Chapter Text
Sansa Stark checked the time on her watch for the third time that morning. Her palms were sweating and her stomach was filled with butterflies. Today was the first day of her new job and she was nervous. How many favors did mom pull just to get me an interview? She wondered quietly as the cab she was riding in sped down he various streets of Kings Landing. This would be her first real job now that she had graduated from White Harbor University, barely graduated anyway. No, no she would not think about that today. The cab pulled up to her destination and parked, Sansa thanked the driver, handed over some bills and took a deep breath before she exited the cab. She saw her reflection in the mirrored windows that adorned the building. Her green peasant skirt and white crisp blouse looked beautiful together, they complimented her coppery hair secured in an immaculate bun. Kings Landing was full of many beautiful buildings. However, none of them stood as tall or as proud as The Building of The High Sparrow. In front of the massive mirrored building stood an even more impressive water fountain. Three large dragons were breathing streams of water instead of fire their hungry eyes gleaming in the reflective water.
For all intense and purposes this would now be considered her home away from home. Inside this intimidating building were the offices of Stars Over Essos, only the hottest fashion magazine in all of Westeros. Working at SOE had been her dream ever since she was a little girl. Sansa’s mother was once a popular writer and even had her own column “Ask Cat: Mother knows best”. It had been a popular column for years, but when her mother had become pregnant with Rickon she decided to become a full time stay at home mom. However, Arya had once confided in Sansa late one evening, and over a second bottle of Dornish Red, that she heard rumors her mother had been asked to leave. Whatever the reason for her departure, Sansa never thought she would be lucky enough to land a job here. Sansa waited for the elevator but a crowd soon gathered around her and she pushed away from the other employees. She didn’t like crowds; Sansa was starting to feel a panic attack coming on, not today, please not today. She decided to take the stairs instead. She tried to breathe calmly as she climbed the stairs to the twentieth floor. Arya spent a lot of time helping Sansa through her attacks, but she wouldn’t always be around. Sansa had to learn to handle these attacks on her own.
By the time Sansa made it to the twentieth floor she had calmed down and she couldn’t help but smile at her moment of triumph. She didn’t stop smiling until she turned a corner sharply and tripped over a trashcan causing her to collide into someone and then crash into the ground. Sansa was as red as a tomato, and immediately began to apologize to the man she had so ungracefully run over. He abruptly jumped up and began brushing off his impeccable and expensive suit, with a surprised look on his face. He finished brushing himself off and smiled down at her, extending his hand slowly to help her stand up. She noticed that his dark eyes were gleaming and a small smile was forming on his lips. It was at that exact moment Sansa realized her skirt had become tangled up on her long legs and she was flashing him her underwear. Gods! Could this get any worse? She cursed her luck and stood as gracefully as she could.
“Are you hurt Miss?” He asked casually, as he stooped to gather the various items that had spilled out of her purse. Sansa also began looking around for anything that might have fallen out when she spotted it. Lying next to the trashcan on her left was her emergency tampon. Yes, you stupid girl things can always get worse! Sansa casually cleared her throat, and took two steps to the left so she could quickly stuff it into her purse, which she didn’t have, of course. She shoved into the blasted tampon into the only other place available, her bra.
“I asked if you were hurt.”
Her head snapped back to the man holding her purse. Did he just see me stuff a tampon into my bra? Gods! He was staring at her and she could just feel his eyes roaming all over her body.
“No, I don’t think so, I’m… I’m fine” she stammered lamely. Please, oh please do not let him have seen me shove a tampon into my bra, please! She prayed in vain to any of the Gods that would listen.
He handed her back her purse and introduced himself. “My name is Petyr Baelish, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Sansa’s mind began racing as she tried to place his name it sounded familiar. She gave him a smile and introduced herself.
“My name is Sansa Stark, Catelyn Tully is my mother.” His face seemed to soften at the mention of her mother. All of a sudden his name clicked in her head and she gasped, “Are you really The Mockingbird?” Petyr seemed to chuckle at the revelation and nod. Sansa You idiot! You almost tripped and killed Petyr Baelish the worlds’ most famous fashion photographer! Gods”
He leaned in closer, gently grasped her hand with his long slender fingers. She felt her heart quicken as his thumb began massaging the back of her hand. His breath smelled of mint. Petyr whispered softly in her ear.
