Sandor Clegane made his way to the downtown districts of King's Landing. The veins of the city were alive and pumping with jazz music and drugs, alcohol and smoke. The sky was a black oblivion above the luminous neon lights of the skyscrapers and it was that time of night when the demons locked up in people's hearts come out to play, running wild on the streets with guns. This was not a pleasant town by any means, known for its high crime rates and dirty cops, King's Landing was run by gangs, the top gang being Sandor's bosses, The Lannisters. A family run gang, not uncommon in this city, known for their blond hair and lust for power. They had eyes that followed you even in the city's darkest of shadows, one word against them and your life was hour glass. They were also the wealthiest family in town which meant Sandor was paid handsomely for his work. He was officially a bodyguard, although his job often called for him to 'chase off the rats'. His years of violence, his bloody hands and knack for merciless killing had earned him the nickname The Hound, known throughout the city as one of the deadliest killers. If you saw The Hound coming down an alleyway towards you, you find another route.
However tonight Sandor was off duty, he'd had a day of tying up loose ends and he needed to relax, so he was visiting the Lannisters' most famous club, The King's Saloon. The club was a place where the filthy and the damned washed up at the end of the night, like broken bottles on a beach. You're likely to find all sorts of creatures lurking in the dimply lit corners of that place, though Sandor didn't care. He was not, as many others will confirm, a people person. A hideously twisted mess of knotted scars and burnt flesh clawed at one side of his face, a gift from his older brother when Sandor was just a boy. Largely built and tall, even the prostitutes with their veins of heroin and their standards as low as the heels of their boots, gave Sandor a second look. Because the thing people could not stand to look at with The Hound were his eyes. The colour of coal they gave nothing away, he was unreadable, a mask. But in fact, up close his eyes were a deep rich hazel, but if you're close enough to spot the softness in his eyes, you're already dead. Sandor found a cruel irony in the fact that those who saw a glimmer of humanity in his eyes were the dead, killed by his own hands.
It was gone 2am by the time Sandor arrived at The King's Saloon, the building lit up in the dark by red neon lights that warned of all manner of despair lurking behind those black doors. He nodded at the man on the door, dressed in a battered old suit, fanning his greased back hair with a cowboy hat.
"Bronn," Sandor grunted in way of greeting.
Bronn frowned as Sandor made his way to the doors. "Shouldn't you be using the back entrance, Clegane?"
"I need a drink," Sandor said, but Bronn was already distracted by a passing group of girls wearing teetering heels and dark lipstick shades. Sandor walked into the saloon, the familiar smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol and sick hitting him as he made his way to the bar. The walls of the club were a dark red, the only lights in the place were for the stage where two dancers were wrapped around a pole. The sound of raucous laughter and applause were the background music for The King's Saloon, with the faint beat of jazz underneath. Sandor sat at the bar while he drunk his whiskey, savouring the fire that burnt his throat. A man with floppy blond hair came and sat on the stool beside him.
"Cersei wants to see you in the back," The man, Jaime Lannister, said, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"She got any alcohol?" Sandor asked, as he finished his whisky.
"We know my sister," Jaime replied, a grin spreading across his face at the word 'sister', that made Sandor wonder whether the rumours were true. "Though I doubt she'll share."
Sandor sighed and stood, making his way through the drunken crowds to the back of the stage. Cersei wasn't hard to find, sat on a large leather armchair with a bottle of vodka in one hand, she looked almost like a queen. All around her, chaos ensued as dancers hurriedly switched their outfits or fixed their hair, yet Cersei simply sat, observing and drinking. Once, a long time ago, Cersei was the talk of the town; young, regal and beautiful she was the golden girl of the club, dancing with a shine only she could pull off. However as time went by she was deemed too old to dance anymore so now she sat on the sidelines, directing the dancers with a cold look in her eyes.
She spied Sandor and cocked her head to one side, swigging her vodka. "Clegane."
Sandor nodded back.
Cersei eyed the dancers with a mild interest. "We're tightening security on Joffrey, I want you to accompany him wherever he goes, no exceptions."
Sandor frowned but nodded again, knowing better than to ask questions.
