Prologue:
The day was hot with an unbroken blue sky, a perfect picture of silence, if not for the tourney going on beneath it. With each joust came a louder roar, more deafening than the last, and Sansa Stark wanted nothing more than for the screams and shouts to obliterate everything until she could neither see nor hear anymore. It would mean she did not have to sit next to Joffrey, who leapt up every so often with shouts of WELL DONE and then turning back to lean over her and say:
"Didn't you like that, my lady?"
"There was an awful lot of blood, your graceā¦" She had replied once.
"Of course there was," Joffrey had said, "He had a spear put through his head. What did you think would come spurting out, honey?" He had then sat down as the next jousters made their way to the opposite ends of the track, saying "Just typical of a stupid girl to think such a thing. If you had seen just how much blood can come out of a man you'd faint."
"Of course I would, your grace." Hardly, she thought, it would be you who would faint if you saw just how much comes out of me.
Her thoughts were disturbed yet again by the King shouting beside her. The two knights on horseback were beginning the charge. She craned her neck forward slightly, yearning for a better look. Despite the constant darkness she felt consumed by, the tourney always gave her stomach a slight fluttering feeling, reminding her of days past.
The very ground thundered as the horses charged by, clashing together like rocks smashing into one another as they tumble off a cliff. The rider on the other side of the pole was sent crashing from his horse, which gave an ear-piercing scream as it went down with him. Whoever was still seated, remained perfectly still upon his enormous black horse, holding his jousting rod with an intensity that embodied him. It was only when Joffrey stood and congratulated him that Sansa realised who he was, and also what her King had promised to the winner.
"Well done dog," Said the boy King, raising his head to make the crown on it look more as if it belonged there, "do step up and kiss the hand of my lady. That was the prize."
The eyes of the King were now on Sansa and her body tensed, but not because of what he hoped. As Sandor Clegane dismounted and made his way up the steps to where they were seated, Sansa could feel her hands become hot. Those eyes drew nearer to her, and she stood, equal height to Joffrey. She stepped down to meet the Hound, her hand outstretched. If the Gods were merciful, she wouldn't tremble. She couldn't let Joffrey see. Suddenly he was in front of her. Suddenly she felt the heat from his own huge hand engulfing hers and raised her eyes to Clegane. Amongst the seared, raw flesh on that side of his face, his eyes had been on her. Now they were down, as if he were afraid to look her in the eye so closely. And then, his lips were on her hand. They were rough and calloused, the mouth of someone who had been forced into fire and been left with a madman's nightmare for a face. Sansa could feel her face softening and her lips parting, amazed how tender his kiss on her hand was. This was not at all how she had imagined he would kiss someone, if the stories she had heard were to be believed. So many people had depicted him to be a brute as ugly in his mind as his face was, but surely not even the Knight of Flowers could kiss a maiden's hand the way the Hound did. But behind her she knew Joffrey was wondering why it was taking so long.
