The Triangle - Chapter 2: Dinner of Hare

Jaime

In the morning Jaime woke up his face against the back of the Hound, so much bigger and so much different to waking up to Brienne or Sansa. As he started to stir, he noticed the other man was leaning against Sansa, who was almost fully engulfed by the body of this big man, her back against his chest. He wasn’t sure what to think of that – the scarred dog claiming the innocent maiden, although only in his sleep. Though perhaps things were not as they appeared. Maybe she was not the innocent maiden anymore and maybe he was not the dog.

Sansa Stark had certainly been married, to his own whore-mongering little brother. Where are you Tyrion? Have you fulfilled your own quest? Would he have left her innocent? Maybe, maybe not. But Petyr Baelish surely would not – he would have tried to relive his lost love for Catelyn Stark through her daughter’s soft body. More innocence lost , not only of body but of mind. Jaime remembered her from Winterfell and the Kingsroad, how her eyes had gleamed with sunshine and starlight, her head filled with dreams of her golden prince and a future filled with happiness. Grand tourneys, beautiful gowns, dazzling jewellery and knightly valour all around her. She had learned quickly enough that it was not real life.

In the days they had spent alone since Brienne had left, Jaime had noticed how much she had changed, and not only in appearance. Yes, she was a blossoming young woman now with curves of the hip and breasts and a face that had lost all its girlish roundness.  Her lips were plump and red and full of promise to an unsuspecting man paying too much attention to them. More than that, there was something in her eyes, in how she watched him. Assessing, probing, and taking in everything he did or said with unnerving intensity. She accepted the news about her mother with horror, which soon turned to sorrow. Yet she absorbed even that pain with gravity and wisdom beyond her years. She was still courteous, but any naivety he had seen in her before was gone and replaced with something…steely. Sometimes he thought he saw a flash of a wolf’s gaze in her eyes. No, not an innocent maiden anymore but an old soul who had seen too much.

The Hound he could not figure out either. After his initial rage he had settled down, and although they had not talked much beyond the necessities, Jaime had already been astonished by the changes he saw in him. The rage in his eyes was mostly gone; that simmering, burning quiet anger that had surrounded him almost as long as he could remember. What had replaced it he could not say. Was it emptiness, had he given up? Or was there calm and acceptance, had his soul finally found a way to address the wrongs in his life?

When the younger Clegane had first arrived at Casterly Rock, Jaime had felt sorry for the scarred young lad and tried to befriend him. They hadn’t had much time together as soon afterwards Jaime had been raised to the knighthood and to the Kingsguard. Only years later, when Sandor had also arrived at the court had their paths crossed again. By this time the young boy craving acceptance away from his childhood of horrors had turned to an angry young man, rejected by his peers and shunned by everyone else. His walls had been raised so high and so thick that Jaime had not been able surmount them – and he suspected that nobody had. So he had accepted the general wisdom which stated that the Hound was beyond redemption; a cruel, indifferent warrior who cared for nothing and nobody. His desertion at the Battle of Blackwater did nothing to enhance his reputation, nor the disturbing news of the sack of Saltpans. Jaime had not been able to believe it had truly been the Hound…but then many people had done many things in the War of Five Kings that he would not have believed them to be capable of.

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Soon all of them were stirring, getting up, brushing the newly fallen snow away from their clothes and furs. They disassembled their small camp, a sorry shadow of the encampments he was used to in the Kingsguard. No silken tents, no squires packing his armour, no cooks with their big cauldrons doling out hot broth to start the day. Only some sad-looking bedrolls and furs on hard ground, a waterskin buried under them to prevent it from freezing. They saddled and packed their horses and got on their way without breaking their fast. They were still too close to the Vale to afford wasting time.

They rode the whole day, winding through the woods and crossing hunters’ trails and paths between small villages and homesteads. The desolation of the area was haunting – like all the people living in it had disappeared, leaving behind only the shells of their existence. They rode on through the quiet landscape, not exchanging a word before finally stopping to break their fast at midday. The place they chose was near a small stream, and Jaime went to water his and Sansa’s horses before attending to their own needs.

As Jaime turned to take them back to where Sansa was pulling out their scanty provisions, the Hound stopped him. His big hand clutched Jaime around his throat and almost lifted him off the ground. His face was flushed from the cold, but could not match the frost in his eyes which were pale grey in the daylight, piercing through him. His voice was coarse and he uttered every word with a ferocity that was almost visceral.

