Written for the genre writing challenge on LJ with the genre "black comedy". Therefore, expect black humour/gallows humour. Making fun out of seriously bad things.
First chapter out of 3. Very slow updates.
Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, rape and gore
Now betaed for basic grammar mistakes by wonderful TopShelfCrazy so THANK YOU
Any feedback is welcome))
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Food for Thought
The tents dirtied the fields in front of the Gates of the Moon. There were almost as many of them as at the Great Tourney of the Dead Hand in King's Landing. Plenty of colourful stripes were painted on the blazons. The toads wishing to be tigers armoured themselves for the useless parade.
Sandor Clegane stared at the empty lists, wishing he had stayed on the Quiet Isle. Digging graves was solid work, almost as pleasing as breaking the bones of gnats in the training yard every morning. The corpses were silent and they stank less in winter. They couldn't chirp and annoy him. None had been red-haired. Most were muddy-haired like the little she-wolf, from being washed out by the filthy rivers. Some were half-eaten by the wolves. A giant pack prowled the riverlands, visitors said. People rarely had the grace to stop walking, talking and annoying him before the Stranger took them. There were less travellers in winter, but there was never a dearth of corpses.
Tourney meant winnings. Coin, armour and horses could be traded for food. There was none left in the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother stayed to tend to the sick and the dying, and bid all able-bodied monks to go and find food. Truth be told, he also sent out some cripples. Sandor Clegane was directed to the Vale with his bad, half-lame leg. The journey made him both irritable and placated. Irritable because he never wanted to go anywhere and placated because his corpse would be too heavy for the others to bury if he died of hunger. Except maybe if the wolves half-ate him first. But for that they would have to swim to the buggering island and he had yet to see a swimming wolf.
Lame dogs swam better. Even Stranger acquitted himself admirably for a horse, when his master led him over the sinuous, flooded Path of the Faith, winding from the Quiet Isle to the displeasingly noisy rest of the world.
Stranger now frightened several other horses while making his way through the tents. His master patted him with approval, almost with affection.
"Is there an armoury?" Sandor rasped at the pink-faced knight in yellow breeches, who had become too fat for his armour.
"This way," the knight peeped, trying to fasten a fancy, gilded breastplate.
"Wait," Sandor dismounted, tying Stranger to one of the poles holding the fat man's tent up. It was only proper to thank the good ser in kind for providing useful information.
Sandor grabbed the pudgy man and smashed the breastplate into place, squeezing out all air from the chubby lungs in the process. "There you go," he said with satisfaction.
"Th… Thank you, ser," the knight stuttered, fighting to breathe again.
Calling him ser was most uncourteous. Sandor clumsily untied Stranger. The rope remained loosely attached to the pole. As a result, the horse pulled the tent down when his master cantered off. "Still no ser," he muttered to himself, ignoring the screams of outrage behind him.
The armoury was a miserable shed erected at the far end of the lists. Naturally, the lord of the castle did not want the petty toads to fight over the finer pieces of available weaponry inside his walls. Sandor had to bend to get in.
Behind a rickety counter, with a single silver coin placed on it, the man in charge of the place had his cock shoved in a girl's mouth, way further than the whores normally allowed it. The wench whimpered, gagged as a stuffed pig on the royal table.
Sandor whistled loudly, startling the loving couple. "You," he growled with menace. "I need a lance and a helm. Now."
The man just shrugged after the initial shock of being called to work, and did his best to go on with mouth fucking.
"Girl," Sandor growled louder. "You look young enough to have teeth, you know. He is not paying you enough for this."
Before the wench decided on using this bit of wisdom, the armourer pulled out of her. "What's wrong with you?" he asked with utmost annoyance.
The Hound drew his knife and stuck it into the counter. "Nothing yet," he said in his most murderous tone. "But there will be something wrong with your throat if you don't serve me immediately."
