Gregor Clegane found a bride.
It was their father, of course, that had found the girl and worked an arrangement with her father, but she was marrying Gregor.
And Sandor was not happy about it.
It seemed so unfair to him that for all the bad Gregor had done, he was rewarded with a young woman to torment. She was a bastard girl, named Joanne Hill, after Tywin Lannister's late lady wife. Her father was of a branch of some noble family or other, near extinct and bankrupt until seven years ago, when he found a larger bed of pearls than had ever been recorded in history. He hadn't been able to make a good marriage for her until she caught Gregor's eye. Gregor didn't care for her, but her father's newfound wealth was impressive. Her father liked how Tywin Lannister was impressed with Gregor's potential as a guard. A deal was struck. Joanne would marry into a favorable position and the Clegane household would increase their wealth.
Joanne Hill was not a stunning woman. She was too skinny for her average height and her arms hung, lanky and awkward. Her skin was heavily freckled and sunburned, her jaw was square, her cheekbones were flat as were her cheeks, her nose was too wide, and she had the most masculine chin and the thinnest lips Sandor had ever seen on a woman. He knew he was in no position to call anyone ugly or plain, but if she had shorter hair and a flatter bust, she would look like a boy in a gown. At least she had her eyes. Doe's eyes, the color of a fawn's back. And a long, slender neck. Easier to grab, he thought to himself.
At the wedding, that neck was adorned with a three strand pearl choker. They were all the exact same shade, shape, and size, and made her skin look even darker and more uneven than it was. They matched the ivory silk of her gown, which had its own pearls, the same shade. How many orphans would that dress feed? Sandor thought to himself. The gown only served to display her father's massive coffers. More like than not, once it was torn off of her it would become a heap of expensive rags too damaged to be mended back into a dress. Such an extravagant waste, it could easily be meant for Tywin Lannister's daughter.
Her hair was down. The locks at her temples were pulled back and braided to keep them out of her face. It was nothing like the thick plait her father described her with, and did nothing to help her plainness. It was brown, somewhere between the color of chestnuts and bronze. Not very shiny. Perhaps it would have looked better in a braid.
She was smiling. Whether the poor thing was ignorant of Gregor's true character or she was being polite was not initially clear. After watching her a while, Sandor confirmed it was the former. Her smile remained even when she looked away from others. She was actually happy about this marriage. Poor dumb thing.
Her father was quite happy as well. Had either of them met Gregor? If they had, they wouldn't have been so cheery, or even agreed to this match. He would beat her when he was angry, destroy her possessions when he was jealous, and hold her down when he wanted something to fuck. If he grew bored of her, he might let his friends have a go at her. Or, might be, he'd tear her clothes off in front of them and have her sit in his lap, like a little spaniel. He'd even pet her.
Sandor clenched his teeth at the idea. Hateful as he was, he kept himself controlled, and the ceremony went on without incident. The bride's father payed for the feast. It all smelled wonderful: the rosemary, garlic, basil, thyme, all dancing among the scents of warm bread, roast poultry, various soups, cheeses, fresh greens, and wine. Sandor didn't eat a crumb or drink a drop. He raised no glass to his brother's health, and tipped his over when others did.
Hardly anyone noticed, of course, except the serving maids. They walked on eggshells around him, as they did with all the Cleganes. The younger girls would even tremble when they stepped within grabbing distance. Sandor tried to soften his face when they were around. He never wanted to scare anyone. It never did any good because none of them looked him in the face. There were times he wanted to put his hand on the wrist of one of the serving girls, look her in the eye, and tell her, "I'm not my brother. I would never hurt you. Any of you."
He never could, though. Earlier in the year, he trod on the hem of one of their skirts by mistake. The girl's entire body stiffened as she dropped the armful of dishes she was carrying. Her hands shook as she gathered them together. When Sandor tried to help, she looked away. She quickly took everything in her arms and as she stood up he could see tears rolling down her cheeks. Still not looking his way, she nodded and gave a quick "Sorry, m'lord" and scurried away. That night, he learned the servants locked their doors and begged the Maiden to keep their daughters safe from Gregor.
Now they'll all pray that he's happy enough with his wife, he thought bitterly.
And, as if the gods meant to make a point, Gregor's friends called for a bedding that moment. Joanne unclasped her necklace to prevent some drunken brute from snapping it. The first to her grabbed her ankles, and the men's hands worked their way up her body as they carried her to Gregor's bed, tearing at that ridiculously expensive dress all the way there. Sandor and Gregor's father was among them, but Sandor was not. That part of the ceremony always felt wrong to him; maidens getting their clothes torn off by strangers. The girl already had to fuck a man she didn't truly know.
