompany you then.”
“Sure. You're welcome to escort me. I could need a friend now, to be honest.”
Lord Tyrion started to waddle along at her side, and he looked
uncharacteristically serious. They both didn't say a word, but it was an easy
silence.
 
Finally, Jaime's younger brother remarked: “You're the best that could happen
to him. After... everything.”
Brienne blushed and tried to change the topic: “I don't know. But there is one
thing that I'm convinced of.”
That earned her an arched eyebrow.
“And that is?”
“When he's awake again he'll have need of his brother.”
Tyrion put his hand on his heart in an exaggerated movement and commented, his
sarcasm igniting again: “Impossible! It'll only end with me paying another gold
dragon for transporting drunk Jaime.”
Brienne grinned and answered: “Why, isn't that a trifle for a Lion of
Lannister?”
Tyrion chortled, patted her leg and retorted: “You're not only honing your
sword, but also your tongue these days, my lady. Which means you're truly a
part of the family now.”
It was Brienne's turn to chuckle then. Her thoughts kept meandering. Sure,
there would always be some conflicts or problems to be solved... but in spite
of this, she started to see a joint future for Jaime and herself. Their love
and their wedded life weren't castles in the air any more. They had become
reality.
***** Letters *****
These thrice-damned wooden toys had made things even worse than they already
were. And they were an absolute catastrophe to begin with.
Sandor cursed. Nothing good had ever come from toys! And he should have known
what would happen once Bessie got them.
Yes, sure, Ser Cody and Ser Gilroy had only had the best intentions, but now,
Bessie was having the worst nightmares again, and she could barely sleep alone.
All the horrible things she had started to process were bubbling up again.
Seven Hells!
 
And there the horse-whispering knight was standing like a drowned rat, trying
to make excuses.
“Who would have ever thought of that? I mean, we know that Bessie is a clever
girl at times, but THIS... I've never seen a child her age do that on such a
level.”
Sandor made a dismissive gesture and sent the man away. Perhaps Ser Gilroy was
right, and what had happened could not be undone anyway – and on so many
levels. Shit, when the girl had been given the wooden letters Ser Cody had
carved for her after Ser Gilroy's instructions, Bessie had been overjoyed. She
had felt very grown up, because she had been allowed to handle letters, which
she remembered from her late uncle Oscar's bookkeeping. Quickly, she had
learned to trace the wooden letters with her fingers and to recognise them –
and in no time, she had been able to lay her name... and “Cody” and “daddy” and
“Fandor”. After she had been corrected, she had even been able to lay “Sandor”,
even if she still couldn't pronounce the word correctly. It had been incredibly
sweet – up to that point.
 
And then, the first raven had arrived. From Riverrun. From the bloody Blackfish
himself. Dark wings, dark words. Two days later, a raven with the same basic
message had arrived from the capital. Those had been the two first letters he
had read after having recovered a little from his blindness – though it had
still been horribly difficult.
Sandor couldn't see much, his field of vision was restricted, everything was
rather blurred, and his eyes grew tired soon, but it was an improvement to his
previous state nevertheless. So he had got his shit together and read those
damned messages. The Hound had been a sodding bundle of nerves ever since.
 
“The Red Wedding”, they called it. That Roose Bolton, the traitor, had met an
untimely death in the slaughter was just a cold comfort.
The Hound had known that the Freys were nothing more than of bunch of demented
dung beetles... but this, THIS! At once, it was clear that King Joffrey's
position was more or less unchallenged now, and the war with the Riverlands and
the North was more or less over – now that Robb Stark, King of the North was
dead. Sure, there were some rebellious lords left, but it was only a matter of
time until their belligerence would crumble. Winter was coming, and that would
settle all the conflicts, because a different kind of foe was lurking in the
chilly autumn air now.
On a different note, Sandor was willing to bet on his arse that the Old Lion
from the Rock had initiated the bloodbath at the Twins, under the Freys' roof.
Bleeding shit!
Brynden Tully had understood the new situation, despite the shock he must have
got, and had contacted Sandor. The Blackfish had concluded that Sansa's husband
was the best negotiator for a surrender and a peace treaty. Maybe, he assumed
that his nephew Edmure, who had survived, would be spared, if Sandor was
publicly acknowledged by the defeated House Tully as the new overlord of the
Riverlands.
 
Two days later, another raven had arrived, informing Sandor that King Joffrey
was history and that Tommen was king now. It didn't matter much, as the leading
figure and the king in all but name would remain Tywin Lannister.
 
And yet... remarkable and upsetting as these things were – they were all
eclipsed by one single question: WHERE WAS SANSA?
In Brynden Tully's letter, it had been mentioned that the Little Bird and Arya
hadn't attended the Red Wedding – and that they were neither in Riverrun. But
where on earth were they now? Where? Fuck, Sandor could imagine that the Freys
were after them now, too. Perhaps, some surviving Northerners would want to
catch them as well to use them as pawns for their own purposes – not to mention
the many cutthroats, criminals and the average war-stricken scum of the earth
that roamed the Riverlands. And what about the wolves? What if Nymeria didn't
find them before some other members of her pack did?
Sandor had panicked and sent out as many men as he could spare: most of the
remaining Holy Hundred and even some private volunteers, Gendry amongst them.
They were all searching for the lost sisters. He himself had ridden out, too,
and had stayed on horseback until he had nearly fallen off Stranger from sheer
exhaustion.
Ser Bonifer had had him dragged back to Harrenhal then and had stated in a
steely voice: “My lord, you're needed at the castle. What if your wife and Lady
Arya arrive home while we're away? Moreover, someone has to co-ordinate the
search parties, and you're the most competent one. You're the lord.”
 
Sandor had cursed like mad, but he had had to see the wisdom of his castellan.
With his restricted eyesight he was more of a burden for his men than anything
else.
And he had just arrived back home in time to discover a completely devastated
Bessie. She had thrown herself at him and sobbed and sobbed as if she had
wanted to cry her soul out – until she was so tired that she had fallen asleep
in Sandor's arms. It had taken a complete day after that to reconstruct what
had crushed her so.
 
Apparently, she hadn't been content with her wooden letters any more and had
wanted to find a new challenge. On her way, she had entered Sandor's solar, had
climbed on his chair... and had found the messages from Riverrun and King's
Landing. While the political aspects had naturally escaped her understanding
somehow she had been able to puzzle out a few very descriptive parts: “Red
Wedding”, “king”, “stabbed”, “many men”, “mass killing”, “blood”, “head chopped
off”, “wolf's head sewn onto the body”.
No wonder Bessie had reacted so strongly – all the memories of her family's
tragic, violent death had come back to her.
 
“Where'v mommy Fanfa?” she kept asking Sandor, full of fear...
… and all he could answer was a croaked: “I don't know. I don't know...”
And when they were hugging each other then, it was difficult to say who was
trying more to console whom while seeking consolation at the same time.
***** The mission *****
Chapter Notes
     Here comes a brand new chapter. Topic: How to ditch someone in Lion
     style.
***
Lord Tywin allowed himself to massage his temples for a moment. The gods knew
he was an energetic man, and even more so with regard to his age, but it had
been a long day.
First Tommen's coronation. Of course, he had participated in it for a long time
and had established new and maintained old contacts.
 
Late in the evening, he had retired to the Hand's solar with some urgent
documents he had to read. His deceased grandson had lead the realm into even
more decay than stupid Robert, so it was his, Tywin's, task now to correct as
many mistakes as soon as possible. Which was a giant task.
That Tommen had been pampered rather than educated by Cersei didn't make things
easier. At least the boy wasn't yet beyond betterment, unlike Joffrey. Tywin
had watched the child in the training yard with Jaime and his wife. Of course,
the huge woman, whose pregnancy was slowly becoming visible, was forbidden to
fight because of her state, but she had advised the lad in a constructive way.
Perhaps, the heiress of Tarth would prove to be a good match after all.
Apart from that, people were gossiping that Jaime had started secret fighting
lessons. Tywin snorted. Futile humbug! Jaime had been his sword hand, and
without it he was like an old stallion of excellent breed: only good for
reproduction. Well, at least his son had accepted his new position and task. If
only he had not taken Joffrey's death so badly. Given that he had never been
more than a distant uncle for him this reaction was the height of absurdity,
and Tywin had carpeted him accordingly.
 
And now... these news. Damn. Yes, there had been rumours before, but this
battered piece of parchment in his hands, this report from so far away beyond
the seas – it was far more concise than anything he had heard before.
True. The danger wasn't acute. Not yet. Nevertheless, the threat was
substantial enough to take certain measures. After all, Tywin wasn't as blind
as Robert, or as short-sighted as Cersei.
Dragons.
The Targaryen girl.
No, this wasn't good. At least not, if those fiery beasts belonged to an enemy.
In the right hands, however, they might prove useful. Lord Lannister wasn't
oafish Robert, who had only sought revenge and to kill this Daenaerys. Other
things could be tried out first.
 
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Tywin called.
His gargoyle of a son entered.
“Father. I'm as surprised as elated that you are wishing to see me. So I left
the coronation feast at once, as you can see.”
“What I can see is that you're drunk and a shame for the family. As usual,” he
scoffed. “Take a seat. We need to talk. For once, you might contribute
something to the greater good.”
“Might I?” Tyrion wondered, looked up at him with his mismatched eyes and
clambered onto a chair.
He hiccuped.
“You've got me thrilled now, dearest father. What is it that your crippled son
can do for you?”
Tywin hissed and handed him silently the report he had received.
Tyrion read.
His eyebrows moved upwards.
Finally, he whistled.
“No wonder you wanted the assessment of a dragon expert like me. Finally, it
pays off that I've read everything about Balerion the Black Dread and all the
others since infancy.”
Tywin fixed his son with his green eyes and stated: “You always wanted to do
some voyages and to leave Westeros. You've got your chance now. From here in
King's Landing your assessment wouldn't be nearly accurate enough.”
Tyrion gaped at him.
After a moment, he stuttered: “You... you want me to travel to Daenaerys
Targaryen and her dragons? Well..., it's flattering that you're willing to give
me the status of a diplomat; and the opportunity to see some dragons would
certainly be enticing under different circumstances, but if I assume correctly
the Targaryen girl won't be overly... well-disposed towards the Lannister
name.”
“If you don't succeed you'll make a fine torch,” Tywin retorted. “So better
don't fail the family and the Seven Kingdoms again. This Daenaerys will pose a
serious threat to the fragile peace that has just been reached.”
“Reached by slaughtering the Young Wolf and his whole entourage, you mean.”
Tywin didn't even feel the necessity to react to that sneer and went on: “By
the way, Tyrion – you haven't grasped your task completely yet. Yes, you're
supposed to travel to that young woman and to appease her. But you still
haven't come to the conclusion what the royal policy comprises to reach this
aim.”
Tyrion furrowed his brow and didn't know in his stupor what Tywin was aiming
at. So much as to the alleged cleverness of his younger son.
Lord Lannister rolled his eyes, then fixed his gaze on Tyrion again and spoke
slowly and very clearly: “You will travel to Daenaerys Targaryen. And you will
marry her.”
***** Killing *****
Chapter Notes
     Uuuh, let's put it like this... this will be a hard read now. I've
     pondered this quite a bit, that's all I can bring forth as an excuse.
     Warning for violence and blood/gore. Very dark and lots of pain,
     mentally and physically.
***
Sandor had just been talking to blind Brent after a staff training fight. Even
if Sandor could see again – at least a little – he was still intent on sparring
with the commoner. It helped to keep his senses sharp, and moreover, Brent was
a friendly fellow. So was his dog Salmon.

Bessie often tried to ride on the big dog, and the animal was so good-natured
that it endured all of her cuddles and playful pranks.

“Like me,” Sandor often thought.
 
 
He was ruffling the dog's fur and discussing a series of movements he thought
he still had to improve – when suddenly Ser Bonifer approached him.

His castellan looked excited.

“What is it?” Sandor inquired.

“We've got one!” Ser Bonifer called.

“What do you mean – we've got one? Sansa? Arya?”

At once, Sandor's skin was tingling and his heart was beating faster.

To his dismay, Ser Bonifer's face fell at once, and he answered: “No, I'm
sorry. But we've caught one of the bandits in the woods.”

True enough, Sandor was disappointed that there were no news about the Little
Bird and her bratty sister, but this was thrilling nevertheless. He had never
forgotten the men who had murdered Bessie's family.
 
 
With long strides he made for the main yard and ordered Ser Bonifer to speak:
“What happened? Tell me more!”

The man was only too willing to comply: “Some of our men were ambushed in the
woods by some of these criminal bastards. Cellion, the new lad from the
stables, was killed, but we others managed to beat them back. Three of them
died. Unfortunately, the others escaped – apart from one thug. Got an arrow in
his leg and couldn't escape.”
 
 
The words of his castellan unleashed the beast within Sandor that had been
dormant ever since he had flogged Ser Armory Lorch after his arrival in
Harrenhal.

Interestingly enough, the bandit had been bound to a pole by his men, and they
seemed to assume that their Lord wanted to repeat this mode of action. Sandor
looked the man up and down.

He was tall – though not as tall as himself – and haggard. He had matted, red-
brown hair, a spiky nose and vaulted eyebrows. When the Hound saw his watery
eyes, they reminded him at once of his brother Gregor: they were cruel, void of
any human emotion, eyes that had seen murders and rapes by the dozens from a
first-person point of view... and had not cared one whit, but rather enjoyed
inflicting pain.
 
 
Suddenly, Sandor was a little boy again, a child who had taken his brother's
toy to play with it, and who had been punished by being held to a fiery iron
grate, until his face had melted.

Sandor shook his head like a wet dog to suppress these evil memories.

He rasped: “You! Scum of the earth! Do you belong to the men who infest the
Kingsroad?”

No answer. At least no verbal one. The man tried to turn around and to spit at
Sandor.

In response, the Hound drove his fist into the man's side, and he pitied it
that he hadn't thought of putting on a gauntlet.

The scoundrel grunted.

Sandor tried it again: “Some time ago, a family was murdered on the Kingsroad.
The adults, who were hanged, had some children with them. What happened to the
children?”

The man croaked a vicious laughter and showed his bad teeth.

“We fucked them all to death.”

Sandor didn't believe one moment that this was the truth – the man was just
playing with him.

“Ser Bonifer? Your gauntlet.”

A moment later, there was the crunching sound of breaking ribs to be heard, and
the criminal hissed in pain.

Sandor made another attempt: “Did you or your men come across a beautiful,
young redhead of a woman and her boyish sister in the woods?”

“Fucked them to death,” the knave ground out between clenched teeth.

Sandor's next punch broke the man's spiky nose.
 
 
“I don't think that this beating will work,” Ser Bonifer mused at Sandor's
side.

“You're right,” the Hound growled. “And the children don't need to see what
will happen next. Take him to the dungeons and prepare a pail for me. It might
happen I'll puke while I'm making him talk.”

His castellan looked at him and asked hesitantly: “What are you going to do, my
lord?”

Sandor felt utter turmoil in his intestines when he answered: “I'm going to
make his skin burn.”
 
 
***
Sansa was cursing inwardly, and for once, she used some of her husband's most
vivid phrases. Of course, their moon blood was pestering them on their journey
– just when they really had no use for this kind of affliction... and just as
naturally, it was even worse than normally. At first, it had started with Arya.
Her severe cramps had slowed down their progress, and they had had to pause
against their will several times.
And now that Arya was just getting better – the same ailment had befallen
Sansa. At one point, she had wept in anger and despair: “I can't imagine how
the labour of giving birth can be any worse. Gods! I'm dying! And I thought I
had known pain from the beatings in King's Landing!”

To make things worse, the nights were chilly and wet, and she and Arya had to
huddle together as best they could. Luckily, Arya managed to kindle a fire most
of the time, and Sansa learned from her how to do it.

She was also relieved that she had cut her hair and dyed it a dark brown
directly before leaving Riverrun. Much as she missed her tresses this was far
more practical. Sandor wouldn't care, once they were back. He'd understand.
After all, he was a practical man, too, even far more than herself.
 
 
“Arya, I'm sorry. I feel I need to arrange myself again, and I've spotted a
little rivulet over there.”

Her sister sighed.

“All right. Let's make camp. Actually, it's a good idea. It's late anyway. I'll
go get some wood while you're in the bushes.”
 
 
No sooner said than done.

They tethered the horses to a tree, and Sansa aimed for the rivulet to clean
her dirty bandages as best she could here in the wild.
 
She was just coming back back to their makeshift camp when she heard a nearby
scream.

At once, her heartbeat accelerated.

Arya!

