Sandor was breaking his fast in the common room off the kitchens where the castle household took their meals. He was tired, hungover, and his head felt simultaneously muffled yet painfully receptive to any and all noise.
"Up early today, Hound," said Balon Swann.
Sandor muttered something about wanting to get to the yard. The truth was, he'd slept in the common room last night. After encountering Sansa Stark on the roof, he'd wanted nothing more than to shift his existence to the bottom of a barrel of Dornish red. The wine felt oily and thick in his stomach this morning, swirled through with a ribbon of bile. He tore off a chunk of bread and chewed it without enthusiasm. He'd vomit, if he must, but the pounding his head would take if he moved wasn't worth finding a privy just yet. He hoped the bread would absorb the foulness in his gut. He wasn't on duty again until the afternoon. Plenty of time to . . . think about the girl. Damn it. His mood darkened. He'd had enough of her last night. The city was on the very brink of war, teetering, and his life with it, maybe. He didn't need the distraction.
He'd chosen to spend last night differently than he usually did. No drinking. No whoring. No skulking around the little bird's bedchamber or wandering the Keep in hopes of running into her. No, he'd gone up to the roof to get a feel for what lay ahead. To brace himself, if he'd wanted to be honest about it. Had somebody asked, he would have said he was considering strategy. But there was no one to ask. Men didn't seek out his company any more than he welcomed it.
From the roof, all he saw was smoke and flames. He stood for a long time, gazing out over the city. So thick was the smoke, the stars were blotted out and the moon was nearly hidden in shadow. Columns of smoke seemed to billow from countless points in the city as though fissures in the ground were barely containing a heaving lake of fire waiting to erupt from below. Soldiers carried torches along the walls, campfires burned across the river, and everywhere clouds of smoke lingered like wraiths.
So much fire. And more to come once the war starts. He looked at the Red Keep's towers but he knew he'd be leading men so the Keep's height and cool, solid stone could offer him no relief. The catapults, likewise, were not for him. His place was on the ground, where the smoke was thickest. His eyes fell on the maze of city streets and suddenly cold, stark fear ripped through him. Those streets would direct and trap any flame within them. Crammed with people, carts, horses . . . dark with smoke, tiny sparks flying skyward as panic spread quicker than sickness. If fire got in those streets, the blackness would engulf them all as they fought and jostled against each other like rats in a bag. He would be trapped, pinned, unable to move as he and all the rest burned and choked on the stench of their own melting flesh.
With a ragged inhale, Sandor forced himself to look at the water and away from the streets. Gods, let me be near the river, or the bay. The damned archers would rain fire arrows upon them but at least there was space to move on the shore. Fighting in a city, where there were hearth fires and torches and smithies, was not the same as fighting in the woods or open fields. He needed room to swing his sword, to let Stranger rear or kick or turn as he needed to. To run. Being unable to fight back was nearly as intolerable as being burned. So he looked at the water in the weak moonlight, where smoke hung like netting, acrid and poisonous, but his mind was trapped in the dark recesses of the streets. After a time, he stared without seeing, himself a black column in the night. In his mind he heard the sounds of horses crying, and smelled the husky, sickening scent of burning flesh. These horrors, distant for now but closing in steadily, washed over him. Soon they'd be real enough. Best get ready . . .
Suddenly, unbidden, the Stark girl appeared at the top of the steps. Sandor stepped back into the shadows, the screams of people roasting alive fading from his ears. What was she doing here, this late at night? He cut down the thought that she'd somehow sought him out before it could fully form. She was alone. Her carelessness with her own safety made him frown but who would have been her companion, traitor's daughter that she was? She looked out over the city as he had done, wreaths of smoke causing her features to stand out in relief or smudging them as the air shifted. Sandor remained silent and still. What would become of her when he was nothing but ash? Her life was teetering in the balance of this war, too. Suddenly, she cried out and pitched forward, losing her balance, clawing at a merlon to try and steady herself. Instinct made him step forward and grab her arm before she could fall. From there, everything, except her, had gone downhill.
