1) Cages
A disarming stillness was looming and crackling in the air; a beautiful, delicate moment in the midst of cries on the horizon, a thousand green fires burning. Pinkish wisps of light were curling back for the bruise of night. The pink danced on the clouds, almost sweet, nearly serene, were it not that the light was a distant reflection of fire in Blackwater Bay. Sansa could feel the pain throughout her body, a twisting and biting ache that turned through her. A nightmare made real and constant, her waking life a strange dream. She was not only a foreigner in King's Landing, but a trespasser in her own life. Her lips, for instance, were now lacerated and raw when once they were soft and pleasing. Her eyes held a great, heaving sorrow. She felt brittle and pained; the little bird with broken wings, trapped in a cage. She could scarce think of anything but herself, in spite of the situation raging outside. Like all things cloistered and made invisible, the outside world couldn't truly reach her.
She began her prayers, singing them to the Gods as her hands quickly moved through her wooden chests. Her heart began pounding loudly, jumping into her throat. She had no idea what she was doing; she pulled out what she imagined a practical wardrobe would be. She eschewed her silks for linens and plain weaves. She didn't have any rough-hewn fabrics to take with her. What was practical for a lady was nearly useless out in the world. She hurried through her things, feeling the eyes of The Hound upon her.
Sandor stared at her, his heart a swollen beast pacing the cage of his chest. Seven fucking hells, he thought as he looked on. His head was aching with the leftover dregs of panic and bad memories. All of that fucking fire. The fucking river is on fire. He was drunk on sour wine and knew that he had crossed every boundary, was guilty of the most vile of betrayals.
Fuck the king.
Save the little bird.
Sansa pulled her bag shut and spun around to look at Sandor.
"Ser, I believe I am ready."
Sandor would normally have protested being called "Ser", but couldn't bear to correct her this once. He was in such a state of wonder and express terror that it was all he could do to keep his mind focused on what he must do: keep her alive and deliver her home.
She stepped into the center light of her cage and was lit by a few meager candles. A quiet and pale light played upon her features, softening her visage to look like that of some angel or other creature. Her fire red hair wasn't burning; it was the soothing light of the sun, red flowers in the springtime, ripe apples on the branch. Sandor was aghast at himself. For a moment all of the hard things within him were toppled over violently. He was disarmed by her. A great hound pulled to shreds by a little song bird.
He pulled his cloak off and threw it at her.
"We can't let anyone know who you are. Put it on."
She looked up at him and pulled the cloak around her; the same cloak that he had offered her when she was humiliated in court. She suddenly realized the he wouldn't hurt her, no, he could not. She looked him straight in the face and walked toward him. She outstretched her hand and put it onto the burnt half of his face, for the first time feeling brave and free.
Sandor locked eyes with her and felt the small palm on his face, knew she was on tip toes to brush his cheeks. He grunted and turned away from her, instructing them that they must leave now. He could not have allowed her to see his eyes glaze over with a drop of salt water.
2. Movement
It was a full night, the air heavy and pendulous, not a cloud nor a star to be seen. The entire sky was like a dye-vat, depthless and undulating. They were a single black figure moving quickly and quietly through the woods, The Hound and Sansa upon Stranger's back.
Sansa dared not take in a breathe that was too heavy; she sat as still as possible, rocking back and forth on the horses back. She was concealed under the white cloak, looking all of the part of a refugee. For all of the nightmare of leaving King's Landing and making it into the wilderness, she felt more at peace than she had felt since she left Winterfell. Even while in the midst of fleeing, she was for the first time not completely alone. No matter how unfavorable her situation was, she had nothing to fear. There would be no fists pummeled into her back, no hands flying across her face. She was free from humiliation and knew that no matter what occurred, she would not be abused out on this road. She would not be beaten and choked, made to witness horror after horror. She felt more like a lady out in the wilderness with this strange and frightening man than she had even felt in court.