She reacted quickly and got out her dagger and her throwing knife. She was
still a beginner when it came to fighting, but the Blackfish had taught them
both as much as he could during their time in Riverrun – and against the
others' misgivings.

Swiftly, she darted into the direction where the sound had come from.

Arya screamed again – and this was followed by some kind of creepy gurgling.

Sansa was practically flying now and broke into a little clearing.

There was her sister!

She was lying on the ground... and a wild-looking man was directly above her!
Arya had seemingly stabbed his thigh, but it wasn't enough, and now, her
opposition looked strangely weak.
 
 
“ARYAAAAA!” Sansa yelled, not being able to contain her fear.

On hearing her, the man got up and turned around. He was grey-haired and half
bald besides, an ear was missing, and he had a big wart under his left eye. His
clothes were ragged, and he was holding a knife with a red blade.

At seeing the blood on the weapon Sansa completely lost it. Without even
thinking she flung her own throwing knife... and with all her beginner's luck
she struck home. The next moment, the knife was protruding from the attacker's
neck.
 
 
The man's eyes widened in confusion – and then, they broke. He made a gurgling
sound, too, and fell to the ground.

“Aryaaa!” Sansa whined again and took a few trembling steps towards her sister.

Arya was twitching madly and making strange sputtering, painful sounds... and
there was blood all over her face. The next moment, she went limb and lost her
consciousness.

“NOOOoooo, nononononono!” Sansa screamed, sank onto her knees and crawled
forward on all fours.

Birds were fluttering into the sky. Sansa was back at Baelor's Sept. Blood!
Blood! Gods, no!

Clumsily, she cradled Arya in her lap. Strangely enough, her sister's head was
still attached to her torso, and that caused Sansa's mind to return to the
present.

She looked more closely.

Realised what had happened.

Wept.

And dragged her sister back to the camp with a strength she had not known she
possessed.
 
 
***
The fire was burning brightly. Sandor felt already sick, but his mind was set.
Ser Cody, Ser Gilroy, Ser Bonifer and Gendry were at his side. The young smith
was green in the face as well.

They were in the dungeons of Harrenhal.

The bandit was hanging down from some metal rings on the wall. For the first
time, Sandor noticed a glint of fear in his eyes.

“I'm asking you again. Do you know anything about the missing children from the
Kingsroad? Do you know anything about the two young women in the woods?”

“Fucked them to death,” he repeated stubbornly.
 
 
Sandor sighed.

“Gendry, hand me the branding iron,” he finally ordered.

The metal was glowing red hot in the semidarkness.

The man's eyes bulged, and he pissed himself in fear. But he didn't say a word.

Sandor uttered a curse... and pressed the iron on the bandit's naked chest.
 
 
Howling.

The smell of burned hair and flesh and piss.

Sandor grabbed the pail that had been prepared for him and retched.

This wasn't him. He didn't mind killing, but he was no devotee when it came to
torturing people. Least of all in this way. Then, he thought of Bessie's
parents. Of Sansa and Arya.

He wiped his mouth and put the branding iron back into the fire.
 
 
“Let's try it again. Can you tell us anything about the children or the young
women?”

“...f-f-f-fucked...,” was all the man produced.

Sandor took the branding iron again and held it up. This time, the knave lost
control over his bowels and added more to the stink in the dungeon chamber.

But that was it. No information.

Sandor gritted his teeth. The Seven fuck him sideways, why didn't the scoundrel
make an end to it and spilled the beans?

After another second, the Hound pressed the iron onto the flesh a second time.
 
 
Half an hour later, the man was dead. But they had been at least partly
successful. It had been Ser Gilroy who had coaxed some fragments of information
from the dying man's lips: the bandit had known nothing about Sansa and Arya,
but about the lost children: they had been sold to slave traders and had likely
already left Westeros for the Free Cities.
 
 
Sandor's movements were wooden when he re-emerged to the surface. Like a
sleepwalker he made it to the baths and cleaned himself.

Afterwards, he addressed Ser Bonifer in a hollow voice: “I... can't meet Bessie
today. And I need something now. My body is demanding some bloody wine, but I
can't drink. I mustn't. I need... something else.”

His castellan, who was also rather shaken after what they had experienced,
cleared his throat and replied: “We've got some milk of the poppy, my lord.”

“I hate that stuff – but it'll have to do now. I'll retire at once.”
 
 
With leaden steps he aimed for his bedroom.

He remembered that once he had said to Sansa that killing was the sweetest
thing, but he had been wrong. It was the victory that was sweet – not the
killing.

Today, he had ended a life. He had even been successful. But it had been no
victory. Today, death had only tasted like vomit.
***** Peace negotiations (I) *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
***
Ser Kevan looked ahead, at the charred towers of Harrenhal that were emerging
on the horizon. It was raining lightly, so he couldn't wait to get some dry
clothes and to feel the warmth of a hearth fire on his skin.
He thought of Tywin's instructions, and he was as curious as his brother about
what he'd find in the big castle that had only ever been a white elephant for
any other lord who had held it.
Ser Bonifer's messages, however, had sounded surprisingly different. According
to the man, Harrenhal had started to turn into a busy beehive, in spite of
Sandor Clegane's blindness. With the last raven Kevan had learned of in the
capital news had reached them that the Hound's affliction had even improved a
little bit.
Sansa Stark's influence had allegedly crept into the sooty, cracked walls as
well, if the pious castellan was right: everywhere else in the Riverlands there
was nothing else but scorched earth from all the war that had been waged in the
region, but here, people seemed to be preparing for the impending winter.
Sansa Stark. Sandor Clegane. There mere thought of them being married (and
supposedly even happy, if the rumours were correct) had never ceased to
astonish Ser Kevan; he was asking himself just how loyal the Hound still was to
King's Landing and the Iron Throne. True, thanks to Clegane Jaime had come
back, but at the same time, Lady Sansa – and Arya Stark as well – had been
allowed to leave the royal sphere and had been sent back to their traitorous
family.
And the Hound had made that crucial decision himself, not the king or his Hand,
which was the vital point here. Clegane had always behaved sectionally – the
good question was now whether he had come to like the power of a lord, and
whether he was turning into an incalculable risk. Kevan had discussed these
things with Tywin in depth, and he had been given the permission to eliminate
any possible danger in any way Kevan deemed necessary.
 
Slowly, his thoughts turned to recent events and the reason why they were now
in the position to talk about peace. Robb Stark's death had opened up
completely new possibilities.
Harsh as the episode with the Red Wedding had been – it had been a logical,
even necessary move from Tywin's side, and for the realm it was better that the
Stark family had been nearly wiped out. The war had to be ended, and this had
been the swiftest option. The Seven Kingdoms had to recover. It had been a
horrible cut, but the worst was hopefully over now.
Ser Kevan thought of his deceased son, who had fallen victim to the war as
well. Yes, the fighting had taken a bloody toll from the people, noblemen and
commoners alike, he thought bitterly. Now, he'd be able to travel to Riverrun
for the peace negotiations – to where his son had died. It was painful, but he
hoped it would also help him, that it would be some kind of last farewell.
 
There had been so many farewells lately. Tyrion had left and would surely end
up as a dragon snack... if he ever managed to reach these beasts in the first
place.
Kevan shook his head; the way Tywin had always treated his younger son was
wrong, perhaps his brother's greatest mistake, but it had been futile to try to
sway Ty's attitude. Genna had burned her fingers once by trying to do so.
Bringing up children the wrong way seemed to run in the family, if he was
honest. One only needed to think of Cersei and the way she had spoiled her
sons. In a way, Joffrey had been the Lannister answer to mad King Aerys. Kevan
was sorry to have lost a grand-nephew, but given the way the lad had developed
perhaps it would be easier for the future peace that the one who had ordered
Eddard Stark's death was gone now, too.
And Tommen? Kevan snorted. Cersei had stuffed the boy with food and toys in the
form of kittens, instead of educating him and of furthering his strength and
intelligence. As a mother she had failed.
 
Well, perhaps Tommen would have a chance to develop better now; he seemed to
have a good core. It was what gave Kevan hope.
When Jaime had returned home without his sword hand things had still looked
bleak, but now...
His nephew's unalluring, huge warrior wife had seemed to be a curio at first,
but the woman had truly started to prove her worth.
 
Kevan smiled. Lady Brienne was becoming rounder and heavier with child by the
day, even radiant somehow. The love between her and Jaime was obviously mutual
– and still growing. What was more, she had taken to Tommen, and had become
something akin to a female tutor and a trainer. Tommen was already clinging to
her like a duckling to his mother, and the initially reluctant woman had opened
up. It was a heart-warming sight.
Kevan had heard the gossip about the boy's pedigree, and the rumours were
obviously well-founded. After Cersei had been shipped off to Braavos he had
encountered his completely drunk and hysterical son Lancel in his room. At
first, Kevan had been confused of why the lad had been so shaken... until the
boy's sobs about Cersei's departure had started to sound ambiguous, and
finally, it had turned out that he had lain with the queen.
 
Kevan shuddered. If Cersei could bed one relative it was indeed likely that she
had been with Jaime as well. Bah. Another parallel to the Targaryens. At least,
Jaime seemed to have freed himself from the clutches of the past. He was slowly
becoming, well, perhaps not a glorious, but a decent swordsman with his left
hand, and he and Brienne were taking care of Tommen's development. So was
Tywin, in his own, intellectual, tactical way. Perhaps things were really
improving for the Seven Kingdoms now.
If the gods were generous, perhaps Kevan could soon return to Casterly Rock. To
Dorna and his infant daughter Janei.
The day's travelling had exhausted him, but the thought of returning to his
family gave Kevan new strength, and he urged his courser and his men into a
faster trot.
 
It was nearly sunset when they finally arrived at the castle bridge, which had
already been lowered for them.
While they were heading for the stables Kevan's eyes became big and round.
No, Ser Bonifer had not exaggerated. Not even during the tournament of
Harrenhal had the castle been thriving with so much positive energy. People
were hustling and bustling around, and they looked healthier and more content
than the commoners he had seen on his way here.
 
Finally, they all arrived at the stables, and Kevan was relieved that the
voyage was over for the time being. People were already gathering to welcome
them.
And there was Ser Bonifer emerging from one tower. To Kevan's surprise the
stork-legged castellan was carrying a dark-haired little girl in his arms.
In spite of his burden, Ser Bonifer greeted him with a deep bow while Kevan was
dismounting. The combination of the man's reverent behaviour and the child
clinging to him looked a bit absurd, but unlike Tywin Kevan didn't take offence
in such a weird display.
The girl seemed to be torn between tiredness and interest in the arrivals.
Then, she pointed at him and opened her mouth: “Fer Bonifer – who've vat fick
man?”
All around him, his men were suddenly having a hard time to stifle their
laughter, and Kevan, who normally couldn't be shaken so easily, actually
blushed.
At least the castellan had the decency to react in the same way, and he hissed:
“Bessie, you can't say that...”
“What'f fo funny?”
The girl hadn't even listened, and her face said clearly: “I don't know why
they're all laughing, but I must have said something good.”
And she smiled smugly, thus eliciting even more sounds of levity.
The girl started to struggle, left Ser Bonifer's arms and came over to him, her
index finger in her little mouth.
With all the grace of a Lion of Lannister Kevan could muster he went to one
knee and asked in a strict voice that barely covered the grin that threatened
to spread on his face in spite of everything and purred: “Won't you tell me
your name first, little lady?”
The girl giggled and answered, alongside with a clumsy child's version of a
curtsy: “My name'v Beffie.”
“I see. My name is Ser Kevan Lannister.”
“Oh! Fer Wayme'v uncle! Daddy hav talked about you! Nife to meet you.”
And then, she grabbed his hand unceremoniously and shook it like a comrade-in-
arms.
Ser Kevan was dumbfounded, and Ser Bonifer looked so embarrassed now that he
seemed to want to sink into ground.
 
Suddenly, there was a dark, raspy, but also rather exhilarated voice behind
them: “Ah, as I can see you're already getting to know Harrenhal's sweetest and
most effective weapon, Ser Kevan. Be careful. Little Bessie can see into the
future. She knew Ser Jaime would end up as Lady Brienne's partner before anyone
else.”
With a puffing sound Ser Kevan rose again and turned around.
 
What happened next was something his brain refused to grasp.
At once, the girl let go of his hand and squealed in delight: “Daddy Fandor!”
Then, she threw herself into the huge, ugly, scarred man's arms. And the Hound,
who Ser Kevan had only ever known as an aggressive, gloomy man... he was
laughing freely.
 
Even after their greeting, while they were walking up the steps to the lord's
solar where they were supposed to have dinner together Kevan still couldn't get
it.
This man – he still looked like Sandor Clegane. The Hound. Just gaunter.
Yet... even within these short moments it had become clear that he wasn't the
same any more. This man wasn't a beast, a ruffian who tried to embody the
animal that appeared in his sigil. The puzzle that still had to be solved was:
who was Sandor Clegane now?
Chapter End Notes
     I've never written Kevan before, so it was difficult for me to write
     his POV. But the thing is that I felt Kevan would be more suitable in
     a diplomatic situation than Jaime, especially in this context, plus I
     didn't want to seperate him from Brienne.
     Well, Kevan is supposed to be intelligent, even if he's not as bright
     as Tywin, and maybe, he's not as harsh as his brother, but he's still
     a Lannister. I don't know, writing this felt like doing the splits...
***** Sisters (II) *****
***
Sansa still had crying fits since she felt so helpless in the face of the
calamity that had befallen Arya. At first, it had looked as if her little
sister would bleed to death. Sansa had also seen the tongue that had been cut
out of Arya's mouth and that had been lying on the ground. That and her second
kill had caused Sansa to vomit violently into the next bush, and she was still
seized by heaving spasms now and again.
At the same time, Sansa had developed a physical strength she hadn't thought
herself capable of. She hadn't wanted her sister to die where she had been
struck down and had pulled her over to where their horses were still tethered.
 
Next, she had walked over to the body of the scoundrel, who had assaulted them.
Sansa was still appalled by death and didn't act on the impulse, but for the
first time in her life she had the feeling she needed to stab at this monster
like a madwoman – much like her husband would have done in a similar situation,
if Sansa had been wounded.
Instead, she sifted through the man's clothes the way she had learned to do it
from Sandor after she had killed the assassin back in that forsaken inn. This
time, her findings were interesting. No, the man wasn't carrying a heavy purse
like the other one had, but he was wearing the tattered ruins of a tunic with
the flayed man of the Dreadfort. And he had already been wounded even before he
had met his well-deserved end. There had been a cut that had started to fester
and some dried blood.
Had Sansa not been so upset she would have thought more about the mysterious
situation, but as it was she could only think of Arya, and she returned to her
sister's side. To her surprise, the bleeding was slowly starting to stop, but
Arya was twitching weakly and whimpering.
Sansa started to weep again, cradled her gently and sobbed: “Shshshsh, the bad
man is dead. He can't do anything to us any more. Now, you have to be strong.
Do you hear me, Arya? Show me you're the stubborn, strong direwolf you have
always been. You're a Stark. You're strong. Do you hear me? You'll survive!”
There was a faint whimper. And also the tiniest of nods. It caused Sansa's
heart to swell with pride for her sister.
 
However, she had to think things through now. What would Sandor do and say in
such a situation? What would he say...?
“Think! Think! Don't be a frightened little bird again!” Sansa chided herself.
Suddenly, it was as if she could hear the grating steel-on-stone voice of her
beloved right next to her: “That bloody bugger is dead, yes, but the danger
isn't over. Where there's one of his kind there might be another. And think of
the wild animals. They'll be here soon to feast on the flesh of the carcass.
Better get away from this place.”
 
Yes.
Sansa nodded.
Yes, this was true.
They had to get away from here, and quickly so.
The big problem was now that they had two horses, but there was no way Arya
could mount her steed on her own. Sansa couldn't heave her onto the beast's
back either. And of course, there were no rocks or overhanging hills or fallen
trees nearby that might have helped them.
Again, there was Sandor's voice in her ear, swearing all the ungodly curses he
had at his command.
 
Well.
Sansa squared her shoulders.
There was only one way.
“Arya, do you hear me?”
“Hnnng...”
Sweet Mother, he voice sounded so week! Another tear spilled down Sansa's
cheek.
“Arya, you must help me. I know you can't walk, so I'll carry you to a safe
place. But you must hold the horses' reins for us. Can you do that?”
Another tiny nod.
“Good. You're wonderful, Arya. A true wolf from Winterfell. Let's go!”
 