"Let go of me," she cried. "Let go."
It was no more than he expected, yet it angered him. War was brewing and, if she wasn't very lucky, worse hands than his would be on her. "The little bird thinks she has wings, does she? Or do you mean to end up crippled like that brother of yours?"
Sansa twisted, trying to break his grip. "I wasn't going to fall. It was only . . . you startled me, that's all."
Enough with the lies. Say what you mean before we're both dead. "You mean I scared you. And still do."
The girl's pretty chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath. "I thought I was alone, I . . ." You wish you were alone, Sandor thought. But then she glanced away and the old rage surged within him.
"The little bird still can't bear to look at me, can she?" He dropped her arm. It was clear she wanted nothing more than to be away from him. "You were glad enough to see my face when the mob had you, though. Remember?" The memory of her arms wrapped around his chest had lingered longer than it should have, and it embarrassed him now. He ground his teeth together, annoyed he'd spoken. She knew her courtesies well enough not to need prompting. Then the little bird turned and stared into his face. He felt his mouth twitch as he drew in short, shallow breaths. He returned her gaze and let her have her look. The ever-present fury inside him bubbled and rolled like the lake of fire he'd imagined earlier.
"I . . . I should have come to you after," she said haltingly. "To thank you, for . . . for saving me . . .you were so brave."
So. He'd forced her to say something and this is what he got. He'd never heard an emptier compliment. The little bird could chirp out endless nonsense to her captors and everyone else but, for him, there were no pretty words, no sweet songs of thanks. His desire for her acknowledgment shamed him and he shoved it away. He refused to put a higher value on his actions than she did. He saw a flash of fire across the river and something in his chest tightened.
"Brave?" He laughed cruelly. "A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats. They had me thirty to one, and not a man of them dared face me."
"Does it give you joy to scare people?"
For half a heartbeat, he was caught off guard by her directness but her words gave the lie of her concern. Thirty strangers who'd have fucked her bloody and she was worried about them being scared by him.
"No, it gives me joy to kill people." His mouth twitched. It was a lie and it tasted sour on his tongue but he knew it was what she expected him to say. "Wrinkle up your face all you like, but spare me this false piety. You were a high lord's get. Don't tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man." He didn't truly think of her as a 'get' but the ugliest part of him wanted to retaliate. How could she think he'd done wrong by scaring her attackers? As for her father, Eddard Stark killed like any other man - why should Sandor be castigated for doing the same? He doubted Stark had ever killed anyone for his daughter, but he had. He'd been a fucking knight for her. He'd ridden out of a fucking song and into a fucking mob and it hadn't made a fucking difference.
"That was his duty. He never liked it."
Bullshit. "Is that what he told you?" Sandor laughed again. It sounded unnatural and somehow wild. "Your father lied. Killing is the sweetest thing there is." He drew his longsword. Its heft in his hand, its cool pommel didn't calm him but rather helped channel the anger coursing through him. "Here's your truth. Your precious father found that out on Baelor's steps. Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, Warden of the North, the mighty Eddard Stark, of a line eight thousand years old . . . but Ilyn Payne's blade went through his neck all the same, didn't it? Do you remember the dance he did when his head came off his shoulders?" Don't look down your pretty little nose at me, girl. I saved you. Tell me what served you better: your father's titles or my sword?
Sansa hugged herself. "Why are you always so hateful? I was thanking you . . ."
"Just as if I was one of those true knights you love so well, yes. What do you think a knight is for, girl? You think it's all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in gold plate? Knights are for killing." He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Maybe this would make her understand. Steel was the currency of knights, not favors and flowers. "I killed my first man at twelve. I've lost count of how many I've killed since then." He rattled them off, their faces flashing through his mind. ". . . and women and children too - they're all meat and I'm the butcher." Sansa looked at him with a maddening calm. Neither his sword at her neck nor his claims seemed to make an impression on her. He switched tacks. "Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers." Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. "So long as I have this," he said, lifting the sword from her throat, "there's no man on earth I need fear."
