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Alayne lit a candle and sat herself down in front of the mirror. She looked tired and sad. She was tired and she was a little sad. She couldn’t admit it during the day, but here, alone with her reflection, she couldn’t pretend anymore. When she glanced out of the window, she could see two dirty dogs running there, nobody really paying any attention to them. They were playing, going anywhere they wanted, they were themselves. They belonged somewhere, they had their pack, and yet they were free. Free. Sometimes it was better to be a dog. When Alayne looked into the mirror, she saw Alayne’s nightgown, chosen by her beloved father Petyr, she saw Alayne’s hair and style. But her eyes still belonged to Sansa Stark. And eyes were the windows of the soul, were they not?
When Alayne finally lay down in her bed, she could not find rest. She loved this place, she loved many things about her new life. Was it bad she was less and less trusting of others? Was it bad she was sometimes scared of her father? Father… Sansa Stark had always loved her father, she had never been afraid of Ned Stark. But Sansa’s father was dead. The girl closed her eyes. She wished she could run away from everything. She wanted to be free, too. Why couldn’t she be free? She wanted to fly away like a little bird or run like a dog. In Old Nan’s stories northerners had once been able to do just that. They could warg into animals and taste their freedom. Sansa had always thought those stories stupid, she never wanted to be an animal, she wanted to be like the most graceful ladies of songs. But that had changed. So many things had changed. Now Alayne wanted that freedom, too. Alayne wasn’t a northerner, she could never possess such power. Sansa on the other hand… Sansa was a northerner.
Alayne could be Sansa. At least at night, for the old gods and for herself, she could be a Stark. She could. And so she tried to imagine what it would feel like being a Stark, being a skinchanger, being a dog. She imagined being all shaggy, having a long tail, she imagined barking and growling… and with these silly thoughts, Sansa slowly drifted off to sleep.
“And who is to stop me?” she barked out in a horrible, masculine voice. “I don’t need your permission for anything!”
What? Sansa didn’t speak like that. And were was she anyway, why didn’t her body listen to her? Her hands were moving, gesturing of their own will. Oh no, her hands had grown so much! And she seemed to be very tall all of a sudden. Very tall. The septon in front of her was quite tall himself and yet she was looking down at his shaved head. Where was she? Her whole enormous body was aching and she felt angry. She had never experienced such rage, what had happened to her? Why was she so angry? This didn’t feel like her at all. Had she… had she warged into someone? A person?
The septon sighed. “You don’t. But why don’t we talk about it first?”
“Ah, so now you want to talk about it,” she sneered. Or the man, someone sneered. “You had… how long? A moon’s turn? Even longer? And you said nothing! Nothing at all!”
“Because the time to talk is now. When lady Brienne and her two companions were here, your wounds were still fresh, you couldn’t even walk properly, remember? I knew you would want to go with them.”
“I wouldn’t,” Sansa felt a scowl twist the face. “Their little story isn’t believable at all. I know Podrick Payne, he’s not a bad lad, but a dumb one and loyal to the Imp. The pretty bird found the courage to shit on the Imp’s head, but he's fled King’s Landing, hasn’t he? You’ve said so yourself. Why do you think his people are searching the girl now? Any idea?”
“Sandor, you always have many ideas in this regard. A new one every day. Why don’t you sit down and consider the situation with a calm head and reason?”
Sandor? The height, those large hands, the voice, the anger…
“I don’t have time to sit down, Elder Brother, thanks to you I’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
“And where will you go? Alone?”
“I’ll ride through the whole Westeros and Essos if need be. I sure won’t find the girl here.”
It was Sandor Clegane. She was in Sandor Clegane’s head! Well, this was interesting. And strangely exciting. Sansa had never heard of anyone warging into another person, but she was obviously a particularly talented warg. That actually didn’t surprise her at all. Sansa relaxed in the man’s mind and tried to courteously greet him from inside of his head. But he didn’t seem to register her presence at all.
The septon shook his head. “Getting yourself killed won’t help anyone, Sandor. You don’t know where to search, you won’t help anything this way.”
The anger suddenly disappeared. It was strange, feeling the Hound wasn’t angry. Not a hound anymore, she heard him think. Not a dog. She could read his thoughts, couldn’t she? The realization only stoked her wicked curiosity. It wasn’t very respectable of her, but she wanted to see more of the man’s inner musings. Couldn’t he think of something very manly, something interesting? Please?
But Sansa felt only sadness and sorrow. Clegane sat himself down, pain piercing his leg and soul. “There’s nobody to help the girl,” he said quietly. “Everybody wants something from her, even the little group you trust so much. Everybody just wants to use her.”
“Not lady Brienne. She was honest in her intentions, I am sure of it.”
Clegane shrugged. “Then she herself is being fooled by someone. And besides, they’ll never find the pretty bird anyway.”
“The girl can’t hide forever.”
