1)
The stars hung in the sky, unwavering in the fathomless black of night. The earth had cooled; the tincture of beauty that the season changing brings was flowering. What was death, now? Even in the South there were hints of the Winter, the inevitable change from the lightness to the dark. Death was everywhere. The green wildfire was gone, but the sick rot of burnt ship wood and flesh mixed with the salt air, wrapping the city up in its scent as it drifted in from off of the bay.
He could have left, should have left-should have taken off from the battle field and gone to another place-that part didn't matter. He could have lit out for the North or caught a ship and travelled to Essos, Braavos, the Dothraki kingdoms, Gods be damned.
The Flowers and the Garden had spikes. The Lion still has claws.
They overflowed in the city now, what was a few hours past a lost cause was now a place of elation. The Baratheon pretender was defeated- long live King Joffrey, long may the walls of King's Landing stay sturdy. Long may this fucking wine skin stay full.
The stench of death was upon him, the smell of burning flesh all about. There weren't enough wine sinks in the Seven Kingdoms to make the stench go away. There weren't enough whores to fuck, enough men to kill, enough gold to spend to mask it or diminish it. It lingered like poison in the body. It cut through everything, seizing the senses, slaying the better part of his mind.
The smell of perfume in Baelish's whorehouse couldn't cut through it-didn't rectify the problem. In response to their victory, Baelish had given every Goldcloak and member of the Kingsguard a woman for the night and enough wine to drown a man—his construction of the King's gratitude.
He looked down upon her, his eyes bleary from wine and smoke, exhaustion and anger.
Little Bird'll have to marry the King now.
Her hair was as red as a Tully. Her eyes weren't blue, but what did he care? He couldn't see her eyes when she was sucking upon him. She probably preferred it that way, too. That way she wouldn't have to look at his face. He hated the way they tried, the false seduction. The whores in the wine sinks didn't bother, nor did the groat and ale women of flea bottom-their style was to lift their skirts and avert their faces. They'd take their money and leave, the whole thing behind them.
Baelish's whores were taught to seduce, to pretend. This whore had tried to ply him with kisses and wine, asking him who he wanted her to be.
Seven Hells, I'd give my life for you to be Sansa Stark.
Instead he just barked at her to shut her fucking mouth and work on his cock. He knew he broke the protocol of Baelish's establishment, went against the function of the whores. He was supposed to seek his dreams in them, sink his hopes in between their legs, live out his disappointments in their mouths. Bugger that shit.
The stench made it too difficult, he couldn't finish. He couldn't maintain himself enough to relax. He pushed her off of him and put himself away, throwing down coin even though Baelish had given her without charge. He walked back into the night, towards his room, his home. Whatever the fuck home is.
He made it to his bed and didn't bother undressing. The Little Bird-he'd only stayed on for her. If Joffrey had died he would have left easily. He couldn't go and abandon her to him. He was the only thing that stood between the Lion and the Little Bird. He hated himself for thinking of her.
All too often he'd imagined a life where he didn't have his scars and she was just a poor metal worker's daughter. He could have married her, not the Lion gone mad. He'd put himself to sleep with thoughts of her-and what he'd do if he had her. His first idea was always to fuck her, but that somehow transformed into newer thoughts-building her a house, bringing her a flower.
For a moment he didn't notice the stench of burnt bodies in the air.
He closed his eyes and passed out.
The afternoon had been monotonous, award after award was being given out to the victors of the battle. Lordships were granted, titles were bestowed, marriages were given approval. The day dragged on-and The Hound was in no mood for standing guard. The sunlight and southern heat made the stench even worse. The dead were largely unburied, their wounds were already beginning to decay in the sands and in the streets. The stench of rot and death was everywhere, intermingling with the still omnipresent smell of smoke.
Sandor paid no attention to the comings and goings of business of King's Landing-he hadn't the slightest fascination with it. He regarded it the way he regarded the high prices whores-useless and false. He hated most everyone and everything in King's Landing and couldn't bear to focus on any of it. Joffrey calling for him to stand before the throne shook him from his apathetic duty.
"Dog! Stand before me and the court!" King Joffrey demanded. Without word Sandor stepped down and marched before Joffrey in the midst of the gathering. He'd quit being embarrassed by being bossed around by a child king. Everything hit him in the same way-duty and penance.
"My Grace?" He asked him, his voice flat.
"Your brother is dead. A raven came this morning. You are the last surviving Clegane. Mother says that makes you Lord of the Clegane Keep. I've decided to send you home. You're to maintain the land and the people there. Mother says that you have been loyal to my family so we shall pay you very well."
Sandor's face twitched. He said nothing, his face told nothing. He immediately thought of the Little Bird. He'd not be allowed to stay and protect her. He could have just run the night before and forced her to come—instead he'd waited for her sake, and for what? He hated the appointment.
"Mother also says that I don't have to keep the Stark bitch anymore. I had half a mind to give her to Ser Meryn, but Mother suggested that I ask you if you'd like to take her. I don't care what you do with her. I think she'd make a good house-wench. You could also breed her. Or even marry her-I'm sure she'd hate that. Sleeping in a Dog's bed. Either way, if you don't want to take her with you I'll just let a few men have her and then put her head on a spike."
Sandor watched as the words dripped off of his worm-like lips. He stood calmly, refusing to look at the Little Bird, who he knew was in the audience—he couldn't. For her sake. For his. He didn't want to see the look of horror he imagined was on her face. He only stood and starred at Joffrey, intent on giving nothing away. He stood clenching his jaw, his inner lip being pinched by his incisors.
"It's an honor, my Grace. I will take the Stark Bitch as a slave to the Keep. She'll be mine to deal with from now on." His voice revealed only violence, everything about him pronounced bad intentions. Joffrey smiled.
"Then you're released. You can leave for your Keep at first light. Take the Stark whore with you, or else I might think twice about taking her head."