Cersei smiled into her bottle. "It seems the wolves are out to play."
Sandor hesitated. "The Starks?"
Cersei paused, mid sip. Usually she would not tolerate questions, but The Hound was not one for betrayal. "It seems they've taken an interest in us. They will be dealt with in due course." She stared into space for some time and Sandor knew she was picturing wolves covered in blood. She turned to Sandor. "That will be all, Clegane."
Sandor walked away back to the front of the club, curious but not all that surprised. The Starks gang were old money, their name was legend in this town. Known for their loyalty and honesty, they were generally seen as good people, though they didn't get their association with wolves for nothing. Sandor remembered their words, tattooed onto Stark skin, graffitied on concrete walls and on the lips of anyone who walked alone on the streets at night, a cold wind tugging at their skin: "Winter is Coming." It still gave Sandor the chills whenever he heard it, though it was hard to believe given the hot weather that King's Landing experienced all year round. They were known rivals of the Lannisters, often rubbing shoulders in gang conflict, though from what Cersei said, it seemed to be a different and deeper matter this time.
Sandor found an empty table near the stage where he ordered another whiskey, double, and watched as the dancers vacated the stage for the next act. His drink came and he ran his finger along the cool edge of the glass, his mind lazily turning to the crazed jungle streets of King's Landing where wolves and lions waited for something, but what?
At that moment the stool beside him was dragged back as someone hopped onto it, smiling up at Sandor with a crooked grin and mismatched eyes.
Sandor addressed the man with bored eyes. "Tyrion."
"Evening, dog," Tyrion replied.
Tyrion was the brother of Cersei and high up in the gang's standing. A smart man who sorted out the accounting and any other business that needed a more measured response than the others were capable of. Sandor often found him irritating though; Tyrion knew how to outsmart others with his wit and cunning and Sandor found it tiring.
"Have you heard about this Stark business?" Tyrion asked, taking a swig of his drink.
"Your sister mentioned it in passing, what's the reason?"
Tyrion's smile faded slightly. "Joffrey's been a very bad boy."
Sandor said nothing and waited for the dwarf to continue.
"He stole something from the Starks and they are not taking the matter lightly."
Sandor frowned, it wasn't like the Lannisters to steal something as trivial as money, it was power they lusted after, and power comes in all manner of forms. However Joffrey, Cersei's son, was an entirely different matter. He was young and stupid, always greedy for new toys to play with whether that be a new gun, a new car or a new victim to torture until they screamed.
"What did he steal?" Sandor asked, feeling his interest in the matter increasing.
Tyrion swirled the drink in his glass. "Why, she's on next."
Sandor's eyebrows raised, which in itself surprised him. Nothing surprised The Hound.
A dark haired waitress flitted past at that moment, catching Tyrion's eye with a mischievous smile. Tyrion watched her go, finished his drink and hopped off the stool.
"Enjoy the rest of the show, dog," he called as he followed the waitress into one of the rooms in the back.
Sandor grunted and turned his attention to the stage where a man with a brisk walk and a small moustache walked on. His name was Petyr Baelish, otherwise known as Littlefinger for reasons known but never talked about. Baelish was not a man to make fun of; he was powerful, with associates in high places. He was never anything less than a friend of a friend for anyone in this city. In the club he took care of the dancers and was in charge of seeking out new talent in all the hopeless alleyways of King's Landing.
He greeted the crowd with a smile and a cheer replied. "Good evening, my friends."
'You're no friend of mine,' Sandor thought as he took another sip of his drink.
"Tonight we have a very special treat for you all to enjoy. I give you the gorgeous, the velvet voiced beauty, Sansa Stark!" Baelish turned and the girl walked on stage, his fingers grazing the skin of her hip as she passed him which Sandor suspected wasn't an accident.
She had long auburn hair that reached down to her waist and her face was the colour of cream. She wore a tight fitting black dress with a matching feather boa draped through her arms. The dark shades of makeup added years of age that didn't belong to her and Sandor could see she was trembling slightly. But she smiled for the crowd as she walked, the little black feathers fluttering to the floor behind her.
She looked like a little bird.
