Fic: When We Were Young 9/9
Title: When We Were Young 9/9
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 4918
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to GRRM
A/N: Thank you very very much to Kimberlite8 for taking time out from her incredibly hectic schedule to beta this! I'm very sorry this part took so long - I blame overtime at work, going on holiday and an inability to write unless I'm in the right type of mood.
Chapter Eight
She is shy when they wake in the morning, her gaze darting to him and away, clearly unsure how to act now, after what they’ve done. It reminds him of the girl she used to be, all politely averted eyes and modesty, a trait he never used to like.
When he looks towards her she glances away, gathering a sheet around her and beginning to pull clothes from her backpack, preparing for the day.
“Hey,” he reaches out to pull her close and holds her against him, tilts her chin up with his hand so that she has to meet his eyes. She looks at him, a little shyly, a little wonderingly, and his words stick in his throat. As uncertain as this new step is, as much as they might still die today, he’ll do his best not to fuck it up, to keep them alive and ensure she stays by his side.
“We’ll be alright.” he tells her, and leans down to kiss her briefly, lingering only a few seconds upon her lips. Then he ducks his head, places a heavy kiss upon her shoulder and raises his eyes back to hers. She is watching him, her breath seemingly held, completely still.
And then she gives him a small smile, and a nod of agreement.
“We’ll be alright,” she agrees, as if she really believes it, raising her hand to touch the unscarred side of his face, her fingers briefly caressing his cheek.
They use the bathroom by turns and when he emerges, still pulling his shirt over his head, it is to see her sitting on her bed, her pack beside her, waiting for him.
It is his turn to catch his breath, because over her clothing she is wearing an old leather jacket, worn in places and instantly recognizable.
She looks up, catches his expression and smiles once more, self consciously this time.
“You kept it.” he comments, a little dumbly, unsure what else to say. It is a different revelation entirely that so many years later, even after hearing he was dead, she had still kept it. Two escapes in that time, only a backpack worth of belongings to call her own, and she still has it.
“I always hoped you’d come back for it.”
In that moment he truly understands. It is not only he who has lived with impossible dreams and a burning regret that things had not turned out differently.
After everything she had been through, it was a far easier thing to offer him her body without giving him the truth of how she felt. He understands it now, feels the knowledge of it spark within him; that he is truly her choice, has been for years now.
Perhaps it’s past time that he was a little more open with her himself.
“Sansa,” he begins to say, and takes a step towards her. She looks towards him expectantly.
Then the intercom buzzes, and swiveling his head to look at the video feed outside, Sandor sees that the Father has arrived.
It will wait, what he wishes to say to her. It will wait until they have seen this through.
He turns to open the door, catching a change in her expression from the corner of his eye as he does so, one of barely concealed disappointment.
“We will get through this,” he tells her, turning back at the last moment. “You’d better believe that, because I’m sure as hell not ready to die, not now.”
He grins at her then, his scars twisting, his meaning implicit in the statement. A quick blush rises to Sansa’s cheek as she smiles hesitantly back at him.
It is enough, enough hope to get them through, and Sandor strides across to the door to let the Father in.
The older priest has brought them breakfast and they eat the rolls quickly before they leave, knowing that it might be some time before they can stop for food.
Sandor already has both of his guns in place in their holster, his knife strapped to his thigh. Skimming his hand along the small of Sansa’s back as they leave the safe house, he feels her own gun placed there, tucked inside the waistband of her pants and hidden by his jacket.
A clever little bird indeed.
**
The Spider’s man is already waiting for them when they arrive at the parish house. There’s nothing to tell how long he might have been there before they arrived, no trace of annoyance on his face as he sits within a beat up old jeep.
“We’d best be off.” is all the man says, gesturing for them to get in as casually as if they’re all heading off for a fucking picnic.
They both turn to the Father to say their goodbyes, Sansa murmuring hers softly while Sandor clasps the man’s hand firmly.
“Bring her back here once you have her,” the old priest tells them, “I’m guessing that you haven’t thought much past that point. You’ll need some time to lay low and make new plans.”
He’s right, they’ve never discussed what they’ll do once they have Arya with them, it’s almost as if neither one of them has wanted to jinx it by putting thoughts into words. In the end, a great deal will depend on how receptive Arya is to joining them. Sandor would bet that the girl won’t be too happy to see his face again after leaving him for dead by the roadside. They’ve been working under the assumption that Arya will want to go with them, that she’ll be happy to be reunited with Sansa. But if she’s not…
She might refuse. She might insist that she and Sansa make their own way from now on without him.
One thing is for certain, if she’s won’t leave with them willingly then everything could very quickly go to hell.
“What’s the plan?” Sandor asks their companion, looking ahead to where the man sits in the driver’s seat. He and Sansa sit behind, playing the part of tourists out for a hiking trip with a guide and driver.
“She’ll be brought to us at the rendezvous point by some members of her own faction. Seems the girl has gotten a little too good at her work for the liking of some, she’s threatening power relations and it’s easier for them if she goes of her own accord.”
“And Varys, what’s his stake in this?” Sandor rasps, “I’m warning you now, if either of them comes to any harm…”
“Then it certainly won’t be my responsibility.” the man replies, fixing Sandor with a hard stare from the rearview mirror. “I’m only here to facilitate the deal. And Varys… well, the less you know about his plans the better. The girl is a risk to one of his other pieces, and he would prefer not to need to kill her. Got a heart, the Spider has.”
