Disclaimer: I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right about now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given on the TV show rather than the book series.
Warnings: This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Black water in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Black water basically. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!
Dragon's Breath
Chapter Two
Her breath caught in her throat when the Hound suddenly stalked out of the shadows of the courtyard below, emerging from the exit that led directly to the royal apartments with such a fierce expression that she was half-sure the sun would change its mind about rising and defer to his formidable temper.
He paused beside one of the benches, tossing one of his gauntlets down on the wooden seat as he stretched. He let go of a jaw cracking yawn, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his breastplate with a careless grace.
He was tired, she realized. The concept was so foreign, so unknown to her that she seized on it, acting like a woman possessed, or perhaps a girl infatuated. She was too close to the matter to tell, examining this new facet of the man who had come to haunt her thoughts more often than not of late.
She cocked her head, studying him unabashedly. There was a difference in him, however subtle. It was present in the way he carried himself, in the set of his shoulders and the slight gentling of his ever present glare. It was perhaps the most vulnerable she'd ever seen him – a sight he gifted to remarkably few.
Her gaze lingered. She liked him like this, he seemed softer somehow, more honest and unaware. There was a grace to his movements when he was alone, a natural fluidity and maleness that was almost mesmerizing to her inexperienced eyes.
Here, in this moment, he acted more like the man he was than the dog everyone believed him to be.
Things between them could best be described as tense. Their acquaintance was not quite amicable, but neither was it completely hostile. She suspected the Blackwater was to blame for the majority of it. He had come to her after the battle had been won, his armor dented and dripping red across the flagstones. She remembered the moment in terrifying detail; she remembered the expression on his face and the sweaty thatch of hair that hung over his eyes, obscuring the worst of his burns as the torchlight reflected off his armor – flickering like living flame as he shifted in place.
She even remembered the way his free hand had clenched and unclenched at his side, a muscle ticking in his cheek as they'd stared at each other through the crack in the door. Her, queen to be, and him, the King's loyal dog, begging for her favor.
In the end, she wasn't sure why she'd opened the door, bidding him silently into her chambers and sitting him down on the chair near the window. Nor did she know where the courage had come from when she'd swallowed his disgruntled stammerings and helped him unbuckle his mail – her nimble fingers remembering the task she'd performed more times than she could count for her father and brothers as she retrieved a basin and started tending to the worst of his wounds.
He'd reeked of sour wine and blood, of sweat, sea-salt and singed charcoal. His eyes had been distant then, staring at the stone walls like he could see clear through them and out into the burning water beyond. She'd been about to question him, to demand why he'd scampered to her chambers instead of the court physician's - or countless others who could have seen to him far better than she. But before she could voice it, she'd remembered the story of the Mountain and the Hound and something in her had softened.
It didn't matter why he was here, only that he was – and that for the first time in a long time, she wasn't bothered by it. In fact, she'd welcomed it. She didn't fear him, not anymore.
He'd told her of a plan then, whispering it in her waiting ears as she daubed at a deep furrow in his shoulder, the skin around it already bruised, looking ugly and painful as he'd seized her by the shoulder, forcing her to look at him. His hands had been like claws, pricking her fair skin as he'd pawed at her. He'd offered to take her north, to leave the King's Guard and all the merit he had earned to smuggle her back home to Winterfell.
He'd offered to take her home.
But she'd only peeped, mewling and chirping like a lost chick, hesitating just a second too long, and suddenly, before she could even so much as gather her wits to answer, he was gone. He'd left half his armor behind in his haste, perhaps regretting he'd even come to her in the first place as he'd slammed the door, leaving her dumbstruck in the low light, a bloody cloth in one hand and his shoulder plate in the other.
She suspected he cursed her for not realizing the depth of his offer, while she, on the other hand, cursed him for his lack of patience.
She'd often wondered what their lives would be like if she'd accepted the Hound's offer. If she'd been able to summon her courage and let him shroud her in black – smuggling her out into the night as the roar of far off flames spurred their flight. She wondered, if they'd made it home to Winterfell, if the man would have chosen to stay. Would he have gone to fight for Robb and her House in the war? Or would he have remained at her side, as her sworn shield?
When she forced herself to truly consider it, she realized she knew remarkably little of his intentions. Was his offer made more out of prudence and greed, or was it good will or some bastardized form of morality that had brought him to her door?
She had done much thinking that night and for many nights after, turning that moment and all the ones that had come before it over and over in her mind. The hound was no true knight, not in heart, not in name, and certainly not in standing. He cared little for such titles. And yet, he was the truest soul she'd met since the King had come to call on her father at Winterfell.
The realization had been just about as maddening as the man himself.
Things had changed between them after that night, she didn't know if it was for the good or the ill, but change they had. It had started with the small things, with small gestures and concessions offered up on both their parts. A brash, yet kind word as he saw her back to her chambers after an audience with the king, or a quiet nod in his direction when she attended court, wondering all the while if he could feel her eyes on him as he stood guard by the King's side. Wondering what he was thinking, what he was feeling as the hours trickled past and more than once, his gaze found hers.
It was a dangerous game they were playing, she knew that. But the seven preserve her, for neither could she find it in her to stop.