Gods, how old was she anyway? Sandor looked at the groups of men sat at the other tables, drooling over the girl and his grip around his glass tightened. Couldn't they see she was just a kid? Just a little bird trapped in a sleazy red curtained cage that stunk of booze.
Of course she was beautiful, there was no denying that, he wished he could simply see her as the child he knew she was but he couldn't keep his eyes off her. It was more than the way the dress clung to her hips or the deep sea blue of her eyes. There was something hopeful in the way she moved, the way she smiled, and hope was something rare in a city like this. It was as though she were clinging to this small piece of hope, a wish for something better than what the cards had dealt her.
The sound of blues piano seeped from the speakers like spilt liquor and the girl's voice was intoxicating, haunting and smooth as her perfectly formed red lips confessed her soul into the microphone. Sandor was drunk on the little bird's song.
When the song finished, Sandor blinked, hazy from the trance the girl's voice had put him in. She smiled, a little shyly as the crowd clapped their hands and stomped their feet, whistling for her. But there came from behind her the sound of arguing and a glass breaking, then a man stumbled onto the stage. His blond hair was a mess and the cuffs of his shirt were speckled with blood. Joffrey Lannister was in one of his drunken frenzied states, and that was when he was at his most dangerous. This is when he would go and find a whore to fuck or a man to torture.
Or a bird with wings to break.
Sandor tensed himself, watching the very slight change in the little bird's stance from facing the crowd to defensive against him, though her smile remained. Joffrey stumbled towards her, mocking a bow to the audience who roared with laughter.
"Isn't she a beauty?" The boy slurred, putting his arm around her waist.
The audience whistled in response. Joffrey leaned forward, pulling her hair so her face lay a breath away from his and Sandor saw a look of fear in her eyes. He knew that look, he saw it all the time in his line of work, the look of the prey facing their death, as if they could see their fate reflected in the predator's eyes.
"Come on baby, give me a kiss," Joffrey grinned. Sansa pecked him on the lips, tense.
Wrong move.
Joffrey pushed her back and she fell to floor, but still she attempted to keep her smiles up, though they were cracking at the sides. Joffrey stood above her.
"Feeling frigid are we? You need to loosen up. I think my lady is overdressed," Joffrey addressed the audience. "Shall I unburden her?"
The response from the sleazy bastards in the crowd was more than Sandor could bear. He felt that familiar feeling of rage twist up inside him like some caged beast he kept locked away, clawing at his insides to get out. The glass smashed in Sandor's grip but he didn't care, he'd finished his drink.
"Enough," he growled, though he wasn't sure whether he was talking to the beast inside him or to the other men. Either way, it was loud enough for the closest table of men to hear. One of them turned to Sandor, only seeing the good side of his face.
"What did you say?" One of the rats yelled, and the crowd quietened somewhat, sensing anger.
Sandor said nothing, he merely rose from his seat, drawing himself up to full height, the ruined side of his face in full view now.
The man who had spoken now shrank back in his seat as he recognised the town's most notorious killer, The Hound. There were rumours he tore out his target's neck with his teeth then fed his victim to the dogs.
But Sandor did nothing, simply stood and stared. It was enough. He then turned to the stage where Joffrey stood, a flicker of anxiety in his eyes, seeming like the teenager he really was beneath the layers of alcohol and drugs.
Sandor shook his head slightly at Joffrey, and Joffrey stepped away from the little bird and called for a drink, walking off stage. Joffrey was Sandor's boss, Sandor was his faithful dog, but Joffrey had seen The Hound kill a man with his bare hands, Joffrey would always be just a little bit afraid of The Hound. Sandor turned his attention to the girl, still lying on the stage, her eyes full of fear.
Sandor almost asked whether she was ok, but then he saw the way she looked at him.
And then he remembered all too quickly that he was a monster too.
She knew, how could she not? She knew he was a killer, you could tell just by looking at him. This was a man shaped by rage and strength, not someone the girl could trust.
She was afraid of him.
She was no different from the rest.