Sandor snorts at that but it leaves him wondering. In finding Arya, will they be removing themselves from the equation entirely, or simply becoming more firmly ensnared in whatever Varys’ gameplan is? Sandor has never been good at these power machinations and games, this cloak and dagger bullshit. Give him a gun in his hand and a clear target and he’ll get the job done with a minimum of fuss, but this… he’s out of his depth and he knows it, he always has been.
“How many people will there be at the exchange?” he asks instead, searching for something real he can prepare for. “How heavily armed?”
“I’m expecting four, including the girl. We’ll be evenly matched. Don’t do anything stupid and only pull out a gun as a last resort.”
Sandor doesn’t need to be told that, but he bites his tongue against the sarcastic retort that threatens to come to his lips.
The drive is long and the terrain rough as they head into the hills, into the wilderness that the younger Stark girl has apparently called her home for the past 2 years.
Despite a lack of sleep, Sandor is alert and on edge, unable to relax until the job is done. He’s used to this, to days without sleep, to hardship and rough conditions, but he’s surprised by how well Sansa seems to be coping. She watches their surroundings pass by outside the jeep, eyes darting back and forth between landmarks and the dense wilderness beyond the road. Occasionally she looks towards him, briefly meeting his gaze as if to seek some reassurance. He can’t give her anything more than he’d given this morning, that they’ll be alright, that they’ll get through this. He hopes that the day doesn’t turn him into a liar.
They are silent, all three of them. There’s nothing left to say now, no reason to ask further questions when they’re as prepared as they’ll ever be.
“We’re getting close now,” their companion warns them as the day begins to fade into afternoon, “Be prepared.”
Sandor pulls his guns out and checks them, ensuring that he’s ready. Sansa allows hers to remain where it is at the small of her back and he feels a sense of pride, knowing that she’s maintaining the element of surprise, in case Varys’s man is going to betray them, in case he really has brought them out here to die.
Her hand slides across the back seat of the jeep, hesitantly reaching towards him and he grabs it with his own, squeezes it hard, and looks her straight in the eye. She’s scared, he can see it plainly in her eyes, no matter how still she keeps the rest of her face.
“You’ve survived both the Lannisters and Littlefinger,” he reminds her “You won’t die here. And these aren’t the worst odds I’ve faced by far.”
She nods tersely, gives his hand a final squeeze and releases it, once again focused on the task at hand.
The jeep pulls off the main road and heads up a side track, little more than packed dirt and only as wide as their vehicle. Ten minutes more and they pull up to a small clearing, barely large enough to accommodate their car and the other vehicle that is already there.
The Spider’s man calls out in Spanish, a query to the other party that Sandor only half understands and then there is a shouted reply. He can hear Sansa murmuring a prayer under her breath as the doors to the other car open, her shoulders tense, her eyes fixated on the other vehicle waiting for a first sight of her sister.
And then jumping down from the other car with catlike grace, a girl appears, not more than ten paces in front of them.
Sansa makes a noise that sounds like a strangled sob, and reaches out to open the jeep’s door, only to be stilled by Sandor’s hand on her arm.
“Wait,” he instructs her, looking towards their guide for a cue and waiting for the rest of Arya’s companions to make their presence known.
Three more men step out of the car in front of them and Sandor watches as Arya Stark turns towards them, asking something that he can’t hear. She appears relaxed, unbothered by what they might be doing there or whom they’ve come to meet. There is a gun in a holster around the girl’s upper thigh and she rests her hand upon it, almost casually.
“It’s time,” Varys’s man instructs them, and nodding at Sansa, Sandor pats her arm once and opens his own door.
They step out at the same time, into the dappled afternoon light, and Sandor watches carefully to see the girl’s reaction.
Arya’s gaze goes first to Sansa and then to him and back again. There is confusion written on her face, more than any other emotion that he can identify.
“Arya!” Sansa calls out to her sister, and the girl simply stares at her, as if unsure how she should react.
Sandor waits, one eye on Varys’s man where he converses with Arya’s companions in low voices.
“Arya, it’s me, Sansa.” the little bird continues, reaching out one hand to her sister as if pleading with her. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“I once knew a girl named Sansa, a girl who had red hair and loved lemon cakes.” The younger sister comments in a low voice and Sandor looks at her more closely, at the blankness of her expression, the dullness in her eyes. Arya looks back towards him then. “I once knew a burned man too, but he died by the side of the road after I left him there.”
“It is me, Arya.” Sansa says gently, taking a few more steps forward towards her sister even as Sandor’s fingers itch to reach for the gun in his holster, knowing that this is all terribly wrong. “I am your sister. I might not have red hair anymore, we might not have seen each other for years but you remember, I know you remember. I’ve come to get you, Arya, I’ve wanted to find you for the longest time.”
Arya Stark looks at her sister then, looks at her and yet her expression does not change. If Sandor had to take a guess then he’d say that the girl has retreated somewhere deep inside, somewhere beyond the present reach of any of them. He’s seen it before, seen it in wartime most often, when there’s too many things that have been seen and done that you’d rather forget.
"There is no Arya Stark anymore," Sansa’s younger sister finally declares, "There was a girl by that name once, but she’s dead now. I am no one." she turns away as if dismissing them and back towards the men she came with, addressing them in Spanish and gesturing to the car.
Sansa crosses the remaining three strides towards Arya, grabs her shoulder to wrench her around and slaps her full in the face, so hard that the sound rings across the entire clearing. Then she gathers her younger sister into her arms, hugs her tightly as tears stream down her face.
"You are Arya Stark." Sansa declares fiercely, "You're Ned and Catelyn Stark's daughter, you're Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Robb and Jon's sister. You ARE Arya Stark and I’m taking you with me now, whether you want to go or not.”
