Fic: Cut it out and then Restart 12/?
Title: Cut it out and then Restart 12/?
Rating: PG
Fandom: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 2700
Warnings: Some swearing in there
Disclaimer: I shall forever worship GRRM for this wonderful universe he's created and the boffins at HBO for bringing it to the screen.
Chapter 12
Sandor has spent the past day preparing to leave in pursuit of his brother, first meeting the soldiers that Robb Stark has assigned to join him and then overseeing the necessary details for their departure.
There has been little time to focus upon anything other than the preparations and he is grateful for that; he does not wish to dwell upon either the past or what the future will bring. For years, the thought of killing Gregor has been the only thing to sustain him, the only meaning within a meaningless life. For years until… but it would be better not to think about that either, now that he is leaving.
There is a good chance that he will die fighting his brother. Gregor is larger and stronger than him, and has a cruelty in tactics that Sandor cannot hope to match. There is a good chance that he will die and all he can hope is that he manages to either kill or fatally wound Gregor before he does.
If by some miracle he survives, he will return to the Young Wolf’s camp and continue to follow him north, continue to watch over Sansa and ensure that she reaches her home safely once again. If he does not survive…
He has waited for this moment ever since he was a boy and yet now that he faces the possibility of achieving his goal, for the first time there is a sense of regret.
He does not wish to leave her.
He does love her after all, in whatever way that he knows how.
It weakens his resolve to leave, and yet he knows that it is for the best. No matter what she might think now, he is not the man for her. He can protect her, kill anybody who would try to harm her, but he would not know how to be a good husband even if he was given the chance. It would be a different matter if there were no other choice, if she had no family left, or if they had decided to give her to the Freys after all. Then he would’ve been the better option for her, might’ve even left this quest for revenge behind in order to protect her.
The possibility of killing Gregor one day may be what has sustained him for years, but his life is no longer as meaningless as it once was. As much as he’s tried to resist, his little bird has brought both light and hope into his life. She has given him a purpose other than killing, given him more than he had ever hoped for. He has changed as a result of this journey he embarked upon with her, and if he is to die now it will be with the feeling that there has been much gained but much still left undone.
In the few months since they left King’s Landing she has given him more happiness than he remembers having in the entirety of his life before that. For the first time he has felt almost as if he is a whole man, a strong warrior rather than a loyal dog. She has believed in him implicitly, that there is goodness in him, that he will not let her down, and he has struggled to live up to her expectations and to be worthy of her.
Weaken his resolve these feelings might, but they also strengthen his will to live. Surely a man who has something to live for has more chance of emerging alive from a fight to the death than one who does not.
Nothing is certain, and if he is to die then at least he has received a few months of kindness and grace and beauty before he does. At least he will be mourned and remembered by a girl who believes that she loves him. It is more than he ever thought to have.
No matter what regret he might feel, it will be a relief to confront Gregor once and for all after a lifetime of playing over the scenario in his mind. His brother deserves to die, should have been put down like the mad dog he was while still a boy if their father had any sense. His father ultimately paid for his weakness in turning a blind eye to Gregor’s crimes but then so had his gentle sister who never harmed a single soul. The Lannisters would never punish their favourite dog for atrocities committed in their name, and so it falls to Sandor to stop his brother once and for all now that he can.
Kinslaying formally approved by his new Lord and Master, Sandor can’t help but laugh bitterly at the thought.
Once he would’ve killed Gregor purely for his own satisfaction, now he has begun to think of other lives that will be saved, of maidens whose innocence will be left intact. It is the way that his little bird would think, she has influenced him far more than she knows.
He is almost ready to leave, Stranger is already saddled and ready and only Sandor’s armour needs to be fastened in place now. His men are still readying themselves, making their final preparations before they all leave in an hour’s time.
Sandor waits in the castle’s small sept, a simple seven sided wooden building with no windows. If he was a religious man then he may have said a prayer for his mission’s success but he hasn’t knelt to any god since he was seven years old and he first learned that no amount of praying would give him comfort or justice or peace. The fucking septons didn’t hesitate for one moment to bless his brother despite all his crimes. The Warrior certainly didn’t strike him down as he stood his vigil either.
No, let his little bird keep her gods if they give her comfort, but Sandor will have no part of them.
He turns at the sound of the door creaking and sees her enter, wearing a dark grey cloak with the hood pulled over her hair. Sansa decisively shuts the door behind her, drawing the bar only part way across so that it is not locked but there will be a moment’s delay if anybody tries to open it. He can’t help but give a low chuckle at her boldness.