The helm he got was uglier than his old dog's head one, but it was big enough, and the lance was decent and sturdy. It might not explode in the first few passes. When Sandor turned to leave, the serving man grabbed the wench by the hair, carefully moving the silver coin out of the girl's reach. "Where were we?" he asked wistfully.
"Wait," Sandor changed his mind. "On a second thought, I'll have that wench as well. And the coin. And you should thank me for the custom."
"Thank you?" the man pulled a knife as well. "You buggering septon! Who do you think you are? "
"A second son," Sandor answered briefly. Fast as lightning, he sliced at his opponents hand, disarming him. Blood ran fresh and pretty from the man's wrist. "Be happy for it. My brother would cut your throat if you dared fart words at him." With that he slipped the silver in the pockets of his brown robes and hauled the girl over his shoulder as a sack of grain. She was a scrawny thing and very young. Young as another pretty girl he had once known.
Outside the armoury, he put the wench down. She gave him a brave look. "I could…" she began, "I could service you, my lord." She curtsied so badly that even Sandor could have done it better. It's been a very long time. He was tempted by her bravery. But before he could answer either yes or no, he noticed a familiar expression of disgust creeping into the girl's eyes.
"Find someone else," he snarled and left her to find his horse.
When he was back in saddle, he realised he forgot to give the girl the bloody coin as he intended. She had surely earned that one.
Names were taken for the tourney at the other end of the lists. By the time Sandor reached the place, he was grateful for the ugly helm which replaced his monk's cowl. Petyr Baelish, who knew the Hound well, stood with the man making a draw. The tourney-master was the ugliest red-haired bastard in existence, looking like a squashed piece of horseshit with a vaguely human face. The Hound almost felt handsome in comparison.
"And you would be?" the bastard asked with total lack of interest.
"Brother Driftwood from the Quiet Isle," Sandor said placidly, deciding at the last moment not to call himself Gravedigger. The unwilling pious name of his poor horse would suffice. "The Faith is hungry."
"How would you like to earn more coin than your faithful skin can ever hope to gain in a fair fight?" Littlefinger asked in a seducing voice, eyeing Sandor's exceptional size.
"I'm all ears," Sandor grated, wondering what Baelish had in mind. It was always best to know what men like him wanted, and then do something completely different. Sandor was pleased with his ugly head where it was; on his shoulders.
"There is a proud, highborn boy I know of," Littlefinger put his proposition forward, "let him win in the first round and I will give you more silver than you can count. But make a good show of it. It should not look to easy."
Sandor nodded stupidly, not saying either yes or no. He put his palm forward and waited.
"The payment comes after," Baelish hissed, but Sandor never retrieved his hand. Some reward should better come before, especially since he never intended to do what was asked.
Two more knights approached from behind, waiting in line to sign up.
Littlefinger pulled Sandor on the side and counted ten silver coins into his hand. "Alright, holy brother, scamper off now," he told him jovially. "The rest will come after."
Sandor was glad to leave. He soon found an open campfire where he could armour himself without letting his balls freeze. His soot black armour had fortunately survived his travel through the riverlands. By the time he was fully armed, the gallery in the middle of the lists began filling with idle, empty-headed highborns, lords and ladies alike. There was a hooded girl in a blue dress. Her expensive cloak was fastened with a silver mocking bird. Littlefinger must have found a pretty bed-warmer for himself. Her step was soft as it should be, but her hair was too dark under the cloak. She isn't. She can't be. Sandor straightened himself to full height and stared at the gallery, but the lady was too far from him to fully see her face.
"She is Alayne Stone," the girl, the bloody amateur whore he got out of the armoury, said behind his back. "Lord Baelish's natural daughter."
The Hound angrily turned around. "Mind your business, woman," he said.
"I was, my lord," she parried him.
The girl looked like a comely washerwoman now, carrying a pile of freshly smelling, wet tunics from some nearby well. Sandor found it fitted her better than the man's cock in her mouth.
"Come closer," he beckoned to her.