“You. Did. Not. Touch. Her.” It was not exactly a question, more like a plea, no matter the intensity with which it was uttered.

Jaime felt almost insulted – only almost, as by now he had learned to accept so much more than he would ever have dreamed himself capable of. He had also learned to read more of what drove people to do what they did, and in his anger Sandor had revealed a vulnerability he could sympathise with.

“Let me go, Clegane, your anger is wasted on me. I have not touched her, and I will not. She is not Cersei.” Their eyes met and for a moment Jaime thought he saw the same pity he had detected earlier in Sansa’s eyes. He understands. For the shortest of moments, they looked into each other’s souls and he saw the same yearning in Sandor that he had. For something to hold his life together, for something to believe in, for something to…love. The connection of souls, ever so short. The Hound lowered his gaze first, dropping him down. Jaime moved away with the horses, not waiting to see if the other man would follow.

As the evening arrived, they found as secure spot as they could manage against a protective boulder, made their camp, ate some more and slid under the furs. Sansa slept closest to the boulder to protect her from the wind, the Hound next to her and Jaime next to him. Jaime marvelled at how easily the earlier arrangement they’d had could be unravelled. He wondered idly if he should be offended,  but as the new arrangement suited him well and raising the issue would only disturb their peaceful progression, he let it go.

Sansa

The snow kept on falling lightly but steadily, blanketing the ground with a display of glittering flakes reflecting the cool light of the sun. In other circumstances Sansa would have thought it beautiful – now the sight represented discomfort and a threat to their lives. They travelled through the day, stopping only for necessities. She felt acutely the embarrassment of having to wander into the woods for her natural needs. Initially Jaime had wanted to follow her to make sure she would be guarded at all times, but Sansa had succeeded in convincing him that she would always stay within shouting distance. The indignity of it grated on her, but Sansa had learned to accept worse in the Vale and determinedly pushed it out of her mind. Nevertheless, when she did go to the woods on their first day together, she felt the Hound’s gaze on her and felt discomfited all over again.

By now, Sansa had noticed that her initial impression of Sandor being the same as before was incorrect. His eyes did not hold the same rage, and he did not scowl constantly. He had also established quickly and bluntly that he was not the Hound anymore and did not wish to be called by that name. In addition, there was something serene about him; the quiet dignity and purpose of movement when he rode, when he attended to chores in the camp and when he scouted their surroundings. Sansa felt Sandor’s gaze on her more often than not as they rode, but did not find it uncomfortable.

That evening they judged themselves to be far enough from the Vale and deep enough in the forest to risk lighting a fire.  Sandor disappeared for a while and came back with a hare, blood still dripping from its nostrils, red falling against the white snow in the clearing where Jaime had built a fire.

Sansa sat next to the fire, feeding it with small pieces of kindling in an attempt to keep it going. Jaime was reclining next to her, the two of them watching as Sandor’s strong fingers removed the skin of the animal. He worked effortlessly, first cutting a triangle at the base of the tail, then opening the sides of the hind and front legs, peeling the skin until he had a good handhold before tugging it all the way down the body in one smooth motion over the head. It remained attached only from the nose and ears, which he cut off with his dagger, throwing the tube-shaped skin away.

"So you saw Brienne of Tarth again. How else would you have known to come after us?” Jaime asked as Sandor started to dismember the animal.

Sandor cut through the bones and cartilage of the legs. His hair was so long it covered his eyes and he kept brushing it away with the back of his hand. “Aye, she came around. Wanted to know where the young wolf-bitch might have gone. Not that I understand why anyone would want to save her.”

Sansa looked at him disapprovingly. “It is my sister you are talking about. Brienne gave an oath to my mother to find us both. And even without that, if she is alive I would want to find her.” She wasn’t far from tears but controlled herself, not wanting to appear weak. How can he be so dismissive of the only family I have left?

“I thought there was not much sisterly love between you, with her getting your wolf killed and all,” Sandor muttered. He looked uncomfortable now, stopping his task and shifting in his seat.

“But she is my sister, she is still my family! The only one I have left!”

“What did you tell Brienne? You must have told her something to make her continue her search, otherwise she would have come with you, I am sure,” Jaime intervened. He looked interested in that indifferent way of his.

