Weekly Drabble Prompt #7 The story of 'The Mountain and The Hound', inspired by 1x04
lilfeather1994 wrote in sansan_got
Petyr Tells Sansa the Story of Sandor's Scars by Littlefeather1994
"This tourney for Ned is the grandest Kings Landing has ever seen." Petyr Baelish remarked to King Robert. Petyr made sure his face reflected passive interest as he gazed over the pavilion.
"It's no more than Ned deserves, no more than the new Hand of the King deserves," replied Robert, patting the serving the serving wench on the bottom as she refilled his goblet. He could never turn down an opportunity to needle Littlefinger. Robert's words seared into his mind. "What did Ned deserve, exactly? Why has been given so much that belongs to me! Isn't enough he has my beloved Cat, and now he is named Hand of the King!" the words shouted in Petyr's mind but never left his lips. Poisoning Jon Arryn was supposed to ensure his place as the Hand of the King. He knew others wanted it; Ser Illyn Payne thought he should have it, he knew; in Payne's mind his years of loyal service as the king's royal executioner should have been rewarded. Inexplicibly Robert had named Ned Stark instead of either men.
Outwardly he maintained his usual lordly demeanor. Inside, however, he was choking down the seething envy he felt welling in his heart. Petyr responded to Robert's jape by shouting, "Indeed! Here, Here! To Ned Stark!" draining his goblet with one swig. Soon he spied a red-haired maiden-could it be-Cat?- Petyr's heart lept at the sight of her, then quickly realized his mistake; it was her oldest daughter Sansa on the arm of Ned. She looked so beautiful, the very image of her mother, holding on to Ned's arm as he guided her to their seats next to Arya and Septa Mordane. The very sight of her smiling up so sweetly at Ned, squeezing his arm in excitement made Petyr physically ill with rage.
"She should have been our daughter Cat", Petyr thought. The only benefit to Ned's position as Hand of the King was that it meant he would see Catelyn every day. The idea filled his heart with love. Hers was the first, the only love he had ever known. She had given her maidenhead to him. He had been positive she would marry him after that. He had tried to in vain whore his memory of her out of his mind, earning him a lewd reputation, but it was never the same as with Cat. One day Ned Stark had rode up offering her a ladyship, Winterfell, and all that it entailed; and soon Petyr found himself tossed aside as collateral damage in the game of thrones, left to console himself with Cat's ugly but willing sister Lysa.
Sansa was thrilled as she took in the scene-ladies dressed in their finest gowns and jewels, knights in gleaming armor, huge war horses being prepared for the joust...it was the most exciting thing she had ever experienced. It looked like something out of the stories she loved to read as a child. Joffrey was sitting with his father and flanked by the Hound, and he smiled when he saw her. People turned to see which lucky maiden had the Crown Prince's attention. Sansa felt a deep blush rise to her cheeks as their eyes fell on her, and all of her sadness over her mother's departure evaporated.
Ser Loras Tyrell rode up on a beautiful white mare, bowed and handed her a red rose with flourish. Sansa beamed at him and turned to her father, squeezing his arm and laughing merrily. Ned couldn't help but smile at her girlish enthusiasm, but inwardly he worried over how the tourney would progress. He knew many of the participants: Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides; his brother Sandor, the Hound-known as the fiercest fighter in Westeros; Jaimie Lannister, the Kingslayer...not exactly men he wanted Sansa and Arya to cheer on at their first tourney. As far as he was concerned he hoped they all lost.
The tourney began, and soon Gregor and Loras assumed their places for the joust. Ned heard King Robert bellow his name from high up in the stands, causing everyone to look his direction. "Sounds like Robert's had a bit too much wine," thought Ned, "Better go up to him before he makes a scene." As Ned rose from his seat the joust began. He was loathe to leave the girls just then, but went to Robert just the same.
Petyr gritted his teeth knowing he would have to greet Ned as he made his way toward Robert. He could barely tear his eyes away from Sansa's creamy skin, flushed prettily with excitement. He remembered how Cat's skin, so similar to Sansa's, felt like velvet under his touch. He licked his lips subconsciously at the memory of her taste, like honeyed wine. He felt himself go hard at the thought. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and noticed Sansa moving in her seat. As she turned to look their way, his breath caught at the sight of her Tully blue eyes, her perfect pink lips forming a demure smile.
"Is she smiling at me?" Petyr's heart raced like a teenage boy at the thought. Then he noticed the direction of her gaze. Sansa looked right past him and was smiling at Sandor Clegane, the Hound.