"Not even the men across the river?"
Sandor looked out over the water. Talking about killing had, however briefly, made him forget about the fire and he felt somehow calmer, if still irked by her lack of reaction. "All this burning." He sheathed his sword. "Only cowards fight with fire."
"Lord Stannis is no coward."
Sandor bit back his frustration. So quick to praise the man who'd probably have you killed or wedded and bedded the instant he should prevail. "He's not the man his brother was either. Robert never let a little thing like a river stop him." A little thing, but put me near it.
"What will you do when he crosses?"
"Fight. Kill. Die, maybe." Not that you'd care.
"Aren't you afraid? The gods might send you down to some terrible hell for all the evil you've done."
There was no winning with her. "What evil?" He laughed in frustration. "What gods?" Hell is a brazier and it wasn't the gods who sent me there.
"The gods who made us all."
"All?" he mocked. "Tell me, little bird, what kind of god makes a monster like the Imp, or a halfwit like Lady Tanda's daughter? If there are gods, they made sheep so the wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with." He couldn't stop himself. He'd saved her from whatever horrors Lady Tanda's daughter had endured, yet she'd go on raking him over the hot coals of her judgment.
"True knights protect the weak."
He snorted. Like young girls about to be raped by a mob? Where were your true knights then? "There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different." Sandor dug himself in deeper. He hadn't earned her regard so he'd fulfill her expectations. It was familiar territory, though somehow he'd allowed himself to hope for better from her. His disappointment was all the more bitter for it.
Sansa backed away from him and he felt a sick kind of satisfaction. He'd failed to draw her in so he had to push her away.
"You're awful."
Stung, he wanted no more. "I'm honest. It's the world that's awful. Now fly away, little bird, I'm sick of you peeping at me."
Wordless, she fled.
Sandor looked again at the trap of the city streets and endless flames, feeling hollow. He waited several long minutes, giving her enough time to be gone, before descending himself and heading straight to the kitchens for some wine. He drank steadily, letting the sour liquid run down his throat with barely a swallow. Feeling like there was no place for him at all, he leaned against the stone wall, put his heavy booted feet on the bench, and gulped down wine until his eyelids drooped and he slumped over the table, unconscious but not relieved.
Sandor was still chewing his bread when Bel, one of Sansa's maids, rushed in, waved her hands in front of her wet and blackened apron, and said something about "the Stark girl" that no one understood before she doubled over, tears streaming down her face, laughing so hard it sounded like she was choking. Sandor normally couldn't abide the mindless gossip of the serving girls but if this concerned the little bird, he wanted to hear it. Her lies were as clear as glass but her actions were above reproach.
"What is so funny?" asked Gret, amused. "What is it?" she insisted when Bel couldn't respond.
Bel stood up, clutching a stitch in her side, scarcely able to draw breath. Everyone in the common room was silent, waiting to hear what she would say. "The Stark girl -" Another fit of giggles. "The daft girl -" Sandor leaned forward as another gale of laughter overtook the maid. "She . . . she flowered and - "
Sandor felt every muscle in his face fall. Flowered. His feelings were still raw from the previous night but the thought of Joffrey and the Lannisters' filthy, greedy hands all over her seemed to turn last night's wine into molten lead in his belly.
"She tried to, to - " Bel's face split into a wide grin and tears of mirth spilled over her cheeks again. "Hide it by -"
"By what, Bel? Tell us!" Gret was laughing and most everyone else in the room was smiling, eager for the punchline.
Bel gasped, trying to contain herself long enough to get the words out. "By shoving her whole featherbed into the fireplace!"
