CLOSED ; You made a deal, and now it seems you have to offer up.

[clothed]

Who: Sansa Stark, various persons of interest.
What: Private conversations, ironing out some truths (and a pretty big lie).
When: September through October; includes test drive continuations.
Where: Milton proper + the outskirts.

Content Warnings: Will be added as they occur! Prompts in the comments.

Comments

[clothed]

[ patience is its own reward. someone taught her this lesson once, though she can't remember who it was now. was it littlefinger? was it cersei, or was it her first husband tyrion, during the times when he wasn't deep in his cups?

she's certain that he knows she's watching; she's not made a secret of her approach, her feet crunching the snow underfoot loud and clear in the quiet of the day. sansa watches the hound split wood to the aggravation of his injury, the swing of the axe its own torment for the memories it brings up; it's only when he grunts in clear pain that sansa finally interrupts. ]

Clegane. [ she refrains from calling him ser; another needle for another time. ] Might we speak, please? I brought you something for the trouble.

[dogmeats]

( It's sheer stubbornness that drives him. Every time that pain flairs up, every time the bone aches and the muscles burn in protest, he picks up another log to split. Is he punishing it, or himself, or the wood? What difference does it make, in the end?

Proving her point, her voice doesn't seem to startle him. He doesn't even so much as look 'round at her, as he hefts another thick bit of wood onto the chopping block. )

You're speaking now, aren't you?

( A few years back, that might've come out snappishly. It might've sounded meaner. Today, it just sounds tired. Resigned, and rude only by default, because rarely is he ever anything else. )

I'm listening.

[clothed]

[ patience. the hound will not harm her. she can be patient.

instead of answering right away, sansa walks over to a nearby bench — a wood one, thank goodness. she has seen metal chairs and benches and stools about the town, and has often wondered the purpose of them when the weather is so cold. (would it not injure? the metal isn't coated, would it not stick to skin, or at the very least be uncomfortable?)

she sends lady to run around the small clearing to keep the wolf busy, and lady happily complies, kicking up snow as she lops in circles around her human companion. ]

Will you not sit with me, at least? I'd brought you something.

[ sansa holds out the bird, wrapped in milk cloth and held in a small basket. the basket has seen better days; sansa had done her best to weave rope through the gaps and it keep it alive for a little longer. ]

I don't know how to cook the bird, but I figured you might. I've already cleaned it.

[dogmeats]

( Tap into as much of that patience as you can muster, Sansa. You're going to need it. On the scale of people Sandor tolerates, she may well be nearest to the top as one can get, but that does not make him suddenly pleasant company, or particularly inclined to be nice. Tolerance does not equate to familiarity, or to trust, or to the willingness to let his guard down.

She sits; she asks; at last he relents at least enough to lower the axe, to press the head into the dirt and lean on it heavily, casting his eyes to her. His look is appraising, perhaps a little mistrustful, as if he's searching for some sort of deceit in this request. Some sort of ulterior motive.

They are, both of them, accustomed to a certain measure of abuse. Of being taken advantage of. Just, in very different ways. His suspicion isn't personal, it's just automatic. )

The bird brought me a bird.

( He comments flatly, making no move to take it — nor to sit, just yet. After a beat, he nods at a nearby side table by the bench. His meager pack of belongings is just below it. She can set her basket there. His hands are too filthy now to be touching it. )

You don't have to bribe me for conversations, girl. My ears work well enough without them.

[clothed]

I wanted to give you something nice, too.

[ she doesn't contest the bribery; it is a bribe. men are inclined to give certain things freely under certain circumstances, she's learned, and when they do not — the illusion of a kindness or a payment in kind goes a long way towards easing the path along. she's compensating him for his time with a bird, and—— ]

Hunting will be hard while your leg heals. You'll need your strength, in case matters get out of hand again. Here, that is.

[ the sudden darkness. the darkwalker, and enola, and the lights. voices and nightmares and men in gas stations who know things that they shouldn't. ]

Milton has a habit of unsettling people. You'll find out soon enough, if you mean to stay. [ her concern is always genuine. harsh a man as the hound is, she's begun to care about him by the end. ] How did you get your injuries, would you tell me? Did arrive with them?

[dogmeats]

( Her concern, quite frankly, makes him even more suspicious. Why in the name of the Gods would she be worried about him? It's clear enough she doubts his ability to see her out of here, to take her North like he'd offered, and so what value does he have to the littlest bird? What is she expecting of him, what does she mean to take from him? Is it as simple as wanting a strong sword at her side for the oncoming troubles everyone keeps running their fucking mouths about?

If that's the case, then it's a motivation he can tolerate easily enough. He's used to being needed for his capacity to do harm. But the thing is, he'd already offered that for free, and so this bribery is unnecessary.

Something to ponder over. Something to try and discern. He won't get hung up on it now.

At the request, his eyes flicker over her again, a frown on his lips. He debates sitting, debates taking up the bench beside her, but refrains again, for the moment. Mayhaps he will, in a bit, if he doesn't run her off first. )

I got them looking after your sister. They were worse, last I remember. I should be dead. Instead, I woke up in this shithole. If this is meant to be the afterlife, I know a good handful of septons who'll be shitting themselves soon enough.

( But he doubts that to actually be the case — after all, she's here. He chooses to operate under the assumption that she is not dead. )

[clothed]

I had thought it myself, that this is what lies beyond the embrace of the Stranger. [ it's true, sansa knows it true, not just because she woke up here in the same cold she had jumped into — she had wanted to be gone, free of ramsay's grasp in the truest way possible. ] I woke up in the snow and I saw Lady first thing.

You remember what happened to her, don't you? What Cersei had demanded done to her for something she hadn't done.

