Chapter Text
Sansa often finds herself in the forest that surrounds her home. It is not often, however, that she finds herself lost in said forest. Ironically, Sansa's mother frequently jests that she possesses an internal compass — always guiding her where she needs to go, always leading her on the right path, and it has never failed her. Until now.
This is a problem, she realizes, as she can not recall ever encountering anyone else outside of her family in the vast wilderness surrounding the gates of Winterfell. The King’s Road is nowhere near, and her family will be preparing for their royal guests' arrival - so her chances of running into anyone are slim to none.
“What should I do?” Sansa asks a nearby crow, gripping the skirt of her dress anxiously. It tips its pitch-black head at her, hopping closer and generously squawking. I should have brought Lady. Her direwolf would have never let her lose her way, but Sansa had left her behind - knowing Lady needed rest ahead of such a long journey south.
Letting out a weary sigh, Sansa sits down for the first time all morning. “Have some of this,” she says, taking a flower out of her pack and tossing it in the bird’s direction.
Sansa snuck from her bed in the early hours of the morning, leaving through one of the underground tunnels beneath Winterfell to forage for herbs, mainly to dry and blend into fragrance oils and tea. As it was still spring in the North, Winterfell’s forests held wild herbs that Sansa could never hope to find in the heat and sprawl of King’s Landing.
The first pang of anxiety hits her, she did not mean to have gone so far from home - and she suddenly longs to be welcomed in the arms of her father, to feel the warmth of the hearth in her quarters as Lady sleeps at her feet. I should have known to stay close on a day like this. It was an important day. The day she is to meet the prince. Her betrothed.
“If it weren’t for this hyacinth bloom I found,” she laments to her new crow companion, finishing her thought out loud. “I had never seen it before, and there was so much of it…” It was a flower-producing herb, with the prettiest, daintiest blue and white hanging bells that had been practically glowing in the early morning moonlight. Thrilled at her find, Sansa had harvested quite a bit of it before realizing time had gotten away from her, and her surroundings were unfamiliar.
“Caw! ” the crow noisily responds to Sansa’s voiced regrets, continuing to hop around and flap its wings on the mossy forest floor. It pecks at her floral offering, taking it in its beak before flying away.
Sansa thinks it best to venture in the direction she might have come from, as it has to beat just sitting idly and talking to a bird.
To her surprise, the crow reappears and disappears throughout her attempt to retrace her steps, and after several hours there are many of them, gliding nearby, conversating amongst themselves. Sansa smiles, comforted by the only company she will likely have on her journey. She tries to imagine what the crows may be gossiping about, only to come up with the idea that they likely pity her and think her pathetic.
It suddenly dawns on her. Bran!
“Bran Stark, is that you?” she yells up at the trees. “I’m lost!” Bran can slip into the mind of an animal or human and take over, often even dreaming as his direwolf, Summer.
Sighing when she gets no direct response from any of the nearby birds, Sansa decides to rest, stopping to eat the dried meat and cheese she always packs when she forages. She does not stay put long, as the later it gets, the colder it gets, and the more she longs for home.
How is it that I am lost? It’s as if she is stuck in a never-ending loop, walking in circles and getting nowhere. It is quickly getting dark and while she can usually rely on the stars to understand direction, the combination of the dark blue early evening sky and heavy cloud cover camouflage even the towering tree branches above, allowing no stars to be seen.
A fog is rolling in, creeping over her ankles and growing thicker the further into the forest she ventures. Peculiarly, the crows continued to keep her company.
Mother is going to be so upset. The prince had probably already arrived. Sansa wonders what he looks like, from what her Father had told her of the king, she always envisioned that his son would also be built like the warrior himself - broad and tall, solid and strong.
She recalls her father describing King Robert as good-natured, with an infectious laugh and a determined spirit. The thought comforts her, if her father approves of the match, then Sansa has nothing to fret over.
Still, she can not help but be apprehensive. Will he think me stupid for getting lost so close to home? Will he think me beautiful? Will he think me worthy of being his queen?
The least of her worries is her beauty. Sansa has been told her whole life that she is beautiful.
She mulls over her looks; her flame-colored hair stands out even in the dim light of the forest, falling around her shoulders in thick waves. Her skin is akin to porcelain, her features dainty and her eyes as blue as sapphires. The dress she wears is one she had made with her own hands. It is a dove-gray wool of the highest quality, with intricate periwinkle winter roses Sansa had painstakingly beaded throughout her needlework to sparkle in the firelight.
Sansa knows herself to be beautiful, truly looking the part of a princess. It is her mind she is worried her future husband will not accept. She received a formal education fit for a lady of her station, she knows how to sew and is a brilliant singer, but for her mother to get her father to agree to allow Sansa to marry the prince, he insisted on an education that most ladies did not receive. Sansa scored high in her lessons, outpacing all of her brothers and impressing her Maester so much so that he provided her with even more difficult texts to study.