Arya shakes her head, moving to push her sister away, her face still strangely emotionless but Sandor steps forward, looming over both of them and forcing her to look up as his shadow falls upon her.
“We’re none of us the people we used to be, Arya, but blood is blood and pack is pack and whether you go by that name anymore or not, you belong with your sister.”
“Blood.” the girl who used to be Arya Stark murmurs, “Pack.” For a moment there is a spark in her eyes as she looks at her sister, some long ago memory that has been suppressed returning, and then the blankness returns and she twists to escape from Sansa’s grip.
Before she can complete the action, Sandor steps forward and quick as can be, pistol whips her on the back of her head, causing her to slump forward into Sansa’s arms.
The little bird looks up at him, her expression mixed, and he knows that she’s unsure whether she should be grateful or scold him for it.
Sandor shrugs, it’s not the first time he’s done it to the brat and the previous time he’d done so it damn well saved her life.
He gestures to Sansa to hand her sister over and with a fluid movement, leans down to pick Arya up, hoisting her over his shoulder. She’s never been tall and despite the time that has passed she is still small, her body slender and barely weighing anything at all.
“We’ll be off then,” Sandor rasps, nodding at Vary’s man and jerking his head towards the car. “Tell them they can consider it finished with, she’s not their problem anymore.”
Sandor’s already taken one step back towards the car but he watches the men anyway as it is explained to them, as one of them give a terse shake of his head and clucks his tongue, looking towards them and replying in rapid fire Spanish.
Sandor has no idea what has been said but Varys’s man is replying in soothing tones even as he reaches one hand slowly towards his gun. Seeing this, Sandor moves his free hand towards his own, ready to draw at any moment.
It is Sansa however, having understood exactly what has been said, who is the first to take action, reaching behind her back to draw her own gun quickly.
She replies in icy tones in Spanish, words that Sandor isn’t able to understand, even as she makes a gesture to him with her hand, a sign to be ready.
The other men understand her though, Sandor is certain of it, but that doesn’t stop any of them from reaching to draw their own weapons.
Sandor yells for Sansa to get behind him, drawing and aiming quickly for the men’s leader, putting a bullet through his head before he can get his shot off.
The little bird doesn’t listen, and even as he lines up his next shot he sees her take her own, hitting the second man in the shoulder, knocking him back as he aims at Sandor. Sandor fires his own weapon and hits the man square in the chest, finishing him off before he can raise his gun again.
They turn as one to find that the third man is already dead, shot by the Spider’s man. Their guide has not escaped unscathed however, slumped against a tree in an ever growing pool of his own blood.
Sandor sets Arya down on the ground near their vehicle and walks towards Varys’s man, kicking guns away from the hands of Arya’s ex-compatriots, checking them as he goes. The one whom he had shot in the chest is taking last gurgling breaths as blood runs out of his mouth and from the hole in his chest, but he’ll be dead soon enough.
He moves to crouch down in front of their guide, Sansa close beside him. Sandor checks the man over, seeing what might be done for him, but they’re far from civilization and he’s not going to last the journey.
“It wasn’t mean to go down like this,” the man tells them, still nameless even as the colour fades from his face, the grey pallor of those nearing death replacing it. “It certainly wasn’t planned this way.”
“Or maybe it was and you just never knew it.” Sandor comments, “Could be that this was Varys’s plan all along.”
“No,” the man replies, his breathing labored as he fights to say what he wishes to. “They found out who she was, what she was worth. Decided they’d take both girls and sell them to someone who would pay a higher price.”
Sandor doesn’t know who that someone was - Lannisters, Freys, Boltons; it could be any of them. What he does know is that most likely somebody is now aware that the girls are alive, and that that somebody will be coming for them soon.
“Is there anything that we can do for you?” Sansa asks the man sincerely, reaching out to touch his hand where it rests limply by his side. “Anybody that we might contact to tell them how you died?”
The man laughs, coughs violently, and laughs again. “People like me…” he begins to say, the words abruptly stopping as the light in his eyes dies.
Sansa looks at the man, wide eyed and white faced, her entire body trembling, the gun still clutched tightly in her hand.
“We need to go.” Sandor tells her gently and she starts, turning away from the body and back to him.
“They…” she starts to say, glancing down at the gun in her hand. “I understood them, I knew they wouldn’t let us go. They were going to kill you and take us. They were going to…”
“And now they’re dead.” Sandor breaks in, “They can’t do anything to you anymore. I wouldn’t have let them either. But there’ll be more and we need to get away from here as quickly as possible before they get here. So let’s put your sister in the car and get back to Bogota.”
She nods but remains where she is, mute and still looking at the body. She’s seen a lot of death in her young life, but today would have been the first time she’d ever pulled the trigger on somebody herself. That the man was killed by Sandor’s shot rather than hers is unimportant, she feels it nonetheless.
“Hey.” he rasps, getting her attention. “Come here.” Sandor reaches over and checks that the safety is back on her gun, before taking it from her hands, tucking it back into her waistband. Then he lifts her up by the elbows until she’s standing, holds her there for a moment until he’s sure that she’ll stay upright, and shifts his hands to cup either side of her face so that she has to look directly at him.
“They’re dead. They’re dead and we’re alive and we’re going to stay that way. Now we need to get back to the city and get your sister some help and after that we’ll see what needs to be done next, but right now we need to get back into that car and start driving.”
Sansa takes a moment to process it then draws in a deep breath and nods, visibly steeling herself. He’s proud of her then, proud of her ability to do that, to pick herself up and keep going no matter what. He drops one hand from her face, grips her chin with the other and leans in to kiss her, hard and fierce and wanting to remind her that they’re both still alive.