“You’ve become quite a clever little bird.” He tells her approvingly and she gives him a small smile.
“I’m glad you came.” She tells him, taking a few steps forward so that she stands in front of him. “I wanted to say farewell properly, it might be some time before we see one another again.”
She says the last part with determination, refusing to acknowledge now that he might not come back.
“Aye,” he agrees with her, refusing to bring it up either. It’s far better if she bids him farewell with a smile and some hope that he might return. Let her keep her dreams for some more days at least.
“I will miss you.” She tells him quietly, taking another step forward so that there is no distance between them.
Bugger everything to all the seven hells, for this last hour at least he can pretend that he’s one of her true knights and that there really can be a happy ending to this.
Unable to help himself he reaches out to touch her cheek, cups it gently and tries to smile down at her. His hand is so large that it could easily engulf half her face and he is very aware of the callouses on his palm against her smooth skin. She leans into his touch, sighing slightly, and brings one small hand up to hold his own there when he moves to pull away.
“I will miss you too, little bird.” He tells her, and wishes that his voice might rasp less, that he might know the right things to say.
Taking his hand from her face, she laces her fingers through it, holding on to him. He cannot help but wonder what she intends, she has never been so bold before. No matter what she might say, she knows that he might not return, otherwise she would never be this brave.
“I will be waiting for you to come back.” She tells him solemnly, “It will be a difficult journey North, and we will be in much danger from the Ironborn. I will be relying upon you to return to protect me.”
She is binding him with reason and promises and it makes him want to laugh to see her trying to give him reasons to return alive. As if he could need any reason other than her.
He does laugh then, unable to resist. “I’ll make sure to kill my brother quickly then, so that I can come back to guard you.” He mocks, and sees her frown slightly, is sure that she’s biting back a reproach.
He cannot help but tease her to see how she fluffs up her feathers, but he lifts his other hand and strokes her hair, running his fingers through the strands that she’s left untied.
“I will come back to you if I can, Sansa.” He tells her gently, “You don’t need to give me reasons to.”
It is the first time that he has called her by her name properly, with no honorific attached, and he hears her sharp intake of breath at the realization. With so little time left he’ll be buggered if he’s going to worry about meaningless proprieties. He’s already revealed enough about what he feels for her, she’d be a fool if she didn’t already know.
She looks up at him, eyes shining, and places her free hand on his chest above his heart.
“You have to come back.” She tells him, “We’ll go North together, you’ll like it there. I know you’ll love Winterfell as I do. I’ll pray for you every day until you return, I won’t stop hoping until…”
She leaves the last bit unspoken, until he either returns or she hears of his death.
“And what will we do in the North once we reach there, little bird?” he asks her, tucks strands of hair behind her ear and allows his hand to settle on her shoulder. “You will be lady of Winterfell, sister to the King of the North, and I…” he laughs, but not unkindly. “I’ll still be your faithful dog.”
She looks up at him, unyielding, and raises the hand over his heart to touch his cheek, pressing firmly on the good side of his face. She has touched him like this once before, but then only on the scarred side. This time he can feel her fingers properly, can feel their softness as she traces his cheekbone.
“Once we have gone North, then we will see what happens. I may be sister to the King of the North, but I will not sit idly by and let my destiny be decided for me.” She announces in a tone that will brook no opposition. “A faithful dog you may think of yourself as, but for me you will always be a man.” She pauses, hesitating over her next choice of words with a sudden shyness. “My man.”
She moves faster than he could have thought and before he can react, she has raised her hand from where it held his and brought her it up to the back of his head so that she can tug it down to bring his face to hers.
She stands on her toes in order to reach him and when she presses her lips to his she is slightly awkward and fumbling, and it endears her to him all the more.
He is not a good man, no matter what she might think, and as much temptation as she presents is impossible to resist. He certainly needs no further encouragement than what she’s given. He snakes one arm around her back to press her to him and holds her there, flush against his body. His other hand he uses to grasp the back of her head as he presses his lips down upon hers, kissing her back with a hardness and desperation that he cannot suppress.
He has kissed precious few women in his life, they could all be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. Whores don’t require kisses and only the better trained ones who were curious about the feel of him ever tried.
Her lips are soft and yielding beneath his, she has wound her arms around his neck and her mouth opens to him even as she closes her eyes. She is soft curves and graceful angles beneath his hands and he cannot help but wonder what he possibly did right to deserve this.
“You’re mad, girl.” he rasps as he pulls back from her, “Anybody could fucking well come in and see us.”