“Of course she can’t,” Clegane growled. “Someone else will find her, if they haven’t already. She can’t hide with that damn face of hers. And the hair! She couldn’t possibly be more noticeable,” he was irritated again. “Nobody has hair like her.”
“Well, it’s not so unique,” the old septon tried to comfort him. “I have seen many redheads.”
“Not like her!” Clegane frowned. “She’s different.”
“There are ways to change hair colour, you know?”
“It won’t help. Everything about that damn girl is different. She has those blue eyes, too, have I told you that?”
“I think you might have mentioned her eyes. Once or twice.”
Clegane nodded. “You can see everything in them, even when she tries to hide herself behind her courtesies, her eyes never lie. And when they light up with happiness… You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like the spring come early.”
“It certainly sounds nice.”
“No, it doesn’t!” Clegane furiously shook his head, his mouth twitching. “The girl can’t lie to save her life. She’s too sweet and too bloody recognizable. You know that when she’s truly excited, she smiles while biting her lower lip?”
“Yes, surprisingly enough, I do know that.”
Clegane wasn’t listening. “Nobody else does that. And when she’s trying to keep back her tears, her little chin starts to quiver and her hands smooth over her skirts. And then she swallows and takes a deep breath. Sometimes it helps.”
“Interesting.”
“And she has three pale little freckles. Only three. Right here,” the Hound touched the bridge of his nose. “She has highborn written all over her face.”
“Perhaps she is disguised well.”
“It won’t help. Even a blind bugger would know she must be a princess.”
Sansa started paying more attention to what was being said. They were talking about her, weren’t they? Clegane thought she was beautiful, she appreciated that. He was imagining her looking at him, she could see it now. It was a very pleasing vision. Sansa looked very elegant and graceful in Clegane’s eyes. He should have imagined her hair better brushed, though. And her lashes longer. And he remembered the dress all wrong. Clegane should have pictured her skirts to be much wider, her waist wasn’t accentuated enough this way. But even despite Clegane’s flawed imagination Sansa had to agree, she looked indeed very beautiful like this. She tried to thank the man, but he didn’t notice. Sansa had to work on her warging skills.
“Sansa…” Clegane breathed out. “It’s not just the looks. You can hear it, too. I can still hear it, even now. Sansa’s voice was always so soft and gentle. Like her hands. She used to touch me, you know?”
“I have quite a good memory, Sandor,” the old man replied, amused.
Clegane didn’t listen to him. “She touched anything, really. My shoulder, my face…” he put his palm where Sansa had touched him during the Battle of Blackwater. Tears were welling in Clegane’s eyes and he tried to blink them away. “Sansa even rode with me on a horse,” he announced, a sense of pride bubbling under the layer of sadness. “She wrapped her thin arms around me and she clung to me. She pressed her whole body and face to me. She used to touch me like that, she did,” he nodded in self-assurance, quickly wiping the tears away. “And I’m telling you, everything about her is soft. Everybody will immediately know who she is.”
This was such a strange feeling. Exploring Clegane’s mind was like exploring a new world. Sansa appreciated that the man was completely sober, but he wasn’t thinking enough. Clegane was concentrated solely on his memories of Sansa, other than that he wasn’t paying attention to anything. He was hearing and seeing his friend, but he didn’t truly notice him, he didn’t remember his words. It was an admirable focus, but Sansa wanted to see more of the Clegane’s thoughts.
Well, now she saw her own breasts, this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind. Clegane remembered the day when Sansa had been stripped in front of the entire court and he felt a crushing wave of shame come over him. Sansa wondered whether his thoughts were a result of her presence in his head, or he thought about her more often. Clegane’s mind lingered the longest on a memory of Sansa covering herself with his cloak, burying her nose in the scratchy fabric. He had wanted to hug her to himself then, he’d wanted to carry her away to safety and protect her from everything and everyone forever. He now felt too guilty to breathe, but his wishes and ideas were actually rather sweet. Sansa had always thought people misjudged the Hound, but even she hadn’t expected to find so much tenderness in the man’s private world. Sansa felt very welcomed in this head, certainly more than anywhere else.
Why couldn’t Sansa do something, though? If she was warging into Clegane’s mind, why couldn’t she control his body? In Old Nan’s stories skinchangers always got full control over the animals. Why couldn’t she comfort the Hound, tell him she was safe? Why couldn’t she make him move? Was he too big? Not a dog anymore, she sensed the same thought again. Not a dog anymore. She tried to make Clegane say something. Greet the septon. Yes. Let’s courteously greet the septon.
“Sansa…” Clegane whispered instead. “She is different. You can’t hide that sort of beauty under rags.”
“Then we have to hope the good people will find her first.”
“And who’s that? Who’ll get to beat her now?” Clegane’s voice broke in despair.
