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This high cold air is making him nauseous. Sandor taps out his cigarette into a marble ashtray, and watches from the balcony as another black helicopter takes off into the dark. Shouldn’t have come, he thinks, not for the first time this evening.
Sandor is here as a favour, an at-least-I-didn’t-come-alone excuse for Lannister who’s avoiding some ex or other. They’re not friends, him and Jaime Lannister, far from it. But Sandor worked for that family for a long, guilt-ridden decade, and here at the other end of it, between the few of them that came out of it with their lives and most of their sanity intact there’s a certain… accord, at the very least. At the very least, he’ll show up at a party and escape to spend the evening outside smoking.
This isn’t a godsdamned party, though, is it? Sandor sends a glare at the double doors leading into the ballroom, as a general approximation of Lannister’s current position. At parties, they don’t pick you up in a bloody helicopter and assign you a suite to stay the night in.
The hiss and sharp-as-gunshot bangs that light up the sky with green and purple tells him that dinner is over and the Eyrie Winter’s Ball has begun in earnest. Sandor doesn’t like fireworks, much. They sound like a life he left behind and he can’t- he doesn’t like them.
”Clegane!” Lannister slams open the doors and a whisper of warmth from inside brushes Sandor’s cheeks. ”You’re missing the show!”
”Don’t like fireworks,” he says. A girl he knew once loved them. Would look all starry-eyed at the sky as though that wasn't just a pretty bomb going off, as though those colours filled her senses the way he could sink into the sweet lemon-scent of her hair and be blissfully lost, if only for a moment. ’Aren’t they lovely?’ she’d say, and Sandor would give a nod, not because he agreed but because there was too much unpleasantness in her life already for him to add to it.
”Oh.” Lannister seems to deflate, no doubt thinking of his uncle, and brother, and the way he himself still keeps a gun by his bed even though the sight of it terrifies him, these days. (He hasn’t told Sandor this, per se. They were in the same group, for a while. Talking. Sitting in circles. That sort of thing.)
”How was dinner?” Sandor holds out his pack of cigarettes to Lannister, who accepts one wordlessly and closes the doors behind him.
”It was all right. It was a lot.” Cigarette in mouth, he fishes out a lighter of his own from a waistcoat pocket with his one hand. ”Apparently the auction was quite something. Ancient Dornish frescoes, that sort of thing.”
”So, you folks still selling off stolen war loot in the name of charities you yourself own?” Sandor is so fucking sick of these old-moneyed people.
Lannister gives a noncommittal shrug, and manages to make it elegant by virtue of being good-looking.
”There was a seat for you. At dinner.”
”Thought you said that was invitees only.”
”That’s what I was told. Ah, just as well. You would have found it a bore.”
”You could have brought someone who wouldn’t, you know. Hate this.”
”I could have, but I do so enjoy watching you be beastly to my peers.”
First we’d have to leave this balcony, Sandor thinks. He knows that’s not why he was the excuse brought along. No, if Lannister could have brought someone else, he surely would have.
They make an odd pair, to be sure; Lannister’s well-bred, carefree beauty contrasted with Sandor’s brutish ugly. Yet Sandor’s ruined face and Lannister’s missing hand both have them marked: other, criminal, fuck-up, useless, pitiful, frightening. It takes some getting used to. Lannister still forgets sometimes, still reaches for things with his stump, but Sandor used to wear the monster they all saw anyway like a second skin, like a parasite infecting his mind with rage and violence. He tries not to, these days. It’s all just so fucking exhausting. Can’t take off the scars, though. Can’t change what they all see.
Lannister swears as ash gets on his shoe, and attempts to shake it off. He’s wearing sneakers in a vain show of irreverence to the entire event. But it seems a bit toothless, to Sandor, when the sneakers in question cost more than the average family car. Sandor’s own shoes are black, and half-heartedly polished, and don’t cost more than anyone’s car.
”We should probably head back inside,” says Lannister.
”Yeah.” Sandor doesn’t want to, but his hands are getting red from the cold.
The first thing that strikes him as they reenter the ballroom is the sheer opulence of the place. Baelish has never been known to pinch his pennies where these things are concerned. Deep blue velvet covered in twinkling lights is draped across the ceiling, a prettied-up version of the night sky outside. Lush trees shaped from gold metal stands artfully placed around the vast room, their golden leaves shimmering in the ever-changing light from above. Sheer silvery fabric covers the ancient walls, softening out the edges of the illusion.
