Unexpected Healing

Disclaimer: As usual, all the important bits like the Hound, world, etc (pretty much everything but the situation) are not mine – GRRM owns it all.

a/n: I haven't tried to emulate GRRM's works – I simply don't have the skill. Instead, I've simply borrowed the Hound for a wee while since GRRM didn't take very good care of such an interesting character... sigh. And don't get me started on his treatment of poor Beric, either!

Prologue

The last three days had been a blur of wine sinks and brothels as Sandor put his winnings from the Hand's tourney to good use.

The twenty thousand gold awarded to the Hound when Loras Tyrell ceded the field opened the doors of the city's finest establishments, as well as the legs of the city's finest whores. The only problems with such places, as Sandor soon found, were the patrons. The young nobles and wealthy traders that frequented them had pointedly ignored his presence when he was simply Joffrey's Hound. Now, they practically fell over themselves to talk to the champion of the Hand's Tourney – the man who had faced his own brother to save the much loved Knight of Flowers. They had no interest in him, he knew, only in the stories they would have to tell their friends of their encounter with the Hand's Champion, or the Prince's rabid dog as they called him when they thought he couldn't hear. Lickspittles and kiss asses, the lot of them.

The bards of King's Landing had already composed a score of songs about the epic swordfight. Most romanticised it past recognition. A couple even went so far as to paint over his infamy and cast him as the noble hero - a sentiment he loudly scoffed the first time he heard it. Not a one of them had guessed the real reason he stepped onto the field and deflected his brother's wrath from the boy. Even if they had, most would have ignored it. Bards were known to prefer their own version of events over the truth, especially if their version was better suited for parting listeners from their coin. Neither the empathy he felt for the Tyrell boy nor the burning surge of hatred for his brother were suitable for rousing song.

For the first night and the better part of the next day, he tried to ignore the attempts at conversation from young men drunk on wine and their own self-worth, but it quickly soured the wine and killed his enthusiasm for anything else. Finally, having lost what little patience he started with, the Hound told a particularly insistent young man exactly where to go and what do to himself. If he had been looking for a fight, or deep enough into his cups not to care, he would have reinforced his words with his blade. As it was, he had to resort to fists when the man took offense to his words and wouldn't let it lie. The conversation had ended with Sandor leaving the pompous jackass and his personal guardsmen bruised and bleeding on the carpets of a well renowned brothel. He decided to look for his pleasures elsewhere after that.

So it was that instead of seeking his entertainment in places catering to the pleasures of the wealthy, those that were usually out of reach for a cur like him, Sandor sought out places only slightly better than his usual haunts in the city's slews. The types of establishments where patrons respected his clear wish for privacy, but where both the women and the wine were of a good quality.

Not that wine or whores, no matter the quality, could chase away the thoughts he was trying to avoid for very long.

At first he tried not to think of Sansa, of the fear and revulsion so clear whenever he drew near, or of her pity after he told her how he'd earned the scars that so repulsed her.

When the foolish little bird had tried to compliment Gregor's 'performance' in the joust, the Hound had wanted to shake the stupid, romantic notions right out of her pretty little head. He wanted to shock her out of her misplaced ideals and make her see that there was nothing honourable or chivalrous about how Gregor had killed that boy. So he had told her about the little wooden knight and about the brazier. Then her disgust had been replaced by pity, but Sandor didn't want pity from anyone; especially not from some pretty, empty-headed girl who made him feel like he was worth less than the dirt under her slippers. So he'd he threatened to kill her if she told anyone what he had drunkenly divulged, and had wiped the pity right off her beautiful face.

But the look stayed with him afterwards. It unmanned him and haunted him all that first night, even as he sweated and thrust above the whores or stared into the bottom of his mug. The next day when Sansa's delicate features came to him again as he emptied himself into some whore, he realised that he was going to have to work harder at putting the little bird out of his mind. She wasn't meant for a cur like him. And so he began drinking in earnest.

Two days and a vast quantity of wine later he had nearly succeeded in obliterating any memory of the girl from his mind.

Chapter 1

Sandor sat in the corner of a dimly lit tavern and stared blearily into the mug in his hands. The last few days were a familiar blur. He remembered drinking and he remembered women - young and beautiful – the type of whores who knew how to make a man come back for more with their moaning and writhing, but who still refused to look him fully in the face. Or maybe that was just the wine, because he certainly recalled drinking far more than he'd had cause to in a long time. That type of drinking had helped him through the years before he fled his home, but had become rarer since he'd sworn his sword to the golden queen's service.

But now he was in a tavern, not a brothel, and as the effects of the alcohol started to wear off, he took stock of his surroundings.

His small table was littered with the remains of a joint of meat, a bread trencher and surprisingly only two empty flasks. The table was near the door to the kitchens, with a good view of the front entrance at the other end of the room. It was a still spot on the edge of the noisy, swirling press of bodies around the bar, given a wide birth by the other patrons and the serving girls unless they were headed to the kitchens. From his choice of where to sit, he knew he'd retained some sense of what he was about when he'd entered.

He wasn't exactly sure where in the city the place was, but one of the market squares near the Great Sept seemed like a good bet. Given the look of the other patrons and the fact that the mug in his hands was made from delicate pottery, not carved wood or thick brown clay, he was certain he wasn't in the slews.

An unpleasant, metallic tang in the back of his throat told him his stomach had rebelled some time earlier in the day. That was hardly surprising given how light his belt pouch felt and the throbbing of his head.

He reached out and grabbed the arm of a serving girl as she slipped past on her way to the kitchens. He gave an involuntary grunt of pain as his shoulder protested at the use. The girl squeaked in alarm, barely managing to hold on to the mugs in her arms as she turned. "Ye...es, my l..lord?"