Sandor kept one hand cautiously around her small waist, the other in control of the reigns. He kept the hand touching Sansa unflinchingly still, not allowing a single joint to twitch or to move. He'd never felt that his hand had been in such danger before; it felt like it was on fireóit was screaming and crying out. It was this hand that Sansa did not push away or reticulate from. It was this hand that could feel, beneath his white cloak, the small movements of her body, the way she readjusted as they rode. Every so often she would lean her entire weight onto his hand and stomach, shifting in the saddle, setting his entire person aflame.
The only fire that he didn't fear.
The pair kept quiet, not exchanging a single word since they left the city walls. Sansa was absorbed with the sound of the journey; the horse's hooves crunching the earth beneath his feet, the music of the trees speaking in the wind, the sound of birds crying out. She kept her mind awake by playing small games with herself, trying to guess the kind of birds that were chirping in the forest. She would also try to lean upon Sandor, undetected. She was afraid that he would get annoyed if she rested too heavily on him, think that she was being ungrateful and weak. She would take painstaking efforts to slowly and cautiously rest her waist upon the hand that supported her side-she knew he didn't trust that she could ride for any long stretch of time. She would move her body back slowly, changing the curve of her spine by mere degrees until she was flush with the front of The Hounds body. She'd feel almost comfortable there and hoped that Sandor didn't notice her beneath his chain mail and armor.
The two rode, perfectly alone.
Sandor's hand involuntarily moved with a small twitch in his joints. It broke Sansa from her lolling fascination with the forest around her. Her body stiffened, terrified that Sandor was angry that she was leaning too heavily on his armor. She knew that he thought she was just a silly bird and imagined that he must think her pathetic. She straightened up her back until his hand barely touched her side. She was disappointed.
Seven bloody fucking hells. Bloody fucking hand, he thought, his mind suddenly wild.
He'd nearly imagined that she might have enjoyed him holding her steady. He had to remind himself that he was a mere beast spiriting a high born lady out of her situation. How could he ever have imagined she would enjoy anything about him?
3. Reality
Who in the fucking seven hells do I think I'm kidding? Sandor Clegane thought to himself, a dagger of pain shooting through his chest. Everything in the world had once felt- what? Manageable? Navigable? Did he ever truly fancy himself to be the king of his own destiny? Of course not, not in a thousand and one bloody fucking hells. He was a well-trained dog, and it only occurred to him outside of the city wall on his way to someplace safe and distant and fireless that he had no idea what he was doing. The world loomed up around him, every noise heard on this back road sounded like the explosion of wildfire on Blackwater Bay. He felt, for the first time in his memory, completely ineffective. He was as small as a seed in a vast field. Where he'd once felt completely on guard he felt like every angle left him vulnerable. Every chink in his armor felt exposed, his head felt the open wind around him and he shivered. He felt a as though thousand eyes were on him and was sure that there were spies on the road ready to murder him and take the little bird as a keepsake, a hostage, a chess piece.
His first impulse was to do something sudden and mad. Were he on his own he would have had the horse up to his fastest gallop, long sword out of its sheath. He'd dismantle any man who dared near him. Instead he delicately shifted the girl who was valiantly fighting sleep in the small of his hand, barely on the edge of his fingertips. He felt a sickness moving through him, worse that the most awful hangover he'd ever had. It even eclipsed the bad memories of childhood, of fighting, of the constant reminder of his deformity. He felt incapable and trapped, like an idiot: like a dog gone mad with fever that should be killed by his master.
Who the fuck am I to have stolen this little bird?
Who the fuck am I to have left the field of battle?
He knew the sun would break soon and had no idea how he would contend with sleep, with shelter. The things that he hadn't bothered to flesh out were gnawing at him, masticating the insides of his brains. He knew he couldn't keep riding forever; he couldn't keep the little bird perched near him indefinitely. He'd have to sleep. He couldn't allow his senses to rot with exhaustion, not could he allow the little bird to be out of his sight and arm range for even a second.
He felt like a fool; worse than a fool: he felt for the first time like a true fiend. His entire life of harsh neutrality and ambivalence to the smell and sight of death was washed out in a few small hours. For the first time ever, he was truly afraid for a life.
