Two Blackwater fix-it fics! (tv!canon)
Title: And I Will Swear It
Rating: T
Warnings: None
Word Count: 634
Summary: And extended dance remix of the scene we were given. Aka: an actual reason why Sansa doesn't go with Sandor. Written for my big sister Jess message_send in hopes of saving her sanity.
---
:::
"You will not hurt me.”
It is not a question, it is a statement. A realization. Stannis will not hurt me either, she thinks. But he is offering to take me home.
“No,” he says, brow furrowing. His eyes do not leave hers. “Little bird, I will not hurt you.”
Sansa brings herself up to her full height, panicking slightly when he moves to turn away. She reaches out for him without thinking, wrapping her arm around his blood-slicked armor. Pulls him back-her strength is too weak to be forcible, but he turns for her anyway.
Stannis will not harm her. She told him that. But is staying the correct choice? Will Stannis send her home or will she be yet again a prisoner?
This is her chance.
She swallows, forcing him to look at her now, keeping him from turning with her gaze. “Is-is that a vow?”
“What are you going on about, little bird?”
“Is-that-a-vow.” She spits the words out between her teeth, grabbing at his wineskin and throwing it to the floor. “Do you vow it? Will you make vows, my lord? You have deserted your king. You may leave now if you so choose, but if you wish to take me with you, I will not be some-some.”
He laughs. “I am no hero. Just a killer.”
She bristles. “All men are killers?” She throws his words back at him, a bitter drink.
“All men.”
“You’re a killer,” she confirms, raising a brow. He nods. “But you will not hurt me.”
“No.” He sighs, growing more and more uncomfortable. She raises a hand-it is like calming the women, singing hymns, tending to Lancel, calming the queen-to his cheek, directing his gaze to her face. Away from the green fire, Littlefinger’s words in the back of her mind. He is afraid.
“And you will take me to Winterfell.”
“Yes.”
“And I ask again,” Sansa says, dropping her head and wiping it on her dress discreetly. “Will you vow it to me?”
“What are you asking, girl?” He looks like he is about to bolt again, his hand going to the pommel of his sword before flitting to the handle of his dagger. She eyes him warily, taking a step backwards, a sharp intake of breath belaying the calm she is trying to exude. “I will go with you if you swear your sword to me.”
Clegane barks a laugh. “I came here with an offer. Not to enter into a contract with a little girl.”
Sansa feels tears prickling at her eyes. He is so hateful. He speaks of killing. But he has done good. He is no true knight, yet he saved me all the same. And now he will walk away.
“Fine,” she says, voice wobbling. “I will not keep you, ser. Go, if you intend to leave.”
He nods, and turns to leave. Sansa’s breathing hitches, tears finally escaping her eyes as she whirls to face the window, to watch the fire that the hound will now run to escape. The fire, the Lannisters, his demons. She had prayed for him to be gentled, and this had happened.
Had she made the right decision? Should she had left with him?
The door shuts, and Sansa turns around, furiously wiping at her eyes.
His bloodied cloak lays on the floor, abandoned in a wrinkled heap. Her blood pounds through her body, making her feel light and weak. She can barely stand, and then cannot, crumpling to the floor, overwhelmed by fear and indecision.
The sky darkens as the flames die. A chilly wind bursts through her window, rattling the shudders.
Sansa crawls over to the cloak, shakes it out, and wraps it around herself.
No velvet has ever felt as fine.
:::
Title: i know my call, despite my faults
Rating: T
Warnings: None
Word Count: 636
Summary: Sandor drinks a little more, and Sansa lets it slip that she knows why he fears fire, and changes everything completely. Coincidentally, also for Jess, but written back in January.
---
:::
She cannot not even move an inch within his grasp; his eyes hold her. They are white, and terrified; she lingers on the burned side of his face, Lord Baelish’s words coursing through her mind. The fire. She cannot even imagine how terrified-he’s out of his mind, she thinks.
“You promised me a song, little bird,” he murmurs, searching her features, lit only by the light of the green flames dancing across the startled sky. “Have you forgotten?”
“I-I-,” she stutters, feeling his fingers curl tighter around her wrist. The blood masks the worst of his scars, but now he looks more mad than terrifying. He looks-he looks terrified. She cannot imagine, but tries-a boy’s scream, a brother’s cackling laugh, the acrid smell of burned flesh, the long, endless days of pain and anguish and there were rumors of a sister. She raises her free hand to cup the twisted mass of flesh in her palm, the flats of her fingers staining with blood. “I can’t,” she says, almost like she was admonishing a child. “You’re scaring me.”