How could she look at that monster and smile? His mind could barely comprehend what was happening. "First she smiles at Ned, then at the Hound?" Bile rose in Petyr's throat in indignation. "She was supposed to be mine, my daughter, smiling at me! Doesn't she realize who I am? She acts like I am a nobody here-ungrateful little wolf-bitch!" he hissed, though no one around him heard him, or even seemed to care he was even there.
"Just wait and see. I'll wipe that pretty little smile off of her face; I know just the story that should do the job nicely." Petyr grinned wickedly, moving from Robert's side and making his way to Sansa. He exchanged a look with the Hound, which temporarily distracted him, but he moved on. He sidled up close to Sansa and took her father's empty seat next to her.
Petyr was not the only watching Sansa. Sandor had noticed him leering the moment Ned and Sansa arrived. "Stupid buggering bastard, getting up and leaving his daughters with the likes of these men around," thought the Hound as he watched Littlefinger gape at Sansa. He noticed the unmistakable lust in eyes and noticed the bulge in his pants and he rushed past him. "Sick Littlefucker" he growled, and Petyr glanced back at him briefly, before continuing toward Sansa.
Sandor had many times heard Robert and Joffrey speak of her great beauty on the Kingsroad. He had noticed her when they arrived at Winterfell, and had admired her mother's beauty. Sandor was always partial to red hair. He made sure he took his opportunity to speak to her when he stopped Ser Illyn Payne from intimidating her. She was even more beautiful than they had said; young and graceful with striking blue eyes and creamy skin. When he touched her shoulder he felt her trembling like a pretty little songbird from the Summer Isles. As she turned to him she looked directly in his face, something few ladies or whores alike would do, let alone a highborn maiden. He was used to seeing people look in fear at him, and he was shocked to see in her eyes it was not him she feared; she was scared of Ser Illyn.
Sandor secretly thrilled at having her attention, and had replayed that moment many times since. "Joff thought I scared her, the inbred idiot. She is such a delicate thing. How could he not know it was his own stupid bragging about Ser Illyn being the royal executioner that frightened her?" Sandor was no ladies' man like King Robert or Tyrion, his experience being limited to whores occasionally, but even he knew Joff's remarks were not a decent topic of conversation with a lady. He was angry still at the memory of Joff sending him away.
He was jolted out of his own thoughts by the sight of Sansa looking up at him; her eyes lit up when they met his and a shy smile spread across her face, without a trace of fear to be seen in her. Sandor could feel his lips threatening to smile back, but he quickly averted his eyes from hers. "Better if she doesn't learn to get friendly with the likes of me, she's safer that way," he begrudgingly thought to himself. He hated himself as he looked up again and glared at her, watching her pretty smile turn to a frown as she looked away. The feeling of having a pretty girl look at him and smile without fear was new and exciting to Sandor, and more good than he expected to ever know in life. He loathed to put an end to it, but it was best for Sansa, he knew, and couldn't bear it if anything happened to her.
Sansa was surprised and confused when the Hound did not return her smile. She was deeply disappointed, although she could not say why. She felt since he was Joffrey's sworn shield, she wanted to make his acquaintance; maybe they could eventually become friends of sorts after she became Queen...but he sneered at her and turned away with an annoyed look on his face. Had she somehow offended him? Her mind replayed their first meeting, and her thoughts were interrupted by Littlefinger sitting down in her father's seat.
"Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?" Petyr began, much to Sansa's confusion. What is he saying to me? Sansa wondered. Arya didn't like the way he eyed her sister. "Why do they call you Littlefinger?"she leaned over and snapped, earning her an elbow in the ribs from her septa." Lovely little tale of brotherly love." Petyr continued, ignoring her.
"The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe, Gregor few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with the talent of violence." Sansa's eyes widened. She was raised with boys and she had no idea what he was talking about. What does he want? Undeterred, Petyr went on, leaning in close." One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire, Gregor's toy." He paused, noticing the color drain from Sansa's face and her brows nit together worriedly.
He leaned in closer, taking in the lavender scent of her hair." A wooden knight. Gregor never said a word, he just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals."
Sansa slowly turned, her eyes briefly glanced at the Hound. Could he hear what Lord Baelish was telling her? The Hound was looking straight ahead, his face unreadable. His scars were mostly covered by his hair, and Sansa noticed for the first time that without them he may have been rather good-looking. He had the look of Northern men, like her own father, which Sansa liked. She quickly turned her head back to Littlefinger as he continued.