[ foreshadowing. a portent of what was to come, all those years ago. sansa watches her direwolf running at a distance, free to stretch her legs and always so grateful for it; she can feel lady in the back of her mind, a warm presence that nonetheless worries for her. she can't put into words how she knows, only that she does. lady worries, and sansa worries; they look out for each other.

this time, her her openness shutters just a little. ]

Arya. She was— is she— did you find her?

[dogmeats]

( He remembers what happened to her wolf. Remembers the curling of distaste he felt in his stomach, remembers turning his eyes away from the whole affair. Remembers running down the butcher's boy at their behest, and feeling absolutely nothing at all. Not his place to have an opinion on it, and better not to think on it, because thinking would bring him nothing good. He'd gone and gotten good and drunk after that whole fucking thing.

She makes a good point. The wolf was dead, and so how is the wolf here? A compelling case for the afterlife, though he doesn't remember whether or not wolves were meant to be included in that. Doesn't explain why his leg is a mess, why he still feels pain, but more importantly: in what fucking reality does he wind up in the same afterlife as Sansa fucking Stark?

He ought to be burning hot in one of the seven hells, and they all know it. It doesn't make enough sense for him to subscribe to the theory. )

Aye. Traveled with her for a year, thereabouts. Took her to the Twins right on time to see the whole damn wedding party slaughtered. Took her to the Vale, right on time to find out your aunt was dead. Started running out of places to take her after that, because your family can't go a single fucking season without getting themselves killed.

[clothed]

[ he took arya to the twins and witnessed— oh. oh, robb. her poor brother. she mourns him as much as she mourns his stupidity; did he truly think the freys would have allowed him to break his oath without making him pay? she loathes the betrayal deeply, she curses the walder frey in her mind to this day, but robb could have been smarter. he could have been more careful. he didn't need to die, just as mother hadn't needed to die, and arya–

had she seen it? had she seen how they took robb's head and tore grey wind's own? she would weep, but she's cried enough. she had given all the tears she has left to jon, who had died and confessed it to her.

she can handle this. sansa breathes in the sharp winter air and lets it pierce her lungs; the pain is a reminder. ]

I had fled the Eyrie by then. I was there but not for too long, and after Aunt Lysa had died it was too dangerous for me to stay, even if the Lords of the Vale knew who I was. Lord Baelish had his designs.

[ had they meant to head north? good that they didn't, then. ]

Thank you. Truly, I thank you for watching over her like you'd looked out for me.

[ you give us a kindness when others have turned us away — and you say you're not a knight. ]

Will you sit, please? For me?

[dogmeats]

( There's a visible discomfort in him at her gratitude, expressed in the way he seems to roll his eyes, to scoff in quiet disdain — he is not a man who knows how to receive praise well. He's hardly ever gotten it in his life, and the few times he has haven't been under good circumstances.

At her request, he raises the axe he'd been leaning on. One solid thunk has it sinking into the chopping block, firmly wedged and off the ground. And then he concedes, moving toward the bench with more gentleness and grace than a man his size ought to be capable of.

He settles in with his back sloping forward, with his elbows on his knees and hands gently clasped between them. With hair, as always, falling to cover the uglier side of his face, even though it's turned away from her.

Everything about him seems to read: There, now. He's done what you've asked, will you shut the fuck up about it already? )

The girl's not dead, if that's what you're worried about. She's a killer. She's quick. She'll be fine. If you've not heard news of her, it means she's being smart.

[clothed]

[ is it? is it truly smart? sansa supposes it is; if no one knows who or where arya is, then no one can rightly cage or use her for their own purposes. but names have power too, especially in the seven kingdoms, and arya could do with some of the protection her stark name would afford her.

would it be good for her? sansa had relied on her name for safety until it had turned jagged and piercing, causing her more damage than if she maintained the illusion of being a whoremaster's bastard child. it was her name that put her in joffrey's way. it was her name that had placed her in ramsay bolton's hands.

sansa nods with more sincerity than she truly feels. ]

Arya's always been clever. She would know what to do, as long as she had the opportunity.

[ clever little arya, all strange and boyish and stubborn. if she's still alive, then she would have a better time amongst smallfolk than sansa ever will.

she turns her gaze sidelong, looking at the hound's profile with open wonder. not because of the scars; she's long forgotten to fear scars, now that she's littered with her own collection. no, she's finally getting a proper look of him under true sunlight, without the reflective glare of hammered armour covering his shape. ]

You've gotten wan, just a little. [ sansa wants to reach out to him, to hold his hand, but she worries the gesture would not be so welcome this soon. she sets the basket between them, letting it serve a barrier however flimsy. sansa thinks it's for their benefit, this illusion of space. ] Where are you staying currently? You really should not let your leg be unattended.

[dogmeats]

( Wan she says; he turns to level her with an incredulous look. Once upon a time she hardly had the courage to talk to him, now she's sitting here calling him fucking wan without batting an eyelash? He snorts loudly, shaking his head — but after a moment, if she looks closely, she might see just a hint of amusement hidden under the snarky attitude. )

Well, you really know how to flatter a man, don't you?

( Wan. For fuck's sake. Never mind it, anyway. His ego can withstand the observation. He's doing better than he was a few weeks ago, and that's good enough. Even the festering wound at his sword-arm that got him ultimately bested by a woman has mostly healed up by now. )

I'm at the hall, at least until this damn thing's better. ( He kneads absently at his thigh. ) After that, I'll find somewhere quieter. Some place with fewer twats roaming around all the time.

( A beat, and then he tacks on: )

Not that it's any of your business.

( Lest she get the impression that he appreciates her concern. Obviously. )