Chapter Text
Sansa
Sansa heard the sound of heavy boots on stone fading as soldiers descended the stairs of the Tower of the Hand. The back of her head was pressing hard against a stone wall and her legs were cramped from the tension of the awkward position she had curled herself into. She was afraid to move though and waited for a long time to be sure that the men had left.
The silence stretched on and on and finally she concluded it to be safe. In a puff of soot and cinder she landed into the fireplace, tearing back of her dress that had hooked itself to a crack on a stone surface. A sharp cry that she couldn’t muffle left her mouth as she hit her bare toe against a hard iron grille. She froze for a moment but as nothing happened, she continued to carefully move from the fireplace back to her father’s solar.
The soldiers had come in force, loud voices and angry commands telling servants to fetch ladies Stark at once. Sansa didn’t know what that was about, but from their voices she could hear that they were not friendly, and they were not cordially requesting their company. Sounds of struggle soon ensued confirming her suspicions, and before she had time to think about anything else but an overpowering desire to escape, she had run to the Hand’s solar. She had looked frantically for a getaway or a hiding place finding neither – until she noticed the big fireplace at the back of the room, cold and unused. She run closer and noticed how its huge mouth narrowed towards the chimney, but was still big enough to accommodate someone her size in its cavern without anyone from the room seeing her.
Without further thought she had kicked her shoes under one of the chairs and climbed up the chimney using her fingers and toes to find support. Arya could do this much better, she had thought as she scrambled for purchase, unaccustomed as she was for such unladylike activity. She didn’t know where Arya was – the last time she had seen her, she had been on her way to her dancing lessons.
Her head pounded, full of unanswered questions. Why were they here? Where did they want to take us? Where is father? Slowly she crept towards the top of the stairs to peek into to the stairwell.
“Little bird searching for escape?” she heard a raspy voice behind her. She startled and turned quick as a flash to see the Hound sitting in the Hand’s chair, long legs lifted on a table in front of him, looking like there was nothing more relaxing than to sit in the Hand’s solar that sunny afternoon. Before Sansa could correct herself, she had instinctively taken few steps backwards to escape his attention. She felt the second step landing on thin air – and then all she sensed was falling…down the stairs, unable to stop her fall and landing heavily on one step, then another, hitting her side, then back, all the while flailing her hands in a desperate attempt to grab hold of something, anything… The last thing she saw was the Hounds face as he jumped from the chair surprisingly fast for such a big man and rushed towards the stairs. His face looked surprised, shocked, eyes wide. Then Sansa felt or saw nothing at all.
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The next thing Sansa knew was a heavy thudding pain in her head. She tried to open her eyes but the lids felt too heavy – all she could do was to scrunch her face and squeeze her eyes even more shut. It felt as if she lay on a soft surface, so at least it was not likely she still remained on a stone floor at the bottom of the stairs. Tentatively she moved her hand and tried to turn her head. Slowly, very slowly she finally opened her lids and glanced to look around.
She was lying in a bed – a big bed - and was covered with a simple thick blanket. As she focused her gaze further, she could see that the bed was located in a room with sparse furnishing; a big wooden chest, a table and two heavy chairs, a simple cabinet and a wall rack from which hung some clothes – men’s clothes. The other side of the room was covered with a curtain, presumably to cover the privy, and there was a small window shadowed by an overhang outside. Everything was unassuming, built for purpose – she couldn’t see anything that could be described as decorative, except for a piece of cloth hanging on a wall depicting three black dogs on a field of yellow. Clegane sigil!
She tried to lift herself up but nausea overtook her and she had to fall back. Where am I? She heard heavy footsteps approaching from the head of the bed and even without seeing who it was, she knew. The Hound. She felt a heavy weight landing on the side of the bed, causing her to roll towards the indentation in the mattress. Strong arms took hold of her shoulders.
“How are you feeling, little bird?” Without waiting to hear the answer – which she was incapable of giving at any rate – the hands moved further and turned her on her stomach, gently but assuredly. Sansa was not in a position to struggle, but suddenly she realised that she was wearing nothing but her smallclothes and a thin shift. Before she could wonder what had happened to her clothes, she felt the blanket being removed and big, warm, calloused hands descending on her body touching, exploring. Strong fingers pressed on her arms, one after another, turning and twisting them, moving their grip from the top of the arms to the wrists, then exploring each hand separately, finger after finger. Every now and then he muttered, “Does this hurt? Is this spot tender?” Then the hands moved to her legs, exploring them similarly from the top of the thighs to her ankles, then to feet and toes.
Sansa couldn’t say it exactly felt uncomfortable – except for pain at places where she obviously had hit herself badly against hard surface, and for the queer feeling of being so…intimately explored. If she had had strength, she would have blushed. It being she had none, she only sighed and succumbed to his touches. She was given a thorough once over, including her shoulders, hips and sides, where she winced of pain as strong fingers pressed against one of her very tender ribs. After the examination, the next sensation she felt was being dabbed with a soft, moist cloth over the places where her skin had been grazed open, making her flinch again.
Then she was turned over to her back and the Hound continued his exploration and cleaning. Thankfully he didn’t remove her scarce clothing, except lifting her shift once in the area near her hip bone, where an especially nasty bruise had bloodied the fabric. Sansa could see his face concentrating, grey eyes narrowing while he did his task. Finally he seemed satisfied that the job was done and leaned back, pulling the blanket back on top of her.
“No bones broken, and only some bruises – you were lucky, little bird. You could have easily broken that slim neck of yours in that tumble.” He didn’t get up but stayed sitting, looking at her.
Sansa didn’t know what to say. She was still feeling nauseous and dizzy. With an extreme exertion she mumbled “Thank you my lord.” He looked at her incredulously and threw his head back, laughing that hard laugh of his she had heard a few times before.
“Courteous little bird, thanking me although I almost killed you!” He stood up now, shaking his head. Sansa felt her eyes closing and fell into sweet unconsciousness.