‘I was so sorry to hear about your father Miss Stark, he was an honorable man”. He gently released her hand, stepping back and then slowly walked away. Sansa felt her spine tingle and her cheeks flush as he left. He had spoken of her father; no one speaks about him anymore, she thought sadly. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to think about her father today, not today, please. She blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall. Before she had time to dwell on the past she felt a small hand touch her elbow, Sansa instinctively jerked away and stood face to face with a petite brunette with big doe eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to startle you, my name is Margaery Tyrell and I was wondering if you knew where the conference room is, I’m here for orientation?” Sansa smiled at Margaery and lead the way.
When they finally entered the conference room some other new employees were already sitting. Sansa and Margary found other seats around the table opposite of each other. Some polite introductions were made before a bald man in silk robes entered, turned on a video about office safety and left. Who wears silk robes to work? Sansa didn’t have time to think about it as Margaery began mumbling about how this was going to be torture. Sansa knew what real torture was and it wasn’t watching a bunch of boring safety videos. But, of course Sansa said nothing. Toward the end of the day she was doing her best to not fall asleep, while a video of ‘How to properly carry a box” blared on the screen. Sansa jumped when she felt a paper ball bounce off her forehead and onto the table. Sansa looked up to see a wide smirk displayed on the face of a Miss Margaery Tyrell. She reached to grab the note but was too late. The bald man had snatched it up first. Where did he even come from? The man paused the video abruptly and turned on the lights. Everyone squinted as their eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.
“Miss Tyrell, my name is Varys. Do you have something to share with us?” Margaery looked up with an expressionless face and innocently shook her head no. Varys then smiled and then turned his attention to Sansa
“ Miss Stark do you have something you would like to share with us?” She was mortified and vehemently shook her head no. Varys cleared his throat and uncrumpled the ball of paper before reading out loud.
“YOU HAVE A TAMPON STICKING OUT OF YOUR BRA!” Sansa’s blood froze as every pair of eyes in the room simultaneously turned to look at her bra, and the top of the tampon that was visibly sticking out of it. Gods no! She silently plucked the tampon out of her bra and shoved the damned thing back into her purse. Margaery began snickering while the girl across from her gave her a sympathetic smile. Was her name Misrandey or Missande? She honestly couldn’t remember, all she knew was she wanted to hide under her chair and die. Varys cleared his throat again and turned the lights off to resume the film. Please just let this day be over.
When the final video came to an end Sansa made a beeline for the door, but was stopped by none other than Margaery. She stood in front of Sansa with an apologetic eyes and said, “I’m so sorry about that tampon thing Sansa, I really am.” She didn’t seem sorry at the time, Sansa noted, she thought it was hilarious. “I know how I can make it up to you though.” She was now smiling up at Sansa, like a cat with a bowl full of cream. “How about after work we go get a drink at my favorite bar, The Serpentine.” Sansa just looked at Margaery and blinked. When was the last time I went anywhere?
“Sure” she mumbled quietly. Her new friend gave her a big smile and texted the address.
When Sansa finally made it home she couldn’t help but wonder what the night might have in store for her. She hated to admit it, but she was actually looking forward to meeting up with Margaery. It will be good to make new friends, Arya keeps complaining that I steal all of hers. She smiled as she thought of her baby sister. She’s not so little anymore; she is made of solid muscle and fire.
Sansa couldn’t decide what to wear so she laid all her nicest dresses onto the bed. The winner ended up being a soft lavender number that her mother had bought her last Sevenmas. It had a high neck, sleeves that went to the elbow and a skirt that gently flowed out like a ballerina. It was a modest dress and if she closed her eyes she could hear her mother’s voice “modesty is the best policy, dear.” But, Sansa wasn’t wearing the dress for the sake of modesty; she was wearing this because it hid all the scars. She put on the finishing touches; a pair of comfortable flats and a dragonfly necklace. She carefully braided her long fiery hair and smiled at her reflection. The dress really made her blue eyes pop and her skin seem even fairer.
Twenty minutes later the cab she called pulled up to The Serpentine, and Margaery ran over just as Sansa stepped out of the cab.
“Sansa you look beautiful!” she exclaimed brightly. Sansa gazed at her friends dress as well, Somehow Margaery had slipped into a tight red dress with a low front and five inch stilettos. How can you possibly breathe, let alone sit in that? She couldn’t help but wonder; yet Sansa said nothing. Her brown hair hung in soft ringlets around her face and Sansa had a strong feeling they wouldn’t be paying for any drinks this evening. Margaery linked arms with Sansa and pointed to a sign that hung in the window. Sansa’s stopped for a moment as she read the neon sign that blinked “Karaoke Night.”
