Provocation

By Deep Roller

A/N: Apologies all around, this is set in an indeterminate time period somewhere within Clash of Kings. It is also written on Notepad, so will probably be a bit annoying to read. I hope I can make up for it with shipping goodness, however.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to George RR Martin, I make no profit but have a heck of a lot of fun writing about them!

Of all the corridors in the Red Keep, this was the most neglected. The stones paving it were unevenly set and coming loose from their mortar in the bargain. The tapestries lining both walls were quite frayed; their principal figures chewed out of history by industrious insects. The torch brackets rested uneasily on the cobwebbed walls, the torches listing against them more often than not going unlit, even when guests and hosts doubled the size of the Keep's population. It was not a corridor that was used often even in those circumstances, accessible only by a door at either end and housing nothing of interest, save a remarkably large spider now and again.

Walking through the corridor in the best of times was a gamble; especially as it was now, with perhaps three of the twelve torches along its length lit, a fourth flickering uncertainly between life and death. Such a walk was damnably treacherous when one had imbibed as much alcohol as the person currently trying to puzzle their way down to the far door. The hallway then became an eighteen mile long downhill trudge, the floor slanting sharply to the left the whole way.

"Gods," Sansa muttered, losing her balance for perhaps the fifth time since forcing her way through the door that she had been certain lead to her room. Then again, she had also thought that of the last door she had gone through, and the door before that. A quick, bleary look around had confirmed that no, her bed was not here, and so there was nothing else to do save go forward. That was becoming increasingly difficult, as the ground fought her with every step, pitching forward and tilting backward beneath her feet as her head spun in a slow, dizzying arrhythmia. As she felt the ground beneath her weave, she struck out one arm like a girl drowning, hand flailing for purchase. When her palm slapped the dust-embalmed wall, the dust kicked into a thick cloud, swarming to her face and nose. Pushing off from the offending wall, she went reeling across the hallway to the other side. Leaning against this wall, she have a sound that was half sigh, half sob.

There had been no one to see her back to her chambers, a reprehensible transgression, considering the condition she was currently in. Most of them had staggered off after the feast, with Joffrey himself vomiting unceremoniously into a goblet and then fairly crawling off to his chamber, mewling like a forlorn kitten about the resulting mess on his doublet. She wasn't sure who had seen to his wellbeing, and she found she didn't care in the slightest. However, Joffrey's departure was the last coherent thing she remembered, not quite recalling how she had gotten from the banquet hall to this bedamned, endless hallway.

After a successful hunt that morning, Joffrey had announced a celebratory feast. Sansa had suspected that the success of said hunt had more to do with Joffrey's huntsmen than the boy himself, considering Joffrey's marked lack of skill at killing anything with any sort of weapon, unless of course that weapon was his royal authority. She had not been one to voice such suspicions, and had instead set about preparing herself for the feast, ensuring that she looked as lovely as Joffrey could ever want her. The last crop of bruises had healed, and she had no intention of sowing another crop with her disobedience. At the feast, she had been seated several places down from Joffrey, which suited her well. She could glimpse Ser Loras from her seat, and had flushed dark as the wine she had been handed when he looked across at her.

The wine! It had been brought up from the Arbor before all of the fuss and fighting had begun, and was of a particularly exquisite vintage. She had been hesitant to drink at first, having never been allowed more than a sip or two on special occasions back home. Unused to the heady fragrance and full body of the wine, her initial advancements had been tentative. At an encouraging smile from Ser Loras, however, she had lifted her cup and tilted it back, taking a respectable sip in hopes of earning perhaps an approving look from him. He hadn't noticed, but the taste of the wine made Sansa recoil slightly. It was sweet and fruity, and yet dry in a way she could not put a finger on. She wasn't sure if she liked it, and set it aside in favor of attending to her plate full of boar meat.

"Don't you like the wine?" Joffrey asked from his place at the head of the table. Though his voice was amiable, she knew the retribution that lurked in the question. To show that she indeed liked the wine, she lifted her cup and drank like a deer on a hot summer's day. Joffrey nodded his approval at her now mostly empty cup, and gestured that it be filled again. Sansa drank again from her newly filled cup, looking up to make sure Joffrey was watching her. Perhaps he'd leave her alone if she pretended to enjoy the drink enough. Instead of Joffrey, her eyes met the Hound's. He had been accorded the dubious honor of a seat at Joffrey's left, and he watched her solemnly over his own cup. The startlement of seeing him caused a bit of wine to run over her lower lip and down her chin. Hastily putting down her cup, she snatched up a napkin linen and patted at her face. The Hound did not look away, but lifted his cup slightly in mock salute, affording her a sardonic smile before downing the cup's contents in one draught. Sansa hurriedly turned her own eyes downward, suddenly quite interested in the scrollwork on her cutlery. Movement beside her told her that her cup was being filled again.