Sansa knows of the world only through books, and despite the academic abilities her father had insisted on, fairytales are still her favorite reading material.
She will never admit it for fear of being teased by her siblings - but she longs for the frivolity and romance that she hopes her new life at court will bring. She will be crowned the princess of the realm through her marriage to the prince. Whom she hopes is as kind, gentle, and strong as her imaginings paint him to be in her mind.
Above all, she wishes for a husband who will cherish her as her father cherishes her mother. For someone who can lead her while still treating her as his equal. Someone who demands her respect without having to enforce it.
Sansa does not wish to conform fully to Southern styles of living, she wishes to keep her Northern traditions and raise her children with the values that she and her siblings had been raised with.
Her father and sister are to travel south with a small guard to chaperone Sansa as she acclimates to life in King’s Landing and prepares for the royal wedding… that is if Sansa ever finds her way back to Winterfell.
Just as she is starting to panic, her brothers, Bran and Rickon, appear on horseback, looking like the young men they had both recently grown into. “Sansa!” They each yell in joyous and exasperated unison. Who followed behind them on a big black warhorse, Sansa does not know, but she finds herself in awe of this shadowed figure in the darkness - in fact, he rivals Hodor for the largest man she has ever seen!
“Father had us split up into search parties, thank goodness we found you! I thought for certain that you ran away,” Bran yells out to her. “Were you? Trying to run away?” he finishes, his voice laced with curiosity and amusement.
“Bran! Rickon!” She greets them once they dismount, hugging them both and ignoring Bran’s question. Of course, she wasn’t trying to run away… she just… needed to bring some of Winterfell south with her. “I got lost.” She explains, trying to sound dejected and sticking out her lower lip in a pout.
“That’s piss…you never get lost,” jests Rickon, pausing to examine her person, taking in her clothing before snatching her pack and peering inside.
“See?” She takes it from him. “I was foraging and I lost my way. I don’t appreciate your accusations or your language .”
Alarmingly graceful, the large man is the last to dismount from his horse and join the siblings’ chatter, “Aye, leave our future princess be, the little bird was out here picking flowers and lost her way.” His voice is gruff, and as he comes closer, Sansa’s eyes widen when she notices — even in the darkness — the extensive burn marks on one side of his face. They are gruesome, some skin burnt away completely, exposing the bone of his jaw. Looking away, Sansa squeezes the leather strap of her bag in both hands, feeling her insides twist unpleasantly in sympathy at how painful it must have been to bear such a scar. It’s rude to not meet his eyes. She forces her gaze back, only to meet his cold stare. The man is angry.
Sansa studies the rest of his face and person as best she can in the darkness. He is imposing in his armor, which is similar to Kingsguard but as pitch-black as the sky above them. Sansa deduces that the Prince must have arrived at Winterfell and this man had something to do with it. She steals a glance back up at his face, noting that he would be striking even without the scars; his hooked nose and slanted mouth adding to his overall fearsome presence. However, his long dark hair and gray eyes are almost familiar— the same coloring her father and Arya possess. A Northern look.
“Are you from the Westerlands? I’ve read about the accent but never heard it,” she asks him politely, blinking up at him.
“Aye,” he gruffs, still looking put out at her blatant staring, but also a little confused.
“Thank you for escorting my brothers to me…Ser…?”
“Not a ser,” he growls, “it’s Clegane.”
“How can you wear that armor and not be a knight?” Sansa’s hackles raise. How dare he speak to her so gruffly?
Clegane spits on the ground near her feet, causing Sansa to take a small step back in astonishment, “Fuck knights. Fuck your sers.” He turns from her and seems to relax a bit when they both hear Rickon cheer at his use of vulgar language. “Call me Clegane or the Hound or nothing at all. Suits me just fine.”
“Sansa, the Hound is the prince’s sworn shield!” Rickon explains. “Isn’t he hilarious?”
Hilarious? I think not! Sansa is simply flabbergasted by this ‘Hound’. How dare he address her so rudely and use such language! She is to be his future queen!
“How dare you insult knighthood! And you’d do well to address me as your lady,” she lectures.
“I see the little bird has talons…but dulls them with her courtesies,” the Hound responds matter-of-factly whilst Rickon giggles like he does when Arya throws food at the table. “What do little Northern birds know of knights?”
Sansa cannot believe him. “It is a privilege to be awarded a knighthood, only those who act honorab–”
“Honorably?” The Hound rudely interrupts, looking angrier than she’s seen him yet. “Ask Elia Martell about honor,” he practically laughs. “Who do you think killed her and her babes?”
Sansa, who had been ready to fire back, is stunned silent. She knows her history, that the Targaryens were all but eliminated after the Sack of King’s Landing. But she never thought of it from such a bleak perspective.
“Aye. Your knights .”