Why wasn’t he noticing Sansa? Why couldn’t she control his body? This wasn’t how warging was supposed to work. She was so happy about her discovery, she wanted to share it with him. Sansa tried to greet Clegane again.
“Sansa…” A tight ache squeezed Clegane’s throat, anguish filling his soul. He sensed her, but he didn’t listen to her at all. “The girl is probably being raped even right now at this very moment.”
“We can’t know that, Sandor. Perhaps she hasn’t been raped at all!” the septon remained hopeful.
Sansa, too, tried to assure Clegane she was fine, but he didn’t listen to her any more than he listened to the septon. Of course he didn’t. He was awful even when he was being sweet.
“You don’t know the Imp. I’ve told you what he did to his first wife, haven’t I?”
“Only about a dozen times I think.”
“It’s worse than a rape with that little louse. And once some fucker gets an heir from her, Sansa will die one way or another. Don’t you understand?” he looked up, tears now falling freely down his cheeks. “I don’t have time! I have to find her before it’s too late.”
“And then what?”
“Then I’ll keep her safe.”
“How? Where?”
“Wherever she wants. I’ll do anything. I’ll keep her safe.”
The septon raised his eyebrows. “Excellent plan. And how has such rashness served you so far, Sandor?”
Clegane looked down, nudging the floor with his foot. He was silent for a moment and Sansa saw his memories quickly flash through his mind. She saw herself being beaten by the Kingsguard for a moment, she saw herself on the night of Battle of Blackwater, looking up at her father’s head, smiling and dancing and then beaten on the floor once again. She saw Arya, strangely matured and dirty, with ridiculously short hair and she saw blood and dead people she didn’t know. She was unable to keep up with the man’s memories and imaginations, but then he exhaled loudly, shaking his head in resignation. “If I stay for one more night, will you help me?” he asked.
“I will certainly try. If you’re willing to take an advice from the greatest, treacherous cunt,” the septon stood up.
“Well, I just…” Clegane murmured. “I need to save her, you know?”
“I know, Sandor. But now go to sleep. It’s late and we have a lot of planning to do in the morning,” he stepped to the door. “Good night, my friend.”
“Good night. And… you know… you might not be such a great cunt after all.”
The septon left the room with a smile.
The conversation left Sansa confused. Was Clegane planning on looking for her? She had often wondered what had happened to him. She hadn’t believed the tales people were spreading about him, but seeing that he was safe and among friends was surprisingly comforting to her. She wouldn’t have expected to find him among septons and yet it was a good place for him. The Seven had given Clegane the consolation he needed and Sansa was glad for it. Why did he want to leave it just to look for her? He had obviously found peace in this place. He deserved to spend here the rest of his life, in peace and among friends, without people treating him unfairly. Sansa wanted him to be happy.
“Sansa,” he whispered to the ground. He sighed, rubbing his face with his huge hand. “Sansa.”
Yes? He could speak to her. Why couldn’t Sansa see what he wanted to tell her? How did this warging thing even work? It was frustrating.
Clegane lied down in his bed. He didn’t clean the room, he didn’t clean himself, he didn’t use the lavatory, if there was any, he didn’t even undress! He just lied down. And then he fell asleep.
Well, that was unexpected. And disappointing. Wouldn’t Clegane do some more thinking? How was he even able to fall asleep so fast? Was it normal? Sansa always spent long time imagining beautiful things, trying to distract herself from all her memories and fears. She usually pictured her future, everything peaceful and full of love, she sometimes imagined being a lady of tales and songs. She even imagined the Hound lying next to her, kissing her again. She pictured him kissing her, so why didn’t he do the same? He had stolen a kiss from her once, how could he even fall asleep without remembering it again and again, night after night? Sansa shook her head in exasperation. She… what? She moved the head again. Then the hand. She opened the eyes. Then she made Clegane sit up. When he was asleep, she could obviously move him around like a rag doll! How very interesting.
Sandor woke up at dawn, his mind still dwelling upon the sweet dreams about Sansa, his cock hard and throbbing. Sandor sighed and reached into his breaches. He tried to think about the journey, about all that needed to be done. It was fortunate that he’d given himself this one last night, otherwise he’d have forgotten to take half the things. Sandor started to plan everything, not really thinking about the movements of his hand. He hoped the Elder Brother would give him at least some of his armour back. Sandor concentrated on the tasks ahead of him, taking in a deep breath, smelling the girl’s hair. Smelling what? What girl?
Sandor quickly looked around, almost panicking. No, there was no girl. Just his wild imagination. He could almost sense her there, though. Her warmth, her mischievous joy. Sansa. He could feel her being the way he wanted her to be. Happy, excited. Seven hells, how he wanted her to be happy! Sandor pictured her smile and squeezed his shaft a little harder. Sansa had the most charming, adorable smile. Sandor wanted to make her smile like that all the time.