Joff had been as attentive to her as he had once been at the tourney, when both her father and her admiration for Joffrey still lived. Rather, he had been attentive to the state of her drink, assuring that it was always well topped off. A warmth began to steal over Sansa at around her fourth or fifth cup of wine. The drink lost itsabhorrent dry aftertaste and was as easy to down now as plain water. Her worries and woeful thoughts were kept at bay, cloaked in a pleasant shield of indifference. After she had finished her sixth cup of wine, a singer pranced into the hall and began picking out melodies on a small wooden harp. Delighted, Sansa plucked at his sleeve and asked in a voice that was perhaps a bit too loud if the fellow knew the song about Florian and Jonquil.

"I believe I recall bits and pieces, my lady, though not the whole of it, regrettably." Sansa held his wrist lightly and reassured him that it was quite alright, she could assist him in his recollection. She spared a passing glance for Joffrey, aware that her behavior might have retribution but not caring in the slightest. Joffrey, for his part, was paying very little attention to the singer, being absorbed in the problem of trying to spear a piece of boar on a fork as he was. The Hound, however, was leaning forward in his chair, looking quite intently at the singer. At the singer and at her, as well. She found she could look straight back into his eyes and not quail inwardly. She marveled at the feeling of it, her heart speeding up unexpectedly and her head beginning to swim.

Turning her attention to her cup, she was aware that Clegane's eyes were still on her. Tilting her head back to get the last dregs of wine, another stray rivulet spilled out. This one trickled down her cheek, across her jaw, and down her neck. Uncaring, she set her cup down and instructed the singer to play the melody. When she sang, she glanced around the dining hall, meeting with wine-flushed faces that nodded their approval. Though perhaps not one to take up singing as an occupation, Sansa's voice was sweet and clear, her enjoyment of the song plain as she dove into each verse enthusiastically. As she began the final verse, her eyes were drawn inexorably back to the front of the table. Clegane was staring at her, which gave her a small prickle of irritation mingled with something else. If he wanted to stare at her, she'd stare right back, she decided. Throughout the final verse, she stared directly at him, her voice almost pointedly jabbing him. To her surprise, he was the first to look away, picking up his cup to drain it again. Exultant, she swiveled and curtsied to the singer, who bowed to her in return. She had stood up in the midst of her song, somehow, and she sat down as the world began to tilt alarmingly around her. A bit after that, she had been surprised to find herself wandering the quiet hallways in search of her chambers.

The protective glow of indifference had faded from her as she leaned against the corridor wall. She was quite alone now, and well aware of it. And not alone just this night, either. She hadn't a friend in the Red Keep to speak of, perhaps not since Lady had met her demise. Wishing she had the direwolf's thick fur to bury her troubled fingers in, Sansa leaned her head back against the stone wall and let the tears come. And why not? No one could find her now, she was lost, perhaps forever. Mayhap it was better as such. She could hide away in this corridor and never have to be touted about like a pet ever again. So lost was she in her self-pitying musings that she did not hear the door at the far end of the corridor open and quietly close again, nor did she hear the footsteps as they came right to her side.

"The little bird cannot find her nest," Sandor Clegane growled softly into her ear, his hand gently gripping her shoulder to hold her in place. Sansa's startled gasp raced up and down the corridor as she spun away from his grasp. The force of her movement caused her to reel backwards, nearly landing herself on the ground on her backside.

"Not a little bird," she corrected, her voice sullen and slurring. "I am not their little bird."

"Oh no? Then what are you, pray tell? You certainly sang a pretty song. I could almost think it was for me." He reached for her again, her wrist this time. She took another step back, yelping in alarm when it seemed she might step back into nothing. He laughed at the panic that came to her eyes.

"I'm not their little bird, I'm their dog, as much as you are. Worse, I'm a little trotting dog that can be dragged about and beaten on whim." A rush of inexplicable emotion assailed Sansa, drowning her in anger, implacable longing, and some devious undercurrent that frightened her a bit. "A pet knows her place," she said bitterly. "Does she not?" Unsteadily, she advanced a step. He backed away a step in return, the amused expression on his face only fueling her sudden anger. "Answer me!" The demand was shrill and impotent against the corridor walls, and Sandor only smirked at her.

"You're scaring me," he said mockingly, holding his hands up as though to defend himself.

"A dog knows its courtesies," Sansa repeated, looking up at him without a trace of fear. Sandor thought idly that she must have had a truly colossal amount of wine, more than he had seen her drink, even. "Courtesies keep a dog fed and keep her from being kicked. Or killed." With each word she drew closer, until she was nearly touching him, swaying slightly on her feet. Staring up into his face, a small smile quirked at the corners of her mouth when she saw that he appeared nonplussed. What a strange expression confusion is on his face! ,she thought triumphantly. Grabbing his right hand, she licked it, running her tongue across his knuckles, When he scarcely reacted, she was the one to growl in irritation. More than anything, she wanted to unnerve him as he had so often unnerved and frightened her. Standing on her tiptoes, she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down towards her face.