By nightfall, Sansa didn't only weep from sorrow about her sister's mutilation,
but also from sheer exhaustion. It was good that she had started to train with
her great-uncle Brynden while she had still been in Riverrun, but the time had
been short and she wasn't physically strong. There had certainly been nothing
elegant in the way she had torn at her sister's body, but she had had no
alternative. Sandor would have known how to make a stretcher that could have
been dragged by a horse, but she didn't.
The process of dragging Arya further and further away from the dead attacker
had cost her all her strength. Sansa wasn't sure, if they had gotten far
enough, and she was sure they had left an obvious track for any possible enemy.
Yet, Sansa couldn't help it. She wouldn't abandon her sister, and she had done
everything she could.
 
Finally, Sansa had discovered a number of huge rocks that looked as if some
giants had tried to build a chart house. It wasn't a deep cave, but there was
enough of an opening at the base that it would serve as some kind of shelter
for the night for the two humans.
At once, Sansa started to prepare everything, no matter how tired she was: she
arranged the bedrolls for Arya and herself and collected some wood next. They
needed a good fire against the wild animals. Of course, they would be easily
visible for any human who might chance upon them, but it was either one risk or
the other, and Sansa needed some warm food and didn't want Arya to catch a cold
on top of everything else; they'd both still need their strength.
 
Fortunately, Sansa had learned some elemental survival techniques by now, for
example how to build and to kindle a fire. They were lucky that there was a
spring nearby, and they head clear, fresh water. Yet, Sansa cooked it in a
little pot first and let it cool off before she tried to feed it to her sister.
Maester Luwin had once told her that wounds had to be kept clean, and that hot
water and hot iron were the cleanest things for some strange reason, and that
this was also the reason why red-hot iron was used, for example, to cauterize
some injuries. Sansa yearned for the old maester to be with them, but that was
only wishful thinking, of course.
 
Yet, another thing became obvious that Sansa had never thought of before: Arya
was having problems to drink, which was no wonder without a tongue. Once, she
nearly chocked on a sip, and Sansa suddenly remembered Ser Ilyn Payne.
The mere thought of the mute man made who had beheaded her father made her feel
nauseous, but she forced herself once more to think in practical terms.
Was Ser Ilyn's handicap exactly the same as Arya's? Did he have some special
eating and drinking techniques? She had never paid any attention to this
detail, and now, she berated herself for it. Well, at least Arya could read and
write. It wouldn't help her much around servants, but she could still
communicate in detail with educated people.
 
But why was she thinking ahead?
Sansa shook her head. They had to survive the night. And the day after. They
could only start to think about the future once they had arrived at Harrenhal.
Once she was back in Sandor's arms. Sandor...
It was the last thing that crossed Sansa's mind before she dozed off in her
bedroll.
 
Fortunately, there were neither any wild animals nor any humans that threatened
them at night. However, there was another kind of enemy that attacked them in a
far stealthier way. When Sansa awoke the next morning, she had to realise with
a shock that in spite of her best efforts Arya was glowing with a fever.
***** All these changes... *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning for public J/B sex in the second part of the chapter.
***
Kevan had thought that this feeling of disorientation that he was suffering
from since his arrival in Harrenhal would abate after an hour or two. Instead,
it had intensified.
It had a lot to do with Sandor Clegane sitting at their dinner table in front
of him – with this girl on his knees. Kevan had watched the Hound hand her
pieces of bread or his own, heavy tankard... only the tankard had been filled
with neither beer nor wine, but with milk. Milk! And now, this little Bessie
had fallen asleep right where she was, with her face buried against Clegane's
chest and his huge paws combing gently through her locks.
To Kevan the possibility that the Hound could hold a child without crushing it
was a small wonder. But then, he remembered how the man had been Joffrey's
shield, how he had been around Cersei's children for so many years. Kevan tried
to remember a moment when any of the three children had complained about the
Hound actually hurting them... but come to think of it, there had been no such
incident. Perhaps Sandor Clegane was better with children than anyone had
expected.
 
In a slightly subdued voice, so as not to wake the child, the Hound ended their
previous small talk and began: “I hope you don't mind our lack of formality,
Ser Kevan. We've been in a very tight situation here, what with the castle and
the war around. We've got no time for bowing and scraping. Honest respect is
supposed to be enough here.”
Ser Kevan bethought himself for a moment and answered: “If this is your way of
handling things... and I must say that you have already achieved a lot. I've
seen the rest of the Riverlands. You seem to be very effective here.”
“Thanks to Ser Bonifer and his men. Lord Tywin chose wisely when he sent them
here for my aid.”
Kevan nodded in Bessie's direction.
“What about her? Is she really yours?”
“Now she is.”
“I didn't know you had any bastards, Clegane.”
“As a matter of fact, I don't know, if I have any, but Bessie isn't one of
them. She was an orphan. Now, she's everybody's darling.”
“Obviously, obviously.”
 
If Kevan was honest he was starting to envy the Hound. It wasn't common for a
lord to be so extremely close to his children. They probably spent some time
together, yes, but feeding a child or cradling it was the mother's duty at
best; more often, it was the wetnurse who did these things. Kevan had never
held his sons like that. No man did such an allegedly effeminate thing.
Yet, there was Sandor Clegane, one of the most fearsome killers in Westeros,
and not caring one whit about decorum – and suddenly, all Kevan could think of
was his little Janei and that he wanted to hold her like that, too. Did his
daughter still remember him after such a long time? Probably not. Damn, he had
to do something about that. But there was one last big task that had to come
first.
 
So he continued their conversation: “How's your eyesight, Clegane?”
“I'm not completely blind any more, but my vision is blurred, and it's as if I
were a horse with blinkers. I've got considerable blind angles. Still, I'm
relieved about the improvement, small as it is.”
“Ah. So I guess we won't see you on the battlefield again any time soon.”
“Likely not.”
That was a pity in Kevan's eyes, because the Hound's fighting prowess was
invaluable – thus, it was even better that the war was over and that they
didn't have to count on the man as a warrior any more.
With a nod he replied: “Well, but I hope you're willing to serve your king in
other ways.”
“Haven't I already done so by arranging the liberation of your nephew?”
Kevan scratched his beard thoughtfully.
 
“One might see it like that, but I'm still not quite sure of what to make of
Lady Sansa's and Lady Arya's absence.”
Suddenly, there was an expression of incredible pain on the Hound's scarred
features.
“Tywin looked like that when he had lost Joanna,” Kevan couldn't help but
think, and it became clear that whatever the Hound had done – he had not acted,
because he considered himself to be a lord striving for more power in the Game
of Thrones.
 
“I sent her away, because I was hoping she'd be able to initiate some
conciliatory tendencies between the north and the south. But that's not
important any more, now that the Young Wolf is dead.”
“Indeed. I've heard that the Blackfish has contacted you for some
negotiations.”
“It's true. I guess that my wife has influenced him, so that he is more willing
to bring this to a decent ending.”
“How very fortunate. But let me ask you – where is Lady Sansa now?”
Again this facial expression of utter pain.
 
“I... I don't know,” Clegane whispered.
“What do you mean, Hound?”
“Sansa... and Arya... they left Riverrun under cover of darkness right after
Robb Stark's departure. And now they have... disappeared.”
 
Well, that was an alarming detail.
So Kevan asked: “You mean – the Blackfish's offer is just a charade, some kind
of trap, and the girls are withdrawing to regroup the northern forces?”
In answer to that the Hound looked first completely shocked, then furious.
“Sansa would never betray me!” he hissed.
He sounded so vicious all of a sudden that Kevan was sure he would have
hollered like a madman, had the girl not been sleeping in his arms.
 
Well, if he had needed any proof that the Hound might be in love with the Stark
girl he only had to look into the man's face now.
“What else could the disappearance of your wife and her sister mean then,
Clegane?”
 
The Hound looked as if he was being drawn and quartered, so intense was his
grief.
“Something must have happened to them,” the Hound finally uttered in a breaking
voice.
Kevan had never felt much for his niece's Dog. Gods, the man's grandfather had
been a simple kennelmaster, and Gregor, the Hound's brother had only added to
the sense of revulsion whenever he had heard the name “Clegane” – and yet,
Kevan suddenly felt the urge to console this haunted man. But there was nothing
he could do.
“Let's hope for the best. Who knows, perhaps they'll turn up all of sudden, and
with a wondrous explanation for their delay.”
That was all Kevan could offer.
Sandor Clegane snorted and looked away.
 
After a moment, he said in a low, strange voice: “Who would have ever thought
that a lion might try to cheer up a dog one day. Or rather a mole. “Lord Mole”
– that's what people call me now, did you know that?”
“No, I didn't. But judging by the way you're looking I won't be able to take
you along with me to Riverrun like I had planned. Well, I guess I've got to do
my best to negotiate with this sly Brynden Blackfish on my own.
By the way, there will be an escort from the twins in a few days. The Lord Hand
ordered Edmure Tully to be brought here... until he might be sent back to
Riverrun in a coffin... or alive to the capital. I guess it's most likely that
he'll become a hostage in King's Landing. The Lord Hand and I would prefer the
latter option for various reasons.”
Clegane seemed to be getting a grip on himself again, though slowly, and he
rasped: “I'd prefer the latter option for my own reasons. He's kind of family
now, whether I bloody like it or not.”
“I understand.”
 
Kevan paused for a moment. Then, he went on: “By the way – I wanted to tell you
something more. Amongst the people who have arrived here is a maester from
Oldtown. His name is Dystan. He's still rather young, and this is his first
appointment after having earned his chain segments. He'll accompany me to the
negotiations to Riverun, but when these things have been settled he's supposed
to stay in Harrenhal. At your disposal.”
 
Clegane was surprised.
“Now that's a piece of good news I'm very willing to hear. There are so many
people who are ill when they arrive here. Sometimes, there are also accidents.
Small wonder, given all the work that is being done here at the moment. My
thanks, Ser Kevan.”
“Now who would have ever thought that: the Hound is turning into a lord – and
even into one who is thinking of his subordinates. That doesn't sound like the
warrior who was swearing about the “poxy commoners” any more after a whore had
declined him because of his looks.”
 
Suddenly, the sleeping girl stirred in the Hound's embrace.
“Daddy,” she mumbled and yawned and even gave Clegane a kiss.
“Yes, love. I'm here. You're tired, aren't you? Wait, let me call Ser Cody.
He's just outside on his post and will take you to bed.”
 
Two minutes later, the girl was gone.
Ser Kevan tried a little jape: “A male nanny in armour. What on earth shall I
tell the Lord Hand!?”
“Tell him that some things are done here in Harrenhal style.”
Kevan chuckled: “Well, that sounds like an adequate answer. What do you think
now, Clegane, won't you invite me for a flask of Dornish sour or two?”
 
To his surprise, the handicapped warrior suddenly became very serious once
more. The painful expression returned, but this time, it was accompanied by
some kind of... solemnness.
“Ser Kevan, you may have your wine, of course, but I'd rather leave you alone
then. You see, when I left King's Landing I couldn't live without Dornish red,
and it would have surely been my ruin; but with my wife's help I could overcome
this weakness. I see it as some kind of gift from her side. I won't give that
up.”
 
Kevan's newly-developed respect for Sandor Clegane increased some more on
hearing these words.
He clapped the man on his broad shoulder's and replied: “In that case I'll join
you on your milk binge as well. What do you say – is this vintage
recommendable?”
Finally, he managed to elicit a short, sharp laughter from the Hound.
“Indeed, Ser Kevan. I can offer you cow flavour, smooth like Arbor gold, and
goat flavour, very strong and heavy. The milk version of Dornish red.”
Both men laughed, and Ser Kevan thought that probably the Seven Kingdoms had
lost a good fighter, but they had won a good man.
 
***
Brienne was looking out of the window of her bedroom. Surely, she was watching
the last men finish their sword training down in the pit. The wench was still
refusing to wear dresses, even though she was round and heavy from her
pregnancy now.
 
Jaime stepped behind her, kissed the freckled nape of her neck and looked out
as well.
“Ser Lynden is slowly improving his step sequences,” Brienne stated.
“Sure,” Jaime agreed, “he already looks a bit less like a blind walrus.”
“Says a lion short a paw,” Brienne retorted.
Jaime laughed. Finally, he WAS able to laugh about these things, even if his
handicap was still nasty in many situations.
 
Suddenly, he felt Brienne rub her backside against him.
“Whohoo, here we go again,” he thought.
The shy Brienne he had come to know at Riverrun, who had been an insecure,
blushing maid, had disappeared. Perhaps it was her pregnancy, but with the
swell of her belly her need for getting fucked properly had increased in equal
measures. She had also become more sensitive, for example with regard to her
teats. Her breasts were small, but they had started to grow a little. Still,
she didn't need the support of any supportive camisoles or corsets, which meant
that he continued to have free access to her body – and that was something he
enjoyed greatly.
 
They had already fucked twice in the morning, but obviously her appetite was on
the rise again. Ever the dutiful husband, he dipped his good hand into her
breeches, and his index finger further into her centre. The window sill was
high enough so that his caresses couldn't be seen from below, even if their
upper body parts were visible.
“Jaime!” Brienne whispered. “You're impossible.”
“And you're a very wet wench and in great need,” he murmured into her ear.
 
It was weird – when he had been Cersei's lover he had always considered himself
passionate and their couplings outrageous. The truth was, however, that what
had happened then paled in comparison to what he had with Brienne now. He had
never fucked so often in his life. And he had never been so incredibly...
obvious about it. With Cersei there had only ever been stolen moments. In
contrast to that it was his right to bed Brienne as often as he – or rather: as
they – wanted. And nobody gave a wet fart about whether they did it and how
often and in which way. Holy seven, was that great!
 
Jaime grinned. Brienne was literally dancing on his finger by now, and he
served her as best he could with his left hand so that their movements could
stay inconspicuous, just in case someone cared to look up at their window.
“Good, wench?” he murmured and crooked his finger.
Brienne gasped, and her response was everything Jaime wanted to hear: “More!”
She was already loosening the laces of her breeches, and her eagerness caused
him to chuckle. Had anyone ever told him in the baths of Harrenhal that this
woman could become so confident in this respect he'd have recommended the royal
jester's post to that person.
 
Meanwhile, both their breeches fell down on the floor, and Brienne leaned a bit
forward, onto the window sill. With a contented little grunt Jaime slid into
her, and his wench uttered the tiniest moan. Oh, this was good! So good!
They had tested this position before, and it had its advantages: Brienne's
belly wasn't in the way, and she felt comfortable; at the same time, Jaime
didn't have to prop up his body, which was always a bit difficult due to his
missing hand, and he could still reach around her with both arms. He could even
caress her with his remaining fingers, something his wife enjoyed increasingly
since his fingers had become nimbler with practice.
 
Exposed as they were they barely moved, but that didn't matter much. After
their joyful jousts in the morning Jaime found it easy enough to control
himself now. Apart from that, it helped to prolong the sweet procedure. By now,
he knew exactly where Brienne was most sensitive, and with the subdued thrusts
he allowed themselves he teased her mercilessly.
His wife's cheeks were bright red now, and the colour kept creeping down her
neck. It looked so good that he simply had to nibble at her freckled skin
again.
 
“Was this what you were aiming for?” he asked and smirked.
“Gods, Jaime, if anyone looks up!”
“If anyone looks up he or she will only see that I'm cherishing and adoring my
wife. As it is my goddamned right.”
 
For a while, they simply looked down at the training pit in silence and
pretended to watch what was going on there... while they were, in fact, totally
immersed in their very own, much sweeter kind of sparring.
And then, Brienne closed her bright blue – and now rather hazy – eyes and
opened her mouth slightly. She didn't moan or scream, but her contractions were
telltale evidence of her release. His wench felt so incredibly good that only
his lifelong training of keeping quiet while fucking prevented him from voicing
his enthusiasm about her lust.
And the best thing was that he was able to hold back so that he wasn't done
with her yet.
 
When Brienne had recovered a little he slid out of her for a moment and helped
his wife to the bed, all the while discarding the remaining clothes.
“Lie down on your back for a moment,” he told her and Brienne obliged
willingly. He then knelt and nibbled at and licked and sucked on her breasts
while she was stroking him. Mhhh, that was good. Only he wanted an even better
taste of her, and he didn't restrict himself in any way; Jaime simply dipped
his head even further down and worked her with his mouth with abandon.
 
At last, Brienne was allowing herself to moan his name.
That was when he stopped and turned her around. Kneeling was another good
pregnancy position, they had found out for themselves. Jaime entered her again,
and now he didn't hold back any more and didn't stop either until he was seeing
stars because of his own, wild release. Guessing by Brienne's loud moans the
wench was having a wonderful time again as well.
Seven hells, Jaime had never been so happy in his life!
 
