Your grace is wasted in your face, Your boldness stands alone among the wreck.
Title: Your grace is wasted in your face, Your boldness stands alone among the wreck.
Characters/Pairings: SanSan
Rating: K+
Word Count: 1,248
Prompt: What if Sansa agreed to go with The Hound in the battle of Blackwater? So, AU.
:::
They have strayed off the Kingsroad, but Sansa is not sure if they were on it much to begin with-it was all a blur, their grand escape, like something from a story or a song or a dream. The night sky backlit by crackle of wildfire and the swing of swords, his offer-I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again or I’d kill them-it was nothing like from the gentle knights of the stories, but when he unclasped his white cloak with trembling fingers and draped it around her shoulders as she shivered against the cool morning-
She understands why the groom wraps his cloak of protection around his bride. This has all felt more real than anything in her life, like nothing else has felt since her father’s head was placed on a pike.
The hound dismounts, leaving her on his ill-tempered horse, leading them near a small cave hidden by a copse of trees. Silently, his hands come to her waist and lift her off Stranger, setting her gently on the ground. He seems different now. His features lighter, she thinks. He is no longer drunk, and smells only of clear night air and the wind at their backs.
They have not spoken and have not looked each other in the eye since she slid her small wrist out of his grasp and placed her hand in his. She stands unmovingly, unsure of herself, as he ties up Stranger and brushes him down, before ducking his head to enter the small dwelling. She follows him; not hesitantly, but with a small tremor of some other emotion. He has saved my life, at the cost of everything he has worked for. His cloak-white, spattered with gore and vestiges of battle-hangs heavily on her long frame, gathering at the ground where the hem pools at her feet.
She pulls it tighter around her, comforted, and enters the cave.
“I cannot build a fire,” he says, crouching at the sloped wall of one end, sorting through their bedrolls and belongings.
She nods, even though he will not look at her. “I understand.”
Some unnamable force carries her feet to him, carries her hand to land on his shoulder. “I cannot… I do not know what to say to thank you. Any words would not be enough for what you have done for me. Tell me what I can do to thank you.”
“Little bird,” he rasps. His eyes flit over her form, as if it is too painful for his gaze to land on one part of her for too long. A hand lifts, and with a stuttering motion, brushes down the white cloak, over her shoulder, before landing on her waist. “I-you do not have to thank me. I am but a loyal dog.”
She bristles at that. Her hands caress his face, fingers smoothing down the bruises on the unburnt side of his face, palm skirting over the twisted flesh. “Look at me,” she commands, lifting his chin. “Do not pretend that I am unaware of what you have done for me. And you are not a dog. And you are not a ser. You are a man. A good man. The best of them, truly.”
He averts his eyes, opening his mouth to cast out bitter words. Sansa leans down and brushes her lips over his to silence him, and it’s like coming up for fresh air.
:::
:::
They do not speak of the kiss, not for years. It is something in the quiet between them, something that they both reach for in the darkness of the Long Night, as kingdoms rise and fall without any chance of sunlight. They had arrived in time to Riverrun to persuade her mother and brother away from attending the wedding at the Twins, and then fled North.
The winter has kept them warm, and safe. Isolated, as Robb as King in the North and mother as his chief advisor negotiate independence with Stannis, who occupies Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with his dwindling army. Soon, diplomacy will not be necessary at all. Stannis’ army will be eaten up by the snow and ice, and forgotten all together.
“Goodnight, my lady,” he says, mimicking a bow as he leaves her at the door to her chambers. Mother allowed him to swear his sword to her when he delivered her safely in the Riverlands.
“Sandor-”
That was three years ago. Now, she is six and ten, a woman flowered and flourished. Her betrothal to Joffrey means nothing here, protected by ten feet of snow, the darkness, and her brother’s bannermen. He pauses.
She does not know what makes her think of the kiss now (of course she does, but a Lady must not admit to such things, but she still keeps his cloak at the bottom of her chest and he has not asked for it back, and Jeyne has just given Robb his second child and mother is ecstatic and everyone around her is happy but her, and she knows that Sandor makes her happy. That he could make her happy. She has thought about it before-that the offspring of wolves and hounds are both pups) but it suddenly takes residence in the forefront of her mind, so real, and it floods her senses.
“My lady?”
He hasn’t called her little bird since he delivered her to Riverrun and laid down his sword before her, creating a divide between them as deep and as wide as the sea. But he looks at her with a face almost earnest, and she is no longer a little girl.
“Why do you not call me little bird anymore?” She reaches for his arm, as if it could keep him from wrenching away. He is the only one who knows what goes unspoken, and of what happened to her in Kings Landing. He knows the part of herself that she has left unremembered beneath the snow (she knows that when spring comes, and the ice melts, they will all come flooding back, frozen and petrified and so much worse) and she feels tethered to him, more than anyone else. She is real when she is with him, more than the Princess of Winter, more than Sansa of Winterfell.
He freezes, and does not answer. Her hand smooths up his arm, palm landing on the burnt side of his face.
“I miss it,” she whispers. “Everyone calls me ‘your highness.’ I liked it.”
His hand lifts in jerky movements, landing in her hair, which has only gotten deeper, and more red as she has gotten older. She wears it down now, and it is wild like the North she now helps to rule. Their eyes meet, and hold each other’s gaze. Sansa thinks that it is warmer than any embrace.
She lifts herself onto her tiptoes and draws his head down to hers, blue eyes never leaving grey. Like so long ago, she brushes her lips against him. He groans, a small, pained sound, eyes fluttering closed. It sends jolts of electricity down her spine, sparking and taking flame in her heart. They live in darkness, and in ice. When she captures his lips once more, she feels herself begin to melt, eyes closing as she feels his arms come around her waist, lifting her against him.