But the day she'd truly been forced to acknowledge it had been no more than a fortnight ago, when Margaery had taken her to watch Loras and the other knights sparring in the training yard.
Loras had been willowy and lithe, handsome in his finery and already well attended by a clutch of adoring young things who sighed and gasped in admiration whenever he strayed towards the edge of the yard. He bested one opponent after another, taking down men far taller and broader than himself with careful tactics and valiant strength. Margaery had pointed him out at every opportunity, practically glowing with pride as her younger brother brought down Ser Meryn with a backhanded strike to the man's armored thigh - forcing him to yield as the crowd cheered madly. Ser Meryn had not been amused.
But Sandor? Sandor had been magnificent.
The day had been uncommonly hot, and unlike most of the other Sers, for the first time in her memory, he had forgone his armor, wearing only a thin tunic unlaced at the breast and an oiled ox-hide jerkin over-top. His thighs were encased to great effect in a pair of loose leathers, looking comfortable and free as the other knights clanked around in their metal finery, quietly suffocating as he made short work of the whatever opponent dared approach him.
He seemed even larger without his armor, masculine and broad in all the ways she'd never considered a proper ser should be as he sweated clear through his tunic, the play of muscles highlighted as the thin fabric plastered itself to his back. Even Margaery had commented on his prowess, whispering tid-bits of gossip she'd heard around the castle as she watched as Sandor and Loras suddenly banded together, their unplanned allegiance unspoken as their backs met, protecting each other's flanks as a group of knights joined forces in an attempt to take down the mock-tourney's two clear champions.
She swore the woman's words had nearly set her cheeks aflame.
Sandor Clegane was an anchor amidst a sea of floating nets, brutal, fearless, and cunning. In fact, most knights yielded rather than face him and those foolish enough to try had needed to be carried off the field more often than not when the younger Clegane had finally been done with them.
The Hound had just grinned, his smirk lop-sided and fierce as he fought his way free of the group that dared encircle him. But he didn't fight like hound, no, in that moment he'd reminded her of a wolf, a wolf circling his prey, smart in his strategies and ferocious in his attacks.
A fierce sort of pride had risen up in her as the hours rolled past. It had been a fledgling thing but it had been there nonetheless. For she'd had eyes only for him that day - none of the challengers, not even the fair Loras Tyrell, had even so much as tempted her favor.
She remembered thinking that her girlish fantasies about noble sers and manly courtesies had never seemed more lacking as she watched the man duck a vicious swipe. One hand had darted out to throttle his opponent, using brute strength and surprise to his advantage as the gangly knight hung limp in his grasp, all but wheezing out his yield before the Hound had finally dropped him.
Such things, she'd come to learn, were nothing like the stories of legend.
He had been as fierce as a Dire Wolf that day, more than worthy of the banner of her house as he'd howled his victory. He stood proudly, at least two heads taller than the pups that dared to worry at his ankles, nodding respectfully when Loras joined him, calling for wine and a platter of meat to break their fast before the next round.
She'd held out hope that he would somehow acknowledge her, but if he'd noticed her presence on the platform above, he kept his eyes firmly on the yard throughout his meal. Instead, she'd simmered in childish disappointment as Margaery had inquired after her needlework, eventually distracting her with talk of the latest styles and patterns in Highgarden as she'd nibbled her way through a square of lemon cake - wondering idly if she dared to make a visit to the royal seamstress to inquire after his measurements.
She remembered as clear as anything the way her fingers had twitched at her sides, mirroring the movements of a needle as she imagined him in Tully blue. No, not blue, perhaps the stark yellow and black of his house. Something simple, yet not without elegance, perhaps with the figure of a hound, caught in the act in a noble howl, stitched proudly on his breast.
And while the idea had only lasted for a smattering of moments before reality had grasped it in its jaws and silenced it, it still painted a pretty picture in the back of her mind.
She had always imagined presenting her intended with some homemade trinket, a shirt or an embroidered jerkin to assure them of her affections. She'd had it planned out in her mind for as long as she could remember, from border to hem. And yet, out of all the men in King's Landing who had endeavored to gain her favor, she suspected that the Hound would have been the only one who would have truly appreciated such a gift.
Even then it would be more likely that he wouldn't wear it. Appreciate it, yes. But wear it? Unlikely. He had gold aplenty, especially after winning the champion's purse at the Hand's Tourney. Yet, she'd only ever seen him in the same dented armor – that or his white and silver plated King's Guard breastplate. She imagined he had a handful of drab, shapeless tunics stashed away in his rooms, all of them threadbare, sweat stained and in desperate need of patching. But she didn't see him as the type to go to a tailor or some far flung market stall to purchase new garments until he was absolutely forced to.
The man had little use for empty things.
Pity.
She sighed, shaking her head as one of the guardsmen called out the hour, bringing her slowly back to the present. She shivered in her thin shift, biting down on an indulgent smile as she watched the Hound adjust one of his gauntlets, examining the buckles and belts with a critical eye before doing the same on the other.
Perhaps the Hound was right after all; perhaps she was nothing more than a silly bird.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.