“Now let’s go.”
**
They drape Arya’s prone form upon the back seat to make it look like she’s sleeping. A quick check of a first aid kit in the back of the jeep and Sandor discovers tranquilisers, a dose ready to inject should the girl wake up and start causing trouble. He takes the gun from Arya’s holster and binds her hands, draping a blanket over her to hide it should anybody look into the car.
The bodies they leave as they are, the Spider’s man included. There’s no time to bury them and a fire would draw too much attention. Should they be discovered then it’s more than likely that it will be assumed the deaths are the result of an illicit deal gone wrong.
“She doesn’t remember,” Sansa murmurs an hour into the drive, breaking the silence that has descended between them, “I think I know, I think I understand. There were times… when I used to think that I really was Alayne, that Sansa had been a kind of dream. There were times when I wished, desperately, that Sansa really had been a dream, that those things had never happened to me.”
He glances at her from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the road. She is looking behind her to the backseat where her sister lies, the raw grief of that memory upon her face. Sandor knows that even now, Sansa is still emerging from that dream state, reclaiming herself slowly but surely from the cocoon in which she had hidden herself away, somewhere deep inside.
“She’ll remember, as you did. Too stubborn for her own good from what I remember, I doubt it’ll take her too long now that she’s back with you.”
She reaches out then, to briefly lay her hand upon his leg, and he turns his head to find her looking at him, intent and unsure.
“We’ll get through this.” he promises her once more, never knowing whether it will really be true. He’ll try his fucking hardest to ensure it is, no matter what happens tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, no matter what her sister does or doesn’t remember.
He’ll see to it. Kill anybody he needs to in order to ensure it.
And one day he’ll take her home again.
**
The shadows have lengthened into night by the time they arrive back to Bogota, the evening heavy upon them when they reach the Father’s residence.
The elderly priest sighs when he hears their tale and promises to dispose of the jeep, to leave no evidence of their existence there.
And so that last task done, they make their way across town to the safe house once again.
Sandor is so bone numbingly weary that he thinks he might like to pass out there and then, but there’s things to be done and words to be said before he can do so, he knows it in his bones.
It’s just the three of them now, the priest has left to get rid of the jeep and to contact Elder Brother to inform him of what’s occurred. He’s promised to come back in the morning to help them anyway that he can.
They settle Arya onto one of the beds, handcuffing her to it even though she’s likely to sleep off the tranquilisation dose they’ve given her until morning. Sansa sits on the side of the mattress, looking down at her little sister’s face. Sandor lies on one of the other beds nearby, arms folded under his head and tries not to look over at the sight, wanting to give them a moment of privacy.
Sansa brushes some strands of hair away from Arya’s forehead and begins to speak, slowly at first and then softly rambling, more to herself than to Sandor, he realizes. She speaks about deprogramming techniques and long roads to recovery and Sandor wonders if she realises that the same advice could easily be applied to her.
"We'll get her the help she needs, little bird." he says, more to give her a reply so that she'll stop babbling than anything else. "She'll be the same little angry hell raiser again before you know it."
She looks up suddenly, startled, as if she'd forgotten there was anybody else there at all.
She's had nobody to rely on for so very long.
She is silent for a long moment as he looks at her, and he sees the change overcome her as she looks down to Arya and then back at him, as she slowly but surely allows her guard to drop.
"You won't leave me, will you?" she finally asks, her voice breaking slightly on the last word. "You won't... You won't let me down?"
There is so much vulnerability in her voice at that moment that he feels his throat tighten, choking him, feels the grief he has long tried to stifle rise up in him at last. There is still the girl in her that he remembers, long suffocated under layers of indifference.
He removes a hand from under his head, pats the mattress next to him to motion her over.
She crawls into his bed, curls up into him and tucks her head into the crook of his neck.
For a moment they simply breathe together.
"I won't let you down, little bird." he tells her, stroking her back gently. "I won't leave you, and I won't ever lie to you and I'll keep you and your sister safe."
He tells her everything she's wanted to hear, everything she needs to know but has refused to ask. He wants desperately to have her smile and sing and laugh, to bring back all the innocence she's lost as impossible as that is. "I'll stay by your side for as long I live if that's what you want, I’ll do anything you ask of me."
"But why would you?” she asks him, and he can feel a tear as it falls upon his skin, feel her trembling against him. "I'm not the same girl that I was then, the girl you wanted to save. I wish I could be, but I can’t."
“It doesn’t matter,” he rasps, kisses her forehead. “We’ve both changed, I’m hardly the man I was at that time either. Whatever you might say, you’re still Sansa Stark, and you always will be.”
“Am I?” she asks him, tears running freely down her cheeks now, a hitch in her breath when she speaks. “There are days when I don’t know if that is true or not, when that still feels like someone else’s life. There is so much inside me now, so much of anger and hate and grief and lies, I don’t know, I can’t… I wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t want me anymore now.”
He laughs darkly at that, guilt rising within him at her words. “You needn’t fear that at least, there will never come a day when I don’t want you. That’s not the problem, that will never be the problem.”
He wraps both of his arms around her, holds her so tightly against him that they could easily melt into one. Takes a deep breath and tells her what he's been thinking all along.
“The real tragedy, little bird, the thing I most regret, is this. That you've become exactly the girl I once wanted you to be."
--------------------------------------
And there we have it, the end. I am tossing up the idea of continuing this particular universe but that was the end of the first arc. I hope you all enjoyed it and thank you for sticking with me while I tried something new!