“I don’t care,” she replies, eyes slightly glazed and breathing hard, her hair now a mess from where he’s had his hands in it. “I don’t care.”
“To hells with them all then,” he mutters and grasps her firmly, lifts her around the waist until her face is level with his and kisses her thoroughly. If he’s to die then he’ll do so with this memory in his mind, of a stolen kiss in a holy place.
He explores her like a mysterious territory, mapping her mouth with his lips and tongue, her body with his hands. She gasps as his hand brushes against a breast and it is enough to remind him that she is entirely too young and innocent and that they are currently in a sept with only a half barred door and an entire army camp beginning to stir for the day around them. It’s a lucky thing too, for if they were anywhere else it would be a difficult thing to stop himself from going further, not when she’s given him such encouragement.
He is hard and aching with need but he sets her down gently, allowing his hands to linger on her waist and brush against the curves of her hips.
She looks as if she would like to protest again but he shakes his head at her slightly and releases her.
“It’s time to go, little bird.” He tells her, and moves slightly away from her to put himself to order. She follows suit, smoothing down first her dress and then her hair until she is reasonably satisfied that she is once again presentable.
When she is done she turns back to him and unable to help himself he leans down to give her on a gentle almost chaste kiss.
“You will come back to me.” She tells him when he has pulled away, and there is so much certainty in her that for the first time he finds himself truly believing it too.
“That I will, little bird.” He tells her, “Gods know that I’d fucking well kill the Warrior himself if I had to in order to return to you.”
Fuck being a good man, an honourable man.
Fuck standing aside and allowing her to marry some damned buggering lordling.
He’ll kill his fucking brother, win the North for hers, and take her home.
Then if she’ll still have him, he’ll take her for his own, all gods and kings be damned.
She steps forward towards him again and raises her hand to his cheek once more. “Sandor, I…” she begins to say, but he hushes her.
“Tell me when I come back, little bird.” He replies, leans down to kiss her one final time, then lets her go and strides away.
He’s unbarred the door and opened it when he turns back to look at her, sees the beginning of tears in her eyes.
“None of that,” he tells her, “Give me a pretty smile before I go.”
She does so, blinking away her tears and he gives her a smile in return, his lips twisting awkwardly around scarred flesh.
He’ll be back, and next time he won’t be parted from her so easily.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 2700
Warnings: Some swearing in there
Disclaimer: I shall forever worship GRRM for this wonderful universe he's created and the boffins at HBO for bringing it to the screen.
Chapter 12
Sandor has spent the past day preparing to leave in pursuit of his brother, first meeting the soldiers that Robb Stark has assigned to join him and then overseeing the necessary details for their departure.
There has been little time to focus upon anything other than the preparations and he is grateful for that; he does not wish to dwell upon either the past or what the future will bring. For years, the thought of killing Gregor has been the only thing to sustain him, the only meaning within a meaningless life. For years until… but it would be better not to think about that either, now that he is leaving.
There is a good chance that he will die fighting his brother. Gregor is larger and stronger than him, and has a cruelty in tactics that Sandor cannot hope to match. There is a good chance that he will die and all he can hope is that he manages to either kill or fatally wound Gregor before he does.
If by some miracle he survives, he will return to the Young Wolf’s camp and continue to follow him north, continue to watch over Sansa and ensure that she reaches her home safely once again. If he does not survive…
He has waited for this moment ever since he was a boy and yet now that he faces the possibility of achieving his goal, for the first time there is a sense of regret.
He does not wish to leave her.
He does love her after all, in whatever way that he knows how.
It weakens his resolve to leave, and yet he knows that it is for the best. No matter what she might think now, he is not the man for her. He can protect her, kill anybody who would try to harm her, but he would not know how to be a good husband even if he was given the chance. It would be a different matter if there were no other choice, if she had no family left, or if they had decided to give her to the Freys after all. Then he would’ve been the better option for her, might’ve even left this quest for revenge behind in order to protect her.
The possibility of killing Gregor one day may be what has sustained him for years, but his life is no longer as meaningless as it once was. As much as he’s tried to resist, his little bird has brought both light and hope into his life. She has given him a purpose other than killing, given him more than he had ever hoped for. He has changed as a result of this journey he embarked upon with her, and if he is to die now it will be with the feeling that there has been much gained but much still left undone.
In the few months since they left King’s Landing she has given him more happiness than he remembers having in the entirety of his life before that. For the first time he has felt almost as if he is a whole man, a strong warrior rather than a loyal dog. She has believed in him implicitly, that there is goodness in him, that he will not let her down, and he has struggled to live up to her expectations and to be worthy of her.