She let the wash down and carefully trod to him, trying to be brave, obviously expecting he would take her up on her earlier offer.
"Here," he said, surrendering her all the silver from his pockets.
The purse of the tourney winner would have more coin than that.
The girl did her best to hide her surprise and keep her face flat as she avidly took the coin and packed it away in her patched grey skirts. "What will it be, my lord? I'd rather if you choose between my mouth and the back door, if you know my meaning. I try to stay a maid in this business so I can marry a pig-herder one day. There is a handsome lad down in the village. They say he don't beat girls."
"Bugger off," he told her and he didn't have to say it twice. She grabbed the laundry and was about to bolt.
"Wait," he stopped her. "Don't talk about this," his eyes drifted back to… Alayne Stone… as he said that. "Don't talk about any of this," he warned her, gesturing at her skirts filled with coin. "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."
The girl curtsied much deeper and more dexterous than before and scurried off. She might make a good wife one day if the whoring did not do for her first.
Trumpets sounded, announcing the first match of the day, between the Brother Driftwood of the Quiet Isle and Ser Harrold Hardying, of the houses Hardyng, Waynwood and Arryn.
As an afterthought, the Hound donned an old green cloak of his over his armour before riding out into the field. He had worn it on the second day of the Dead Hand's tourney and he took it with him when he left the capital.
When he approached the lists, the ginger-haired knightly heap of dung who signed him up for the tourney directed Sandor to the other end than the one he would have wanted. The sun was in his eyes. The position would help explain his well-paid defeat. But as a result, he could still not see the face of Alayne Stone. He clamped the visor harder to avoid being blinded. It would do so that he could joust with precision, but he'd only be able to see the girl at the moment he clashed with his opponent.
The lad he should let win had not one, but three sigils on his chest and shield; a more pretentious handsome toad than most. He also wore a favour on his pretty sword, a blue ribbon.
In that instant, Sandor decided to knock down Ser Harry face forward in dirt as he had done with Jaime Lannister in King's Landing. Maybe they would have to pry open his falcon-topped helm with a hot poker if he was successful.
The trumpets blew again. Stranger snorted and carried his master down the lists; both man and beast were taken by the sheer pleasure of riding with abandon. Sandor's mind was firmly set on unhorsing Harry. But in the middle of the field, against all his expectations in the matter, curiosity made him waver and look up and see…
Sansa bloody Stark.
His lance went into Ser Harry's gorget, piercing it like putrid flesh. The boy rolled in the dirt as Sandor had wanted. Blood gushed from the young ser's armour. That sight was pretty, but entirely unintended.
Fastened as good as the whore's bodice, Sandor mused over the fact that he had most probably killed the boy by stupid chance, dismounting rapidly. Why do they always let squires joust against men? He ripped his cloak, and pressed it hard on the boy's throat to stop the bleeding. The crowd cheered and roared. Someone called for the master, brought a pallet. Sandor walked absent-mindedly with the boy to some hideously large tent, as the young ser's blood seeped into his green cloak. The fabric became wrinkled as the shrivelled face of a crone.
Inside the tent, Sandor melted into the shadows.
Littlefinger was the first one to arrive, followed by the girl who had never been his daughter. "Can you make his dying longer?" Baelish asked the maester. "We need everyone to examine his wounds and see how this was not murder."
Sandor felt cheated. From the remark it seemed that Littlefinger actually ordered the killing of the bloody squire for a few silver coins, and tricked the Hound into performing it. He regretted selling his services cheaply. Had he figured it out, he would have asked for gold. A life had to have a price.
"It can be done," the maester answered cautiously. "If I spare him the milk of the poppy. But the pain will be horrible, my l-"
"-There is no need for him to die a pretty death," Baelish advised, matter-of-factly. "He only has to die, eventually. And not a moment too soon."
"As does everyone," the maester murmured, nodding.
Sansa stared at the dying knight, not saying a word.
"Keep him alive," Baelish said and turned to leave. Sansa wanted to follow, but he wouldn't let her. "Not you, sweet," he admonished her gently.