Exhausted, they flopped down onto the mattress.
“Damn, woman, you know how to make a perfect day even better, do you know
that?”
Brienne laughed, and he kissed her.
“And what a wonderful day it has been indeed. It's so wonderful to know that
father will be arriving here so soon!”
Jaime nodded: “He should be here in about a week. It will be good to meet him.”
 
The Evenstar had announced via raven that he intended to visit his daughter in
the capital, and that he'd stay until after she would have given birth. Ever
since they had received the message Brienne had been treading on clouds from
sheer happiness.
It helped Jaime to forget that he had initially wanted to travel to Casterly
Rock with his wife. His new fatherly duties with regard to Tommen also played a
big part in his decision to stay.
He had never been more than an uncle for his son, but now, he was allowed to
spend some time with him. To be there for him. Cersei had always forbidden this
kind of contact, but in the long run her policy had brought them no advantage.
Everyone knew the truth now – and nobody cared. At least not openly. The
Lannisters had won the war, and Lord Tywin was the actual king now in
everything but name. And if Jaime's father knew anything, then it was how to
rule and how to quell any kind of opposition. So maybe Jaime couldn't legalise
Tommen officially, but otherwise, he didn't have to lurk in the shadows any
more.
It was a strange feeling to be allowed to act and to feel like a father all of
a sudden. It was even daunting. And he was missing the opportunity to have some
time with Myrcella as well, but it was nevertheless better than anything he had
had before.
 
His daughter was still in Dorne, and it was clear that she would remain there.
She seemed to have settled in with her future husband. The Martells had not
ended that betrothal. Perhaps it was best this way. Jaime told himself that he
had a good reason now to train his writing with the left hand. He had always
hated writing, but now he was grateful that his father had drilled in the
letters he had abhorred as a child, because these days it meant he could send
Myrcella some messages, along with those from Tommen.
 
There were no first-hand news from Cersei. His sister was blocking off any
contact. It wasn't a surprise. Whether she was happy or not Jaime couldn't
tell, but his father's spies had told him that after her second marriage she
was with child again. Hopefully, she'd be a better mother this time, that was
all Jaime could wish for her. Otherwise, his feelings to his sister had cooled
down the same way they had deepened for Brienne. For his wonderful wife.
 
Yes, in spite of losing a hand life had actually improved for Jaime. He had
paid dearly, but by now he could tell himself that the price had been adequate.
***** Finding out *****
Chapter Notes
     A short explanation with regard to pronunciation. Arya will be
     uttering a sound in this chapter that I described with the letters
     "ch". This is not to be pronounced like "tsh", because she couldn't
     form that sound. It's supposed to be that raspy sound at the back of
     your throat that is used in the Arabian, Welsh, Spanish and German
     language, for example.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sansa was desperate. She did what she could, she truly did. There had been
garlic in her bags, because it was antiseptic, so she had mashed it to a paste
and tried to apply it to Arya's wound. The fever got worse nevertheless.
Perhaps it had nothing to do with her sister's mouth.
Sansa wrapped cool strips of cloth around Arya's skinny legs and put a wet,
cold handkerchief on her forehead. To no avail.
Arya was too weak to mount a horse as well. She had tried to do so, but she
hadn't even been able to stand upright, let alone lift a leg.
It was all so horribly frustrating. Had Sandor been there, his size and
strength would have secured their progress, but the way it was...
 
Sansa became seriously frightened. Their food provisions were slowly coming to
an end. The creepiest thing was that wild, independent Arya was suddenly
shockingly gentle.
There was a sad depth and softness in her grey eyes, and she sometimes stroked
Sansa's hands in a way so that at some point, Sansa simply exploded: “ARYA.
Don't behave as if you were on your deathbed. You will survive. Understood!?”
Her sister looked at her and suddenly... chuckled.
Sansa realised what was going through Arya's head: Sansa had suddenly become
the loud and impatient one of them both. Reversed roles.
Sansa simply threw her hands into the air like her mother would have done, and
she stated: “There will come the day when you'll be the livelier one of us
again, I swear.”
Arya patted her hands with her own, clammy ones... and drifted off into sleep.
Sansa looked at the lithe, sweaty form in the bedroll and decided: “I'll make a
stretcher. Somehow, I'll have to do it.”
With those thoughts she disappeared in the brushwood to look for a few proper
sticks for some kind of frame.
 
Three hours later, she wanted to howl in frustration. Neither did she manage to
come up with an acceptable construction, nor did she find a way of how the
horse could be harnessed to it.
Then, there was her sister's weak, hollow voice, and it sounded strangely
amused again: “Koo gichiculk.”
At once, Sansa was at her side: “What is it, Arya?”
Her sister nodded at the sticks Sansa had gathered, smiled and repeated: “Koo
gichiculk.”
Sansa needed another moment to come around with a guess: “Do you mean “too
difficult”?”
Arya nodded... and in spite of the bleak situation Sansa started to laugh:
“Gods, when we arrive back at Harrenhal Sandor will go berserk, do you know
that?”
Arya looked at her interrogatively.
“Ah, but you know what I mean: from now on, he'll have to decipher yours and
Bessie's garbled language.”
And then, Arya was laughing, too; the mere idea of getting on the Hound's
nerves seemed to cause her an impish delight.
A few moments later, though, the bout of merriment came to an end, Arya dozed
off again, and they hadn't made a single step.
It was then that a tear spilled down Sansa's cheek, and lacking any
alternatives, she started to pray to the old gods and the new.
 
Two hours later, Sansa had helped Arya pass water, but otherwise, the situation
had remained pretty much the same.
Suddenly, however, the little hairs on Sansa's nape of her neck rose, and her
intuition – which had been underdeveloped before she and Sandor had left King's
Landing – sprang into action. The tethered horses were becoming nervous and
started to snort, to swish their tails nervously and to move their ears into
the same direction.
Something or somebody was approaching.
Sansa grabbed her dagger and her throwing knife. It was all she could do, but
she was determined to sell her life dearly, if necessary. She repeated to
herself that she wasn't a caged little bird any more.
 
The brushwood parted.
A tall, grey creature appeared.
Sansa's blue eyes widened in recognition.
The next moment, she was weeping and laughing at the same time and clinging to
Nymeria's fur – and the direwolf was whining from joy.
 
“Ngyheria! Ngyheria!” Arya suddenly called in her throaty voice from her
bedstead and tried to rise.
At once, the wolf darted towards her human little partner and licked the girl's
face as if she wanted to heal her, or to at least end her pain.
Sansa sprinted after the animal and called: “Nymeria! Nymeria! Listen to me.
Arya is ill. She can't ride a horse. But you've grown. You can carry her. Will
you carry her to safety?”
The direwolf turned around and looked at her with those wonderful, intelligent
eyes.
 
Nymeria whined. She had understood.
For a moment, Sansa's heart clenched when she remembered that Lady would never
be able to look at her like that again, but she quickly pushed those thoughts
away. She had to focus on the present now.
 
Nymeria was already lying down, and weak as she was, Arya managed to scramble
onto her back with Sansa's help.
Sansa packed their belongings at top speed, stored them on Arya's horse,
grasped the reins, mounted her own steed and forced it to follow the direwolf,
who was already slowly trotting away, and who had taken over the lead.
 
Sansa had thought that Nymeria would head straight for Harrenhal, but she had
to find out that she had been mistaken. At nightfall, the wolf reached a little
– mainly wooden – cabin that was apparently inhabited, judging by the smoke
that was rising from a crooked little chimney.
 
Surprised as Sansa was she still decided to follow Nymeria's judgement and
didn't expect to meet an enemy in the hut. She tethered the horses to a
crossbeam near the building, approached the entrance door and knocked.
“Hello!” she called. “Please, can you help us? We're two women, and one of us
is ill.”
 
There was the shuffling of feet to be heard on the inside – and from more than
one person.
At once, Sansa felt a little more insecure then she was already doing anyway,
but with Nymeria in her back at least she didn't feel the need to break into a
cold sweat.
 
The door opened and a young man appeared in the door frame. He was neither tall
nor impressive in any other way. He had a short beard, a wart under his eyebrow
and teeth like a rabbit. On the inside, Sansa caught a glimpse of a corpulent,
young woman with jig ears and a baby suckling at her breast.
No, these people didn't look dangerous.
Sansa remembered her husband's simple statement: “Sheep.”
Well, in her situation this was as good as it could get.
The man looked her up and down and asked in a voice that sounded like a rusty
door hinge: “The hair colour isn't right. But the rest looks fitting. Are you
the Tully women?”
 
Sansa's heart sank into her boots.
Was it so easy to recognise them? And why had they already been expected? From
the way it looked pretending they were someone else made no sense any more.
“Our grandfather was Lord Hoster Tully.”
The man nodded.
“That was a fine lord, especially in comparison to what you can hear about so
many others. Gave me a copper for brushing his horse once when I was a child
and I saw him while he was crossing my home village. A pity the Stranger took
him, but at least he lived to see old age. Come in, come in. You must be the
ladies Sansa and Arya, I gather?”
“Umm, yes, these are our names.”
 
The man smiled and nodded again while Sansa was crossing the threshold.
“My name's Dan, and these are my wife Lera and my daughter Asha.”
Suddenly, the man exclaimed: “Aww, Wolfy, who are you bringing us? Good girl,
you've grown!”
 
Wolfy??
Confused, Sansa turned around and saw Dan fussing over Nymeria as if she were a
little lap dog pup – and the direwolf was whining and wagging her tail merrily.
 
Inside the cabin, Lera spoke up for the first time: “Found her quite a while
ago. She was hurt, so we nursed her back to health.”
Sansa could only think: “No wonder Nymeria came here with Arya.”
She simply answered: “I see.”
 
At the same time, Nymeria was entering the room as well with Arya on her back.
“Oh!” Lera chittered excitedly and put her daughter into a simple wooden
cradle. “Dan, look at the poor girl! Wolfy, come here, bring her here! See,
we've got some furs here. Lie down. And let's have a look at you.”
 
Sansa explained: “Her tongue has been cut out, and now she's feverish.”
“Aha,” Lera uttered and asked, “little lady, would you open your mouth?”
Arya did as she was asked and Lera inspected her while Dan disappeared into the
darkness to take care of the horses.
“Hmmm...,” the portly woman murmured. “Well, that's nasty, but it could have
been even worse. The tongue has been cut off, yes, but it hasn't been torn out
at the root. There's still enough tongue left to form at least some sounds.
She'll always sound as if she's got some hot gruel in her mouth, and she won't
taste much any more. Oh, and she'll have to adapt her kissing methods. But as I
said: it could be far worse. Once the tongue has healed properly swallowing may
still cause some problems, but not half as much as if she had nothing of her
tongue left.”
“What about the fever?” Sansa inquired.
Lera cocked her head.
“Hmmm... that's a bit tricky, I must confess. Fevers can be dangerous. But
there are different kinds of treatments that I could try out. I'm sure we'll
find something suitable.”
On hearing this, Sansa was so relieved she started to weep.
Lera patted her shoulder and murmured: “There, there. Don't you fear a thing my
lady.”
Arya was already relaxing in the warmth of the hut and dozing off again.
 
After a few minutes, Dan came back in.
“One of the horses has stepped onto a stone and is a little bit lame now.
Removed the stone and put a compress around the ankle. And both animals were
sore from the harness and the saddles. They should rest for two days.”
“Poor animals! I'm such an oaf. Ser Gilroy at Harrenhal would scold me, and I'd
deserve it. Still, I wish we could be back on our way sooner, but I guess we've
got to be reasonable,” Sansa sighed.
Next, she asked: “By the way: how come you knew who we were when we arrived?”
 
Dan pulled in his head like a turtle.
“There were men here. Half a dozen. Bad men. They were asking, if I'd seen
you.”
Sansa's eyes widened.
“Did you see any any sigils?”
“Yes, I did. They had two towers on their tunics and shields.”
Sansa gasped and pressed her hands onto her mouth.
“That's they Freys! But why are they here and asking for me? What about my
brother? This shouldn't have happened!”
 
Dan and Lera were exchanging meaningful looks.
“What is it?” Sansa demanded to know.
“My lady, your sister is ill. I think it's too soon to talk about this.”
All of a sudden, Sansa went cold to the bone and felt like the day she had seen
her father's head on the battlements. Only on that day Sandor had been there
and had handed her his handkerchief to wipe away the blood after she had been
beaten on Joffrey's orders.
 
She grabbed Dan's arm and pulled him over to the other side of the cabin.
“Now you can talk. My sister won't hear your words here.”
Dan's eyes flitted back and forth as if he were a trapped animal.
“SPEAK!” Sansa ordered and sounded like her mother when she gave an order.
Dan surrendered and started his account.
 
Some four or five minutes later, Sansa stormed out of the cabin, not knowing
where she was heading, and tears streaming down her face. Nymeria was following
her, she noticed. The direwolf was the only one who she could accept around at
the moment.
After some minutes, she was far enough away from the hut – and then, she raised
her face to the nightly sky and uttered a primal scream that drove all the
ravens in the nearby trees away from their branches.
Chapter End Notes
     I've thought a lot about when and how Sansa and Arya should find out
     about the Red Wedding. I didn't want the girls to encounter the bunch
     of people who are talking about the wolf head sewn to Robb's body in
     the woods - not without Sandor. It was possible to defeat one Bolton
     man, who was already hurt - but not a complete horde. At the same
     time I didn't want them to find out so very much later. As Arya is in
     need of some medical treatment anyway, so that the girls will have a
     few peaceful days off for recovery I felt that - hard as it is so
     shortly after Arya's mutilation - it's still better than, let's say,
     during a romantic reunion with Sandor or some other situation where
     Sansa might need her wits about her.
***** Parallel developments *****
It turned out that the sisters had to stay with their friendly hosts for a
week. Arya's wound was healing; the fever, however, was more persistent – but
finally Lera managed to break it with her skilled medical treatment.
 
What was far worse was their grief over the loss of their brother and mother,
Grey Wind and all the good people who had been slaughtered so heinously. Sansa
wept a lot while Arya often curled up into a ball, silent and brooding, her
fists clenching and unclenching. Nymeria didn't leave them, clearly
understanding what had happened – she was indeed an incredibly intelligent wolf
and upset as well.
 
On the sixth evening, when it was already late, and the embers of the fire were
only glowing mildly any more, Arya swore in her throaty voice from under her
blanket: “I kchi che Freych.”
Sansa only had to look at the hatred visible in her sister's eyes to understand
who she was talking about and what she wanted to do to them. She herself could
easily remember when she had felt the same kind of hatred, back in King's
Landing, on that day when she had wanted to push Joffrey to his death. Sandor
had been there and had hindered her to do just that.
 
Sandor. Her husband was surely extremely worried by now, if he had been
informed by her great-uncle Brynden. The Blackfish, Uncle Edmure, Sandor, Arya
and Nymeria were basically what remained of her family now. And perhaps Jon at
the Wall, and Bessie in Harrenhal, too, if you wanted to count the orphan as
well and if nobody else had adopted her while they had been away. There was
also their aunt in the Vale of Arryn, but they didn't know her like they did
the others.
 
Sansa sighed.
“I can understand you, but we need to get home first, Arya. By the way – what
do you want to do first when we arrive back in Harrenhal?”
Interestingly enough, Sansa's little sister didn't have to think twice before
she answered: “Meek Gengry! Keache Hok Pie!”
Sansa had to smile then, despite her sadness. Arya was quickly getting more
agile and more talkative with the little stump of her tongue. And if she hadn't
given up on wanting to tease the cook in the castle kitchens, or of meeting the
smith she had befriended in the past, she was still as stubborn and spirited as
she had always been, sorrow notwithstanding.
 
Suddenly, there was the faraway howl of a wolf to be heard outside.
At once, Nymeria pricked up her ears.
“Someone from your pack?” Sansa asked her.
The direwolf whined and got very excited, ran to the door and started to
scratch on the door latch like mad.
It was even more surprising, however, that Arya was getting jittery as well.
“Changcha! Changcha! Gon'k you hear? I ngow chat voiche! Oh, by che oud Gogch!”
Sansa's heart suddenly started to hobble like mad. She still didn't know what
was going on, but if Arya started to refer to the Gods whatever they were about
to find out had to be a kind of miracle.
 
There was another howl. Arya was at the door now, too, unbolting it and darting
out into the night alongside with Nymeria.
“What's up?” a sleepy Dan was asking from his and Lera's bedstead.
Sansa's mouth was getting dry from one second to the next when it dawned on her
what the howl meant.
“There's another direwolf in the area!” she gasped.
 