It would have been perfect, if not for the equally ornamented people moving between the trees, dancing, talking, judging. Even from the edge of the room, Sandor can spot some familiar faces; Baelish himself, talking to his adopted son and the youngest Baratheon brother, Old Man Frey, who has surely wrangled his invitation off of Baelish by providence of some half-forgotten family connections, that Tyrell woman whose name is always in the evening paper headlines, and… Ah, there’s the problem. A head and some taller than everyone around her, Lannister’s ex is currently making her way over to the bar. She’s come alone, by the looks of it. Apparently, Brienne Tarth doesn’t need an excuse.
”You talk to her yet?”
”What?”
”Brienne.”
Lannister’s eyes go wide. ”Of course I haven’t. I’d make an ass of myself.”
”And avoiding her all evening is acceptable?”
”Well. Yes.” Lannister doesn’t sound certain.
Something in the corner of his eye catches Sandor’s attention. There, nestled between golden leaves: a small, red bird. Just the one, made of glass. Some childish instinct makes Sandor want to reach up and touch it, but he considers his hands: large, calloused. He can’t trust them with such a delicate thing.
”Oh,” says Lannister, following Sandor’s gaze, ”like your tattoo.”
”I guess,” he says.
The urgent sound of someone tapping on a microphone interrupts them, and they turn their attention to the stage.
”I do hate to interrupt you all from having a lovely time,” comes the slimiest fucking voice Sandor knows. Baelish. ”But I simply cannot watch all you wonderful people enjoying the décor without giving due credit to my favourite protégé.” He throws a theatrical glance around the hall. ”Sansa, darling, where are you?”
Just like that, all things fade to white around Sandor. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Vaguely, he can hear a murmur spread across the hall.
”Sansa?” He hears a weak voice say, only half-aware that it’s his own.
”The Stark girl. You remember Joff’s ex? Red hair? Apparently she’s lived here for years. Heard it from Lothor earlier.”
Sandor stares at Lannister.
”Years?”
”You know Baelish. Fucking nonce.”
Before the words can sink in, Baelish speaks again:
”Sansa?”
The silence in the hall is deafening. Sandor does not know if he is relieved or not, though he cannot keep his neck from craning, his eyes from searching for a glimpse of red hair among the guests. Others are searching, too, only to be violently interrupted by a series of bangs coming from an upper balcony. It’s all Sandor can do not to duck for cover. Beside him, Lannister flinches at the sound. The bangs are followed by flashes of brightly coloured light, shining through the silvery drapes, accompanied by pearl strings of girlish laughter from above.
”Ah,” says Baelish, unsuccessfully hiding his discomfort behind a bleached smile. ”It seems she is preoccupied with the pyrotechnics.”
—
”That was in no way discreet, Mya.”
”It’s all relative, Sansa. Remember those dragon’s eggs we filched at Yohn’s fiftieth, Randa?”
”Oh, yes. These were practically Pentoshi candles in comparison.”
”Tell that to Petyr!”
”Gladly. What’s he going to do, not invite us?”
Sansa sighs, and takes a sip of her cava. They are right, of course. And the fireworks were lovely.
It’s a rare thing for her, to hold a social event at the Eyrie and not have to do any public speaking. She's never presented as the official hostess, of course, but Petyr never misses a chance to parade her in front of guests, especially since Lysa died. But this time she has taken great care not to be needed anywhere after dinner. For once, she can sneak away quietly with her friends for some not-very-quiet amusements.
Mya sits on the stone railing, one foot resting on top of it, and the other dangling precariously over the edge. Sansa wishes she wouldn’t, but stays silent for fear that her friend will decide to dangle both legs over the edge out of pure defiance. Randa, on the other hand, is leaned against the wall, cheerfully emptying their second bottle of wine into her own glass. It’s a nice retreat after the social demands of a formal dinner. She wraps her big coat tighter around herself and leans her back against the railing.
”Has the dancing begun, do you think?”
”Hard to say,” Randa shrugs. ”You know how Petyr likes to keep his guests hostage with pointless speeches.”
Mya gives a soft chuckle. She looks striking in a well-fitted tux and a thick wool scarf around her neck and shoulders.