Gregor needed help. Tradition called for the women present to undress the bridegroom. There were no female guests. The men and women of the village knew the reputation Gregor and his company earned. The servant girls had to help him to his bed. He was the tallest man in all of Westeros, and heavier than a mountain, not to mention he was drunk as a sailor. It took four girls on both sides of him to just keep him upright. They unlaced while struggling to keep him up and moving.
Gregor, in turn, pawed at the girls and tried to rip the laces out of their bodices. At any other wedding, this might have been playful joking on both sides. But Gregor was rough and serious, and the girls were terrified.
There was a lot of yelling and laughter at Gregor's door as the maids undoubtedly crept away. Sandor kept himself away and drank his father's abandoned wine. He was angry, and he didn't want blood on his hands yet. He was only eleven years old.
Gregor's friends continued to yell their vulgar jokes through the door. The lord of the keep hurt his wrist, and went to find help from the maester. The guests gradually trickled away when Gregor yelled something angry and unintelligible back. Then they turned their attention to the maids. They touched the girls, and made lewd comments, and held them by their wrists so they couldn't leave. One of them, a boy of fourteen named Petyr, even held a maid into his lap and threatened to kill her if she didn't drink the wine he poured her or let him touch her as he liked. Her parents begged the gods not to let this happen to her. Sandor couldn't contain his anger any longer. He emptied his cup and threw it at the back of Petyr's head.
He pushed the girl off of him as he stood and demanded who threw it at him. The maid took advantage of the shift of attention and held her bodice closed while she scurried away. Meanwhile, everyone else was staring at Sandor in disbelief and the Petyr narrowed his eyes.
"You're lucky Lannister likes your papa and your brother, boy, else no one'd miss you if you died."
"No one would miss you, whoreson," Sandor replied. "Some might thank me."
"Watch your tongue, Clegane. Outside these walls you're just a little shit with a gnarled face."
"Not even Gregor would miss you. He'd kill you himself if it meant gold or knighthood or a pretty girl to fuck. You do anything to his bride that he wouldn't like? Then you should leave soon as you can. Guest right doesn't mean much to my brother."
Petyr looked nervous, and left the hall. The guests' merriment died down after that and one by one, they drifted away.
The maids started to clean up the dishes, but Sandor remained. As they gathered up the plates at his table, a girl placed an orange in front of him.
"Last one in the kitchens, m'lord," she informed him. "A prize truly fit for a hero."
As she turned to walk away, he seized her hand. She jolted, so he must have been rougher than he intended.
"I'm not a hero," he told her as he looked up. It was the girl he saved from Petyr. He looked in her eyes. They were green.
She darted her eyes down. "I only meant to thank m'lord," she apologized. Sandor spoke before she could excuse herself.
"Does this happen often?" He kept looking her in the face. He wanted to see the green of her eyes again.
But they stayed down as she answered. "Not terribly." She was growing anxious and tried to pull her arm back. "If it please m'lord-"
"Do you-" Sandor cut her off. His mind told him to be chivalrous, like the knights in the stories. He knew that if it weren't for an angry lioness from his grandfather's time, a girl like her would be his friend, or perhaps sweetheart. "Do you need a champion?"
"M'lord?" There they were. Those eyes shone like emeralds.
"Do you need one to fight for you; to defend your life and honor?"
The girl was dumbstruck and looked frightened. She was trying to yank her arm from his grip, begging him, "Please, m'lord, I must-"
"You'd never need fear me, or fear at all," he promised. "I would keep you safe. From men. From Gregor, Petyr, anyone." He let go of her, only just realizing he clamped his other hand on her wrist. "I can keep you safe, from all of them." He knelt. "If you let me."
It was her turn to take his hand. "Of course, m'lord."
"You can call me Sandor, if you like. Tell me your name."
She smiled a darling smile and told him. "Bess."
He and Bess had gotten to know each other better. She was twelve years old, and her mother and grandmother were also kitchen maids. She adored cats and always wanted to go to Lannisport to see the mermaids. She and Sandor split the delicious orange, and he offered to escort her home before he went to bed. She declined, as she still had work in the kitchens, and the other maids would take her home when it was done.
The next day, Joanne Clegane, covered in bruises and holding her pearls, required assistance to walk. She learned the truth of her husband on their wedding night, and she was utterly miserable.