Her mind started to race. Grey Wind was said to have died at the Red Wedding.
Lady was dead as well. Ghost? Was it Ghost from the Wall? But the white wolf
had never made a sound. Then what about... Shaggydog? Summer? Rickon and Bran
were dead... but had one or even both of their direwolves survived?
Sansa had never considered this possibility before, and now she called herself
stupid. Yes, yes! Why should this not be possible!?
 
Without further ado, she jumped up as well and followed Arya and Nymeria into
the darkness.
It was easy enough for her to find the way – for somewhere ahead she was
already hearing whining and yipping and Arya's laughter. It caused Sansa to
weep from joy before she even knew which one of the lost direwolves she was
about to meet again.
 
***
The Blackfish was looking down from the battlements, into the churning waters
of the river; then he looked up again, at the horizon, which was overcast with
rain clouds.
He felt so tired. Guilty of not having been able to protect the lost girls
better. They hadn't known each other for a long time, but it had been enough to
feel a bond of affection beyond what mere kinship required.
 
And now, his niece Cat, the Young Wolf and his men wouldn't return any more.
Neither would Edmure, who was still alive, but who'd likely become a hostage in
the south from now on. Instead, Brynden was waiting for Kevan Lannister, even
if it was still too early for the Lion to arrive at Riverrun. He was waiting
for peace negotiations.
 
The Blackfish had a bitter taste in his mouth. If his niece Sansa had not
spoken so well of the Hound and the way he was ruling in Harrenhal Brynden
wouldn't have thought of giving in, even if it would have cost his life. But
now, he had to save Edmure and to think of Robb's widow, even if she wasn't
with child. Moreover, he had to consider the good of the Riverlands. If Sandor
Clegane was able to restore the scorched ruin the region had turned into before
the winter came... it didn't matter any more what Brynden personally thought of
the man.
Ravens with messages were already being sent back and forth to arrange the
terms of the meeting, and so far, the Hound's castellan had not written
anything outrageous. Hopefully, it would stay that way.
 
The Blackfish spat into the river water. Ser Kevan was said to be a
comparatively acceptable Lannister man. He'd have to wait and see what time
would bring.
 
After another minute or two, he descended from the battlements. There was a
castle to rule and a broken-hearted young widow to solace – and Brynden knew he
very much preferred the former task. He didn't know much about mourning women,
and he had never been one to show his softer sides to console someone – perhaps
with the sole exception of his dead niece.
“I hope Jeyne has finally eaten a bite. It won't do for her to starve herself
to death,” he mused while he was desending the stony stairs.
 
***
Tywin was pinching the ridge of his nose and rose from his desk. It had been a
long day, like usual. He had received a letter from his brother, who was
supporting Ser Bonifer's previous reports. Allegedly, the former Hound had
regained his eyesight to some extent, but was still too handicapped to fight in
battle. But Kevan had pointed out that he ruled the castle well. Who would have
thought that Sandor Clegane would ever make an acceptable lord? The man was of
low birth , a second son, and thus didn't deserve the Harrenhal – but since the
scarred warrior was doing such a good job where so many others had failed Tywin
was willing to be pragmatic. There were more pressing matters at the forefront
of his mind.
 
Since his departure, there had been no news from Tyrion. Well, that was hardly
a surprise. Perhaps “no news” meant “good news”.
Tywin shrugged.
 
His thoughts wandered further, to his son and wife. Lady Brienne couldn't enjoy
her pregnancy: she had water in her legs and her back was aching all the time.
The woman, who was ugly to begin with, slowly looked as if she had swallowed a
ball and was slowly developing a waddling gait.
Maester Tywin was already speculating loudly about twins – and so were the
others at court. Well, as long as there was a healthy heir in the litter and as
long as the children wouldn't give them as much sorrow as Cersei and Jaime had
done with their unhealthy relationship the big woman could have as many cubs as
her belly was able to hold.
 
What surprised Tywin was that – given Brienne's physical – state Jaime and his
wife were still behaving like horny rabbits around each other. They clearly
didn't care much about the rules of court life and were always touching and
groping and fondling each other in one way or another. At night, there were
often scandalous sounds to be heard in their bedroom. Servants had also been
heard whispering of certain gadgets that were used by the spouses to enhance
the lust. Well, those servants wouldn't contribute to the gossip any more.
Tywin scratched his head and tried to remember what intimacy had been like when
his Joanna had been looking like a barrel before giving birth to his own twins.
Damn, his recollections were blurred in that respect! It had been so long ago.
Yet, Tywin was pretty sure their interactions had not involved... objects for
lovemaking.
 
He hissed. It was time to have his personal servant bring him one of Chataya's
women through the Hand's secret bedroom passage. It had been ages since he had
taken care of his own needs.
 
When a dark-haired harlot arrived an hour later, Tywin recognized her as one
who had already served him once. Good. He didn't need to lecture her about his
terms of interaction: no mummer's show with loud moans, no wanton behaviour, no
coloured cheeks or lips or nipples. Tywin always wanted to get straight to the
core of what had to be done.
He pointed with his chin and said to the harlot: “The fur in front of the fire
place. Kneel.”
The whore nodded and obeyed.
 
Some twenty or thirty minutes later, the woman had received her coin and was
gone. Tywin felt partially relieved and something half-way close to contentment
as he was sinking down into a late bath. Or an early one, rather.
 
His thoughts returned to the Riverlands.
He had given Kevan some instructions. Lord Edmure's life could be spared,
either by sending him to the Wall or by making him a hostage in the capital or
at Casterly Rock for life. Brynden Tully would be forced to take the Black for
his role in the rebellion. The new castellan was supposed to be Lancel
Lannister. Jeyne Westerling had to remarry, and soon. He had already given Ser
Addam Marbrand order to do his duty in that respect.
 
The Freys were another problem. They had betrayed their “king”, so they
couldn't be treated as allies. But Tywin had already thought about this and had
contacted a man named Qyburn, a former maester who had been expelled from
Oldtown because of his dubious experiments. These experiments, however, proved
to be very handy now: the man had distilled the pathogen for an aggressive
Greyscales variant that could kill off a castle population within a week.
According to Qyburn, an outbreak at the Twins could be easily arranged, so he
had sent the man on his way and had paid him decently.
The only thing left to do was to advise Genna and her offspring to leave the
area in time.
 
When Tywin finally went to bed he felt that though there was always so much
more to do a lot had been achieved over the last weeks and months.
 
***
“You may camp in front of Harrenhal, and you'll get some provisions. Lord
Edmure and his wife can enter the castle ground.”
Sandor sounded bored – though he certainly wasn't.
“WHAT!? You won't give us lodgings after our voyage and after delivering the
hostage? This is outrageous!”
The ferret-faced Frey man was turning red from anger, even Sandor could see as
much.
The scarred Lord of Harrenhal smiled. He knew that his mouth was twitching and
that his scars looked ghastly, and for once, he didn't mind.
“What do you expect, Frey? Guest right? Guessed wrong. I don't want to end like
Robb Stark. Oh, and don't think of complaining or doing anything stupid while
I'm here on the drawbridge: some twenty bows on the battlements are at the
ready. You can camp outside and eat our food – and no, it's not poisoned,
though it would make me pretty happy; or you buggers can turn on your mares and
leave right away. ”
 
The party of Frey men cursed and swore, but since they were within reach for
said arrows that were pointed at them they had to comply. Of course, there were
some threats about the future, but Sandor didn't give a rat's arse.
 
When the drawbridge went up behind a very pallid Edmure Tully the lord of
Riverrun addressed him and spoke: “I'd have never thought I'd say that, but
thank you for giving me my first joyful moment since my wedding night,
Clegane... Lord Clegane.”
At his side, his young wife Roslin blushed. As far as Sandor could tell with
his bad eyesight she was an uncharacteristically pretty specimen of the Frey
family. The lord himself had the typical auburn Tully hair colour, and Sandor's
heart clenched in pain.
Thus, he could only rasp: “Harrenclegane it is now. And you'll have to excuse
me. Ser Bonifer here will show you your room. There will always be a guard at
your door or with you in the castle to keep up appearances. After all, you've
got the status of a hostage.”
“I have understood...”
Lord Edmure didn't get any further, because Sandor had already turned and was
stomping off to the stables. He needed to pass some time with Stranger.
Sansa – and Arya – had not returned, and Sandor's heart felt raw. His foul-
spirited courser was the only companion he could abide now.
 
***
“The scarred bastard! Didn't let us into the castle!” Cerwyn Frey was raging.
Wellym eyed the group leader from the side. Obviously, Sandor Clegane really
had got some brains. Only how this huge, ugly man... and elegant, delicate
Sansa... it was impossible to picture them as spouses.
 
“We're going back in a moment's time. No need to endure those snobs' food. Soft
Will, water the horses at the lake. Everybody take a piss and a shit against
the castle walls, and then we'll return home.”
Wellym growled something unintelligible under his breath. The people had taken
to calling him “Soft Will” ever since he had passed out from wine before the
killing at the Red Wedding had started, and he knew well enough which other
crucial order he had refused to carry out when he had come back to his senses
and most of the fighting had already been over.
What nobody knew was that it had been his knife that had ended Roose Bolton's
miserable life. Of THAT Wellym was proud in a grim way.
 
After a while, Cerwyn bellowed: “Everybody done pissing and shitting? Right,
let's go then. And keep your eyes open. We didn't come across the Stark girls
on the way here, perhaps we'll do so on the way back. And the rule is still:
first come, first serve.”
The other men laughed in a lewd way.
Wellym only smiled, and it looked rancorous. Nobody noticed.
He commented inwardly: “I'll only let you rape the girls over my dead body.”
And he understood the exact meaning of his thoughts.
***** Reunions (I) *****
Chapter Notes
     Three chapters with different kinds of reunions ahead. I hope they'll
     partly explain the jumbled character of the last chapter.
At first, it was difficult in the dark to discern which direwolf it was, that
was scrambling with Nymeria and Arya on the ground in absolute merriment. It
didn't matter.
Sansa simply stormed ahead and called out: “You're here!”
A joyful whine was to be heard, and a mere second later, a huge, furred body
crashed into her, knocked her over, and a rough tongue started to lick her face
wildly. Sansa screeched in happiness.
Then, she noticed that the wolf was neither white like Ghost, nor dark like
Shaggydog.
“Summer?” she uttered...
… but the wolf only snorted in confusion... or perhaps contempt.
Arya didn't sound any better when she said: “Chummer!? Yo're chkupik! Chak'ch
Gchey Wink!”
 
Sansa looked up, baffled – and found it was true!
A moment later, she was really sobbing.
“Grey Wind! You're alive! But how's that possible? The Freys have been relating
everywhere you're dead!”
“Che Freych are bachkarkch!” Arya swore.
Given what she had been through her comments were already pretty venomous
again, but in this case, Sansa didn't want to chide her sister about her
verdict.
 
Suddenly, Sansa came up with another idea, and there was a kind of mad hope in
her voice when she asked the wolf: “Grey Wind, what about Robb and mother? Have
they survived as well?”
The big animal stiffened then and uttered another whine; this time, it sounded
partly painful, partly frightened and partly confused.
“He coug echcape chomehow. He'ch chkill hochifieg. Ik wach koo mukch foh hing.”
Sansa, saddened and disappointed, nodded and replied: “I can only imagine it
would have been too much for me, too – and I can't fathom how horrified I'd be.
– Come here, Grey Wind! You're with the rest of the pack again.”
The big wolf was very willing to obey, and humans and animals cuddled some more
before they returned to Dan's and Lera's cabin.
 
There, their friendly hosts were already waiting with a lamp, curious to find
out what had happened.
“Wolfy! Oh, and who's that? A Wolfric?” Dan asked Nymeria, who yipped proudly.
“That's Grey Wind, a sibling,” Sansa explained and couldn't suppress a smile.
Lera cocked her head and answered: “How sweet! A real family reunion! But we've
got a problem now: the animals are far too big and too hungry. They can't come
into the cabin both, and we don't have much meat to begin with. So the wolves
will have to go hunting for themselves.”
Arya understood at once, made some waving movements with her arms in the
wolves' direction and ordered: “Off you go! Go hunking! Chee you ing che
mornging!”
There was some more yipping and sniffing and merry running around until the
horses were completely panicky, but then the big predators trotted off to get
themselves some juicy rabbits and the like.
 
When the humans had entered the cabin, Lera started to nurse her baby, who had
woken up, and they all sat down to talk.
Sansa started: “Your hospitality has been invaluable, but Arya is getting much
better, and Grey Wind's arrival has shown us that we really need to travel on.
Tomorrow, we'll leave in the morning. Harrenhal is waiting. My husband is
waiting, and he must already be so very worried.”
Dan and Lera could understand that.
“We'll miss you,” the young father said, “but I'm pretty sure that your wolves
will come and visit us from time to time – and perhaps you, too, once the
Riverlands have been pacified.”
“Yech! Chure!” Arya emphasised, and Sansa added: “Should you ever need our help
– there will always be a place for you in Harrenhal, and we'll always do for
you what we can.”
 
They were all silent for a moment.
Lera finally put the baby back into the cradle, patted Sansa's arm gently and
stated with conviction: “You'll be the greatest lady in the Riverlands ever.”
She grinned, before she went on: “And Lady Arya will be the most fiery one,
even if her hair hasn't been kissed by fire.”
Sansa chuckled then, and Arya pointed out: “Che mocht fiechy ong ing che norch!
Afker che winker!”
Lera smiled: “Until then, a lot of water will run through the Riverlands.
Summer is coming to an end, and autumn is nearly there.”
“Winker ich coming,” Arya said gravely and Sansa repeated: “Yes. Winter is
coming.”
***** Reunions (II) *****
In the morning, they saddled the horses and packed their provisions. The
direwolves had not returned yet, but that didn't really matter – they'd always
be able to follow their tracks.
 
All in all, Arya was in a comparatively good mood: the little stump of her
tongue hurt a little less, even if it was still very sensitive.
True, it was still difficult to swallow food and drink, and she couldn't handle
anything warm yet; it was also frustrating when people didn't understand her
right away and she had to repeat herself. For that, she'd have liked to revive
the scoundrel, who had done this to her: she'd be able to torture him to a much
slower death then.
Nevertheless, Grey Wind had reappeared, alive and kicking. If it could have
kept her brother and her mother alive Arya would even have sacrificed the
little piece of flesh she still had in her mouth.
 
Well, it was useless to entertain futile dreams.
She rather preferred to think ahead.
Of Harrenhal. Her home for as long as the upcoming winter would last.
 
If she was honest she was looking forward to seeing the old ruin of a castle,
something she'd never have believed possible in the past.
However, there were some people there that would make the stay acceptable:
first of all, there was Sansa, of course. Their relationship had improved so
much, but then again, they were hardly the two girls who had left Winterfell
any more.
 
And who else was there in the castle she wanted to see again? Hot Pie, of
course. She was also looking forward to eating his delicious food again. Arya
was sure that one day, he'd be the chef of the castle kitchens.
 
It would also be nice to meet some of the knights, and especially Bessie. The
sweet little orphan girl had gained a special place in Arya's heart – and even
more so, now that she was an orphan herself, too.
 
What about the Hound?
In the past, she had wanted to kill him, and their relationship would forever
be dimmed by him having killed Mycah; yet, Arya had also come to respect the
tall, scarred man in a crude way. He made Sansa happy, he had become a father
figure for Bessie, and he had undergone a general positive development. Those
things couldn't compensate his evil deeds of the past, but his personal
betterment still had to account for something.
 
And finally, there was Gendry. Arya could still remember their last night in
Harrenhal before her departure. They had talked a lot, discussed, even argued.
At some point, they had suddenly kissed. It had been an angry kiss that had led
to even more confusion. Arya had never wanted to kiss a boy or a man like that,
and from one instant to the next, her world view had been upside-down.
The thing was that she had never been like Sansa, neither well-behaved nor
naïve nor innocent. She had seen naked Hodor in the Godswood, had known what
the servant Pia was doing with her lovers... and she had wanted to know a bit
more about Gendry then. Arya hadn't allowed him to touch her, but she had
discovered that the young smith's apprentice was nearly a grown man – and that
his body looked and reacted the part.
 
Arya smiled. Their separation had only made her more curious. And even if she
didn't know, if she was really ready to be bedded she knew that she didn't want
to be married off to a spiteful bastard or an arrogant noble fop, and that she
didn't want to wait for any of them to try their luck and to whisk her away.
The episode with the knave in the wood had made this only clearer. Arya had
felt the man's stiff shaft against her leg, and it had been incredibly
disgusting. The turd had wanted her, but not for any romantic reasons at all.
Thus, Arya had resolved to give her maidenhood rather sooner than later to
Gendry. At least, he was a friend. Hopefully, he'd want to have her.
 