"What day...?" The end of the question was lost in a rasping cough.

"Mother's. Today is the day of the Mother. For an hour or so longer, at the least."

Three days since the tourney. Three days of binging and whoring, and he hadn't even emptied his purse yet. But the Hound was expected back at the Red Keep to take up his role as the prince's protector later the next day.

The girl pulled out of his grip and hastily stepped back out of reach.

Pushing himself to his feet, he dropped a handful of copper pennies and silver stags on the table without bothering to count. "Horse. Get me my horse." The world seemed to tilt and heave under his feet as he stood glaring at the serving girl with bleary eyes.

"Yes, of course, Ser."

"Don't call me Ser." The response was snarled to the empty air for the girl had scurried off, so eager to be away from him that she all but ran to the door to call for his horse. His victory hadn't changed some things, it seemed.

He shook his head with disgust. His damned shoulder was going to be a problem if a slip of a girl could break free from his grasp.

Three days ago, he'd been so caught up in the fight with his brother, in the thrill and the terror of finally facing the bastard on equal ground with a naked sword in his hands, that he hadn't noticed his shoulder, or the few other lesser bruises, until later. Now, however, the throbbing in his shoulder seemed to resonate in time with both the beating of his heart and the pounding in his head. Still swollen and aching, Sandor knew from experience that there would be a livid, purple bruise the size of two fists where the Kingslayer's lance had struck. His seat on Stranger had been precarious for a few seconds as he struggled to regain his balance after the blow and it had left his shield arm tingling for hours afterwards. Now, after sitting and thinning his blood with wine, it was stiff and weak.

Holding himself carefully upright, Sandor strode to the door with the exaggerated care of someone well into his cups. The hubbub around the bar stilled as he drew near. As he passed, the conversations started again with the telling hushed tones of gossip. Such a response was nothing new to him. He ducked through the doorway and into the rainy night.

When he stepped out from under the low eaves, he saw the tavern's courtyard did indeed open onto a small market square in the shadow of Balor's Sept. The painted sign swinging wildly in the wind proclaimed the place to be The Plucked Goose, a tavern popular with the lesser nobles of King's Landing. The Goose's small cobbled yard was bordered by a stable on one side and a darkened shop on the other, leaving the tavern well back from the square.

A loud thumping, audible even over the blustering wind, came from the direction of the stables. Sandor's mouth twitched. Stranger, the foul tempered beast, would be difficult enough to handle after having been away from his usual stables for the past few days. He would be absolutely diabolical with being saddled in the middle of the night. If there had been any pity lift in him, Sandor would have felt bad for the stableman who had to fetch his horse that night.

He stepped down into the courtyard as it started to spin. His stomach heaved and he leaned over and emptied his stomach beside the horse trough. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and spat repeatedly. The rain ran down his face while he stood by the trough and tried to rid his mouth of the bitter aftertaste. His head felt as though something were trying to breakout through his temples and even the diffuse light of the lanterns by the door made his eyes squint up in pain. The queasy, unsettled feeling started to grow again in the pit of his stomach.

Without hesitation, he turned back to the trough and thrust his head into the cold, murky water. He forced himself to stay under until his lungs ached, finally pulling up in a great shower of water and spluttered curses. Coughing roughly, he lurched against the side of the tavern and grabbed the wall to keep himself upright. Rivulets of chill water poured down his back, flowing under his cloak and soaking him from the inside out. His breathing was heavy as his shoulder flared angrily, but the shock of the dunking cleared the queasy, roiling sensation and helped bring everything into focus.

Sandor watched as the man struggled to lead Stranger out of the stable doors, his head clearer than it had been in days. The horse balked at the wind and rain, throwing up his head and planting his feet firmly. The man lacked the strength to force the horse out, so it became a contest of wills – one that the stallioning was winning. The more the stableman tried to coax and cajole, the more stubborn Sandor's mount became. Stanger snapped at the man as he tried once more to shove the horse through the gap and into the storm. The man raised a crop to drive reticent beast out the doors.

Before the blow could fall, Sandor was on him. A great, calloused hand pinned the stableman to the wall by his throat; the other grabbed the raised arm. Despite the pain in his shoulder, Sandor lifted the man to his toes. "Hit my horse, and you'll regret it." He squeezed the man's wrist until he felt bones shift under his grip. The crop fell to the ground, unused. Shoulder screaming in pain, Sandor released the man before his arm gave out.

Oblivious to the violence he had nearly caused, Stranger nudged his master in the back as though urging him to hurry up. The Hound ignored the man still pressed back against the wall and turned to face the beast. He gave the great head a single pat before running his hands over the horse's legs, checking he hadn't injured himself with all the kicking earlier. He was in good condition and had obviously been well cared for, despite the near whipping. Sandor gave the girth a final yank and pulled it tight with a practiced knee to his mount's side.

Stranger stood still as Sandor pulled himself into the saddle. He fumbled with his belt pouch and finally managed to pull out a copper, which he tossed at the stableman's boots. The shock was clear on the man's face, even in the dim light. "No crop next time," Sandor instructed as he pulled the horse's head around and walked him out of the courtyard.

Pain lanced down his arm and across his chest with each clop of the stallion's hooves. Teeth gritted, Sandor realised that he needed to do something about his shoulder if he was going to take up his duties the next day. It was either that, or beg the day off. But there was no way any self respecting dog would let their master see such weakness.

When he saw the herbalist's shop, its one window still bright despite the hour, he pulled Stranger around. The herbalist would have something to take the edge off until he healed.