She narrows her eyes at him, refusing to look away. “Not all are dishonorable… Ser Rodrick is the definition of valiant!” She counters, dropping her pack and crossing her arms. Ser Rodrick is Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms, and her Father trusts him implicitly.
“What I’ve seen and experienced is enough for me to spit on the title. You’d be smart to do the same girl,” he growls. “Bloody knights. Your Ser Rodrick may have honor, but you’d best not assume that’s the way of things.”
“Aye!” Rickon exclaims in response, pumping his fist in the air. Sansa rolls her eyes, Rickon seems to be this man’s number one fan, and she is tired, hungry, and nervous to meet the prince.
“We’d best start getting back, Sansa,” states Bran calmly. “That is… unless you want to run away. I’d go with you, you know. We could go north of the wall, they’d never find us.”
“Why are you so insistent that I’m trying to run?”
“You haven’t met Prince Joffrey,” says Rickon, matter-of-factly. “I’d run if I were you.”
Sansa’s heart sinks, her eyes shifting back to Clegane to gauge his reaction to her brother so blatantly insulting the prince, but his expression gives nothing away. “After you, my Lady…” the large man declares sarcastically, gesturing toward his big black warhorse. “The king bid me to bring you back safely, don’t worry, Stranger only bites if you piss him off.”
The king was also here, at Winterfell? It dawns on Sansa then the enormity of what awaited her, and how it looks for her to be missing at such an important time. On such an important day! How was she to explain this? Her cheeks burn and she hangs her head in embarrassment, wanting to delay her return as long as possible.
“Go on then, little bird, no use flying away now. The Hound has you in his jaws,” remarks Clegane, his tone encouraging. Sansa grudgingly makes her way up to Stranger, glancing back when the Hound follows close behind her. Startled, she gasps when he grips her waist and lifts her, placing her in the saddle with her legs tucked to one side. He proceeds to swing one leg up and over the massive horse to settle in behind her. Once again, she can’t help but be surprised at how graceful he is despite his size.
As they start their journey home, Sansa feels her body relaxing after such a stressful occasion, but her body happens to relax against Clegane. Her stomach swoops at the feeling of his armor against her back, and her cheeks warm with a different kind of heat than that of embarrassment when she recalls how it had felt to be lifted by him earlier. Glancing down, she admires the large silver and black gauntlets he wears, her eyes lingering perhaps a little too long on his hand which holds the reins.
“You wandered far,” points out Clegane. All anger seems to have left his voice as he leads her brothers and their mounts through the forest.
“I was foraging and found a new herb, it distracted me from my surroundings and I lost my way.”
“Don’t worry, girl, I can smell a lie and I know you to speak true… an herb? Do you know it?”
Relaxing even more, she smiles up in his direction, “ I think so, I’ll have to confirm once we are back, but I believe it to be Hyacinth.”
“Why’d you gather so much of it then?”
“If it is hyacinth, it has many medicinal uses. It treats pain and prevents wounds from festering. It truly is quite useful. I can even use it as a hair fragrance, or if I’m bit by a snake on my journey south,” she replies.
“I wouldn’t worry about snakes so much as lions…”
Lions? What can he mean by that? Lions are the sigil of House Lannister, that of the Queen.
“The Queen?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.
He doesn’t respond, only glances down from the path long enough to meet her eyes for a brief moment before changing the subject, “The little bird enjoys herbology then?”
“I’m a lady, not a bird,” she scoffs. “But yes, I do find herbology most useful. Westeros is plentiful, I plan to forage throughout our journey south.”
“You’d best not wander off alone again just for some plant, bird girl,” he chastises. “Your warging bird-boy brother won’t always be around to find you.”
Of course, it was Bran earlier! Sansa hears him snicker from somewhere behind them. “Hound! How’d you know I was –” Bran shouts.
“A warg? The whites of your eyes gave you away.”
“I was going to let Sansa run if she wanted, but after she told me she was lost, I thought I may as well lead us to her…”
Sansa’s heart warms with affection. She can never stay upset with her brothers for very long, but the apprehension she felt still lingered at their teasing about her betrothed.
“The prince…you know him well, then?” she asks Clegane.
“Aye, since he was a babe. Used to be a shield to his mother, Queen Cersei.”
“You serve House Lannister?”
“I serve the King, like we all do.”
When she continues to look up at him questioningly, he eventually and grudgingly continues, “Lord Tywin is my liege lord. He bid me to guard the crown prince. I am his shield.” His grey eyes flash with something Sansa can’t quite identify.
“The prince.. is he…”
“Honorable?” the Hound laughs loudly, and it strikes fear in her, causing her to create as much distance between them as she can atop his massive warhorse, but it is to no avail, as with a hand at her waist, he pulls her securely toward his front and leans down to rasp softly in her ear, “You’d best set your expectations low, little bird, else you’ll be sorely disappointed.”