A Note
This began as a daydream about Sandor's lonely nights in the White Tower. It sort of...germinated into a one-shot? Just a fun little "what-if", and a twist. I imagine this is set somewhere between "sharp steel and strong arms" and the Blackwater. Hope you all enjoy!
Skin from His Bones
Eyes, there were, eyes beyond their thousands; cold and colourless and countless. They regarded him from within the shivering glass, its broken pieces scaled like a hauberk. Staring, his reflection stared back. Its image scattered where he moved, each motion a rearrangement of the man on the other side. Regardless, he was no beauty. Gods, homeliness was better dubbed the skin of his arse, than the horrid visage before him! Some, they swear it was dragonfire, the man mapped his disfigurements with detached familiarity. Others: a siege, a burning tower. The sight of his own face was like holding a hunk of ice within his hand; the cold had once existed, but the longer he held it, the lesser it moved him:
Scarring divorced the left side of his face from right: a taut canvas of leathery, pumiced skin; the meat thickened only around one grey eye, gathering like a fist. Grossly fascinated, he twisted his head under the light; he gleamed and oozed, black-red: iridescent as wine.
The work was his big brother's, some twenty years mature now. A childhood cock-joust; some show of strength. It made no damn matter what you called it now. That lad's lessons were learned, and well.
Even the girl knew that noone could withstand Gregor. She'd told him herself, when he'd had her alone.
The field had been so dark they might have stood on the frays of the world. Noone could withstand him, she'd said. And her pretty talking mouth was not wrong, not entirely. Few had.
It was no lie that the air was thicker within the walls of Keep Clegane. On occasion, dark whisperings and noxious gossips would crack those mortars, and Commons or Lords alike bartered them like breath. There were tales of vanishing staff, of serving girls' grave complaints...of the convenient demise of their lord father. Speculation was on their sister, too. But he knew better than to honour Gregor's hands with her blood. As did she. It was the handmaidens that found her first, in her bathwater. Later, the maester would make a trembling confession that she was already begotten of a child. Some little demon too vile to make breath; she never gave Gregor that joy, either.
That pretty talking mouth was at his ear again. He was no true knight. Emotion parried the air in his throat. He turned his eyes to the mirror once more.
The rutted glass parted his terrible burns into a thousand faces, the reflections leaping from shard to shard.
"Lot-less cunt." Even the Hound proved prettier than this thing in the mirror.
His new chambers in White Sword Tower were dimly lit. Faint moonlight collapsed the tower window, and smoke sat on the cool evening air: there was to be a battle, and soon. The Usurper Stannis Baratheon's men waited across the Blackwater. He wanted his boy-nephew's throne. Might even take it, should he cross. And Sandor would be on the wrong side of the water, sworn to the wrong king. The Hound knew it would mean his life.
If he lasted the siege, he wouldn't last the morning; the newly-raised Dog was worth lesser than the hair on the Imp's arse to anyone, least of all Stannis.
Others had hope. Mayhaps even the Little Bird.
He could see her now, at Stannis' feet, long after Joff was dead. Might be her perfect words and perfect face would save her.
But he knew better than the rest of them. He understood. The Hound heard the hollowness in those courteous lies like hollowness in a wall. How many times had he heard the Stark girl swear away her own blood as traitors? How many times had she taken beatings meant for the Young Wolf, and still stood to declare how she loved Joffrey with every piece of her?
He only willed Stannis be believing.
You save yourself, girl, the Hound wanted her here; to shake her, tell her. Stannis will make dead your betrothed. And me, slit open in the silt somewhere, or the fires, or hanging from some gibbet. Save yourself with your pretty words.
Fight, kill, die. That was his wrote.
A chill tore through him. He was naked, save for breeches. The laces were still open. He'd sent away the girl meant to light his chambers and help him dress; he was noplace close enough to drunk for that. And suddenly there he was, in front of the mirror: Kingsguard, and yet no knight, standing before himself in nothing but the body he'd made strong...and the oaths he'd made weak.
Why not? He'd agreed, right before them all; before her. I have no lands nor wife to forsake.
A discomfort in his right hand made him look down. The knuckles were peeling, bloodied. Still some glass inside. He'd see to it later. The Hound yanked his laces together and dressed.
When he saw himself, the mirror leered, its surface transformed into ten thousand rows of grinning teeth. The ruined imitation of Sandor Clegane beheld itself, and mocked what it saw. A true Ser now. The ornaments of the Kingsguard were crude worn against the ruin of his face; seemed superfluous, fucking foolish. The pale, delicate wool of the Kingsguard washed his huge shoulders like milk, and the enamelled brooch blinked at the apple in his throat; white as a blind eye. White as all the eyes in King's Landing.
Hold no lands, take no wife, father no children...but for years the celebrated sworn brothers of the Kingsguard had broken these vows, and more. Yet not a soul of Westeros spared the spit. Kill a man, or beat a woman...none of it mattered. Because donning the White Cloak was like donning a new man; a man whose name and deeds were null, were white.