Sheer surprise on his part was perhaps the only reason she succeeded in her endeavor. She twined her hands fiercely in his straggling dark hair, her nails digging into his scalp. The noise that escaped her throat was in equal parts a grunt of satisfaction, frustrated snarl, and longing sob. "How does one dog greet another, Sandor Clegane?" She whispered in a voice accented with wine, and before he could push her away or make any sort of move at all, she ran her tongue up the wasteland that was his scarred face once, twice, and a third time for good measure. Pulling away, her lips peeled back in a grimace as she anticipated she knew not what. His face was unreadable, eyes burning into hers in a way that made her inhale sharply. In the next instant he had spun her against him, so that she was facing the opposite wall. So close was she pressed against him that she could feel his heart thundering in his chest, even as her own galloped along like a runaway palfrey.

"I was never one for courtesies," he said finally, his rough voice sending not altogether unpleasant chills down her back as he took her chin in one hand. "You're wrong as usual," he added, his voice abbreviated by breathing gone suddenly heavy. "You are a little bird. A hound knows the scent of a bird, and you," he brushed her hair away from her shoulders as he bent to smell the tender skin of her neck, "you smell of bird. And wine," he added, laughing against her neck at his own joke. "Bolder perhaps than others of your flock, I will give you that. But the bold birds are eaten first, any hunter knows that." He pinned her arm to her side with one hand, the other he plunged into her hair, treating it far more gently than she had treated him a moment before. "The little bird does not struggle very hard to get away, perhaps she does not want to get away?" He asked, fingernails trailing gently along her scalp. Sansa could only shiver, unwilling to admit anything. However, his arms provided a solid warmth against the cold, unsteady world of the corridor around them, and she couldn't help but rest her head in the crook of his elbow.

"You followed me," she was able to say, the words sounding petulant and insipid to her.

"Would you rather I left you stumbling around the Red Keep until you came upon one of Joffrey's torture pits? You'd stroll right into one, thinking it was your own little cage. I suppose it'd be a mercy, you dying drunk. You'd never know what became of you."

"I can find my way! You're the last person I wanted to see!" She tried to turn around and face him, but his grip tightened and she was forced to scowl angrily at the wall instead. "I didn't want anyone to follow me, least of all you!"

"Oh come now, you know that's not true. That's not what you'd wanted. Staring at me, singing your song as you did. You can only blame so much on wine, little bird. Don't you know it's dangerous to stare at a hound? You'll provoke him." To prove it, he bent and licked her neck, the wine that had spilled before still blazing a path clear as the kingsroad up her jawline. It felt as though a fire had been lit upon her skin, and she groaned, hands tensing uselessly at her sides. She struggled feebly and half-heartedly for a second, stopping as the hand in her hair tightened. He twisted her head back and upwards, and she had time to see a dark shape descending upon her, gloriously backlit by the torch behind it, before he was kissing her. She struggled to free her hand from his grasp, her nails scrabbling at his palm. But instead of pushing at him when he released her hand, she twisted round in his grasp until she was facing him. When he would pull away, she gave a slight shake of her head and yanked him down back to her. He returned willingly enough like a good dog ought, biting her lower lip and pulling her towards him with a hand at the small of her back.

It felt good to press herself against his solid strength, fingers bent and digging into his clothing and neck as she released all of her pent up anger, fear, doubt, and sadness into the kiss. He didn't seem to mind the roughness, breaking the kiss and lowering his head to score his teeth against her neck and then her half-bared shoulder as she clung to him. He didn't stay away for long, turning her around and pushing her up against the wall as he kissed her again.

She was breathing as heavily as he was by this time, the overpowering smell of souring wine blossoming between them. Between one breath and the next she was crying as she kissed him and could not have said why it started. She sought comfort at the hollow of his throat, wrapping her arms around him in a grip fit to break ribs. He held her every bit as tightly, muttering what could have been interpreted as soothing grumbles as his clothing drank her tears. Gradually, her grip loosened as she leaned more heavily against him until it was quite plain that the wine had gotten the better of her altogether.

Sandor quietly scooped her up, adjusting his grip so that her head would rest against his chest instead of lolling over one arm, and walked the path to his little bird's cage, a path that he knew by rote after countless times escorting her to and from Joffrey's audiences. Handling her as gently as a small, careful child might handle an injured songbird, he laid her down on her bed and draped his cloak around her. Brushing his hand against her cheek, he predicted she was going to have one hell of a hangover come morning.