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 4918
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to GRRM
A/N: Thank you very very much to Kimberlite8 for taking time out from her incredibly hectic schedule to beta this! I'm very sorry this part took so long - I blame overtime at work, going on holiday and an inability to write unless I'm in the right type of mood.
Chapter Eight
She is shy when they wake in the morning, her gaze darting to him and away, clearly unsure how to act now, after what they’ve done. It reminds him of the girl she used to be, all politely averted eyes and modesty, a trait he never used to like.
When he looks towards her she glances away, gathering a sheet around her and beginning to pull clothes from her backpack, preparing for the day.
“Hey,” he reaches out to pull her close and holds her against him, tilts her chin up with his hand so that she has to meet his eyes. She looks at him, a little shyly, a little wonderingly, and his words stick in his throat. As uncertain as this new step is, as much as they might still die today, he’ll do his best not to fuck it up, to keep them alive and ensure she stays by his side.
“We’ll be alright.” he tells her, and leans down to kiss her briefly, lingering only a few seconds upon her lips. Then he ducks his head, places a heavy kiss upon her shoulder and raises his eyes back to hers. She is watching him, her breath seemingly held, completely still.
And then she gives him a small smile, and a nod of agreement.
“We’ll be alright,” she agrees, as if she really believes it, raising her hand to touch the unscarred side of his face, her fingers briefly caressing his cheek.
They use the bathroom by turns and when he emerges, still pulling his shirt over his head, it is to see her sitting on her bed, her pack beside her, waiting for him.
It is his turn to catch his breath, because over her clothing she is wearing an old leather jacket, worn in places and instantly recognizable.
She looks up, catches his expression and smiles once more, self consciously this time.
“You kept it.” he comments, a little dumbly, unsure what else to say. It is a different revelation entirely that so many years later, even after hearing he was dead, she had still kept it. Two escapes in that time, only a backpack worth of belongings to call her own, and she still has it.
“I always hoped you’d come back for it.”
In that moment he truly understands. It is not only he who has lived with impossible dreams and a burning regret that things had not turned out differently.
After everything she had been through, it was a far easier thing to offer him her body without giving him the truth of how she felt. He understands it now, feels the knowledge of it spark within him; that he is truly her choice, has been for years now.
Perhaps it’s past time that he was a little more open with her himself.
“Sansa,” he begins to say, and takes a step towards her. She looks towards him expectantly.
Then the intercom buzzes, and swiveling his head to look at the video feed outside, Sandor sees that the Father has arrived.
It will wait, what he wishes to say to her. It will wait until they have seen this through.
He turns to open the door, catching a change in her expression from the corner of his eye as he does so, one of barely concealed disappointment.
“We will get through this,” he tells her, turning back at the last moment. “You’d better believe that, because I’m sure as hell not ready to die, not now.”
He grins at her then, his scars twisting, his meaning implicit in the statement. A quick blush rises to Sansa’s cheek as she smiles hesitantly back at him.
It is enough, enough hope to get them through, and Sandor strides across to the door to let the Father in.
The older priest has brought them breakfast and they eat the rolls quickly before they leave, knowing that it might be some time before they can stop for food.
Sandor already has both of his guns in place in their holster, his knife strapped to his thigh. Skimming his hand along the small of Sansa’s back as they leave the safe house, he feels her own gun placed there, tucked inside the waistband of her pants and hidden by his jacket.
A clever little bird indeed.
**
The Spider’s man is already waiting for them when they arrive at the parish house. There’s nothing to tell how long he might have been there before they arrived, no trace of annoyance on his face as he sits within a beat up old jeep.
“We’d best be off.” is all the man says, gesturing for them to get in as casually as if they’re all heading off for a fucking picnic.
They both turn to the Father to say their goodbyes, Sansa murmuring hers softly while Sandor clasps the man’s hand firmly.
“Bring her back here once you have her,” the old priest tells them, “I’m guessing that you haven’t thought much past that point. You’ll need some time to lay low and make new plans.”
He’s right, they’ve never discussed what they’ll do once they have Arya with them, it’s almost as if neither one of them has wanted to jinx it by putting thoughts into words. In the end, a great deal will depend on how receptive Arya is to joining them. Sandor would bet that the girl won’t be too happy to see his face again after leaving him for dead by the roadside. They’ve been working under the assumption that Arya will want to go with them, that she’ll be happy to be reunited with Sansa. But if she’s not…
She might refuse. She might insist that she and Sansa make their own way from now on without him.
One thing is for certain, if she’s won’t leave with them willingly then everything could very quickly go to hell.
“What’s the plan?” Sandor asks their companion, looking ahead to where the man sits in the driver’s seat. He and Sansa sit behind, playing the part of tourists out for a hiking trip with a guide and driver.
“She’ll be brought to us at the rendezvous point by some members of her own faction. Seems the girl has gotten a little too good at her work for the liking of some, she’s threatening power relations and it’s easier for them if she goes of her own accord.”
“And Varys, what’s his stake in this?” Sandor rasps, “I’m warning you now, if either of them comes to any harm…”
“Then it certainly won’t be my responsibility.” the man replies, fixing Sandor with a hard stare from the rearview mirror. “I’m only here to facilitate the deal. And Varys… well, the less you know about his plans the better. The girl is a risk to one of his other pieces, and he would prefer not to need to kill her. Got a heart, the Spider has.”