The room erupted in laughter, driving like a spike through Sandor's skull. He pushed up off the table and got to his feet. He'd go find her and shake some sense into her before she made things worse. His stomach lurched as he realized there'd be no saving her this time. Not now that half the castle knew. The buggering king would have her for certain, and would relish her pain. Something in Sandor's soul sank. Not hope, he didn't allow himself that, but more like early regret for the loss of something beautiful from his life.
Someone behind him muttered, "She's as crazy as the Stokeworth girl."
"But prettier and richer," was the answer.
Sandor was in silent agreement but then her words returned to him: Hateful. Evil. Awful. The ground seemed to be sliding under his feet. His temples were damp with sweat.
"Not only that," Bel was continuing, "she cut holes in the sheets and drenched the lot in oil. The girl meant to start a right blaze, from the looks of it. Took me, Sarah, and Anne to pull her away from that featherbed, crazed as she was." Giggles shook her again.
"Cut holes in the sheets?" Gret grinned.
"In a panic to cover it up, wasn't she?"
"Don't know why. Plain to see she's grown, the way her teats are spilling out of her dresses." There was hooting and a few crude suggestions.
Suddenly a bucket slid to a stop next to Sandor's foot. "Alright there, Hound?" Swann called from several benches away. Sandor swayed, his stomach rolling in hot waves.
"The lass prob'bly didn't flower at all," said a sly voice. "Prob'bly just covering up a rough night with her lover." Sandor barely heard the laughter that followed over the roaring in his ears.
Bel shook her head in bemusement. "Seven save us all. Lucky she didn't burn the entire castle down to the ground."
"What'd you do with her, Bel?"
"Washed her up and sent her to the queen."
The queen? Sandor dropped to his knees and vomited spectacularly into the bucket, garnering cries of disgust from everyone near him. When he stopped retching, he pushed his hair off his face, though it did little to improve his bleary view. Sandor could feel the weight of disapproving eyes on him and his ears registered revolted tones, if not actual words, but he didn't care. Stares and slurs were nothing new to him. His mind grappled with everything that had happened since the night before. That and the stench of last night's wine made him gag again. When he lifted his head, his mind was clearer. His legs felt shaky but his stomach, finally empty, stabilized and he was able to stagger from the common room, carrying the bucket with him.
He returned to his room and tried to scour the foulness from his mouth. As he sluiced water over his head and scrubbed his skin clean, his tired, wine-soaked mind flopped about for a course of action. He could go to Cersei but what would be his excuse? He wasn't on duty until the afternoon. He could look in on the little bird but the girl had already drawn more attention to her flowering than she'd no doubt intended. Sandor doubted his arrival right after the morning she'd had would be well received and he wasn't eager to argue with her again. Hateful. Evil. Awful. He could find Joffrey but, damn, the thought didn't appeal to him at all.
Now that the shock had worn off, he didn't think the king, for all his talk of putting a son in Sansa's belly, would deflower the girl right away. No, he'd practice on a few whores first and then shame Sansa for her lack of experience. Sandor didn't think Joffrey had had a woman yet. The boy would at times say something in passing and then flick an eye towards Sandor, furtively seeking confirmation or denial. He'd never ask a direct question but Sandor recognized his comments for what they were: a plea for information. In Joffrey's less annoying moments, Sandor actually felt something akin to pity for the boy. He had no men to advise him, only his mother, who'd made no attempt to hide her contempt for Robert and his very public dalliances. The Imp, Jaime Lannister, Tywin . . . none bothered with the king. Sandor didn't consider it his business, and it was hardly ever his interest, to guide Joffrey. Sandor gritted his teeth. The fool. No sweeter situation could have been offered to the boy than to have his pretty bride-to-be learn the ways of love with him. Had Joffrey been smarter and kinder, envy would have consumed Sandor. But, no. He trusted his instincts. The boy was a boy still.