“Everything scares you,” he rasps. “I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again or I’d kill them.”
Littlefinger warned her not to tell, but when the Hound closes his eyes and rests his cheek in her hand, she cannot stem the words that come from her mouth. “I know you must be terrified, the fire must remind you of-”
He does not need to stand; his head jerks up he is already at eye level with her, being so much taller. His head moves away from her hand, leaving her feeling bereft. “What do you speak of, girl?”
Her hand moves almost of its own will, fingers combing through his matted hair. Her mother used to run her fingers through her hair whenever she was upset… perhaps it would calm him down. Her other hand lands lightly on his shoulder, and she takes a steadying breath. “At the tourney of the King’s Hand, when your brother-when the Mountain-Lord Baelish, he told me of the way you received your scars.”
The corner of his mouth twitches and twists. Sansa can smell the stink of sweat on him, the metallic scent of blood, the pungency of stale vomit and sour wine, coated again with layer upon layer of blood and blood and blood. She belatedly realizes that it is also on her hands, now.
“You must be so afraid,” she whispers. Sansa feels a vibration under the hand resting on his shoulder, and startles when she figures that the Hound is trembling.
A burst of flame sweeps up the tower, crackling and coming to life outside the window. They both jump. Her hand does not still, and the one on his shoulder smooths up the hard line of muscle of his neck and to the back of his skull, pressing his head to rest under her chin. Like a mother comforting a child, she tells herself, even though it stirs something unfamiliar inside of her.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, not sure what for. She closes her eyes, and then remembers that she promised him a song. She opens her mouth to sing, but screams instead as silence ripples in from the outside-and then in a burst of heat, green wildfire shatters her window and sprints through the room. The Hound is on his feet quickly, wrapping his arms around her and twisting violently to shield her from the flames.
“Little bird?” he asks, this time her head tucked under his chin.
They run, and Sandor-Sandor, she reminds herself, with his arm wrapped around her waist and white cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders-does not bid Stranger to stop until they reach the Riverlands.
:::
Rating: T
Warnings: None
Word Count: 634
Summary: And extended dance remix of the scene we were given. Aka: an actual reason why Sansa doesn't go with Sandor. Written for my big sister Jess message_send in hopes of saving her sanity.
---
:::
"You will not hurt me.”
It is not a question, it is a statement. A realization. Stannis will not hurt me either, she thinks. But he is offering to take me home.
“No,” he says, brow furrowing. His eyes do not leave hers. “Little bird, I will not hurt you.”
Sansa brings herself up to her full height, panicking slightly when he moves to turn away. She reaches out for him without thinking, wrapping her arm around his blood-slicked armor. Pulls him back-her strength is too weak to be forcible, but he turns for her anyway.
Stannis will not harm her. She told him that. But is staying the correct choice? Will Stannis send her home or will she be yet again a prisoner?
This is her chance.
She swallows, forcing him to look at her now, keeping him from turning with her gaze. “Is-is that a vow?”
“What are you going on about, little bird?”
“Is-that-a-vow.” She spits the words out between her teeth, grabbing at his wineskin and throwing it to the floor. “Do you vow it? Will you make vows, my lord? You have deserted your king. You may leave now if you so choose, but if you wish to take me with you, I will not be some-some.”
He laughs. “I am no hero. Just a killer.”
She bristles. “All men are killers?” She throws his words back at him, a bitter drink.
“All men.”
“You’re a killer,” she confirms, raising a brow. He nods. “But you will not hurt me.”
“No.” He sighs, growing more and more uncomfortable. She raises a hand-it is like calming the women, singing hymns, tending to Lancel, calming the queen-to his cheek, directing his gaze to her face. Away from the green fire, Littlefinger’s words in the back of her mind. He is afraid.
“And you will take me to Winterfell.”
“Yes.”
“And I ask again,” Sansa says, dropping her head and wiping it on her dress discreetly. “Will you vow it to me?”
“What are you asking, girl?” He looks like he is about to bolt again, his hand going to the pommel of his sword before flitting to the handle of his dagger. She eyes him warily, taking a step backwards, a sharp intake of breath belaying the calm she is trying to exude. “I will go with you if you swear your sword to me.”