Sandor snorts at that but it leaves him wondering. In finding Arya, will they be removing themselves from the equation entirely, or simply becoming more firmly ensnared in whatever Varys’ gameplan is? Sandor has never been good at these power machinations and games, this cloak and dagger bullshit. Give him a gun in his hand and a clear target and he’ll get the job done with a minimum of fuss, but this… he’s out of his depth and he knows it, he always has been.
“How many people will there be at the exchange?” he asks instead, searching for something real he can prepare for. “How heavily armed?”
“I’m expecting four, including the girl. We’ll be evenly matched. Don’t do anything stupid and only pull out a gun as a last resort.”
Sandor doesn’t need to be told that, but he bites his tongue against the sarcastic retort that threatens to come to his lips.
The drive is long and the terrain rough as they head into the hills, into the wilderness that the younger Stark girl has apparently called her home for the past 2 years.
Despite a lack of sleep, Sandor is alert and on edge, unable to relax until the job is done. He’s used to this, to days without sleep, to hardship and rough conditions, but he’s surprised by how well Sansa seems to be coping. She watches their surroundings pass by outside the jeep, eyes darting back and forth between landmarks and the dense wilderness beyond the road. Occasionally she looks towards him, briefly meeting his gaze as if to seek some reassurance. He can’t give her anything more than he’d given this morning, that they’ll be alright, that they’ll get through this. He hopes that the day doesn’t turn him into a liar.
They are silent, all three of them. There’s nothing left to say now, no reason to ask further questions when they’re as prepared as they’ll ever be.
“We’re getting close now,” their companion warns them as the day begins to fade into afternoon, “Be prepared.”
Sandor pulls his guns out and checks them, ensuring that he’s ready. Sansa allows hers to remain where it is at the small of her back and he feels a sense of pride, knowing that she’s maintaining the element of surprise, in case Varys’s man is going to betray them, in case he really has brought them out here to die.
Her hand slides across the back seat of the jeep, hesitantly reaching towards him and he grabs it with his own, squeezes it hard, and looks her straight in the eye. She’s scared, he can see it plainly in her eyes, no matter how still she keeps the rest of her face.
“You’ve survived both the Lannisters and Littlefinger,” he reminds her “You won’t die here. And these aren’t the worst odds I’ve faced by far.”
She nods tersely, gives his hand a final squeeze and releases it, once again focused on the task at hand.
The jeep pulls off the main road and heads up a side track, little more than packed dirt and only as wide as their vehicle. Ten minutes more and they pull up to a small clearing, barely large enough to accommodate their car and the other vehicle that is already there.
The Spider’s man calls out in Spanish, a query to the other party that Sandor only half understands and then there is a shouted reply. He can hear Sansa murmuring a prayer under her breath as the doors to the other car open, her shoulders tense, her eyes fixated on the other vehicle waiting for a first sight of her sister.
And then jumping down from the other car with catlike grace, a girl appears, not more than ten paces in front of them.
Sansa makes a noise that sounds like a strangled sob, and reaches out to open the jeep’s door, only to be stilled by Sandor’s hand on her arm.
“Wait,” he instructs her, looking towards their guide for a cue and waiting for the rest of Arya’s companions to make their presence known.
Three more men step out of the car in front of them and Sandor watches as Arya Stark turns towards them, asking something that he can’t hear. She appears relaxed, unbothered by what they might be doing there or whom they’ve come to meet. There is a gun in a holster around the girl’s upper thigh and she rests her hand upon it, almost casually.
“It’s time,” Varys’s man instructs them, and nodding at Sansa, Sandor pats her arm once and opens his own door.
They step out at the same time, into the dappled afternoon light, and Sandor watches carefully to see the girl’s reaction.
Arya’s gaze goes first to Sansa and then to him and back again. There is confusion written on her face, more than any other emotion that he can identify.
“Arya!” Sansa calls out to her sister, and the girl simply stares at her, as if unsure how she should react.
Sandor waits, one eye on Varys’s man where he converses with Arya’s companions in low voices.
“Arya, it’s me, Sansa.” the little bird continues, reaching out one hand to her sister as if pleading with her. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“I once knew a girl named Sansa, a girl who had red hair and loved lemon cakes.” The younger sister comments in a low voice and Sandor looks at her more closely, at the blankness of her expression, the dullness in her eyes. Arya looks back towards him then. “I once knew a burned man too, but he died by the side of the road after I left him there.”
“It is me, Arya.” Sansa says gently, taking a few more steps forward towards her sister even as Sandor’s fingers itch to reach for the gun in his holster, knowing that this is all terribly wrong. “I am your sister. I might not have red hair anymore, we might not have seen each other for years but you remember, I know you remember. I’ve come to get you, Arya, I’ve wanted to find you for the longest time.”
Arya Stark looks at her sister then, looks at her and yet her expression does not change. If Sandor had to take a guess then he’d say that the girl has retreated somewhere deep inside, somewhere beyond the present reach of any of them. He’s seen it before, seen it in wartime most often, when there’s too many things that have been seen and done that you’d rather forget.
"There is no Arya Stark anymore," Sansa’s younger sister finally declares, "There was a girl by that name once, but she’s dead now. I am no one." she turns away as if dismissing them and back towards the men she came with, addressing them in Spanish and gesturing to the car.
Sansa crosses the remaining three strides towards Arya, grabs her shoulder to wrench her around and slaps her full in the face, so hard that the sound rings across the entire clearing. Then she gathers her younger sister into her arms, hugs her tightly as tears stream down her face.
"You are Arya Stark." Sansa declares fiercely, "You're Ned and Catelyn Stark's daughter, you're Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Robb and Jon's sister. You ARE Arya Stark and I’m taking you with me now, whether you want to go or not.”