A soft knock on the balcony door draws their attention, and they all watch as a large hand pushes it open from the inside.
”Lothor.” Randa nods a greeting.
The man himself inclines his head in reply, before his eyes fall on Mya.
”Gods, girl, how many times—”
He hurries over, and just as she gleefully releases her hands’ grip on the railing he is there, lifting her down while chastising her in the mildest manner Sansa has ever heard. Mya doesn’t seem too displeased by this new arrangement, though, as she allows him to wrap his arm around her from behind and holds up a lighter for the cigarette he fishes out from his breast pocket.
”Petyr asked for you,” Lothor tells Sansa.
She sighs. ”I’m sure it was very urgent.”
”Left him stranded by the microphone,” he chuckles.
Sansa closes her eyes.
”He could have let you know beforehand,” says Randa, attempting to lighten Sansa’s mood.
”He should have,” agrees Mya.
”Mmm.” Sansa throws a glance at the balcony door. ”Perhaps I should head back down.”
”Best not,” says Lothor, offering his cigarette to Mya. ”Let him have a couple drinks first, find something else to occupy him.”
He is right, of course. Once again, Sansa is being far too anxious. It’s always better to stay away for a bit after she’s disappointed Petyr. And what of all the times he’s disappointed me? comes a bitter voice in her mind that Sansa cannot afford to pay any heed. Still, it persists: It’s so odd to her, that the man who has seemingly given her everything has done so entirely without asking whether she wants any of it. Like so many times before, she remembers the last time she was offered a meaningful choice. A hulking shadow and a rasping voice. He’d come to her room in the night, and… Sansa is still not sure she made the right decision. But at least it was hers to make.
Had she chosen differently, she would not have met her friends. She would not summer on the Orange Shore.
She would not lie awake at night, wondering what might have been.
With a pop!, Randa has opened their third bottle.
—
Sandor has found a stool by the bar that gives him a decent view of the hall while keeping him partly obscured by a nearby golden tree. Lannister is away at the other end of the hall, caught between Paxter Redwyne and Mace Tyrell. Baelish flutters from guest to guest, dragging his adopted son along and coercing pleasantries from his sullen mouth. Robert Arryn is pale, and young: still a boy, grieving. Sandor looks from the boy, to Lannister, and then his gaze falls to his own hands, folded around his beer on the table. All of them the same. They’ll never be done grieving their mothers.
It’s only because he is waiting for it to happen that he notices the door leading to the servant stairs creak open. Three young women sneak into the hall with the cartoonish deliberation reserved for children and people who are just sober enough to know that caution is called for, but too tipsy to perform it successfully. Behind them enter a man, tall and broad and vaguely familiar. Sandor pays him no heed. It’s her he’s watching.
Her cheeks are rosy, from wine or from cold or maybe both. She wears a deep blue, high-collared evening gown, the sparkle of her necklace against it reminiscent of the velvet night sky covering the ceiling. And her hair… Still a deep copper, but shorter now, only just reaching the top of her shoulders. Sandor wonders when that happened, wonders if it’s still silk-soft and misted with sweet lemon. He can see, but not hear, her laugh as the other two women head towards the dance floor as she stays behind with the tall man. He whispers something in her ear and she smiles, nods, and he heads off towards the bar. Sandor tells himself that it’s not jealousy that stings in his chest.
As the man approaches, Sandor can make out his features more clearly. He is middle-aged, older than Sandor, with grey hair and a nose that has been broken more than once. Certainly not one of those handsome, rich young men that used to be able to make her blush and giggle. He’s also not completely fucked up in the face, unlike some, he thinks bitterly.
The man orders two drinks and heads back to where Sansa Stark is standing: at the periphery of the festivities, her hands fussing with the hem of her sleeves.
”Right where I left you, I see.”
Lannister slumps down onto the barstool next to Sandor.
”Can’t exactly go home,” Sandor replies. Like it or not, he is stranded on top of this mountain.
”There’s always our suite.”
”Your suite.”
”You’re my plus one.”
”Fuck off.”
Sandor’s eyes have found their way back to the corner, but she is gone. He searches the hall, eyes sweeping over the dance floor, the refreshments table, the— oh, fuck.
Lannister instantly registers what has caught Sandor’s attention. Or, at least, part of it.