Sandor strode out of the club's back entrance into the alleyway behind the club. He could feel the anger rolling off him like dark waves on a stormy sea and the beast inside him had a hold of Sandor under the water. A shard of broken mirror lay on the ground in front of him; Sandor Clegane looked into it and The Hound stared back. He stumbled away, anger and revulsion making the beast's hold on Sandor stronger. He sat on the ground and tried to calm down. He allowed the cool night air to wash across his face, it felt refreshing. He sat like that for some time letting the beast sink beneath the waves, at least for now.
The door beside him creaked open and Sandor looked up to see the little bird peeking round, hesitant. She closed the door behind her and stood there in front of him. Her blue eyes met his and she looked away.
'Of course,' Sandor snorted with laughter. 'Of course she can't look at you.'
"Thank you," the girl said quietly.
Sandor's gaze snapped up to her face, she was blushing furiously, the crimson settling prettily on her pale cheeks.
The girl legs were shaking as if she was making herself stand so close to him. Brave of her really.
"I wasn't sure what he was going to do, y'no, back there," the little bird said, her voice trembling.
Sandor studied her carefully. "I did."
Sansa looked at him quickly then back at the floor. And Sandor knew that she knew what he would have done too.
"It's not the first time he's done something like this," she said. "He doesn't mean to do it, it's just when he drinks."
"You can spare me that bullshit," Sandor said.
Sansa's eyes flickered to his quickly. She sighed and sat down, a lock of her auburn hair had come loose from the rest. Sandor had a strange urge to tuck it behind her ear, but instead he balled his hands into fists and wished he had a drink.
"So since you'll be honest with me now, how did a girl like you wind up here anyway?" He asked.
The little bird didn't reply for a while, afraid to tell the truth but more afraid to lie. Finally she let go of a shaky breath. "He seemed so nice at first," she murmured, her words conjuring up ghosts of the past. "He was charming and kind. He treated me well, like I was his queen or something," she trailed off.
"But then he slowly began to show his true colours, one shade darker each time. By then it was too late of course. I was already away from my family and I knew he wouldn't let me go home, he never will."
Sansa looked at the floor, her gaze chasing a plastic bag caught in the breeze. Sandor didn't reply, knowing full well she was right. Joffrey did not let go of his toys, not until they broke.
"So it meant a lot, what you did earlier, thank you," Sansa smiled, but she smiled at the floor, afraid to look him in the eye.
Suddenly the warmth he got from her voice vanished, her gratitude was empty. She was thanking his actions, but not him. He wanted her to look at him. No, needed her to.
In a flash he had his hand clamped on her dainty chin, his eyes bearing into hers.
"Look at me," he growled, his voice was ferocity and danger, but deep down there was a small plea.
Sansa's gaze met his slowly, full of fear, Sandor could feel the tension in her body. But as he stared into her eyes he found himself growing calmer, noticing the flecks of silver in the rich azure of her eyes. They reminded him of the evening skies he used to see as a boy. By the time he broke from the influence of her eyes, he realised she had relaxed, her eyes full of a gentle curiosity.
"You won't hurt me," she murmured, sounding slightly surprised but full of kindness too.
Sandor's grip on her chin had already slackened until he was merely grazing it with his fingers absentmindedly. He broke off and sat back away from the bird with the bright eyes.
She had looked at him in the eye. When was the last time someone had done that? Sandor suddenly felt vulnerable. He hated it, but at the same time he couldn't stop from looking up at her from time to time, and still she watched him, a tiny smile playing on her lips. She was no longer afraid of him.
"What's your name?" She asked.
"I'm The Hound," he replied, his voice dark. "Everyone knows that."
"But what's your name?" Sansa pressed.
After a long hesitation, he replied. "Sandor Clegane."
Sansa nodded and stood up. "I'm going to go back inside now," she said. "Thank you again."
Sandor stared up at her and gave a slight inclination of his head.
Sansa's delicate hand rested on the door and she looked at him one last time, her blue eyes meeting his across the small stretch of night that lay between them. "Goodnight, Sandor."
Sandor sat staring where she'd gone through the doors for a long time after she'd left. His insides felt like the debris left after a storm, everything was upturned and confused. The little bird had seen something tonight that no one had ever seen before and lived to speak of it. Sandor ran a hand through his ragged hair.
There was one thing was he absolutely sure of. There would be no more shed feathers for that little bird.