At length, Arya was shaken from her musings to say goodbye to Dan and Lera. She
hugged them both passionately.
Sansa was shedding a tear. It was so like her to react like this. In the past,
Arya would have scorned her for it; now, she saw things differently. They had
simply different ways of handling things, but Sansa had proven that she wasn't
weak.
Arya had seen the scars on her sister's back. She hadn't needed to know any
details then to assess the pain Sansa had been through.
 
When she and her sister were trotting away from the cabin Arya turned around on
her horse and waved at the couple that had probably saved her life. Sansa had
left two gold dragons in a tankard on a board, because the two hadn't wanted
any money for their hospitality.
Arya nodded to herself. Dan and Lera absolutely deserved the money – even
though no coin could ever truly repay their kindness.
“There should be more people like them. The world would be a better one,” she
thought.
 
The two rode in companionable silence for a few hours. Then, they both needed
to make water, and they decided to have an extended break. After all, Arya was
better, but not quite fit yet, and it wouldn't do for her to fall ill again.
When they found a clearing, they tethered the horses to a bush and disappeared
in the surrounding underbrush to see to their needs.
 
Clop-clop-clop.
 
“Shit, that's the sound of horses!” Arya thought when she was just in the
middle of making water.
She finished her errand as quickly as she could and stormed back to their own
horses. Sansa was doing the same. They both wanted to hide the animals as
galloping away was already out of the question.
 
Too late.
 
A group of men appeared in the clearing. It only took Arya one look to see the
two towers of the Twins on their sigil.
“OH DAMN! That's the Freys!” she swore inwardly and froze.
“Look! The Stark girls!” one man exclaimed triumphantly. “Let's get them! I'll
have the redhead first.”
Sansa shrieked – and produced her throwing knife. Unfortunately, it sailed past
the man.
 
“Careful! The little minxes have got some claws as it seems.”
Arya hurled her knife at an elderly man, and she managed to hit him, but it was
no fatal wound.
“Seven hells, that little beast! Reserve her for me!” the man swore and grunted
in anguish.
 
Arya ground her teeth in frustration. These were too many men.
 
The first Frey had dismounted and was coming at them. The other ones were
getting off their horses now as well.
Sansa dodged the grabbing hands as best she could, and so did Arya, but it was
useless. The men were faster, stronger, better equipped and more numerous.
 
Bonk! – and Arya landed on her back once again. She uttered a painful sound.
Sansa landed next to her. They were both writhing and fighting, but the men
were already grabbing their legs and tearing at their clothes. Ribald jokes
were being exchanged.
 
Arya looked up into a disgusting man's pockmarked face, and his foul stink was
already causing her to retch. She wouldn't mind to vomit right into his ugly
face, even if that would naturally entail some sort of punishment.
Suddenly, the face of another Frey man loomed up behind the first one; this
time, it was a lank, young man with a crooked nose, long, strawy hair and
hatred in his dark eyes.
“Ugly chap, but beautiful eyelashes,” Arya thought, and she didn't have a clue
why she could possibly think of something so absurd in this dire situation.
 
An instant later, the pockmarked man right above her started to gurgle, his
eyes grew wide, and he started to cough up blood. Next, he crashed on top of
Arya, lifeless. Another two seconds, and the same happened to the man who had
been kneeling between Sansa's legs.
 
“WELLYM!? Wellym, fuck, what are you doing?”
 
The young Frey man Arya had seen was unsheathing his sword now, and the metal
hissed menacingly when it was being drawn. Meanwhile, Arya was as confused as
busy to get free from under the dead scoundrel. The same was true for Sansa,
who was sobbing and retching loudly.
 
“You will not rape these ladies, you bastards!” their unexpected Frey ally spat
with a high, scratchy voice.
 
“Ladies!? Bugger that, Soft Will! They're meant for us!”
 
“Over my dead body!”
 
Arya would have applauded the heroic young man under different circumstances,
but this was suicidal, because there were still too many enemies.
 
But then, the horses became nervous. Did this mean...?
 
Yes!
 
Two huge, furred, snarling animals broke into the clearing.
Nothing less than slaughter ensued.
Arya and Sansa could only stand and watch in awe while throats were being torn
out, legs and arms were mangled, and men screamed and sputtered as they lay
dying.
 
Then, Nymeria wanted to attack the last Frey who was still standing: the one
who had come to their aid.
Arya wanted to shout: “No!”
… but before she could do that Grey Wind crashed into his sister's side to
prevent her from hurting the man.
Now, the mystery was complete.
 
The three human survivors and the two animals were looking at each other,
panting.
Of course, it was Sansa, the lady, who approached this Wellym Frey, went to her
knees, took his hand, pressed it against her cheek and wept: “Thank you, ser!
Thank you so much!”
At that, something very warm flickered up in the man's eyes. He drew his hand
back slowly and patted Sansa's hair shortly in an affectionate way.
 
He shook his head and answered: “No, please don't thank me. It was the only
thing I could do. I hope you're... unhurt?”
Sansa nodded and wept and sniffled.
Next, this Wellym looked up at Arya and asked: “Are you all right as well?”
Arya simply nodded.
 
The direwolves circled the man – and then, Grey Wind licked his hand and
uttered a little whine. Wellym smiled brightly and ruffled the wolf's fur. One
moment later, Nymeria started to whine as well, rolled onto her back and showed
the man her belly.
Now, that was something really baffling!
“Chey ngow chou!”
“Pardon?”
Sansa helped out and repeated: “They know you.”
 
The Frey blushed, looked at Grey Wind and answered: “They wanted me to kill
him. They ordered me to do that. Gods!”
He started to weep. To sob. He knelt and was shaken by heaving spasms.
Arya managed to piece together that it had obviously been him who had made sure
the wolf could escape certain death.
 
Yet, the man was also weird.
The next moment only proved this: Sansa, though still upset herself, had held
out a hand to console him... and then, he grabbed her and hugged her close. Of
course, Arya's sister was shocked, even more so after the attempted rape, and
she flinched violently; when he noticed it, Wellym let go of her again at once.
He even apologised.
At the same time, he looked so desperate. So... loving. There was no other word
for it.
 
Something was really foul here. Something...
A word from Old Nan's stories bubbled up in Arya's mind: warg.
Fragments snapped into place in her mind to form a picture.
Arya gasped, incredulous.
Then, she whimpered: “Chobb?”
***** Reunions (III) *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
***
He winced. There was utter pandemonium inside of him, and he didn't know what
to do or say, or how to react. Of course, Arya had to be, oh, so clever...
 
“CHOBB!”
 
The next moment, Arya was flinging her arms around his neck, and she was
sobbing and weeping like him.
 
“What do you mean – Robb!?”
Sansa obviously still didn't have a clue.
 
“Chobb ich a wachk! A chkingchanger! He'ch ahive!”
 
He looked up in confusion. Arya had sounded strangely throaty since the
beginning of this encounter and was barely understandable. What was wrong with
her?
However, he didn't get the time to ponder this.
Sansa was slowly grasping the concept and asked in a trembling voice: “Is that
true? Is it you, Robb?”
 
He drew a shaky breath and answered: “It's... complicated. I'm... also Robb.”
 
At once, Arya let go of him and exclaimed: “Whak!?”
In her place, Sansa was taking his hand again, and she asked him with big,
Tully blue eyes: “What do you mean?”
He ran his free hand through his strawy hair and began: “I... I don't even know
what to make of all of this. I've got... two memories inside of me. And I
feel... so torn. As if I were two people at the same time. Let me try to
explain.
There was the Red Wedding. It was in full swing, and the bedding ceremony had
just occurred. Wellym had passed out from drinking on a side bench quite close
to Robb. He had known what was supposed to happen, but he didn't want to take
part in the upcoming slaughter. He had seen Robb shortly, and his first
impression had been that he had... quite liked him. When the killing started,
it was horrible, like nothing you could possibly imagine. Then, Roose Bolton –
the bloody traitor – dealt the final blow to Robb's body. Gods! The pain! The
life force was draining away, there was a moment of unconsciousness, I don't
know what happened and I had certainly no intentions of... whatever...
… and then, I was shaken awake from my stupor and dragged in front of Lord
Walder. I saw... all the dead bodies... all of them...
Then, Lord Walder told me that since I had done nothing else I should at least
finish off Grey Wind. As you can see I didn't do it. So they took an old wolf's
trophy from the wall and an old fur and sewed it...”
 
He turned away from Sansa and Arya and vomited. Whenever the identity confusion
and the memory of what had happened to Robb's as well as to Catelyn's body
struck him he couldn't react any differently.
Both girls were staring at him in shock now and they were both weeping, even
tough Arya, he realised, and surely they'd despise him now for the monstrosity
he was.
 
To his surprise, Sansa produced a handkerchief and wiped his mouth when he had
finished retching.
“Gods! So you mean that you're Robb, but Wellym Frey's soul is there as well?
And what happened next?”
He was deeply touched by Sansa's open-mindedness and could only think that back
in Winterfell she would have rejected him even more than she had rejected Jon.
What an exceptional woman she had turned into!
 
“As I'm saying – it's complicated. This man here in front of you... I'm some
kind of amalgam. I've got two distinct memories, so my head feels very crowded.
My personality... I think that Robb and Wellym have merged to some extent. I
don't know how to explain it. The part of me that is Wellym is incredibly happy
about this situation, about the fact that a part of Robb could be saved and
that he's part of him now. You see... he didn't have a good life with the
Freys. He's completely unimportant, and he has always felt so lonely.
Besides... I don't know how to put it, but... he feels attracted to men, not to
women. So he was scorned by the others even more. I think that was also part of
why Wellym's mind was open to welcome Robb.
Gods, I'm so embarrassed and confused! I'm not really Robb Stark any more, but
I'm not Wellym Frey either. I have to find out yet who I am. The part of me who
used to be Robb feels so weird in this different body. I don't know, if I can
be grateful for this second chance, but I guess I should since I could save
you. I also managed to kill Roose Bolton, and nobody noticed it was me. They
only flogged me for setting Grey Wind free. I wish I could have murdered Lord
Walder as well, but then, I heard that Lord Edmure should be sent to Harrenhal,
so I decided to become a member of the unit that would guard him on his way.
Him and his wife Roslin. He didn't recognize me for who I am.”
 
Arya was having a hard time to process all the news. One could see the gears
turning in her head, and she kept her distance.
For Sansa, it certainly wasn't any easier, but her instinctive reaction was a
different one: she embraced him with all her might and declared: “You've got
Robb's memory, and you've tried to help. So even if many things have changed –
you're still our brother. We all change in our lives. I only have to think of
myself. You've just... changed a bit more.”
Sansa's gentleness caused him to weep again, and to accept her embrace. Was she
right? Was it so simple to see it like this? He didn't know, but he was
grateful that his sister tried to make it easier for him.
 
From one moment to the next, Sansa came up with something else: “And you took
Edmure really to Harrenhal? And did you see Sandor?”
“Yes, Edmure is there. I also saw your husband for a short moment. However, he
didn't want to let us enter the castle. I have to applaud his cleverness. If
only I had been so intelligent...”
“Was Sandor all right?”
He smiled.
“As far as I can say: yes. Well, he was tall, scarred and nasty.”
“Chak'ch him!” Arya cut in, smirked and nodded frenziedly.
“Pardon? Arya, can't you speak more clearly? Do you have a cold?”
 
It was then that Sansa took over and told him of his little sister's personal
calamity. His eyes widened in shock.
“Gods, no! Oh Arya, I'm so sorry!”
His sister made a dismissive gesture.
“Pff! Ing congchachk ko you I chkill have my owng bogy!”
It took him a long moment to understand – but then he had to laugh. Oh, it was
so like Arya to say that! She had never lamented much over her frequent sore
knees as a child, and even now, she was still as defiant and spirited as ever.
And how good the bout of merriment felt! It was his first laughter since the
Red Wedding; and even before neither Robb nor Wellym had laughed much.
 
Soon enough, Sansa came back to the topic they had been talking about before:
“I'm relieved Sandor seems to be fine enough. We must make haste now to travel
back to Harrrenhal. And since you're coming from that direction you can be our
guide. Well, and Nymeria, of course. Only – what do you want to do now, Robb?”
He sighed: “I don't know what I want. Had Arya not found out... perhaps I would
have even kept my identity a secret from you. To be honest – I don't even know
what my name is any more. Robb, Wellym... both names sound wrong in my ears.
I'll need some time to come to terms with my new self.”
“Hm...,” Sansa made. “What about a combination of the names then? What about
Rollym? And you could come with us to Herrenhal. I'd talk to Sandor in private,
and I'm sure he'd handle your situation discretely and would give you some time
to recover from this shock.”
 
On hearing this offer, he lit up with hope.
“Rollym! That sounds good! Rollym Newlife, perhaps. Everybody else will think
I'm referring to giving up the Frey name, and they'll even be partly correct.
Oh Sansa, I should have listened to you right away when you arrived in
Riverrun. You're wise beyond your years. Come! Arya, Grey Wind, Nymeria! Let's
go! Don't you think we've stayed long enough next to these dead bastards?”
 
Arya and Sansa both needn't to be asked twice. They grabbed what coins and
knifes and swords the Freys had on their bodies, stuffed them into the
saddlebags, took the reins of the dead mens' valuable horses and had the
animals trot along next to their own ones. Nymeria and Grey Wind were supposed
to run ahead as scouts.
 
***
 
Sansa was still upset after the attempted rape and all the killing and still
needed some time to calm down. Moreover, she couldn't believe that the foreign-
looking man at her side was Robb. Or rather a part of Robb. He wasn't tall, he
wasn't impressive, and he even smelled different; and yet, some of his
movements, his gestures, the way he looked at them – it was familiar,
recognizable. You only had to know what to look for.
 
“It's no wonder that people are afraid of skinchangers, if something like this
can happen. I wonder what Wellym was like before the Red Wedding. You've got to
be really desperate to welcome a warg in your body and in your mind.”
 
Late in the afternoon, they decided to make camp. It wasn't so very far to
Harrenhal any more, and Sansa would have preferred to ride all night, but she
and Robb... Rollym... both noticed that Arya was getting really tired. Thus,
they felt the necessity to stop.
 
After a while, they had made a nice fire, and there was plenty of food in the
saddlebags of the Freys. Hungrily, they sank their teeth into the provisions,
and Sansa was starting to feel much calmer now.
After their dinner, they laid out the bedrolls.
Suddenly, Nymeria appeared in the camp. She yipped merrily and seemed to be
very excited.
“Whak ich ik?” Arya asked and smiled.
The direwolf ran to and fro, even hopped a little and whined.
“I think she wants us to follow h...”
 
Clop-clop-clop.
 
Horses!
However, given Nymeria's reaction these were friends.
Sansa's heartbeat sped up at once.
Sandor...?
 
She had already been sitting on her bedroll, but now, she jumped up and
screamed at the top of her lungs: “Here! Over here! We're here!”
 
A moment later, Grey Wind appeared as well – followed by several riders.
Sansa recognized the first one at once.
“Ser Gilroy!”
She beamed like the sun, but her eyes were already scanning the others.
“Lady Sansa! Praise the seven, finally we've found you! The wolves discovered
us when we were just about to return to Harrenhal from our daily patrol, and
they led the way to you.”
 
By now, Sansa was feeling a slight pang of disappointment, because Sandor had
not accompanied the group.
Still, she answered jovially: “How very good! I must admit I can barely wait to
see my Lord Husband again. Please tell me: is he all right?”
Ser Gilroy dismounted, nodded and replied: “He was very depressed during all
these weeks without you, my lady, but he'll be an extremely happy man again
very soon, now that you're back. And there is something you might not have
heard of: he has regained a part of his vision.”
“WHAT!?” Sansa exclaimed in sheer joy – and the next moment, she had forgotten
she was supposed to be a lady: she was hugging Ser Gilroy so wildly that the
knight blushed fiercely.
 
Then, Sansa turned around and pleaded: “Please, Arya, please Ro... Rollym, I
can't wait to see Sandor again! Wouldn't it be possible for you to follow me
tomorrow with the wolves, and I travel ahead with my bannermen?”
Arya was laughing: “Chure! Go aheag!”
Her brother agreed as well.
Moments later, Sansa was saddling her horse again, forgetting her personal
belongings in the camp, jumped onto her steed's back with gleaming eyes and
darted off.
 