”At least she’s enjoying herself,” he says, staring at Brienne Tarth, who is currently laughing, presumably at something Sansa Stark has said.
The pair are standing close to each other, talking like old friends. They are joined by a dark-haired young man, who hovers in Tarth’s shadow.
”Oh, great,” drawls Lannister, ”Payne’s here.”
Sandor doesn’t know who Payne is, nor why Lannister seems to dislike him. He nods in reply.
Lannister shifts in his seat.
”Perhaps,” he says, still looking at Tarth. ”Perhaps I should speak with her?” Any affectation of aristocratic ennui is gone from his voice.
Sandor’s eyes are fixated on Sansa Stark. She has her hand on Tarth’s forearm, is looking straight into the taller woman’s eyes as she speaks. Little bird. His hand goes to his left inner wrist, tracing what he knows hides beneath the cuff of his shirt.
”Yeah,” Sandor replies absentmindedly. ”Perhaps you should.”
As his companion leaves, Sandor decides it’s time to get up.
He walks along the wall, away from her, with no real goal in mind. Place this size, this crowded, one can move aimlessly around it for a good while before anybody takes notice. Even if you’re a big, scarred bloke. The lights are dim enough, now. Somehow, people are still dancing. Sandor can’t see why. He spots her friends on the dance floor, strains his eyes, and oh, there’s—
He turns, abruptly, and walks the other direction. There’s a corridor to the left he hasn’t tried yet. But when he is back in the hall again, having found only lavatories with gold mosaic walls, there she is again. She is surrounded by people; all beautiful, all with names older than the ancient stone floor on which they stand. Sandor keeps his distance.
And yet, he keeps finding himself gravitating towards the sound of her voice, or the copper gleam of her hair, like moth to flame. She has seen him by now, he is certain, there’s no way she hasn’t. Once, she even looks directly at him, holding his gaze for longer than he’d thought possible. Something - perhaps a smile, perhaps not - plays over her features, and she turns, and steps through a balcony door. Sandor hesitates. He could use a cigarette.
As he pushes the door open it hits him that her friends might be on the balcony. A quick rush of panic through his veins, and then the door is open: she is alone.
Sandor lets out a deep breath. She stands looking out into the night, her back to him, and he can see now that her dress is open in the back. The skin visible there is pale, and striped with long, silvery scars. He lights a cigarette, gathers his courage, and steps up beside her, keenly aware of how he has his bad side towards her.
”Ms. Stark,” he greets her, eyes staring out into the vast darkness.
He can hear her turn towards him, and it takes all his willpower not to look.
”Sandor Clegane.” He likes how she says it, with a hint of the North underneath all that polish, still.
He wonders if she is cold, despite the warmth from the heat lamps he can feel on his back. The silence between them stretches on, and at last, he looks at her. She is paler now than when he saw her enter the hall.
”I didn’t know you were invited.”
”I wasn’t,” he says, watching a soft lock of hair fall down over her dark eyebrow. ”Not posh enough, see?” He gestures at his shoes, by way of explanation.
Sansa Stark looks down at his shoes, then back at his face, brow furrowed. He can’t see how this can be hard to understand: ruined face, cheap shoes.
It means: I’m here as an excuse, this isn’t even my story, not really.
It means: people like me eat through beauty like starving children, and you’ve never had to comb your hair to hide anything.
She says:
”I’ve been told you live in Maidenpool, now.”
This comes as a surprise: why would anyone tell her that? Perhaps his stunned silence is telling, because she continues unprompted:
”Jaime Lannister told me and Brienne, before.” Of course. ”I asked,” she adds, quietly.
”And you… live here?” Sandor desperately scours his brain for anything on polite conversation, and curses himself for coming up empty.
”Yes,” she says, turning her attention back to the night. ”Petyr has been most… accommodating.”
Has he, now. Sandor wants to punch something. He puts his arms up on the railing, cigarette long since forgotten.
”Sandor…” Her voice is careful, and he is reminded of their last meeting, years ago. ”It’s… I’m glad to see you again.”
Her hand is on his arm, a light, reassuring touch. He looks down at it, pale against his black suit jacket. He imagines he can feel the warmth from it even through the layers of clothing. He remembers that hand gently touching his bad side, once. When has anyone else ever done that? He shakes hands with people sometimes, at work, and even then he’ll be lucky if they can look him in the eye. And before that - who would touch him with a scowl on his ruined face and a gun strapped to his belt? She would, he remembers. She did.