Sandor, Eleanor cried out in the blackness beyond his heavy lids.
His eyes burst wide with the first strangled gulp of air. His lungs stung like a drowning man, chest growing tighter with each shallow inhale, eyes screaming and searching for the door. He staggered through the white curtains of smoke, help me, Sandor! The tendrils tugged at him like so many insistent fingers, plucking his breath away with the nimble touch of a mother stitching up a torn pants leg. Then his door knob was within his grasp, red hot and cold as gold all at once. Sandor, he could make out Ellie’s pitiful whines through his door, he could make out the sound of her fists battering against the wood.
Get me out, pound, pound. Twisting and turning, a falcon lost in the gyre, he clawed savagely at the door. At last the heat swollen door gave way, swinging back and knocking him onto his ass. Stumbling to his feet then rushing forward, pound, pound, Sandor, help me out of here, pound, pound. He found himself swimming through a world lit at one end by the light reflected off of freshly fallen snow through the window at the end of the hall and at the other end the silent roar of the beam lapping wall of fire reaching out to him.
Like a living creature, the fire was snarling and clawing its way towards him, towards Eleanor. He tried to scream, tried to shout out to her, but his voice was swallowed up and only a dog’s howl made it past his cracked lips. His small and feeble fists beat at the door. Ellie was close, so close, a plank of wood away and yet a lifetime seemed to stretch out between them. Pound, pound, pound. The voice was deepening. Sandor! Let me in! The pounding of his fists echoed in his ears, more metallic, a muted throbbing thrum. With a guttural growl, he threw himself at the door, shoulders and face meeting flaming wood.
The terracotta tile of Sandor's floor rushed up to meet him, kissing his cheek, chest, palms, and knees with a sweat slicked smack. He lay there for a moment, just breathing in the hard comfort of the cold tiles. They were tangible and true, unlike so much in this world, unlike the gossamer embers of memories that flickered into life in his dreams. Outside he could just make out the sizzle and crack of the insect zapper over the urgent pounding of his racing heart and the persistent knocking on his door. Idiot moths should know better, they should fly from the flames, fly far, far away instead of straight to them. Most people were like the moths that swarmed the streets of King’s Landing as evening set, drawn to the bright lights of downtown and avoiding him like he was a bloody shadow.
Well, bugger them, he growled as he began to pull his elbows and knees under him, the wide expanse of his back curling with a few popping vertebrae and the grace of a big mutt arching its back. And bugger Bronn, too. He finally had his feet under him and he pushed himself up with a grunt and a groan and a shout of, “Pipe down, you asshole!” Sandor could almost hear Bronn’s smile from this side of his industrial metal door.
“Is that any way to talk to your best friend?” Sandor cocked his head, feet beginning to trace their way across his dark apartment. He knew the loft like the palm of his hand at night, too fucking well. “Besides, it is my name day if you haven’t forgot already?” Not likely, with you reminding me every hour on the hour for the last month; turning 30 and he sounds as eager as a green boy of 13. Sandor flicked the long wire and tin shaded overhead lights on. Abruptly, the apartment was flooded in a warm lemony glow.
Looking down at himself, he shook his head for the umpteenth time in his life. Looking like candle wax blazing a trail down his right shoulder and to splash across his chest and lean stomach, the skin puckered and pulled with his ever motion. He had fallen asleep in a pair of dusky grey jeans, the one’s he always wore to work on casual fucking Friday. In truth, the reason he wore them so often was because Dany had given them to him a few years ago and for the life of him he could not part with them. Shuffling out of them he grabbed the first fresh pair at hand and a shirt was picked in the same haphazard manner.
With a quick glance in the long thin mirror hung by a nail on his brick and mortar wall, Sandor rolled his eyes. Bronn was now knocking on the door like it was a drum and the swarthy bean pole was some kind of Essos musician. Singing too, he is going to owe me a fucking full course chicken dinner after tonight. Sandor swept his black hair back from his furrowed forehead, one dark eye brow pinned down like a second rate prize fighter, the other just a smudge of flesh atop the warped canvas of his face. Sandor frowned, brushing the longer strands of hair atop his head over as much of his right side as possible. This is as good as it’s ever gonna get. Sighing, he moved towards his boots and the loft door. He shoved his feet into his boots, jerking the laces tight and quickly tying a couple of sloppy knots.