There were those who looked at you and saw Selmy and Arthur Dayne - even Aemon Targaryen himself.
Clegane's eyes narrowed upon his reflection. He wondered what another would see, the time she saw him next. The folly of it made him click his teeth.
"Bugger that," he muttered, met his own gaze. "Bugger you."
Without a second glance, Sandor secured his swordbelt and rid himself of his chamber. The Royal Duty was his in a matter of hours, but for now Balon Swann held the drawbridge into Maegor's. And for the meanwhile, the Hound was going to seek the Street of Silk. He had the remains of his tourney winnings. And a thirst.
The Tower's lowest apartments shed around him, welcoming the inner bailey. Its courtyard was not empty. There were two servants talking by the well, filling several pails between them - bathing water, he wagered. Ahead, a figure was sharpening below the serpentine: it became a lanky lad in filthy clothes, carrying more kindling than he was able. In crossing the courtyard he lost his hold twice, squatting in the grit to re-gather the lot.
He would have rushed the Hound headlong had he not looked up by chance. The lad's eyes recognised the terrible burned face, and he veered at the last moment:
"'Pologies, milord!"
The Hound wheeled after him, but the boy was already shrinking over Maegor's. The huge holdfast was only visible for the sconces that streaked its stones, like hot tears. He could not see where the sky and towers parted ways.
"I'm no lord," he heard himself say.
Most of those he hated, too. Though not so well as Sers. He spat on knights and their vows. And with a lingering look at the White Cloak standing vigil, he spat into the grit.
Someone flinched away from its mark, hurrying past. Clegane hadn't seen her standing there.
And by no fault of mine own, he realised at once. That way was the one you wanted, wasn't it? The figure was slight and long, dressed dark and loose; cowl the Hound was not conned. His maverick eyes were watching the fall of the material, deducing the shape beneath. He knew it, and he knew her.
Somehow, he had forgotten the feel of Silk; the taste of wine.
She managed so far as half the Serpentine, before it was too much. "I - know you're there," she stuttered. "Stop it. Stop following me. Please. Stop it now. There is truly no need."
He rasped a laugh, climbing after her. "Headed for the Godswood, Little Bird? You must love your king well to pray hard as you do."
"I love His Grace with all of my heart," her robes fluttered as she bounced the stair, never turning to look at him. "The day we wed shall be my dearest day."
"And that's the reason you nigh tumbled him off the Traitor's Walk, is it?" when she said nothing, he scoffed. "Thought I'd forgotten that one, had you, girl? You'd have sooner followed him were it not for me. Twice that's been your little life in my hands, tell yourself a lie to deny it. And what thanks?"
Quite suddenly, the cloak snapped still about her ankles.
Standing four paces apart on the Serpentine, the girl was little more than two inches above him. He appraised her turned back, hooded head. Deprived of her moving lips, the small voice that came next sounded almost disembodied, exploring the serpentine like water spiralling a plug.
"What thanks?" she asked - and was truly asking, he realised, with chagrin. "I...I still know the songs."
When last they'd been together, he'd been well in his cups. Now he was without a drop. "Awful, you called me." The memory still singed. "Said I'd see Hell for all the terrible evil on my hands. Think I want your song, now, Lady? Do you?
When she offered no answer, he closed another step, steel and plate chinking. The girl's shoulders shrank to the sound. Her fear galvanised the air they shared, as though it were barbed; as though she had taken fortitude in brambles. He did not know how to loathe the pleasure it gave him.
"If you want," she managed to spill the words. "I will."
"I don't -"
"I'll sing." She pressed. "Would you go, then? If I sing?"
Clegane found himself quiet, alarmingly. Any riposte tasted foul in his mouth. "Not here, Little Bird." Not now. "We're still too yellow to look me straight, I see?" He wanted to look at her. "Turn around."
After a leaden moment, he heard her robes hushing the stones. Anticipation twisted inside his chest, though he could not say why.
He found himself dry in the throat, face to face with her. The cowl permitted him only presumption of a lower lip, a guess at the lights in her eyes. "Was that so hard?"
"I don't know what else to tell you, Ser," those lips moved. "You did frighten me. You still do, Ser."
She's meant to say that, he almost snorted. Balls must have dropped. "Fuck your Sers. I look like a Ser to you?"
"The – the white becomes you."
He did laugh, then. "Mother mercy, I thought something reeked of cowshit. Haven't changed, have you? Beaten, whipped - raped, for all I know. And you're still blind-dumb as the day I laid eyes on you. Aren't you?
He waited for her to cry, as she had in the field. But her eyes stayed on his face. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?"
Her words hitched. "Yes. Tell me. Anything, I beg you. I beg you leave me alone."
A mass formed in his gut. The truth felled him; he realised at once that what he wanted was something he did not know. He'd left his chambers at White Sword Tower intending to be anywhere else than with this stupid child. Yet he'd tailed her. He'd never bade his boots move, yet here he was; wanting to be awful, wanting to give the Hells a reason to open their arms.