Discerning no immediate danger to the girl and feeling unequal to doing anything else, Sandor collapsed on his bed and slept away the morning. Upon awaking, he dressed and went to report to Cersei. As he approached her chambers, he found Joffery leaving them.
"I heard there was a flood in the common room this morning, dog," he said with a smirk.
"Nearly so, your grace."
Joffrey laughed and Sandor was satisfied when he didn't mention Sansa. If the king had any intentions toward her, he was likely to brag about them. Still, he'd need to keep a closer eye on the boy. His mood could turn cruel in an instant, and if he sensed Sansa was anything short of obliging, he'd pounce right away. The thought made Sandor's stomach feel scrambled.
Cersei made no mention of the morning's events, either. She briefed him hastily, gave him his orders, and he was dismissed.
There was neither a need nor an opportunity for Sandor to interact with Sansa that day but he watched her, perched in the balcony as she was, while he stood behind Joffrey in court. She was pale and a little pinched-looking, he thought, but her features were as serene as ever. He wasn't familiar with how such things worked but there must have been a good amount of blood to have upset her so. No, it couldn't have been the blood. The girl had looked on her father's severed head with relative calm . . . It must've been the fact that she could now be wedded and bedded by the very king who'd had her father's head off in the first place. He knew she had no love for Joffrey . . . anymore. She has no love for you, either, he thought with a frown. Hateful. Evil. Awful. He could feel the corner of his mouth twitch. Everything was different but nothing had changed.
Days later, Sandor returned to the roof. The view was the same as before but this time it didn't cause his blood to seize in his veins. He sipped his flagon and watched the smoke billow skyward, his mind ever-wandering to Sansa. The gossip surrounding her flowering had died down faster than usual, the impending war being more interesting than the womanhood of a traitor's daughter. The knowledge lingered with him, though. He'd seen it coming. He'd told her so himself when the wine had gotten the better of him one night. She was a woman now. The thought stirred something inside him.
He wouldn't be sorry, he decided, if she should return to the roof tonight. He'd not encountered or seen her since that day in court and things had felt flat ever since. He snapped at his worthless brothers on the Kingsguard and trained in the yard until exhausted and sweat-soaked but he remained unsatisfied. Sansa, on the other hand, worked his mind, challenged his assertions, and stood firm in the face of his anger. Sandor was used to people giving way before him, but Sansa pushed back and he found he liked the friction. Everything and everyone else bored or disgusted him.
She wasn't without her own weapons, though. Unlike his, hers didn't cut - they reflected, and in them he saw her rendering of him: cruel, remorseless, godless, damned. When she'd looked at him, she'd really looked. Most people avoided his eye, afraid of his countenance, his short temper, and his savage skill with his sword. He'd laid that very sword against her neck and still she'd hurled insults at him. It amused him in hindsight and his mouth twitched into something of a smile as the edge melted off her words. Hateful. Evil. Awful. But brave, too. She'd called him brave, even if he'd had to prompt her to say so. She was brave, herself, to say what she had to him. Her honesty was the only breath of freshness in the entire smoke-choked city and Sandor wanted more of it. He also wanted something from her that he didn't want from anyone else: to change her mind about him. It was a dim notion, at best, but lately he'd found the collar he wore was starting to chafe. Sansa was the only one who'd ever asked him about being a dog. She was direct as well as honest and, for that, he couldn't help but admire her. For other reasons, too . . .
It had all been sliding away from him, the last time he was up on the roof, but Sansa had given his fear a foothold. War was still coming, and fire with it, but, for now, he felt a calm detachment. Sandor looked over the maze of streets and imagined all the people in the city: the knights and ladies, the washerwomen and tradesmen, the children and the spies, the whores and the godsworn. All were about to be heaved into the chaos of battle. He watched as tendrils of smoke curled into the sky, bringing to mind Sansa's hair with fire hidden in its shadows. She was the only one he'd save. Maybe one day, he'd get another chance . . .