"Held him there while the boy screamed. While his face melted." He hissed his finish, then paused for the full effect of his words to sink in. "There aren't many people who know that story." "I won't tell anyone, I promise." Sansa whispered, relieved he was finished.
"No please don't." Petyr looked straight into Sansa's eyes, trying not to laugh in her face at his success in scaring her. "If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all of the knights in King's Landing would be not be able to save you." he ended, smirking to himself, satisfied at Sansa's fearful expression had replaced her earlier happiness.
She took a deep breath and wondered at Lord Baelish's words. What was his point in telling her of all people this story?Why did he not fear telling her the Hound's story? For all she knew the Hound may have heard every word out of his mouth. Her heart went out to him. He must have a fearsome past and seen terrible things. "He must be very brave" she decided. She could not resist the urge to peek around at him once more.
As Sandor watched his brother and Ser Loras joust, he couldn't help but feel sorry for Loras. He really was the Knight of Flowers, too much of a highborn to match Gregor. There was gossip around King's Landing that he was Renly Baratheon's lover, which seemed confirmed by the look of fear on Renly's face. Gregor dwarfed him and bared his teeth in rage. "Poor bastard doesn't know what he's in for."
Sandor's thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of Littlefinger's voice, mockingly telling Sansa something in a low tone. "Not low enough, Littlefucker," Sandor thought. He must have forgotten what good hearing hounds have, for Sandor picked up every word out of his mouth. Sandor soon realized he was telling the poor child the whole story about his burns, dramatized in such a way to scare poor Sansa even further.
"Robert must've told him when he was drunk, damn me," Sandor cursed. Robert could hold his liquor with the best of them, though. "It wasn't him", Sandor decided. Maybe it was Varys who told him. He and Robert were the only two men who knew how he got his scars, the rest of the people assuming it was in a fierce battle. "If Varys wasn't already a eunuch I'd geld him for this," Sandor growled to himself.
"Littlefucker can't stand it that the pretty Little Bird would rather smile at me than look his direction." Sandor grunted at his conclusion, never dreaming a soft handed pretty little lord like Baelish would ever be jealous of the attentions a lovely Highborn maiden paid to him, the Hound, Joffrey's Dog. He felt a chuckle coming out, but he wanted to hear the rest of it, so he maintained his usual disinterested expression and keened his ears closely to Littlefinger's words.
Littlefinger's story didn't seem to have the desired effect however, because when he finished Sansa once again turned to look at him. Sandor was astonished as he returned Sansa's gaze, allowing his gray eyes to soften as he looked at her. Her expression was not in fear of him, but rather in fear for him; she regretted the terrible thing that had happened to him deeply. Her eyes were filled with sorrow at the story she heard, and she looked at him with new found admiration and respect on her face. He could see she wanted to say something, maybe offer him comfort of some sort. She didn't fear he would kill her, as that idiot Littlefucker all but threatened her he would. He would have never hurt the girl, even if she did tell someone. He would've barked at her some, that's all, just to keep her on her toes.
Sandor almost laughed out loud at the shocked look on Baelish's face, not having time to say more as Ned returned to his seat, and Littlefinger was forced to sit in an empty spot behind them. Sansa smiled up at her father, returning to her former happy self as she watched the joust in excitement.
"Damn him to the Seven Hells he has bad luck," thought the Hound. Instead of Littlefinger scaring her from him, it seemed to draw her to him even more. He would love nothing more to cut that runt Littlefucker in half, not just for telling that story, but for scaring his pretty Little Bird. Sandor knew he could bide his time; he'd get his chance sooner rather than later.
Later, Petyr would see the utter failure of his attempts. Sandor raced to face off with Gregor, with Loras scrambling to escape the ensuing battle. Sansa clutched Ned's arm in fear and gasped as the loud clash of their swords rang out. When King Robert shouted, "Stop this madness in the name of your King!" Sandor fell to one knee at once, holding his sword in front of his body and bowing his head. When he raised his eyes and looked at Robert, the next person that caught his eye was Sansa.
She jumping up from her seat and clapping her hands, tossing Loras' red rose to him, her face beaming and her eyes shining as though he was a knight from a fairy tale. Littlefinger looked appalled at her, gaping at her reaction.
And Sandor felt wonderful, better than he knew he could feel, marveling at the knowledge a beautiful Highborn maiden would listen to his story and see beyond his scars, both visible and invisible, and cheer for him with a smile.