Weaken his resolve these feelings might, but they also strengthen his will to live. Surely a man who has something to live for has more chance of emerging alive from a fight to the death than one who does not.
Nothing is certain, and if he is to die then at least he has received a few months of kindness and grace and beauty before he does. At least he will be mourned and remembered by a girl who believes that she loves him. It is more than he ever thought to have.
No matter what regret he might feel, it will be a relief to confront Gregor once and for all after a lifetime of playing over the scenario in his mind. His brother deserves to die, should have been put down like the mad dog he was while still a boy if their father had any sense. His father ultimately paid for his weakness in turning a blind eye to Gregor’s crimes but then so had his gentle sister who never harmed a single soul. The Lannisters would never punish their favourite dog for atrocities committed in their name, and so it falls to Sandor to stop his brother once and for all now that he can.
Kinslaying formally approved by his new Lord and Master, Sandor can’t help but laugh bitterly at the thought.
Once he would’ve killed Gregor purely for his own satisfaction, now he has begun to think of other lives that will be saved, of maidens whose innocence will be left intact. It is the way that his little bird would think, she has influenced him far more than she knows.
He is almost ready to leave, Stranger is already saddled and ready and only Sandor’s armour needs to be fastened in place now. His men are still readying themselves, making their final preparations before they all leave in an hour’s time.
Sandor waits in the castle’s small sept, a simple seven sided wooden building with no windows. If he was a religious man then he may have said a prayer for his mission’s success but he hasn’t knelt to any god since he was seven years old and he first learned that no amount of praying would give him comfort or justice or peace. The fucking septons didn’t hesitate for one moment to bless his brother despite all his crimes. The Warrior certainly didn’t strike him down as he stood his vigil either.
No, let his little bird keep her gods if they give her comfort, but Sandor will have no part of them.
He turns at the sound of the door creaking and sees her enter, wearing a dark grey cloak with the hood pulled over her hair. Sansa decisively shuts the door behind her, drawing the bar only part way across so that it is not locked but there will be a moment’s delay if anybody tries to open it. He can’t help but give a low chuckle at her boldness.
“You’ve become quite a clever little bird.” He tells her approvingly and she gives him a small smile.
“I’m glad you came.” She tells him, taking a few steps forward so that she stands in front of him. “I wanted to say farewell properly, it might be some time before we see one another again.”
She says the last part with determination, refusing to acknowledge now that he might not come back.
“Aye,” he agrees with her, refusing to bring it up either. It’s far better if she bids him farewell with a smile and some hope that he might return. Let her keep her dreams for some more days at least.
“I will miss you.” She tells him quietly, taking another step forward so that there is no distance between them.
Bugger everything to all the seven hells, for this last hour at least he can pretend that he’s one of her true knights and that there really can be a happy ending to this.
Unable to help himself he reaches out to touch her cheek, cups it gently and tries to smile down at her. His hand is so large that it could easily engulf half her face and he is very aware of the callouses on his palm against her smooth skin. She leans into his touch, sighing slightly, and brings one small hand up to hold his own there when he moves to pull away.
“I will miss you too, little bird.” He tells her, and wishes that his voice might rasp less, that he might know the right things to say.
Taking his hand from her face, she laces her fingers through it, holding on to him. He cannot help but wonder what she intends, she has never been so bold before. No matter what she might say, she knows that he might not return, otherwise she would never be this brave.
“I will be waiting for you to come back.” She tells him solemnly, “It will be a difficult journey North, and we will be in much danger from the Ironborn. I will be relying upon you to return to protect me.”
She is binding him with reason and promises and it makes him want to laugh to see her trying to give him reasons to return alive. As if he could need any reason other than her.
He does laugh then, unable to resist. “I’ll make sure to kill my brother quickly then, so that I can come back to guard you.” He mocks, and sees her frown slightly, is sure that she’s biting back a reproach.
He cannot help but tease her to see how she fluffs up her feathers, but he lifts his other hand and strokes her hair, running his fingers through the strands that she’s left untied.
“I will come back to you if I can, Sansa.” He tells her gently, “You don’t need to give me reasons to.”
It is the first time that he has called her by her name properly, with no honorific attached, and he hears her sharp intake of breath at the realization. With so little time left he’ll be buggered if he’s going to worry about meaningless proprieties. He’s already revealed enough about what he feels for her, she’d be a fool if she didn’t already know.