"Wake now, little bird, enough riding for the night." He barked at her. She tensed forward suddenly, though she'd been awake and uncomfortable since she he shook her off of his hand. "I'm going to take the horse and tie him to a tree. You're not to move or to make a sound."
Sansa hadn't slept at all this night. She'd watched as sky had changed from total black to a sooty gray, the first sign of the morning's light appearing. She shook her head to try to communicate that she understood and would comply. She dared not look at his face, for fear of his seeing how ridiculous and frightened she was, but stared forward into the forest and the back of Stranger's head.
Stupid fucking dog. She won't even look at you.
She wouldn't blink, wouldn't move, but rather sat shivering. With The Hound off of the horse she was suddenly very cold and felt very alone in the woods. She'd never felt so alone before. She choked on a sudden sob that clogged her throat.
"Quiet, girl!" Sandor hissed without thinking. She regrets coming out here with me. What have I done?
Sansa quickly tensed and silenced herself, but could not keep a deluge of hot tears escape down her face. She sat on the horse crying and shivering as Sandor finished securing the horse to a tree.
Sandor worked quickly, thankful to the gods (if there were any) that he had stumbled upon cave in the middle of a thick wood. He'd left the main road hours ago and hoped that he had truly escaped, undetected. As he worked he dared not take his eyes off of her. He watched her crying.
I suppose I'd do that too if I had only a wretched beast to trust.
The Hound pulled her down from the horse. She clung onto him, pulling tightly around his neck. She placed her head near the burnt side of his face, burying herself into his skin. She was violently shaking, pulling herself as close as she could to him. She wanted to wail but dared not, so she instead muffled herself into his neck.
She so badly wanted to cry out and thrash around. The sudden quiet of the pre-dawn hour caused more terror in her than she could have imagined as they rode out of King's Landing. She'd fed her bravery with adrenaline and the excitement of liberation. Now that the night was ending she had recovered her normal senses and was quite aware of the precariousness of her escape. She now couldn't care whether or not she seemed absurd or childish to The Hound. She could only cry and cry, as though the tears would never stop. She'd lost all awareness of herself and was a figure composed only of fear and mourning.
She didn't at all notice that Sandor supported the back of her head with his massive hand and held her safe, away from all harm.
4. Shelter
He'd instantly come to realize that he couldn't afford to have any doubts about what he has done. Deserter, traitor, bastard Hound and murdereróit didn't matter. Nothing did. This little heaving body shocked him into himself. He carried her into the mouth of the cave, crouching down below the ceiling.
The inside was dry, the ground surprisingly even. He felt a surge of relief: the cave showed no signs of former tenants, or worse, current inhabitants. The opening was almost completely obscured by years of the buildup of brush, scrubs and thickets. Outside, the forest was almost as impenetrable as the walls of King's Landing.
"There, there little bird," he managed to whisper in his raspy voice, "you're safe now. I won't hurt you."
She stopped her sniffling as he set her down as gently as possible.
Sansa looked up at The Hound, her face red and stained with tears.
"Thank you, ser."
"I'm no ser."
Sansa pulled a small piece of cloth out of her sleeve and began wiping at her eyes and at her face, smoothing her hair back, trying to gain composure. Sandor immediately knew her handkerchief; it was the one which he had given to her. Her own blood had deeply stained it.
It pained Sandor to see this high born lady standing in this dimly lit cave, wiping her face with a cloth stained with her own blood. He was aware of where they were standing and where she would have to sleep. There was nothing with which he could improvise some comforts. There was just dirt, rocks and dried leaves-nothing so much as a pillow to keep her little head from touching the ground.
"Stay there, little bird. Don't you move an inch or make a noise. Don't breathe too hard. I am going to step away from you for but a moment. Do not move."
Sandor looked at her and then turned quickly, moving quietly for such a large beast. He went outside and pulled the saddle and the blanket off of Stranger, as well as the satchel that Sansa had packed. His panic had soothed into an almost beautiful urgency to take care of her. He felt something stirring in him that wasn't pity, but something more elevated. He was such a stranger to his own emotions that he could scarce say what that feeling was. Bringing the meager supplies back into the cave, he saw her standing as quiet as a great tree in the Godswood, as still as a summer day. Her face was blackened with exhaust, with bruises. The great scarlet gash on her lips seemed to him more painful than all of his scars combined.