“Get off,” Sandor pushed against the door of his loft “, the bloody door, you immature old fuck.” The metal door opened a crack and a dancing smile greeted the stormy scowl plastered on his face. “Do you want me to help celebrate ‘nother passing of your namedays or not?” Sandor hummed out. At that Bronn lightly stepped away from the door, his movements two parts boyish bounce and three parts swashbuckler swagger. A nostril flare and a huff met Bronn’s grin. Without another word, the two men jogged down the stairs to the ground level of Sandor’s apartment complex, which was more warehouse than residential building.
By the curb, Sandor eyed Bronn’s vintage Wheelhouse Duskendale with a stab of envy. It was a gorgeous car with a gorgeous black paint job, the silver stripe blazing from its long hood over its shorter hatchback catching the distant glimmer of the streetlights.
“Going to want to close your mouth, big man, that’s how you catch flies,” Bronn chuckled, swinging the driver side door open. “Come on, mate.” Sandor slipped into the car, folding his long legs up but begrudgingly glad to see Bronn had taken the time to move the passenger seat back as far as it would go in the cramped confines of the classic midsize vehicle.
They were cruising out of the Street of Steel District, turning up 42nd street towards downtown King’s Landing. It was there that the Red Keep District reared its bloodied stone and brick head. It was there that the sound of the ocean was an ever present husky pull and push under the staccato melody of blaring cars and the wheeze of the Baratheon Stag Buses. Crossing into the Red Keep District, Sandor heard Bronn clear his throat. Glancing at the annoying bugger that liked to loudly proclaim himself Sandor’s best friend, Sandor raised his good eyebrow.
“I can sniff out-,”
Bronn interrupted him with a bark of laughter more like his own.
“A lie, I know, I know, Mr. Ask the Hound.” Bronn tightened his grip on the steering wheel, repositioned his hands in a nervous squeeze, and then flashed a smile a hair more reputable than the sleazy neon signs they were passing as they crept closer to Bronn’s favorite bar, The Serpentine. Sandor cleared his throat with a growl, beginning to tell Bronn to spit it the fuck out when Bronn spewed the words “, meeting up with Jorah and Tyrion, ya know.” Sandor grunted by way of reply. “Not surprised, then?”
“The number of times you’ve “surprised” me with the imp and that grumpy old bear that calls himself Dany’s assistant,” Sandor shot a look to Bronn as the laughing man mouthed you’re one to talk, “you must think I’ve got hit in the head more often than you to have that kinda memory loss.”
Bronn shrugged his sharp shoulders in reply, a stork causally adjusting his wings.
“Just figured I should give you a heads up,” Bronn slid his eyes from the road to Sandor’s steely gaze. “It won’t be that bad.” Sandor rolled his eyes, feeling the beginning of a long night start to overtake him already. “It is never that bad. And you’ve been to the Serpentine a dozen or more times.” Each time being because you fucking dragged my ass there Sandor grumbled internally. “Seven hells, Sandor, ya might even,” he put on his best gravelly voice, “fuckin’ enjoy yerself if you let yourself just relax a hair.” Sandor hunkered down in the passenger seat, white leather smooth as a Dornish girl’s ass. Hunkering down for Sandor mostly consisted of pressing his kneecaps to the dash and bringing his thick shoulders to the ear that was intact and the one that had melted away like so much butter in the sun, to ooze down his neck and be wiped away with a careless hand.
“S’pose it isn’t as bad as some of the bars you’ve dragged me to before.” Bronn smirked, throwing an infuriatingly self-satisfied look over Sandor’s way. “Don’t look so smug, you daft bugger, just drive.” Sandor growled as he closed his eyes and breathed in the momentary quiet before the den, the press of bodies, and worst the stares that was sure to be the inside of the bar. “Hey, Bronn?”
Bronn hummed, spotting a parking space. Bronn turned the white wheel sharply, bringing the heavy Wheelhouse automobile to nestle between a new Destrier and a beat up old Junker.
“What’s up, big man?” Sandor had his eyes trained on the flashing green neon sign that hissed The Serpentine, the words a slither of movement under the machinations of some cleaver artist’s hands. The unmarred and marred corners of his lips tugged up, the right side taut with the motion.
“Happy fuckin’ name day.” Sandor grated. In the window, flashing neon bar signs and his friend’s smile vied to shine more brightly.