And in the black of the Long Night, their love burns brighter than the sun.
:::
Characters/Pairings: SanSan
Rating: K+
Word Count: 1,248
Prompt: What if Sansa agreed to go with The Hound in the battle of Blackwater? So, AU.
:::
They have strayed off the Kingsroad, but Sansa is not sure if they were on it much to begin with-it was all a blur, their grand escape, like something from a story or a song or a dream. The night sky backlit by crackle of wildfire and the swing of swords, his offer-I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again or I’d kill them-it was nothing like from the gentle knights of the stories, but when he unclasped his white cloak with trembling fingers and draped it around her shoulders as she shivered against the cool morning-
She understands why the groom wraps his cloak of protection around his bride. This has all felt more real than anything in her life, like nothing else has felt since her father’s head was placed on a pike.
The hound dismounts, leaving her on his ill-tempered horse, leading them near a small cave hidden by a copse of trees. Silently, his hands come to her waist and lift her off Stranger, setting her gently on the ground. He seems different now. His features lighter, she thinks. He is no longer drunk, and smells only of clear night air and the wind at their backs.
They have not spoken and have not looked each other in the eye since she slid her small wrist out of his grasp and placed her hand in his. She stands unmovingly, unsure of herself, as he ties up Stranger and brushes him down, before ducking his head to enter the small dwelling. She follows him; not hesitantly, but with a small tremor of some other emotion. He has saved my life, at the cost of everything he has worked for. His cloak-white, spattered with gore and vestiges of battle-hangs heavily on her long frame, gathering at the ground where the hem pools at her feet.
She pulls it tighter around her, comforted, and enters the cave.
“I cannot build a fire,” he says, crouching at the sloped wall of one end, sorting through their bedrolls and belongings.
She nods, even though he will not look at her. “I understand.”
Some unnamable force carries her feet to him, carries her hand to land on his shoulder. “I cannot… I do not know what to say to thank you. Any words would not be enough for what you have done for me. Tell me what I can do to thank you.”
“Little bird,” he rasps. His eyes flit over her form, as if it is too painful for his gaze to land on one part of her for too long. A hand lifts, and with a stuttering motion, brushes down the white cloak, over her shoulder, before landing on her waist. “I-you do not have to thank me. I am but a loyal dog.”
She bristles at that. Her hands caress his face, fingers smoothing down the bruises on the unburnt side of his face, palm skirting over the twisted flesh. “Look at me,” she commands, lifting his chin. “Do not pretend that I am unaware of what you have done for me. And you are not a dog. And you are not a ser. You are a man. A good man. The best of them, truly.”
He averts his eyes, opening his mouth to cast out bitter words. Sansa leans down and brushes her lips over his to silence him, and it’s like coming up for fresh air.
:::
:::
They do not speak of the kiss, not for years. It is something in the quiet between them, something that they both reach for in the darkness of the Long Night, as kingdoms rise and fall without any chance of sunlight. They had arrived in time to Riverrun to persuade her mother and brother away from attending the wedding at the Twins, and then fled North.
The winter has kept them warm, and safe. Isolated, as Robb as King in the North and mother as his chief advisor negotiate independence with Stannis, who occupies Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with his dwindling army. Soon, diplomacy will not be necessary at all. Stannis’ army will be eaten up by the snow and ice, and forgotten all together.
“Goodnight, my lady,” he says, mimicking a bow as he leaves her at the door to her chambers. Mother allowed him to swear his sword to her when he delivered her safely in the Riverlands.
“Sandor-”
That was three years ago. Now, she is six and ten, a woman flowered and flourished. Her betrothal to Joffrey means nothing here, protected by ten feet of snow, the darkness, and her brother’s bannermen. He pauses.
She does not know what makes her think of the kiss now (of course she does, but a Lady must not admit to such things, but she still keeps his cloak at the bottom of her chest and he has not asked for it back, and Jeyne has just given Robb his second child and mother is ecstatic and everyone around her is happy but her, and she knows that Sandor makes her happy. That he could make her happy. She has thought about it before-that the offspring of wolves and hounds are both pups) but it suddenly takes residence in the forefront of her mind, so real, and it floods her senses.
“My lady?”
He hasn’t called her little bird since he delivered her to Riverrun and laid down his sword before her, creating a divide between them as deep and as wide as the sea. But he looks at her with a face almost earnest, and she is no longer a little girl.
“Why do you not call me little bird anymore?” She reaches for his arm, as if it could keep him from wrenching away. He is the only one who knows what goes unspoken, and of what happened to her in Kings Landing. He knows the part of herself that she has left unremembered beneath the snow (she knows that when spring comes, and the ice melts, they will all come flooding back, frozen and petrified and so much worse) and she feels tethered to him, more than anyone else. She is real when she is with him, more than the Princess of Winter, more than Sansa of Winterfell.
He freezes, and does not answer. Her hand smooths up his arm, palm landing on the burnt side of his face.
“I miss it,” she whispers. “Everyone calls me ‘your highness.’ I liked it.”
His hand lifts in jerky movements, landing in her hair, which has only gotten deeper, and more red as she has gotten older. She wears it down now, and it is wild like the North she now helps to rule. Their eyes meet, and hold each other’s gaze. Sansa thinks that it is warmer than any embrace.
She lifts herself onto her tiptoes and draws his head down to hers, blue eyes never leaving grey. Like so long ago, she brushes her lips against him. He groans, a small, pained sound, eyes fluttering closed. It sends jolts of electricity down her spine, sparking and taking flame in her heart. They live in darkness, and in ice. When she captures his lips once more, she feels herself begin to melt, eyes closing as she feels his arms come around her waist, lifting her against him.
And in the black of the Long Night, their love burns brighter than the sun.
:::