After some minutes, she was able to recognise a few of the Harrenhal guards who
were accompanying Ser Gilroy and taking the Frey horses with them, and she
greeted the men warmly. All their faces were smiling in relief.
Next, she addressed the knight at her side and wanted to know more about the
current situation at the castle.
Ser Gilroy explained: “Your uncle is there with his wife. He's as fine as he
could possibly be after the Red Wedding and with the prospect of becoming a
hostage in the south. Oh, some to think of it... have you... heard of the Red
Wedding?”
Sansa's mouth became a grim line.
“Yes.”
“My condolences.”
“Thank you, Ser Gilroy. Please, just go ahead and tell me some more of home.”
The man breathed in deeply and went on: “Of course, my lady. Ser Kevan
Lannister was in Harrenhal, too, but he's in Riverrun now, and he's leading
peace negotiations with your great-uncle Brynden.”
“Peace negotiations? Oh, finally! If only they had happened sooner! And what
about Bessie? Ser Gilroy, is the little girl all right?”
The knight started to grin.
“If only you knew, my lady! She has made a very serious offer of marriage to
me.”
Sansa nearly fell off her horse in surprise, but then, she started to laugh
loudly: “Gods! And the way she is, she'll be stubborn enough to go through with
it in ten, twelve years!”
Ser Gilroy blushed heavily.
“My lady, please don't tease me! Anyway, she has also taught herself to read
and to write, wouldn't you believe it!? You should have also seen her with Ser
Kevan. The girl had him at “hello”. And when he left, he enlightened her about
the concept of tongue twisters to improve her speech defect, and now, she's
going on everybody's nerves with “three short sword sheaths” and “seven slick
slimey snakes slowly sliding southward”. If you come too close to her you get
covered in spittle.”
Sansa didn't remember when she had last laughed so much. She certainly hadn't
after her departure from Harrenhal.
 
When she had recovered a little she asked about the other castle inhabitants,
including the dog Salmon, and she was delighted to hear that everything was
going so well.
Yet, Ser Gilroy also became serious again and inquired: “My lady, there's
something I'd like to know: how come you've got some Frey horses with you, and
what about this young Frey man we met in the clearing alongside with you and
Lady Arya?”
“The Freys crossed our way and tried to kidnap and to rape us – but Rollym
risked his own life to save us.”
“So he's turned a kinslayer to save you?”
“Never call him that again! Understood!?”
“Erm. Yes, my lady. And I'm sure Lord Sandor won't like these news.”
“No. He won't.”
 
At some point, Sansa asked: “Ser Gilroy, what do you think – would it be
possible to surprise my Lord Husband with my arrival? I'd love to do that!”
At once the knight grinned conspirationally.
“Oh, my lady! Now you're giving my conscience a hard time, because as Lord
Sandor's man I can't possibly say “yes” to this.”
“Then I order you to get me into Harrenhal on the quiet.”
“Now, that's something completely different, of course, since I must obey my
lady's direct order.”
Around them, the men chortled, and Sansa was starting to positively fidget on
her horse from pleasant anticipation.”
 
Around the hour of the wolf, she was finally tiptoeing up the stony steps to
their bedroom. By now, she was so incredibly nervous now that she thanked the
old gods and the new for her healthy heart. As stealthily as a thief she opened
the door and locked it quietly behind her.
The dying embers in the hearth didn't cast much light, but she could detect the
familiar, huge form of her sleeping husband in bed.
Inwardly, she screamed from exuberant happiness, but her mouth didn't utter a
single sound – it only smiled... and first tears were already pooling in the
corners of her eyes.
With trembling hands, she tore at her clothes and cast them off as quickly as
she had never done before. Then, she edged closer to the bed.
 
Suddenly, a dark, drowsy voice rumbled at her from under the coverlet: “Having
another nightmare, Bessie?”
With the widest grin possible she whispered back: “No – and actually, I'd say
that there's a wonderfully sweet dream ahead.”
Chapter End Notes
     So... here we are. I don't know about you, but I absolutely couldn't
     wait any longer to get them together again. Hopefully, the chapter
     meets your expectations. The thing with Robb-Rollym was rather
     tricky, and I tried to make it as decent as possible, but I don't
     know, if I've done him justice, I must confess...
     Anyway. Next time: Sandor POV.
***** Delirium... and reality *****
Chapter Notes
     Ok, so let's have a look at the penultimate chapter. In the last one,
     I'll (hopefully) bring most of the loose strands to a good end, Jaime
     and Brienne etc... And the very last thing will be a poem, which I
     have already written. It's a weird feeling to finish two long fanfics
     at the same time. But I already know what to work on next, so there
     won't be any emptiness, at least on my side...
     Ok, let's go!
***
Sandor stiffened. Why...? His ears were playing tricks on him. He was still
hearing echoes from his last intoxicating dream about his Little Bird.
 
The blanket moved, the mattress sagged lightly... and a naked, warm, female
body slid under the covers and at his side.
“Uuh, so you wear smallclothes in bed, Sandor? Is that because of Bessie? Oh,
we'll have to change that at once!” Sansa's voice went on, and it was a mixture
of a sob and laughter.
The next moment, she threw herself at him, her arms around him, and she kissed
him like mad. Her scent... her taste...
 
Sansa? Sansa was back!?
Sandor was so overwhelmed that his brain couldn't really process the truth.
His instincts, however, came awake with a jolt, and so did the lower parts of
his body. Without thinking, he grabbed his wife and crushed her even closer
than she already was. He didn't understand what was happening, or how it was
possible that Sansa had appeared and sneaked into his bed unnoticed.
He wanted to pinch himself. This glory, this bliss – it couldn't be true.
 
But instead of pinching him, his little wife came up with a far better idea:
her hand sneaked into his smallclothes and stroked him.
Sandor moaned. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, the good and the scarred
one alike. And Sansa was weeping as well.
This... couldn't...
 
“You promised me...,” she murmured into his good ear, laid him bare, straddled
him, positioned herself – and slid down on him with determination.
Sandor saw stars in his mind. What...? But...
 
“Ouch!” Sansa whimpered.
That woke him from his reverie.
“Little Bird, what is it? Did I hurt you?”
“No. Oh my love. It's just... after everything we've done already... I didn't
think I'd still have to adjust to this body part.”
She giggled and added: “That's definitely different from your fingers and your
tongue. Deeper. Mhhhm.”
Sansa tried a tentative movement... and shivered and sighed.
Sandor was close to being driven insane. The warmth and wetness and tightness
down there... So welcoming. The Little Bird's chirping. The way she started to
gently rock back and forth above him...
Hungrily, his hands started to roam her exposed skin, still unable to believe
that they were finally really doing it – and that, instead of him taking the
initiative, it was Sansa who was riding him. Fuck.
These were the seven heavens.
 
He cupped her breasts and realized that they had grown over the moons while she
had been away. She had really lush, well-developed curves now, and Sandor
moaned in sheer enthusiasm. His fingers started to play with her nipples, just
the way she had always liked it. Slowly, Sansa was picking up speed, gliding up
and down his shaft rhapsodically and leaning back to press down on him even
more.
 
This way, Sandor could finally get I glimpse of her in the weak, flickering
shadows caused by the dying fire. His bad vision couldn't discern very much,
true... but then, he froze, his hands grabbed her waist and brought her body to
a full halt.
“Love, what is it?” Sansa gasped, confused.
“What have you done with your hair?” Sandor growled, suddenly sounding like the
Hound again.
“Oh that – I needed to dye and to cut it off. To attract less attention on the
way, you know.”
 
Sandor sat up and ran his fingers through her short strands.
“Ah well. The colour will wash out and it'll grow back.”
“Yes, it will. The only thing that counts is that I'm back. Finally.”
“Yes. Finally.”
 
They kissed: tenderly at first, then with increasing need once more, and after
some additional moments, they resumed their wanton movements.
“Damn, you feel so good, Sansa,” he uttered, his voice brittle.
“And what shall I say about you? – Aaaah.”
His Little Bird's moan caused Sandor to lose control: he flipped her around,
onto her back and started to thrust into her wildly. Sansa arched into him, and
her fingernails scratched his back. Sandor bared his teeth. Nothing could stop
him now to end what his wife had begun so daringly.
 
Suddenly, Sansa made a strangled noise, like the whine of a wolf, deep down in
her throat... and then, her muscles started to tremble and her womanhood
pulsated and contracted wildly. Sandor swore and thrust and thrust, and Sansa
quickly peaked against him a second time.
Now this was really too good to be true, Sandor's body stretched taut, and he
came with a dark roar.
 
Helplessly and completely pumped out, he collapsed onto Sansa, but he quickly
realised he was knocking the air out of her lungs, heavy as he was, and he
rolled onto the side. They were both panting loudly and needed a moment to
recover.
It was Sansa who snuggled up against him and murmured: “This was even better
than I could have dreamed it. And I've been dreaming about it ever since I left
Harrenhal. But I'm back. And nobody will separate us again.”
 
By now, Sandor's mind was clearing enough to ask: “What took you so long,
Little Bird? I got a raven from Riverrun, from your great-uncle. You can't
believe how worried I've been.”
Sansa kissed his chest, licked up his collarbone, his neck, his cheek and
finally claimed lips.
Next, she explained: “We were attacked, first by a Bolton man, and later by
some Freys.”
“Fuck, what!? And you're only telling me now? Are you all right, Sansa?”
“Yes, calm down, love, yes, I'm fine. Unfortunately, Arya was injured. She lost
a part of her tongue and was feverish afterwards, so she needed to recover, and
it took her a while to do so. But we also got some help, that was good.”
Sandor breathed out deeply.
“The Frey and Bolton bastards. I'll turn them into horse hash, all of them –
one by one. How's Arya?”
“Better now. Already becoming a little chatterbox again, even if it's difficult
to understand her at times. She's so strong, and nothing can subdue her for
long. I'm so proud of her, you know. But please, Sandor, there's a Frey man who
arrived with us. He saved us from the other Freys when they tried to abduct and
to rape us, and he risked his own life to do so, so please don't harm him.”
 
That surprised the Hound. One man against his own kin? And helping women – such
behaviour from a Frey? Something was foul here, and he could also hear it in
Sansa's voice.
“Little Bird, what are you trying to keep from me?” he asked sternly.
 
Sansa flinched and mumbled: “Ah, you know me too well, don't you? All right,
what you'll hear now will sound very, very strange. Unbelievable, actually, but
it's true. You know... my brother Robb – he was a warg, a skinchanger. You may
remember all the weird rumours about him and his wolf that we heard back in
King's Landing.”
“Hmhm. But... a skinchanger? Isn't that something from a horror story for
children? And what are you aiming at?”
Sansa was evidently feeling uncomfortable now.
“You see... during the Red Wedding there was some kind of... accident, just
when Robb was dying. He warged into a Frey man, unintentionally. So Robb's
soul... kind of survived, but it fused with the second soul. He remembers
everything, from both his lives, though. That's why he helped us. And Grey Wind
survived as well and found us and Nymeria.”
 
That left Sandor speechless for a moment.
Nervously, Sansa wanted to know: “Are you angry I've brought him here?”
With difficulty, Sandor managed to say: “No. I mean... there are things between
the heavens and earth one cannot explain, but... are you sure, the man has told
you the truth?”
Sansa nodded.
“Absolutely so. There's no mistaking the personality traits that belonged to my
brother. And one can also see that the situation is very difficult for him,
because he doesn't know who he is any more. He needs to recover. Can he live
with us here in Harrenhal? In secret, I mean? His new name would by Rollym.”
Sandor scratched his head and bethought himself.
“Little Bird, this is such a bizarre story that I've got a hard time to believe
it. If it didn't come from you... But no, I guess I don't mind, if he stays
here.”
“Thank you, love!” Sansa breathed and kissed him with renewed passion.
 
This lead to more hungry caresses, playful nipping and giggling and chortling
and laughter. Oh, how incredibly good it was to have Sansa back! Sandor had
never felt so good in his life. Especially when he took his Little Bird a
second time. And a third time at dawn.
 
“Sandor, I'll be sore all day!” Sansa gasped.
“Do you care?”
“No. Not one whit. Aaah. I'll never get enough of you.”
“But you can be bloody sure I'll try my best to satiate you.”
“Oh yessss...”
“And what about this?”
“Ahhh... please... please don't stop. Don't ever stop!”
 
Sandor grunted in sheer lust and felt triumphant. That was his Little Bird,
writhing under him, and her sweet songs were only reserved for him, for him
alone! Who would have ever believed such a divine woman could ever accept him,
let alone return his love with the same ferocity?
 
Finally, they were so exhausted from their prolonged, wild lovemaking that they
fell asleep in each other's arms and with peace in their hearts.
Morning reality came to them in the form of a loud rattle on the door handle.
Luckily, the door was locked.
Sandor and Sansa gave a start between the sheets and sat up, yawning and
rubbing their eyes.
 
“Daddy, daddy! Why if ve door cloved?” a very excited Bessie called outside.
Sandor chuckled, grinned and whispered to Sansa: “Here comes the last log for
my personal pyre in the seven hells. Put on some clothes now, quick!”
 
Aloud, he barked: “The door is closed because I've got a big surprise for you.”
 
“She calls you “daddy”?” Sansa murmured, her blue eyes wide in wonder.
 
“A furprive, daddy? Can I fee it?”
 
“Daddy Sandor and Mommy Sansa, be prepared for it, Little Bird,” he answered
under his breath while putting on his breeches and a tunic.
Next, he spoke up again: “Yes, Bessie, you can see the surprise in a moment.
Just a minute. And do you remember how to speak properly? Do you remember your
tongue twisters?”
“Yef! Er... yes! And I've got two new ones. Number one is from Cassel, the
brewer: Old Mr. Hunt had a puddy c... a cuddy punt. Not a cuddy punt but a hunt
punt cuddy. – And vif... this... is number two: Birdie, birdie in the sky laid
a turdie in my eye. If cows could fly I'd have a cow pie in my eye.”
 
Sandor roared his laughter, and Sansa desperately grabbed a pillow and pressed
it in front of her face so as not to give herself away with some sounds of
levity.
 
“Bessie, I think I'll have a serious word with that brewer about proper tongue
twisters for little girls. But that birdie sentence is a very good one, and
very fitting,” Sandor called back.
“I think I can open the door now, Bessie. Be prepared for your surprise. It's a
big one and a very good one.”
“Fine, daddy!”
Sandor winked at Sansa, and his wife winked back. Could life become any better?
Sandor couldn't imagine how that should be possible.
He walked over to the door. Turned the key in its lock with a scraping,
metallic sound.
 
A moment later, an overjoyed girl's scream erupted from their tower, so loud
that it could still be heard down in the yard where people turned up their
faces with – already knowing – smiles.
“MOMMY!!!”
***** Into the future *****
Chapter Notes
     Ok, here comes the last chapter. We'll have the grand tour at the
     end, so to speak. I hope you'll enjoy it.
     This has seriously been the most difficult piece of fanfiction for
     me, even if I have already written a longer one. The reasons were
     manifold, and there were two or three moments a few months ago when I
     wanted to abandon this story, or also to give up writing fanfiction
     in general. The many supportive comments, here and on LJ, the PMs
     there, the kudos, even one or two well-deserved kicks in the ***
     helped me to finally finish this story, and I'll be forever grateful
     for the wonderful contributions from your side.
     Thank you.
***
The next weeks were marked by the most interesting developments, and many of
them were good, Sansa found.
Rollym settled in slowly, even if he received many critical looks. He was
calmer and more sensitive and thoughtful than Robb had been. As much as Sansa
missed her brother as he had used to be she came to like her “new brother”. Of
course, he also fell victim to Bessie's charms, and her positive energy helped
him a lot. He also tried to help in the castle wherever he could, and Sandor
started to appreciate him a lot – not as a fighter, because he was lousy in the
training yard with his much weaker body, but as an advisor. After all, Rollym
had the memories and experiences of two men at his disposal now.
One day, her brother approached Sansa with a problem: he admitted that he was
drawn to Ser Cody. Obviously, the sexual orientation of former Wellym was still
very much awake. Sansa didn't know exactly which advice to give him, apart from
telling him he should give himself some time to become more secure about his
feelings and more stable in general, and he should try to accept his new
personality, no matter what other people thought and said – and that she'd
always accept him the way he was.
After that, Rollym started to his see his new life as a second chance, instead
of an unfortunate accident or a punishment from the gods.
 
Sansa was very happy of seeing her uncle Edmure again, safe and sound, even if
he was a ward now and not free to go back to Riverrun. She was more reserved
towards his wife Roslin, because of her family background. However, the young
woman was shy and friendly, and Rollym knew only positive things about her; he
also informed Sansa of how Lord Walder had put her under pressure before the
Red Wedding, so Sansa let go of her initial grudge.
In that respect, she was much more forgiving than Arya, who couldn't forget
that maybe Robb had survived in an altered form, but many other people – first
and foremost their mother – had been slaughtered.
Soon, it was discovered that Lady Roslin was pregnant, and it was also clear
that Lord Edmure was growing more fond of his wife by the day.
Sandor simply said to this: “Their beginning may have been horrible, but
they'll make their way in the world. We know what that means, don't we?”
And he smiled.
 