But he can feel her withdraw, now, and sees her gaze turn down towards the ground. He wonders what he did wrong. Stared at her hand like a fool without offering any kind of answer, probably.
”I’m…” she takes a deep breath. ”Thank you for the company. I’ll leave you alone, now.”
She turns to leave, and he knows no words that would make her stay. So he does something stupid, instead: he reaches out, far too quickly, and grabs her upper arm.
—
Sansa freezes as the large hand wraps a steady grip around her arm. She doesn’t like being grabbed. Too many memories. By instinct, and habit, she ducks her head and draws her shoulders up, making herself smaller.
Immediately, she is let go of. Collecting herself, she slowly straightens her back again and looks back at him.
Sandor Clegane is wide-eyed, as lost as she is. Both his hands are raised in front of him in a placating gesture.
”I’m - I didn’t - ,” he rasps, but her attention is elsewhere:
On his wrist, peeking out from underneath the cuff of his shirt, is something small, and red. She tilts her head, her previous discomfort forgotten as she looks intently at the tattoo. He must notice, because he lowers his hands, pulling at the cuff.
”What’s that?” She asks, stepping closer to him, already knowing the answer.
He doesn’t reply.
”Please,” she says, holding out her hands to him, expectantly.
Slowly, bashfully, like a child caught lying, he offers her his hand, palm up. She lets it rest in one of her own, tracing his cuff with the other.
”May I?” She meets his eyes, searching.
He swallows. Nods.
She pushes up the sleeve of his jacket just enough that she can unbutton the cuff of his shirt. His hand rests lightly in hers, betraying his nerves. With gentle fingertips she reveals it: a small, red bird. She’s seen him with his sleeves rolled up, long ago, she knows this style is different than his other tattoos. She can feel his pulse against her skin, quick, too quick. Unthinking, she turns herself so that she can see it from the proper angle, practically leaning her back against his chest. Oh. She swallows.
”This is new,” she says. ”It’s lovely.” The bird is perched on a twig, wings half-spread as if just about to take flight.
She can feel him nod behind her. She traces the outline of the bird and feels her shoulders relax, perhaps for the first time this evening.
”Did you miss me, too?” Surely, he can hear the smile in her voice.
There is no reply, but now she knows why, and she doesn’t want to leave. Instead, she half turns, still within what she now likes to think of as embracing distance, to see his face.
Her breath hitches in her throat when she finds him staring at her, in a way that brings her mind back to the last time they met.
”I’m sorr- I didn’t mean- ” His hands are going up again. He must have misinterpreted her reaction. She can almost feel him try to back away, but he’s already against the railing.
Because she is older now, and because she has had a lot of time to think back on everything that happened back in the capital, Sansa isn’t confused. Want weighs against caution in her mind, before the closeness of him tips the scales. She carefully takes his lifted hands in hers, and lowers them.
”No,” she says. ”I like it when you think I’m pretty.”
He stares at her, wide-eyed, for several moments before the words tumble out:
”You are. Fuck. I mean. You’re beautiful.”
She cannot stop the smile from spreading across her face.
”See?” She tilts her head, willing him to understand. ”I liked that.”
—
Sandor shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be at this party, shouldn’t be on this balcony, shouldn’t be talking to this woman. Should have polished my godsdamned shoes better, is what I should have.
She lets him lead her back inside when her hands feel cold against his. The lights have dimmed even more in the hall, and the dancing has slowed down in the way that it feels like an intrusion to watch. Lannister is gone. So is Baelish.
Sandor gets them both drinks, a beer for him, something citrusy for her. He finds out that her hair does still have that sweet lemon scent.
He shouldn’t know that. He shouldn’t be traipsing around a godsdamned castle at arse-o’clock in the morning, surrounded by rich people getting increasingly sloshed. He shouldn’t be leaning into her touch as she cups his bad cheek, and yet he is. There’s no stopping him now.
”Little bird,” he says, and it means: I’m sorry that you have your own scars, too.
It means: there’s a spot I reserved for you on my wrist, do you understand, (I don’t) all I know is I have these scars and this anger and I’m lonely. All I know is I missed you.
It means: I want you to touch my scars until they don’t mean a thing.