The girl's eyes remained with his. All of a sudden he wanted anything else than for her to be looking at him.
The Hound snarled: "What do I want, you ask, Little Bird? You really want to know? For true?" He closed another step and watched his ruined reflection rise in her wide, shining eyes. "Very well. I'll tell you. I want some wine. A fine meal. I want a night's sleep. A night with a woman in my hands. I want a fight. A fuck..." as he heard himself say the last, it became something other than a word. The Hound could hear the girl's breathing coming heavy, now. Could hear each hit of his own heart. "Instead, here I stand, keeping you for the King. You're so often in the Godswood of late now, aren't you? And under black of night, to boot. Don't think that's gone and walked under my nose."
The girl trembled. "Please. You could go. I wouldn't speak of it, not with anyone. You could have your drink. Your feast. Your fight. Your..." she trailed.
Not courage enough for fuck, girl? His mouth ticked. "It's not my back that pays to watch, Little Bird."
"I have no want for a chaperone."
"But that's what true knights are for, isn't it? Protecting. Escorting. You told me yourself." He was close now, close enough to close that pretty mouth for good with one mailed fist, stop her peeping forever. "I'm no knight, but I wear the White now. It becomes me, you say. Think me truer than I was, all for the clothes on my carcass?"
She took a long moment. "I could always pray for it, my lord. Though I'd be old before you were true."
Clegane had to laugh in her face for the slight. "You do that, Little Bird. See who listens." He squinted at her. "Tell me, don't the Gods get ill with hearing your damned voice?"
"We are their children. The Gods love us like our forefathers."
"That so?" he snorted. "Mayhaps they would, girl, if you spared them the time to shit. That's all you do in the Godswood, is it? Pray."
Her lips parted, but she closed them again. "A dog can smell a lie."
Once more, he appraised her black skirts and heavy hood. "Aye, pretty talking bird. A dog can smell a lie. Though we'll not take merit off his eyes, just now. Not with lies blatant enough to see..."
A sword shone between them. The Hound did not remember drawing it, but now it was in the girl's face, sitting beneath the lip of her hood - and he could not stop himself.
"What lie?" the girl complained, nervous. "I haven't. Not to you. You know I can't. Would never -"
"Bugger that. All of you is a lie." The steel was twisting in his hand, kissing her temples. "Flutter the Red Keep caped like the Ghoul of Harren all you want. This Dog still knows you any place, anywhere. And he knows where you go."
He flicked his wrist.
The cowl tumbled back, flopping about her shoulders.
A sconce overhead set her thick, auburn hair alight; woke the hue in her flesh. Against himself, Clegane admired her:
In Sansa Stark remained none of the soft slopes of childhood. The flowering had carved it out of her. Plumpness was given way to the high cascades of her cheekbones, to the narrowing at her chin, her waist. She had high breasts. And stands higher, still. Torchlight tipped her lashes like matches...but inside, the Tully eyes were darker than they had ever been. Nearer purple than blue, they smouldered like a bruise.
And those she'll wear, by the plenty. But Sandor knew His Grace was cleverer than that. The face was never to be interfered with, was always to remain beautiful.
And she was beautiful. Joff's queen, Sandor caught himself. Joff's bride.
"My Lord?"
The girl was still looking.
It was the longest he'd ever had her eyes. Clegane swallowed, his sword-hand lowering. Now it was her turn to look, and something in him was compelled to let her. She appraised his chest, his cloak. Next it was his face; the scars.
Her gaze might well have pulled the clothes from his skin, the skin from his bones. Suddenly, it was more than he could stand.
"Close your mouth, girl. That's long enough." He shifted his eyes elsewhere, had to. "Go."
Sansa's expression contorted, confused. "Go?"
"Do I have to beat it into you? Aye, go. Run along to your precious Godswood."
"Won't you come? You said..."
"I know what I said."
The girl needed no further telling. She gathered her robes in her hands, retreating a step. "Thank you, my..." she chewed her lip. "Thank you."
When she had four paces on him, he heard himself call out. "Little Bird."
Skirts rustling, Sansa twirled.
"That knife under your cloak," he rasped. "It's no good. Be rid."
A long moment passed. Though Sansa Stark's silhouette was dark, far away, he could still register mortal fear in her face, though she tried her best to hide it. There were questions behind her eyes. What did he know? And who had he told?
"Why?" Sansa asked, at last.
"Up there, in that Godswood. He's stronger than you. Things go ugly, you think you'll fight your way out? You won't. In your hands, Little Bird, that's no weapon. That's the knife that cuts your throat."
Footsteps were sounding in the courtyard below. Both of them stiffened, leaning towards the sound; below, shadows began to fill the belly of the Serpentine, swilling in its stone viscera.
"Best go now," Sandor was wary. "Before your excuses get longer than the Kingsroad." He twisted his head to look at her. "You hear me?"
But the stair was empty.
Thanks for reading!