Sansa stood perfectly still even after he returned. She was nearly puzzled, watching him move delicately before her. He put his large saddle on the ground and then spread out two layers of the horse blankets, fashioning a bed out of his supplies. He'd stuffed a few handfuls of dried leaves below the blankets, doing his best to plump and soften this awful little bed.
"Little bird, I've some bad news for you. I cannot leave you alone in here; it is too dangerous, too stupid. You'll have to sleep with me." Shit. "Rather, you'll sleep in here and I will sleep at the mouth of the cave. You can use my cloak as a blanket, and, uh-" He saw her eyes well up with tears again. He felt hopeless. The girl would rather die.
"Thank you. Thank you so much, I cannot repay your kindness."
The Hound grunted loudly and almost cracked a smile.
The poor little bird had been so abused she took this pathetic cave for kindness. At that moment, he'd give of his entire life to get her into a proper bed. And he knew he would.
She dried her tears once again with his handkerchief. She smiled at him and knelt onto the bed he'd just made for her. She removed his cloak and lay down, covering herself with it. Despite being quite covered, she shivered. The hound turned away from her and positioned himself at the mouth of the cave. His back was to her so that he might observe anything or anyone that might approach them. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other acting as a pillow. The ground was hard, yet no other bed had ever seemed sweeter.
What a fucking idiot I am. I will be the death of us. She gives me one smile and I decide I'll end my life for her, give her anything.
But of course, he would have done it even without the smile.
Sansa knew that she should try to force herself to sleep, but could not. Instead of a beautiful sunrise outside, a heavy rainstorm had broken out. It was nearly as dark as night, but she could not feel comforted. She felt terribly alone. It wasn't that she missed anyone or anything-not her big bed, not her staff of handmaidens. She felt the divide that The Hound had put between them. She stared at his back. He lay on his side away from her, nearly covering half of the cave's opening with his own body. If his brother is The Mountain, than he is The Wall. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't cry or start sniveling again. She'd be strong and good so that he would have no more reason to think that she was just a stupid little bird.
She shut her eyes and tried to keep them closed. She felt hopeless.
"Ser?" she called out quietly.
The Hound didn't respond. She felt stupid. She knew he must still be awake or somewhere near conscious. She sighed loudly. She didn't know if she could say the word she needed to.
"Sa-sa-sandor?"
Sandor grunted and his eyes opened wide. He'd never heard her say his name.
"Yes, little bird, what do you want?"
"Um, nothing, I'm just terribly cold." She half-lied. Yes, she was cold, but she could hardly care for that.
"You've my cloak. I've nothing else to give you, go to sleep."
"Sandor, please?"
"I've already told you-" He couldn't believe she'd said his name twice.
"No, it isn't that. I'm just, well, I'm just, uh-" She didn't want to say that words, but didn't know any other. "I'm just scared, I'm frightened."
"I told you, girl, I won't hurt you."
Sansa exhaled loudly. She didn't know what to do. For a moment she closed her eyes and remembered her father, thought of the way she would talk to him. She thought of her mother and the way she could melt strong, cool Eddard Stark.
"I don't want to sleep alone, Sandor. I want you near me. Please, ser-I mean, Sandor. Please. I cannot sleep here without you."
Sandor took in a sharp breathe. For a moment he panicked. He was sure that he was dead. They must have been intercepted on the road and killed. All of her prayers must have given him favor with the gods. He must be in the seven heavens.
But if he was, why would there be icy rain and cold, hard earth beneath his head?
He still forced himself to sound gruff: "What do you want from me, girl?"
She exhaled as loud as she could. Even in the wilderness she could go into the fit of a high born girl.