Sandor would go and find Sansa. Yes. He’d kill the people keeping her. He’d save her. He’d carry her away in his arms. He’d take care of her, pamper her so that she would smile all the time. He’d swear his loyalty to her. He’d beg her for forgiveness. He’d show her how much he had changed. She would be surprised. And a little impressed, too. And then she’d slowly fall for him. Yes, of course she would. She would fall in love with him. Sandor groaned, imagining Sansa jumping him in the arms, kissing him fiercely, telling him to love her.
Sandor was ugly, but in the dark of the night he could be just like any other man. He’d slowly undress Sansa, whispering to her all the pretty words from all the buggering songs. She deserved that, she deserved everything beautiful. He’d kiss her. He’d kiss her everywhere. He’d tenderly caress every curve of her body, every inch of her delicate skin. He’d make sure she felt safe with him. He’d kiss her every scar, he’d comfort her. No scar could ever make Sansa any less beautiful, as long as she was Sansa. Sandor would make her forget about every monster that had ever hurt her. She’d soon remember only his touches, only his caresses. She’d love it, wouldn’t she? She would beg Sandor for more. She’d beg him to claim her, but he’d slowly trail kisses down her breasts and across her stomach until he’d nestle between her pale thighs. She’d be surprised. Of course she would, other men only wanted to use her. But Sandor would take his time. He’d taste her sweetness, he’d make her sing in pleasure. Sandor could sense her response, he could smell her arousal even now. It almost felt real. She’d be all wet for him, she would. And Sandor would make her feel safe and loved. She was smiling at him now, he knew it, somehow he knew it was real.
Sandor tightly clenched his eyelids together, too scared his dream could shatter. He smoothed a drop of moist dew over the swollen head of his cock. Sansa would like his cock, she’d love touching it. Sandor ran his thumb over the slit, succumbing to the visions. Those were Sansa’s dainty hands touching him, yes. It was her. She was asking him to show her what he’d do to her. Seven bloody hells, but this felt so bloody real. Too real. His own hand caressed his thighs and torso, but he felt as if it was Sansa’s hand roaming over his body. She shyly confessed to liking it, liking the hardness of his muscles. Fuck. The damned girl was driving him crazy even when she wasn’t there. Sandor’s breathing was ragged but he fisted his cock even harder, the pleasure building up within him. He imagined gently stroking Sansa’s thighs and spreading them wide, he imagined plunging into her welcoming heat. She would gasp, surprised by his size, but she wouldn’t be afraid. She would never be afraid of him again. She’d love being filled and stretched by him. Sandor would tell her to hold onto him and move with him and she would, she would. She would give herself to him completely.
Sandor would thrust into Sansa in long, hard strokes that would make her moan and whimper under him. She enjoyed that thought, didn’t she? Sansa enjoyed it just as much as he did. Sandor would pound into her with increasing vigour until she’d dig her fingers into his shoulders and cry out his name in mindless delight. His little bird would come apart under him like that, joy and happiness shining through her eyes. Sandor groaned once more as his seed spurted onto his stomach. He’d fill Sansa with it. He’d fill her and she’d love it, too. She’d love it so much. He could almost see her blissful smile now. She was all flushed and beaming, having no worry in the world. She kissed him. He could feel her tender kiss.
Sandor wanted more of this dream, he wanted more of Sansa. But then she wasn’t there. She wasn’t. Sandor suddenly felt cold, empty and confused as if he’d been cruelly ripped from Sansa’s warm embrace. It was so abrupt it took him a moment to steady his breathing. When he looked around, he saw no one. He was all alone in his bed. It had all just been a dream. A sodding dream. Sandor stood up from his bed, angrily cleaning himself up, blinking the bitter tears away again. How could he have thought like this about Sansa? He was still a dog, wasn’t he? A damn dog. He was just as disgusting as every other bugger at the court. Sandor straightened his back and froze.
The wall was dirty. Why was his wall dirty? Why were there ashes? Who did this? The culprit had written something in elegant, decidedly feminine script. Why? What kind of a jest was this anyway? It wasn’t funny! Sandor recognized the handwriting immediately. He would recognize it anywhere. But what did it mean? Was he still dreaming? Sandor hit himself in his leg. No, definitely not dreaming. Had he gone mad then? He closed his eyes, willing the letters to disappear, convincing himself that the wall was perfectly clean.
He opened his eyes. The wall wasn’t clean at all. It was better than clean. It was… it was.
“There is a tourney at the Gates of the Moon,” he read, disbelieving. “And a little bird waiting for you.”
Sandor’s legs betrayed him and he had to sit down on his bed again. Sandor swallowed and stared at the beautiful message. He stared at it, but it didn’t disappear. It didn’t. Sansa’s scent and joy didn’t disappear, either. They were there. Somewhere. Somewhere in the distance, Sandor could still feel his little bird's presence.