Chapter Three
The Hound does not lead them far from the bay. The wall stands as a man-made horizon against a bile green dawn, which seems to herald the coming of a new star born from the depths of Blackwater. The air is charred, as the smoke settles like an early morning fog. Sansa constricts her breath, convinced the air is made putrid by so much death. She can hear the muted howls of combat just beyond.
The Hound makes it a point to avoid the main avenues, weaving Stranger in and out from one alley to the next. In the web of homes, shops and taverns the passages are narrow and inhibited. When Sansa first arrived in King's Landing she believed the Red Keep to be the splendor of the city, but Sansa realized now she had been wrong. The real meat of King's Landing did not lie on top of Aegon's High Hill, but rather in these boundless labyrinths.
Few linger out in the open; a shadow passes here and there. Sansa feels unwelcomed, as if she were in the presence of something feral. In her mind's eye, Sansa could see them all, beady black eyes peering from behind shutters and cracks in the doors. She can't say what is worse, the scores of people in the streets, dangerous but in sight or the secluded back alleys, empty and uncertain.
Panic was erecting like a tower with every moment spent in the Hound's company. She has too much time to weigh and consider. Sansa almost asks to be taken back, though she knows her request will go unheard. She would plea insanity, knowing fully that the Hound would only laugh. Or shove her from the horse.
Both, most like, sulked Sansa.
The Hound must have sensed her anxiety, for he pats her on the arm. Sansa struggles not to think on the duality of his behavior, but instead accepts what comfort is offered.
It was only a matter of time before Sansa understands that the Hound means to pass through the Iron Gate. From there they would certainly go north. Her heart lightens at the thought of that.
However, her joy is short lived.
It starts as no more than a whisper in ones ear, almost a distant hymn. Though as they approach, Sansa finds it almost resentful, riled even. She doesn't understand right away, only recognizes that it is not being carried over from the bay. The Hound must hear it as well, for he draws his sword. The steel glides against his scabbard, sending a shrill chime through the stale night. It sets Sansa into a quiver.
Down and out another alley, the Hound sets Stranger into a quicker stride. The hymn grows and grows, until it is a blistering chorus, as they finally empty out into the street. And for a moment, Sansa's heart stops.
The Hound directs Stranger to a sudden halt in the center of the road. The horse rears momentarily, and expels a peevish snort.
Just ahead are the gates… and a horde. Men, woman, noble and common alike gather against a blockade, where Gold Cloaks stand sentinel on the other side. The people clamor over one another in a mesh of silks and rags, torn and tattered. So many voices converge into one, as they bark like a pack of wild dogs in the moonless gloom.
Stranger begins to dig at the road, his hooves scraping against the cobble stone. His breath grows labored, while he waits expectantly for his master's command.
Sansa covers her ears, and turns to coward into the Hound's chest. "Lady," she grieves for her dead direwolf, and for her sister and for her father. Sansa prays to the Seven that she may live long enough to see what few kin are left to her.
The Hound tucks the hood back over her head, almost tenderly. "Be ready," is all the he rasped, before he urges Stranger into a gallop.
When met with the mob, Stranger is almost thrown back, like a ship moving against the tide. The resistance pounds Sansa against the Hound. The pain becomes an incessant bruise, as the Hound begins to slash away at the fleshy reeds.
Stranger was no less merciful than his master. The animal kicks and bites anyone unfortunate enough to be in his way. If any live, Sansa could not say, for the bodies were taken under the current and swallowed whole.
Sansa scrambles to hang on. The Hound is much too broad and so she struggles to find her grip. At last, Sansa finds anchor about his neck, the scruff of his stubble is the sole comfort Sansa is able to treasure, and even that is gruff. In her hysteria, Sansa holds him too tightly. She can hear the struggle of his breath arise in irregular gasps, though he makes no attempt to remove her.
To no end, the butchers butcher. The meat is made red and tender, as they hack, thrash, and tare away. The flow of the blood is a perpetual river. But Sansa doesn't want to think on that. Instead, her mind drifts to the sea at White Harbor. The northern sun had been high on her last visit. Sansa had managed to work up a sweat. The ocean spray was so lovely. Her skin had been so hot, and the ocean so cool. She felt cold now, and the blood warm. Back at White Harbor she had tasted salt. Now she tastes iron.
The fish must taste it as well, for they begin to scatter. Opposition is alleviated, and Stranger is finally granted passage.
"Our thanks Ser.," says a Gold Cloak, as he steps forward. He has a broken lip and a bruise above his brow. Sansa flinches at the clink of his boots, as she tries to cast away the memory of the last Gold Cloak they came across. She wonders if the Hound will kill this one too.
"Look there, boy." The Hound gestures back at his work. "They were only in my way. I had not real quarrel with them. Call me a Ser again, and I might have one with you." The Hound's tone is nothing less than a snarl. "Now, open these gates. The king commands it."
"We are in the middle of a siege," another Gold Cloak cries. Sansa notices then how young they were, all twenty of them. They all look like Robb.
The Hound shifts in the saddle, hand flexing on the hilt of his sword, as a growl hums in the pit of his throat. Broken Lip looks to his brothers, then back to the Hound, his eyes hooded in suspicion. "On what business?"
"The king's," snapped the Hound.
Broken Lip remains unconvinced. He jerks his head towards Sansa and asks, "And what is this?"
"Cunt for the road." The Hound fastens his heavy arm around her waist, seizing her tight against him. "Allow us passage. Or die."
Broken Lip gives Sansa a long hard look, as he aspires to see through the shadow of her hood. Sansa fights the impulse to recoil. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know me. He can't see. None of them can see.
Broken Lip gives the Hound a final look, before he bobs his head up and down, and up again. "Open the gates!"
"Open the gates," the Gold Cloaks all echo in agreement.
For a moment, Sansa allows a smile. It is a subtle luxury she had not permitted in some time. But still, at the root of it, Sansa knows nothing is what it once was. She has not forgotten the Hound in all his rage and all his glory. For all that Sansa was taught, she should think him glorious, but no. All is left is the stain. Every part of Sansa screams to hide, to shy away and turn a blind eye. But how can she? Perhaps she had not swung the sword herself, but the deed had been done in her name, at least in part. But for now, Sansa can smile, so she does.