Sansa frowned first and then bowed her pretty head. "I understand, father. I shall stay and help nurse my betrothed. Lady Waynwood and Lord Yohn Royce will see we are not to blame."
Betrothed? Sandor mused. Aren't you married to a dwarf? Or did someone kill him for you? He wished he was hired to perform that little service. He would have enjoyed it profoundly.
"Good girl," Baelish said and was gone.
Sansa smoothed her skirt and stood as far away from the dying knight as possible. The maester gave a sloppy excuse about finding some woman to wash the wound. Sandor's cloak was still firmly lodged in the gash and no one thought to remove the armour. The boy breathed weakly, uttering little, sharp sounds.
"How can any death be pretty?" Sansa wondered aloud when she thought herself alone, and Sandor felt something in the place where his conscience used to be before he had conveniently murdered it.
The woman had to be precisely that woman, girl, wench, or future wife of a lucky pig-herder. She had the good sense of trying to remove the armour, but she was going to tear the boy's throat open by her clumsy execution of it.
Sandor sprang out of the shadows, helped, kept the wound closed.
"Did…" Sansa was telling him something, but for a few moments Sandor's hands were too full. He did not listen.
The washing wench opened Sandor's visor. That woke him up. He slammed it down. "Watch out if you want to keep all your fingers," he barked.
"Answer the lady," the wench insolently barked back. "She's asked you something five times. We are done here."
"Did your lance go where you wanted it to go?" Sansa repeated her question for a sixth time, in a painfully familiar, tremulous voice behind his back.
"No," Sandor answered truthfully, realising that the polite bird omitted to call him either lord or ser. Do you know me?
"But how? Why?" Sansa asked, wringing her hands. "You… you… you are… you won a tourney… you must know better."
Of course Sansa knew him. Just as he had known her.
The wench had to finish Sandor off with her mouth. "His lance missed because he was looking at you, my lady. For the second time today." With an evil grin, the scrawny little bitch left the tent, left them alone.
Sandor wanted to drink himself into oblivion for the first time in years. He grabbed a jar with the milk of the poppy left by the maester for the moribund and was about to gulp it down when Sansa caught his armoured hand. "Is it true?" she asked softly and the tremor in her voice was of a different kind. It rang with… expectation.
"Yes," Sandor said tiredly and pulled his helm off, sick of pointless pretending.
"Brother Driftwood?" Sansa asked with suspicion.
He looked at her like a hawk and came one step closer, dragging his leg, waiting for her to avert her eyes from the ugly, old cripple that was now towering over her, and not for the first time. She never did. She studied him with a blank, bloodless expression on her heart-shaped face.
"I had to call myself some mystery shit," he explained. "There is a price on the Hound's head." Some bugger had stolen his helm from where the Elder Brother had piously buried it, and did worse than Gregor in the place called Saltpans. He wondered if Sansa knew and if she believed it.
"On the Hound's, but not on yours?" she asked carefully, her reason sharpened as the dagger he had put on her throat the last time they saw each other.
"Not my butcher's work," he shrugged, feigning indifference, making another step.
Sansa noticed the limp now and he hated the new look of pity in her eyes.
"I could still kill you," he rasped carelessly, clinging to the only thing he knew. Fear was respect.
"But you won't," Sansa said with more certainty than he sometimes possessed on the matter.
"Probably not," he conceded her a small victory. "I only kill red-heads," he clarified, taking a small lock of hair between his fingers.
"Do you… Do you only kiss red-heads as well?"
"I kiss willing wenches," he murmured without thinking.
Sansa's face was inscrutable.
"What about ladies?" she asked, looking up to him.
Her chirping was as annoying as he remembered it. His head hurt and he found no mocking remark to hurl back at her.
"Hop off, little bird," he chased her away. "Get the bloody maester if you want your betrothed to live."
Sansa sighed and obediently walked out of the tent.