“Told her the wolf-bitch may have left Westeros. Gone to Saltpans or Maidenpool to find a ship to the Free Cities. That’s what we might have done had I not been left to die on the roadside.” The way Sandor said it was matter-of-fact, not bitter. He had finished cutting the hare and was now skewering the pieces into thin spikes made of tree branches. His brow wrinkled in concentration. “So the warrior maid just took off, swearing to go to all ports in the Vale and if necessary, to all the Free Cities.”

“Arya is just a young girl. How could she go to Free Cities on her own?” Sansa knew Arya was the bravest of them all – but she was still just a child. Her heart chilled thinking about Arya on her own, on a ship, in a foreign land.

“Hells, I feel sorry for anyone who might try to prevent her! She killed a squire at the Crossroads Inn with her own blade, and I believe a few other men before that. And escaped from King’s Landing and survived on her own all through the War of Five Kings. If anyone can survive, she will.” Sandor directed his words to both of them but his eyes did not leave Sansa. “She survived being captured with the Wall recruits by my fucking brother, no less, escaped from Harrenhal, survived the Brotherhood Without Banners. Hells, she even survived me!”

“You didn’t hurt her, did you?” Sansa looked into Sandor’s eyes, pleading. He met her gaze, unwavering.

“No, I didn’t hurt her. I hit her with the flat blade of my axe, but that was for her own good. Otherwise she would have run directly into the Red Wedding and you surely would have no kin left anymore.”

“You were...at the Twins when my mother and...” Sansa’s voice trailed off and she couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. Although she squeezed her eyes shut, they broke free and flowed down her cheeks unhindered.

“I was there – didn’t get far though. We were just approaching the castle, the wolf-bitch and I, when I saw that something was not right. Men turning against each other more so than usual in the wedding feast. Had to decide whether to barge in and fight or to leave. Chose the latter.” Sandor stared defiantly at Sansa, challenging her to call him craven.

She didn’t, but whispered through her tears: “Thank you for saving her life. I wish...I wish that Brienne will find her.”

My mother – and Robb – and Arya – so close, but still so far.  After sobbing quietly for a while, Sansa caught on to something he had said, something she felt was passing strange. “Why did Arya leave you? Why did she not stay with you when you were hurt? You saved her life, after all.”

“She never fancied my company too much. Didn’t like that I killed her friend, the butcher’s boy. Didn’t care that I was only following orders and the boy did stand against Prince Joffrey.” Sandor lifted his chin. “You yourself attested to that, if I recall.”

Shame crept over Sansa, reminding her of all the wrong decisions she had made. “I did! Oh, I was so stupid!” I never meant any harm. I was just a stupid little child who told what she thought people wanted to hear.

“I don’t blame her for that – I am not the best company for a highborn lass. No lady would want to travel with me.” There was something poignant in the way Sandor said that…and Sansa knew why. Jaime looked at Sandor questioningly, but she had to turn her head away.

After a while she whispered, thinking how Sandor had been able to save at least one Stark, if not the one he had asked. “You kept her safe just the same.”

“So I did, but she didn’t want to grant me mercy when I needed it.” Sandor revealed his teeth in a grimace, unconsciously rubbing his left thigh. “I told her where the heart is and she didn’t have the decency to cut through mine. Even though I urged her on by telling her rubbish.”

“What did you tell her?” Jaime asked. The idea of the Hound lying helpless and dying, urging a young girl to stab him in the chest must have been bizarre to him.

Sandor looked down. “That doesn’t matter. Just some rubbish about wanting to hurt her kin. Only said it to make her do it.”

“Was that the truth? Did you ever want to hurt her family?” Sansa asked, having regained control of her weeping. She wondered if Sandor had told Arya about the beatings she had received at Joffrey’s instigation. Had Sandor told Arya that he had hit Sansa as well? As untrue as it was.

Sandor looked at her with an expression of naked angst on his face. “No… not really. Never wanted to, but probably did it anyway.” Sansa was quiet after that and did not ask anything more.

“Brienne is so obstinate that she will surely find Arya, rest assured. She found you, didn’t she?” Jaime reached out to touch Sansa’s hand but Sandor shifted between them so that he had to drop his hand. Embarrassed, Jaime turned to him instead.

“And did Brienne specifically ask you to come after us? Did she doubt my ability to protect Lady Stark, useless one-paw that I am?” Sansa heard irritation in his voice – it must have vexed him to be a lesser knight than before.

“She didn’t have to. Left the same day,” Sandor growled in response. He pushed the skewers with rabbit meat onto the ground next to the flames and stood up abruptly, indicating that the conversation was over.