Arya shakes her head, moving to push her sister away, her face still strangely emotionless but Sandor steps forward, looming over both of them and forcing her to look up as his shadow falls upon her.
“We’re none of us the people we used to be, Arya, but blood is blood and pack is pack and whether you go by that name anymore or not, you belong with your sister.”
“Blood.” the girl who used to be Arya Stark murmurs, “Pack.” For a moment there is a spark in her eyes as she looks at her sister, some long ago memory that has been suppressed returning, and then the blankness returns and she twists to escape from Sansa’s grip.
Before she can complete the action, Sandor steps forward and quick as can be, pistol whips her on the back of her head, causing her to slump forward into Sansa’s arms.
The little bird looks up at him, her expression mixed, and he knows that she’s unsure whether she should be grateful or scold him for it.
Sandor shrugs, it’s not the first time he’s done it to the brat and the previous time he’d done so it damn well saved her life.
He gestures to Sansa to hand her sister over and with a fluid movement, leans down to pick Arya up, hoisting her over his shoulder. She’s never been tall and despite the time that has passed she is still small, her body slender and barely weighing anything at all.
“We’ll be off then,” Sandor rasps, nodding at Vary’s man and jerking his head towards the car. “Tell them they can consider it finished with, she’s not their problem anymore.”
Sandor’s already taken one step back towards the car but he watches the men anyway as it is explained to them, as one of them give a terse shake of his head and clucks his tongue, looking towards them and replying in rapid fire Spanish.
Sandor has no idea what has been said but Varys’s man is replying in soothing tones even as he reaches one hand slowly towards his gun. Seeing this, Sandor moves his free hand towards his own, ready to draw at any moment.
It is Sansa however, having understood exactly what has been said, who is the first to take action, reaching behind her back to draw her own gun quickly.
She replies in icy tones in Spanish, words that Sandor isn’t able to understand, even as she makes a gesture to him with her hand, a sign to be ready.
The other men understand her though, Sandor is certain of it, but that doesn’t stop any of them from reaching to draw their own weapons.
Sandor yells for Sansa to get behind him, drawing and aiming quickly for the men’s leader, putting a bullet through his head before he can get his shot off.
The little bird doesn’t listen, and even as he lines up his next shot he sees her take her own, hitting the second man in the shoulder, knocking him back as he aims at Sandor. Sandor fires his own weapon and hits the man square in the chest, finishing him off before he can raise his gun again.
They turn as one to find that the third man is already dead, shot by the Spider’s man. Their guide has not escaped unscathed however, slumped against a tree in an ever growing pool of his own blood.
Sandor sets Arya down on the ground near their vehicle and walks towards Varys’s man, kicking guns away from the hands of Arya’s ex-compatriots, checking them as he goes. The one whom he had shot in the chest is taking last gurgling breaths as blood runs out of his mouth and from the hole in his chest, but he’ll be dead soon enough.
He moves to crouch down in front of their guide, Sansa close beside him. Sandor checks the man over, seeing what might be done for him, but they’re far from civilization and he’s not going to last the journey.
“It wasn’t mean to go down like this,” the man tells them, still nameless even as the colour fades from his face, the grey pallor of those nearing death replacing it. “It certainly wasn’t planned this way.”
“Or maybe it was and you just never knew it.” Sandor comments, “Could be that this was Varys’s plan all along.”
“No,” the man replies, his breathing labored as he fights to say what he wishes to. “They found out who she was, what she was worth. Decided they’d take both girls and sell them to someone who would pay a higher price.”
Sandor doesn’t know who that someone was - Lannisters, Freys, Boltons; it could be any of them. What he does know is that most likely somebody is now aware that the girls are alive, and that that somebody will be coming for them soon.
“Is there anything that we can do for you?” Sansa asks the man sincerely, reaching out to touch his hand where it rests limply by his side. “Anybody that we might contact to tell them how you died?”
The man laughs, coughs violently, and laughs again. “People like me…” he begins to say, the words abruptly stopping as the light in his eyes dies.
Sansa looks at the man, wide eyed and white faced, her entire body trembling, the gun still clutched tightly in her hand.
“We need to go.” Sandor tells her gently and she starts, turning away from the body and back to him.
“They…” she starts to say, glancing down at the gun in her hand. “I understood them, I knew they wouldn’t let us go. They were going to kill you and take us. They were going to…”
“And now they’re dead.” Sandor breaks in, “They can’t do anything to you anymore. I wouldn’t have let them either. But there’ll be more and we need to get away from here as quickly as possible before they get here. So let’s put your sister in the car and get back to Bogota.”
She nods but remains where she is, mute and still looking at the body. She’s seen a lot of death in her young life, but today would have been the first time she’d ever pulled the trigger on somebody herself. That the man was killed by Sandor’s shot rather than hers is unimportant, she feels it nonetheless.
“Hey.” he rasps, getting her attention. “Come here.” Sandor reaches over and checks that the safety is back on her gun, before taking it from her hands, tucking it back into her waistband. Then he lifts her up by the elbows until she’s standing, holds her there for a moment until he’s sure that she’ll stay upright, and shifts his hands to cup either side of her face so that she has to look directly at him.
“They’re dead. They’re dead and we’re alive and we’re going to stay that way. Now we need to get back to the city and get your sister some help and after that we’ll see what needs to be done next, but right now we need to get back into that car and start driving.”
Sansa takes a moment to process it then draws in a deep breath and nods, visibly steeling herself. He’s proud of her then, proud of her ability to do that, to pick herself up and keep going no matter what. He drops one hand from her face, grips her chin with the other and leans in to kiss her, hard and fierce and wanting to remind her that they’re both still alive.