She looks up at him, eyes shining, and places her free hand on his chest above his heart.
“You have to come back.” She tells him, “We’ll go North together, you’ll like it there. I know you’ll love Winterfell as I do. I’ll pray for you every day until you return, I won’t stop hoping until…”
She leaves the last bit unspoken, until he either returns or she hears of his death.
“And what will we do in the North once we reach there, little bird?” he asks her, tucks strands of hair behind her ear and allows his hand to settle on her shoulder. “You will be lady of Winterfell, sister to the King of the North, and I…” he laughs, but not unkindly. “I’ll still be your faithful dog.”
She looks up at him, unyielding, and raises the hand over his heart to touch his cheek, pressing firmly on the good side of his face. She has touched him like this once before, but then only on the scarred side. This time he can feel her fingers properly, can feel their softness as she traces his cheekbone.
“Once we have gone North, then we will see what happens. I may be sister to the King of the North, but I will not sit idly by and let my destiny be decided for me.” She announces in a tone that will brook no opposition. “A faithful dog you may think of yourself as, but for me you will always be a man.” She pauses, hesitating over her next choice of words with a sudden shyness. “My man.”
She moves faster than he could have thought and before he can react, she has raised her hand from where it held his and brought her it up to the back of his head so that she can tug it down to bring his face to hers.
She stands on her toes in order to reach him and when she presses her lips to his she is slightly awkward and fumbling, and it endears her to him all the more.
He is not a good man, no matter what she might think, and as much temptation as she presents is impossible to resist. He certainly needs no further encouragement than what she’s given. He snakes one arm around her back to press her to him and holds her there, flush against his body. His other hand he uses to grasp the back of her head as he presses his lips down upon hers, kissing her back with a hardness and desperation that he cannot suppress.
He has kissed precious few women in his life, they could all be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. Whores don’t require kisses and only the better trained ones who were curious about the feel of him ever tried.
Her lips are soft and yielding beneath his, she has wound her arms around his neck and her mouth opens to him even as she closes her eyes. She is soft curves and graceful angles beneath his hands and he cannot help but wonder what he possibly did right to deserve this.
“You’re mad, girl.” he rasps as he pulls back from her, “Anybody could fucking well come in and see us.”
“I don’t care,” she replies, eyes slightly glazed and breathing hard, her hair now a mess from where he’s had his hands in it. “I don’t care.”
“To hells with them all then,” he mutters and grasps her firmly, lifts her around the waist until her face is level with his and kisses her thoroughly. If he’s to die then he’ll do so with this memory in his mind, of a stolen kiss in a holy place.
He explores her like a mysterious territory, mapping her mouth with his lips and tongue, her body with his hands. She gasps as his hand brushes against a breast and it is enough to remind him that she is entirely too young and innocent and that they are currently in a sept with only a half barred door and an entire army camp beginning to stir for the day around them. It’s a lucky thing too, for if they were anywhere else it would be a difficult thing to stop himself from going further, not when she’s given him such encouragement.
He is hard and aching with need but he sets her down gently, allowing his hands to linger on her waist and brush against the curves of her hips.
She looks as if she would like to protest again but he shakes his head at her slightly and releases her.
“It’s time to go, little bird.” He tells her, and moves slightly away from her to put himself to order. She follows suit, smoothing down first her dress and then her hair until she is reasonably satisfied that she is once again presentable.
When she is done she turns back to him and unable to help himself he leans down to give her on a gentle almost chaste kiss.
“You will come back to me.” She tells him when he has pulled away, and there is so much certainty in her that for the first time he finds himself truly believing it too.
“That I will, little bird.” He tells her, “Gods know that I’d fucking well kill the Warrior himself if I had to in order to return to you.”
Fuck being a good man, an honourable man.
Fuck standing aside and allowing her to marry some damned buggering lordling.
He’ll kill his fucking brother, win the North for hers, and take her home.
Then if she’ll still have him, he’ll take her for his own, all gods and kings be damned.
She steps forward towards him again and raises her hand to his cheek once more. “Sandor, I…” she begins to say, but he hushes her.
“Tell me when I come back, little bird.” He replies, leans down to kiss her one final time, then lets her go and strides away.
He’s unbarred the door and opened it when he turns back to look at her, sees the beginning of tears in her eyes.
“None of that,” he tells her, “Give me a pretty smile before I go.”
She does so, blinking away her tears and he gives her a smile in return, his lips twisting awkwardly around scarred flesh.
He’ll be back, and next time he won’t be parted from her so easily.