"I want-I, uh, I want you to please make yourself nearer to me. I am very cold and would very much like it if you wouldó that is to say, I should expect that you would come and lay down and keep me warm so that I do not freeze. Yes, you must keep me warm." She became haughty as she progressed.
Yes, this was the fit of a highborn girl. Sandor barely held back a laugh at that.
"Well, my lady demands it. I must submit."
Sandor stood as tall as he could without hitting his head on the ceiling on the cave, walking hunched over towards her. He expected to lie down on the dirt beside her and was surprised that she moved out of the way so that he could lay down on her little bed with her. He drew in a shaky breathe.
"My lady, I will sleep facing the entrance of the cave. You don't need to move."
"No!" she suddenly protested. "I mean, no, I have told you that I am cold. You shall sleep with my back to you so that you may still observe the mouth of the cave but keep me warm from the drafts."
Sandor didn't dare protest. No matter what his better judgment said to him, he was now under her direction. He lay down, still allowing her all of the blanket and stuffing of leaves below her. She was so small beside him that it scarce mattered where she was, he would still see out of the cave. His heart was beating harder than it ever had in any fight- his breathe choking in his throat.
Sansa decided that no matter what the consequences she would not freeze in some cave. She suddenly remembered Sandor's gentle hand on the back of her head when she was sobbing just earlier. She took in a big breathe, steadied herself, and inched her way closer to him until her body was flush with his. And then, without asking, she pulled his large arm away from him, and wrapped herself up in his protection.
Sandor's body froze, as did Sansa's. They both laid there like stones for what seemed like a thousand winters and summers. Sandor felt her gently squeeze his arm.
He pulled her towards him and placed his face into her hair. He breathed her in, certain once again that he had entered the seven heavens. Within a moment he could feel that she had fallen asleep. He held her in his arm and gently kissed her hair, his face finally safe within the flames.
5. Barking
Sansa felt something moving across her face. She slowly opened her eyes and brought a small hand to her face.
And then she let out of a blood curdling scream.
"Seven fucking hells!" Sandor cried out as he went completely vertical, nearly breaking his head on the cave's ceiling, pulling out his sword as he strode over her, out of the cave. He erupted into a panic. He couldn't see anything. His brain went numb and his body went into a fit of instinct and reaction. Where the fuck are they? Who the fuck is here? He turned to charge back into the cave.
"What the fuck did you see? Who was there? Are you hurt?" He realized he was frightening her. She looked up at him with massive saucer eyes, lips trembling. You'll listen to her cry every few hours if you aren't careful. She doesn't know any other way.
Sansa put her head into her hand. She was startled but she was fine. She felt like an idiot.
"Please, put your sword away. There was no one here."
"Then what happened?" What in his mind was meant to be a gentle question came out like a snarl.
"A frog ran across my face. It woke me up. I've never touched a frog before! I-I just-" She knew no other explanation and decided not even to try.
Sandor looked her in the eyes. She looked at his face, made wretched with rage. She'd awoken his primal urge to kill. He had his teeth bared as he breathed heavily. She was terrified by him and turned away.
Sandor was relieved but could not compose himself. He stood electrified, refusing to sheath his sword. His body heaved massive breathes. Buggering hells. Buggering little bird. He thought that he had awakened to an ambush, not a small frog hopping across her face. He had half a mind to go searching for the frog and rip its head off and smash it against a wall, just so his anger could be sated. He didn't even realize that he had curled his lips back to show all of his teeth, that he looked like a monster.
"Look at me, girl!"
He paused to sheath his sword, lowering himself to her face.
"Don't you ever wake up screaming again, girl! Not unless there is someone about to hurt you, someone that shouldn't be here. Never again. Do you hear me?" He didn't realize he was shouting, breathing hot breathe in her face. He couldn't control himself; he snarled and barked and growled. She sat before him, frightened. Gone was the confident girl of the night before who made demands of him. There now again was the girl he'd given his cloak or handkerchief to after she'd been beaten. There was the vulnerable, high born lady with the gaggle of attendants. There was the frightened little bird. "Bah!" He shouted into her face, turning away.
"Make yourself ready, we ride in a few moments."