“Now let’s go.”
**
They drape Arya’s prone form upon the back seat to make it look like she’s sleeping. A quick check of a first aid kit in the back of the jeep and Sandor discovers tranquilisers, a dose ready to inject should the girl wake up and start causing trouble. He takes the gun from Arya’s holster and binds her hands, draping a blanket over her to hide it should anybody look into the car.
The bodies they leave as they are, the Spider’s man included. There’s no time to bury them and a fire would draw too much attention. Should they be discovered then it’s more than likely that it will be assumed the deaths are the result of an illicit deal gone wrong.
“She doesn’t remember,” Sansa murmurs an hour into the drive, breaking the silence that has descended between them, “I think I know, I think I understand. There were times… when I used to think that I really was Alayne, that Sansa had been a kind of dream. There were times when I wished, desperately, that Sansa really had been a dream, that those things had never happened to me.”
He glances at her from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the road. She is looking behind her to the backseat where her sister lies, the raw grief of that memory upon her face. Sandor knows that even now, Sansa is still emerging from that dream state, reclaiming herself slowly but surely from the cocoon in which she had hidden herself away, somewhere deep inside.
“She’ll remember, as you did. Too stubborn for her own good from what I remember, I doubt it’ll take her too long now that she’s back with you.”
She reaches out then, to briefly lay her hand upon his leg, and he turns his head to find her looking at him, intent and unsure.
“We’ll get through this.” he promises her once more, never knowing whether it will really be true. He’ll try his fucking hardest to ensure it is, no matter what happens tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, no matter what her sister does or doesn’t remember.
He’ll see to it. Kill anybody he needs to in order to ensure it.
And one day he’ll take her home again.
**
The shadows have lengthened into night by the time they arrive back to Bogota, the evening heavy upon them when they reach the Father’s residence.
The elderly priest sighs when he hears their tale and promises to dispose of the jeep, to leave no evidence of their existence there.
And so that last task done, they make their way across town to the safe house once again.
Sandor is so bone numbingly weary that he thinks he might like to pass out there and then, but there’s things to be done and words to be said before he can do so, he knows it in his bones.
It’s just the three of them now, the priest has left to get rid of the jeep and to contact Elder Brother to inform him of what’s occurred. He’s promised to come back in the morning to help them anyway that he can.
They settle Arya onto one of the beds, handcuffing her to it even though she’s likely to sleep off the tranquilisation dose they’ve given her until morning. Sansa sits on the side of the mattress, looking down at her little sister’s face. Sandor lies on one of the other beds nearby, arms folded under his head and tries not to look over at the sight, wanting to give them a moment of privacy.
Sansa brushes some strands of hair away from Arya’s forehead and begins to speak, slowly at first and then softly rambling, more to herself than to Sandor, he realizes. She speaks about deprogramming techniques and long roads to recovery and Sandor wonders if she realises that the same advice could easily be applied to her.
"We'll get her the help she needs, little bird." he says, more to give her a reply so that she'll stop babbling than anything else. "She'll be the same little angry hell raiser again before you know it."
She looks up suddenly, startled, as if she'd forgotten there was anybody else there at all.
She's had nobody to rely on for so very long.
She is silent for a long moment as he looks at her, and he sees the change overcome her as she looks down to Arya and then back at him, as she slowly but surely allows her guard to drop.
"You won't leave me, will you?" she finally asks, her voice breaking slightly on the last word. "You won't... You won't let me down?"
There is so much vulnerability in her voice at that moment that he feels his throat tighten, choking him, feels the grief he has long tried to stifle rise up in him at last. There is still the girl in her that he remembers, long suffocated under layers of indifference.
He removes a hand from under his head, pats the mattress next to him to motion her over.
She crawls into his bed, curls up into him and tucks her head into the crook of his neck.
For a moment they simply breathe together.
"I won't let you down, little bird." he tells her, stroking her back gently. "I won't leave you, and I won't ever lie to you and I'll keep you and your sister safe."
He tells her everything she's wanted to hear, everything she needs to know but has refused to ask. He wants desperately to have her smile and sing and laugh, to bring back all the innocence she's lost as impossible as that is. "I'll stay by your side for as long I live if that's what you want, I’ll do anything you ask of me."
"But why would you?” she asks him, and he can feel a tear as it falls upon his skin, feel her trembling against him. "I'm not the same girl that I was then, the girl you wanted to save. I wish I could be, but I can’t."
“It doesn’t matter,” he rasps, kisses her forehead. “We’ve both changed, I’m hardly the man I was at that time either. Whatever you might say, you’re still Sansa Stark, and you always will be.”
“Am I?” she asks him, tears running freely down her cheeks now, a hitch in her breath when she speaks. “There are days when I don’t know if that is true or not, when that still feels like someone else’s life. There is so much inside me now, so much of anger and hate and grief and lies, I don’t know, I can’t… I wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t want me anymore now.”
He laughs darkly at that, guilt rising within him at her words. “You needn’t fear that at least, there will never come a day when I don’t want you. That’s not the problem, that will never be the problem.”
He wraps both of his arms around her, holds her so tightly against him that they could easily melt into one. Takes a deep breath and tells her what he's been thinking all along.
“The real tragedy, little bird, the thing I most regret, is this. That you've become exactly the girl I once wanted you to be."
--------------------------------------
And there we have it, the end. I am tossing up the idea of continuing this particular universe but that was the end of the first arc. I hope you all enjoyed it and thank you for sticking with me while I tried something new!