Clegane barks a laugh. “I came here with an offer. Not to enter into a contract with a little girl.”
Sansa feels tears prickling at her eyes. He is so hateful. He speaks of killing. But he has done good. He is no true knight, yet he saved me all the same. And now he will walk away.
“Fine,” she says, voice wobbling. “I will not keep you, ser. Go, if you intend to leave.”
He nods, and turns to leave. Sansa’s breathing hitches, tears finally escaping her eyes as she whirls to face the window, to watch the fire that the hound will now run to escape. The fire, the Lannisters, his demons. She had prayed for him to be gentled, and this had happened.
Had she made the right decision? Should she had left with him?
The door shuts, and Sansa turns around, furiously wiping at her eyes.
His bloodied cloak lays on the floor, abandoned in a wrinkled heap. Her blood pounds through her body, making her feel light and weak. She can barely stand, and then cannot, crumpling to the floor, overwhelmed by fear and indecision.
The sky darkens as the flames die. A chilly wind bursts through her window, rattling the shudders.
Sansa crawls over to the cloak, shakes it out, and wraps it around herself.
No velvet has ever felt as fine.
:::
Title: i know my call, despite my faults
Rating: T
Warnings: None
Word Count: 636
Summary: Sandor drinks a little more, and Sansa lets it slip that she knows why he fears fire, and changes everything completely. Coincidentally, also for Jess, but written back in January.
---
:::
She cannot not even move an inch within his grasp; his eyes hold her. They are white, and terrified; she lingers on the burned side of his face, Lord Baelish’s words coursing through her mind. The fire. She cannot even imagine how terrified-he’s out of his mind, she thinks.
“You promised me a song, little bird,” he murmurs, searching her features, lit only by the light of the green flames dancing across the startled sky. “Have you forgotten?”
“I-I-,” she stutters, feeling his fingers curl tighter around her wrist. The blood masks the worst of his scars, but now he looks more mad than terrifying. He looks-he looks terrified. She cannot imagine, but tries-a boy’s scream, a brother’s cackling laugh, the acrid smell of burned flesh, the long, endless days of pain and anguish and there were rumors of a sister. She raises her free hand to cup the twisted mass of flesh in her palm, the flats of her fingers staining with blood. “I can’t,” she says, almost like she was admonishing a child. “You’re scaring me.”
“Everything scares you,” he rasps. “I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again or I’d kill them.”
Littlefinger warned her not to tell, but when the Hound closes his eyes and rests his cheek in her hand, she cannot stem the words that come from her mouth. “I know you must be terrified, the fire must remind you of-”
He does not need to stand; his head jerks up he is already at eye level with her, being so much taller. His head moves away from her hand, leaving her feeling bereft. “What do you speak of, girl?”
Her hand moves almost of its own will, fingers combing through his matted hair. Her mother used to run her fingers through her hair whenever she was upset… perhaps it would calm him down. Her other hand lands lightly on his shoulder, and she takes a steadying breath. “At the tourney of the King’s Hand, when your brother-when the Mountain-Lord Baelish, he told me of the way you received your scars.”
The corner of his mouth twitches and twists. Sansa can smell the stink of sweat on him, the metallic scent of blood, the pungency of stale vomit and sour wine, coated again with layer upon layer of blood and blood and blood. She belatedly realizes that it is also on her hands, now.
“You must be so afraid,” she whispers. Sansa feels a vibration under the hand resting on his shoulder, and startles when she figures that the Hound is trembling.
A burst of flame sweeps up the tower, crackling and coming to life outside the window. They both jump. Her hand does not still, and the one on his shoulder smooths up the hard line of muscle of his neck and to the back of his skull, pressing his head to rest under her chin. Like a mother comforting a child, she tells herself, even though it stirs something unfamiliar inside of her.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, not sure what for. She closes her eyes, and then remembers that she promised him a song. She opens her mouth to sing, but screams instead as silence ripples in from the outside-and then in a burst of heat, green wildfire shatters her window and sprints through the room. The Hound is on his feet quickly, wrapping his arms around her and twisting violently to shield her from the flames.
“Little bird?” he asks, this time her head tucked under his chin.
They run, and Sandor-Sandor, she reminds herself, with his arm wrapped around her waist and white cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders-does not bid Stranger to stop until they reach the Riverlands.
:::