With regard to the Riverlands – and the Seven Kingdoms in general – the good
news were that Brynden Tully and Kevan Lannister managed to sign a truce. Of
course, the remaining northern Lords were still rebellious, but with winter
looming ahead and the Riverlands at peace they knew their cause was lost – for
the time being, that was, and they retired to their castles and fortresses and
strongholds to lick their wounds and to prepare for the cold season.
Edmure was allowed to lead his life at Casterly Rock, instead of in the
capital, and Sansa's uncle liked this much better, knowing well he wasn't made
for the cesspool King's Landing was, and knowing as well that with Kevan
Lannister, who intended to return home, he'd have a reasonable gaoler. It would
probably also be easier to maintain a correspondence with his uncle Brynden,
the castellan of Riverrun. So when Edmure took his leave from Harrenhal with
his wife and riding at Ser Kevan's side he waved back at his nieces in the yard
and didn't look too depressed.
 
Someone else was accompanying that party as well: Jeyne Westerling, Robb
Stark's widow. She had arrived with Ser Kevan after the Blackfish had
surrendered. A clause of the peace treaty was that she had to marry Ser Addam
Marbrand, just like Lord Tywin had ordered it.
For Sansa, this had been a bit of a problem, and for Rollym as well. Should
they tell Jeyne of his existence or not?
In the end, they had opted for candour, because it had been clearly visible how
intensively Jeyne had been mourning her “deceased” husband.
Sansa had established the contact and had told her goodsister about what had
happened. The woman's shock had naturally been immense. Eagerly, she had dashed
to Rollym, who had been waiting next door – but the disappointment had also
been substantial: no, Rollym wasn't Robb any more, neither with respect to the
body nor to the personality. Jeyne couldn't love him any more the way she had
done before, and for Rollym it was the same. It wasn't as if they didn't like
each other, but the mutual attraction was gone.
“I can still see parts of him,” Jeyne conceded in Sansa's presence, “but all in
all, he's not the man I married. In a way, I am a widow nevertheless. And the
peace treaty – I have to do my duty, I guess. The Riverlands have endured
enough. Ro... Rollym has also agreed to this. Besides... I know Ser Addam from
the Westerlands. He's a decent man, as far as I can tell. It will be better for
all of us this way.”
Sansa had been sad, but she had also understood.
 
There were also some wonderful news from King's Landing: Lady Brienne had given
birth to two healthy girls. Though never a good writer and horribly clumsy with
his left hand Jaime Lannister had taken it upon himself to write the messages.
“Proud bugger,” was Sandor's clipped comment.
Sandor with his bad eyes couldn't make head or tail of the blotchy scribbling,
and even Sansa had a hard time to decipher the words.
Ser Jaime reported that the girls, Bayenna and Brilla, were as charming as
their mother, and Sandor thought at first that the man was being ironic...
until Sansa read about sapphire blue eyes and big, smiling mouths.
“Fuck me sideways, the Kingslayer is a lovesick fool. We can shake hands now.
Well, one hand.”
Sansa grinned and thumped her husband in the side. They both laughed and kissed
and drank some milk in honour of the newborn babes. In that way, Sansa also
thought she had managed to make her peace about the Lannister family – well,
parts of the family, to be precise.
 
Soon after, alarming news reached them from another place in the Riverlands:
the Twins. There had been a massive outbreak of greyscales in the stronghold,
and all those Freys who had been there at the time, including Lord Walder, had
been killed by the illness within the week.
Sansa was certainly not sorry for the family who had murdered her mother and so
many others and who had committed such a horrible kind of treachery – the
problem was that the illness was contagious and spread everywhere in the region
around the Twins, so that the smallfolk fell victim to the epidemic as well in
great numbers.
Only at the end of autumn was it clear that the pestilence had died down and
wouldn't pose a threat to Riverrun and Harrenhal any more, and Sansa thanked
the gods.
In King's Landing, the king's Hand, Lord Tywin, appointed Emmon Frey – his
brother-in-law – the new Lord of the Crossing, though the man was basically a
lord without subjects and lacking a stronghold now, because the Twins were
still uninhabitable after the outbreak of the illness.
People tattled behind upheld hands what a convenient coincidence it all had
been for the Old Lion, but nobody dared to go any further with the
suppositions.
 
Another one of Lord Lannister's decisions turned out to have far-reaching
personal consequences for him: rumours said that Cersei had died while giving
birth to a child in Braavos that had turned out to be like Tyrion. A while
later, this was proven true, namely when the Braavosi father of the baby
shipped the boy named Ezro to King's Landing and dumped him into Lord Tywin's
arms, saying: “That deformity is part of your blood line, not mine, and you're
experienced in raising such a child. You take care of him.”
Well, and frustrated Lord Tywin had nothing better to do than to dump the baby
at Casterly Rock, even though Jaime had offered he'd raise the child together
with his daughters.
The Old Lion had simply said the baby could grow up with Lord Edmure's child
just as well, that he didn't want to have the brat around him, and he voiced
the question why it hadn't been killed back over in Braavos, because that would
have been easiest for all of them.
Sansa couldn't believe how anyone could be as cold-hearted as Tywin Lannister,
and she was even more relieved she didn't live in the Red Keep any more to
witness this meanness.
At the end of autumn, things started to become really precarious for the Seven
Kingdoms: a young man popped up seemingly out of nowhere and claimed he was a
Targaryen, that he was Aegon VI. Sandor believed that the youngster was simply
a pretender who resembled a Dragon on the outside. Whether this was true or not
– this Aegon managed to gather followers around him and even conquered a few
castles at the coast.
Fortunately, the danger was ended by a completely unexpected turn of events,
and without Lord Tywin needing to sacrifice many of his soldiers: a certain
Euron Greyjoy reappeared at the Iron Islands – and the Krakens and the Aegon
followers got involved in frequent skirmishes. In the end, they extinguished
each other conveniently. For the moment, Westeros and King Tommen were safe
again.
 
Then, winter fell upon them, and it was long and harsh, and Sansa was relieved
she wasn't farther in the north: even in Harrenhal it was icy cold, and the
snow was piling up high.
It paid off now that Sandor had appeared just in time to take over the castle
and to prepare the people for the winter. Food had to be rationed nevertheless,
but the situation wasn't as hopeless as it would have been otherwise.
On a positive note, Sansa found out that the long, dark, cold nights did have
some interesting effects: suddenly, every fertile woman seemed to be pregnant.
It brought many a smile to her face... and the sweetest thing was when she
found out she was with child as well.
 
However, she soon didn't smile often any more. She had always believed she'd
love it to be pregnant – but now, she had to find out that reality was
completely different. Her sickness was so frequent and so intense that she was
on the brink of becoming weak and really ill. Next came murderous pain in her
back, water in her legs and extreme thirst whenever she ate grain products.
It was no wonder that from some point onwards she wasn't able to behave like a
lady any more and became quite impatient. Even vicious. Sandor's reactions were
according and they had some bad arguments – luckily always followed by quick
reconciliations.
When the birth came it took Sansa almost three days, and she nearly died. The
baby, a boy, was Clegane-sized, which explained the many complications. Sandor
named him Costyan, because a male Stark name would have been met with suspicion
in the capital. Sansa, who had always wanted babies, was too weak for a long
time to take care of the boy, and in the beginning, she didn't even feel any
motherly instincts, so Sandor tried to even out this shortcoming with excessive
fatherly care.
Only after three to four moons had gone by did she finally start to love her
son in a normal way, and then, she was deeply ashamed of herself. Sandor
consoled her and told her of his own mother, who had reportedly reacted like
her after having given birth to her three children.
“It sometimes happens after giving birth. Look at animals, cats, dogs, what
have you. Don't be too harsh, after all, you love our child now. That's one of
the countless points that makes you better than Lord Tywin, you know?”
 
Sansa, however, wasn't the only Stark with a baby: Arya married Gendry, who had
been her lover for a while now, with Sandor's consent – and at that time
Sansa's little sister was already heavy and round with child. Her birthing
process two weeks was over after five hours, and she had a daughter, Lyanna,
who had inherited her father's thick, black hair.
While Sansa had been envious of Arya's easy delivery those feelings evaporated
soon when little Lyanna turned out to be weak and sickly – and wailing all the
time, so that the parents didn't find a minute of peace. In contrast to that,
Costyan was a happy child: he looked much like his father, grey eyes included –
only he smiled easily and had obviously inherited Sansa's gentle nature.
 
Nymeria had her first pups as well, a sweet littler of three little ones. The
animals' father was Salmon, and the dog always came over to sniffle at the pups
with pride in his eyes. Considering that the female dog bitches in Harrenhal
all started to have very big pups Grey Wind was obviously very productive, too.
 
Ser Cody seemed to have finally understood Rollym's longing looks. To her
surprise, word reached Sansa's ear that the knight had had several male
shieldmates before he had become a member of the Holy Hundred, and he was
unproblematic about accepting Rollym's feelings... even reciprocating them to
some extent.
 
In the course of winter, there were also more and more frightening news from
the Wall. People whispered of wights and Others and the weirdest beasts, which
had managed to enter the region around Winterfell. Sansa was worried for her
half-brother Jon and hoped he was amongst the survivors.
 
And then came the big bang, politically speaking: Tyrion arrived back in King's
Landing. Riding a dragon. Followed by two other dragons. Followed by Daenaerys
Targaryen with her army. And the most baffling thing was: Tyrion and Daenaerys
were married.
It was reported that Lord Tywin got the shock of his life, and Sandor said he'd
have loved to see the Old Lion's face.
The dragon woman's terms had been very clear: Tommen had to abdicate at once.
Jaime, the Kingslayer, and his father would be spared, if they gave up their
residence and positions in the capital. Moreover, Ser Jaime was ordered to
fight against the wigths and the Others in the north – alongside with
Daenaerys, Tyrion, the dragons and many more.
Lord Tywin wasn't one to give up, but even he knew that with a sword – or
rather dragons' breath – at his throat he didn't stand a chance and had to
retire.
 
“Do you know what's most interesting?” Sandor asked Sansa one evening in bed.
“What is it, love?”
“The Vale, the Tyrells and the Dornish – they're all holding their feet still
and biding their time to creep out of their holes and to thrive again once they
feel they can gauge the new queen.”
“You're right, Sandor. And I hate this Game of Thrones. I'll just bend the knee
and be done with it.”
Suddenly, Sandor chuckled: “We're Harrencleganes. Too blind to take aim. But we
don't bend the knee – we lift the leg.”
That night, many castle inhabitants were surely wondering what on earth the
lord was doing with his wife to make her laugh as loud as she did... but Sansa
was unperturbed. She'd never be ashamed of her laughter, especially, if it was
her husband who had caused it.
 
Another few months passed by, and Sansa became pregnant a second time, although
she hadn't wanted to have another baby so soon. When she heard that Lady
Brienne was with child at Casterly Rock as well she started a correspondence
with the woman, especially because Bessie hadn't forgotten the tall female
knight and her companion, and she always wrote a line or two herself as well.
Lady Brienne proved to be charming, and her supportive letters helped Sansa to
get through her second pregnancy.
The delivery after nine months was difficult again, but not quite as dangerous,
and it took Sansa a day less to give birth. In the end, she was able to hold
another Clegane-sized baby in her arms, this time a girl with red hair named
Jeyne – but with Sandor's big, hooked beak, instead of a snub nose. Yet, for
Sansa and Sandor, she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and Sandor
murmured: “I wonder if she'll be able to become Lady Brienne's squire one day.”
“If you train her I bet she will!”
 
Meanwhile, Queen Daenaerys and Tyrion had not been idle with their army: they
were driving the wights and the Others back with fiery dragon breath. Lord
Tywin lost his life in the process... and came back as an undead creature,
though not as a normal wight. He had horrible gashes on his body and hands that
were black of congealed blood – but he had retained his green eyes and a mind
of his own. Some kind of mysterious northern magic had preserved his soul.
“I don't know what would be creepier: the Old Lion as a normal wight, or the
Old Lion as an intelligent undead monster,” Sandor commented, and a shiver ran
down Sansa's spine.
 
Shortly afterwards, fantastic news reached them from White Harbour: Rickon
Stark had been found alive and well, together with his direwolf Shaggydog.
Apparently, the Manderly's had hidden the boy from the realm's disputes and
fights – and now, he was ready to become the next Lord of Winterfell, once the
damaged castle would be renovated. He was also engaged to a girl from the
Manderly family, which was a low price, if one considered that the Mermen had
saved an orphaned – and alleged traitor's – child, even with his claim.
Sansa, Arya and Rollym were overjoyed, of course, and they decided to visit
Winterfell in spring to help rebuild the castle.
“We're experts when it comes to renovating castles, aren't we?” Sansa jested,
and Sandor boomed his laughter.
 
In Casterly Rock, Lady Brienne had given birth to a boy who they had named
Selwyn, after the lady's father from Tarth. She, her son and Ser Jaime were
still stationed in Winterfell after all the fighting in the north, and they'd
still stay there for a while, so Sansa was looking forward to making the
warrior woman's personal acquaintance in spring.
 
What dimmed Sansa's mood considerably was that she soon lost a third child. It
was at the beginning of her pregnancy, yet it affected her a lot. Sandor was
very sad, too, of course, and they both mourned for the life that had not meant
to be.
At least, Costyan and Jeyne developed nicely, and even Arya's Lyanna was
getting a bit more stable.
 
During the winter, Sansa's aunt Lysa had given birth to a son, but she had died
in childbed a few days later. Sandor wondered loudly whether the Mockingbird,
the baby's father, had had a hand in it, and he predicted: “The next generation
of human shit is growing up in the Vale now, mark my words.”
Sansa hoped her husband was wrong this time for once.
 
When spring finally arrived in Harrenhal, there was a feast to welcome the warm
season – and then, Sansa and her family packed their things. Sansa's heart was
pounding like mad in her chest, because she was so looking forward to see her
old home again, and she knew it was the same for her siblings. Arya was
pregnant with her second child, but stubborn as she was she still wanted to
travel, declaring in her throaty voice that she was fit for the voyage. There
was a bit of a discussion with Gendry, but the man could finally make sure that
his wife at least didn't ride and travelled in a cart instead, together with
Sansa and the children, who were still too small for riding.
Sansa also noticed that Stranger as well as the wolves would be happy to be on
the road again; Nymeria and Grey Wind seemed to have an inkling that they'd
meet their long-lost brothers Shaggydog and Ghost again and were incredibly
excited.
Bessie, however, was in tears for days when she realized that Ser Gilroy was
supposed to stay behind to help maintain the order in the castle with Ser
Bonifer while the lord was away. Sansa had not seen the girl so depressed since
she had been brought to Harrenhal. Finally, both Sansa and Sandor were not able
to watch the misery any longer, and when Ser Cody offered to stay behind
instead, so that Ser Gilroy would be free to travel to the north Bessie clung
to the necks of both nights, this time weeping tears of relief.
“I wonder whether an innocent child's love can turn into a woman's love when
the time comes,” Sandor mused. “It's certainly nothing common, but I wouldn't
stand in their way.”
He turned around and looked at Arya, who had been rummaging in a knapsack,
asking: “What do say?”
Arya shrugged and answered: “I gonk ngow. Buk I ngow oang ching: Che pack
churvivech.”
Sansa smiled and nodded: “Yes, you're right, Arya. The pack survives.”
Sandor grinned and asked: “Moles included?”
They all laughed, and Sansa answered, her eyes sparkling: “Yes, moles
included.”
 
 
                                 *~*~*~*~*~*~*

                                 Morning_song
                                        
                    The day is dark and full of questions;
                     the night is bright and full of hope;
                    a smile - it stirs amongst the shadows;
                          a tear - it stains a joke.
                       So few have lived to see the end
                         of a beginning full of doubt
                       when options were but nightmares,
                           not worth to dream about.
                        The day - an echo of the past;
                     the night - a kiss for what's ahead;
                       a song unsung for future lovers;
                          a tree's leaf coloured red.
                     So few find peace amongst the shadows
                       and grow a plant in barren soil;
                      so few set out with tears of wrath
                           to end with tears of joy.
                        But we, my dear, we persevered
                        though, yes, the way was dark;
                       you made me see a path - and me?
                           I was your morning lark.
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