Outside of the creamy Duskendale interior, Sandor breathed a sigh. Fucking imp. Behind them Tyrion’s sleek cherry red limo pulled up. Doors were opened by gloved hands and out waddled the imp, Dany’s shadow following, and a lad Sandor thought was named Podrick or maybe Rodrick Payne. Gonna be painful as the Sevenhells, his eyes shift with a snort from the three men now approaching his scowl and Bronn’s open smile. Looking to the Serpentine as a cascade of off kilter singing greeted them, Sandor gave a snarl.
“What’s wrong with…” the youthful voice trailed out as Bronn and Tyrion’s laughter roared into life.
“Old dog here just got a whiff of Karaoke,” Tyrion chuckled.
“Really, Bronn?” Jorah grumped like a sleepy bear just rolled out of his hibernation. “Karaoke night?”
“Just glad you could make it, Jorah.” Bronn shot a playful look to Sandor and Sandor tried for the sake of that idiot’s name day.
“Guess the maiden fair let you have a pretty long leash tonight, huh, Teddy?” Sandor’s rumble came out more threat than joke but the three older men knew to huff out a little laugh and in the case of Jorah roll his watery eyes in his sun toasted face. They were moving towards the door now, Bronn and Tyrion’s voices hushed like a mummer’s farce as they weighed the prospects of getting laid, Jorah was consciously avoiding the business phone still miraculously attached to his hip after a full day of work. Bloody malign tumor that thing is, and Dany won’t be calling a maester to remove it anytime soon.
“Why so quiet, Pod?” Bronn peered down at the youngest man of their quintet.
“Just nervous.” Pod blushed more crimson than the Lannister’s Tourney Illustrated logo. “You know girls, the talking, the words, that, that whole thing.” He seemed to be flailing just on close proximity to a couple of buxom beauties in tight t shirts and skirts so short it would make a Qarthman blush. With a small, embarrassed smile he added more coherently “, but I wrote in to Ask the Hound about talking to women!” Six eyes flickered in Sandor’s direction.
“Did she?” Tyrion wheedled, emphasizing the she with an extra twist of his sugary tongue. “Did she give you any good advice back?” Pod nodded enthusiastically, then frowned a little as his group howled like a pack of direwolves from the stark northern waste. Even Sandor found himself chuckling. “Good, the Hound, well she works with Bronn, Jorah, and me, you know.” Pod looked as startled as a new born babe. “She is very pretty too.” Bronn caught Sandor’s hand before he could reach out a cuff the imp in the back of the head. This is going to be Sevenhells of a long night.
“Come on, I need two fingers of Drogon’s Fire Whiskey in my belly before we start talking about women.” Jorah announced as he passed his ID to the bouncer at the entrance. Sandor handed the man his ID next, followed shortly after by Tyrion.
“Here, here!” Bronn hooted, spinning on the heels of his biker boots like a child outside a candy store. Suddenly Bronn stopped in the midst of his three sixty pirouette, mouth a gape. Sandor felt fingers curl into the duck tails of his dark hair, jerking his head down.
“Gonna want to close your mouth, little man, that’s how you catch flies.” Sandor snorted and then finally focused his eyes in the direction Bronn had directed him.
Sandor’s jaw dropped to land at his feet in the broken shards of glass, discarded cigarette butts, and dreams that littered the sidewalk. In a swish of flowing lilac lace or maybe it was lavender chiffon, fuck if he knew even as long as he had worked for Stars Over Essos, she danced towards the Serpentine. She was a fire bird without wings, the Seven heavens on two long legs. He knew Bronn was probably focused on the brunette minx in the revealing little saucy red number, but he wanted to memorize the flowery mirage that was passing him by before she scattered, like so many petals in the wind.
Above him a moth committed itself to the Lord of Light in the neon of the bright green Serpentine lettering. His eyes dashed to the sign and he knew he must look like a fucking monster in the unforgiving lime light. Not that any light is forgiving for such a fucked up mug. Turning aside, eyes momentarily squeezed tight against the glare of horror he was sure would be writ across the fire bird’s face, he took a decisive step forward, and his nose met the solid metal of the Serpentine’s door. He ducked his head to the sound of his piss poor excuse for friends’ laughter and entered the bar to the yowls of whichever drunken patrons had gotten liquored up enough to step on stage and the rifts of The Night Watch’s “Back in Black.”