Beth reached into the washing basket and put another pair of her brother's breeches on the hempen line that stretched between posts in the yard, he never gave them to their mother to wash until they were all dirty. She clamped them down with whittled pegs and then reached down for another piece of washing. She drew out a large bed sheet which she tossed over the line. She fumbled in her apron pocket for more pegs when suddenly the sheet started to move on the line. She jumped back.
"I'm a ghost of Harrenhal!" He looked over the top of the sheet and made a face at her.
"Sandor, you scared me! Why do you always do that?" Even though he had scared her, she could not help laughing nervously at his trick.
"You scare easy, even for a girl," he scoffed, "and I'm as quick and quiet as a shadowcat."
"How do you know? I bet you've never seen a shadowcat," she challenged. She pegged more washing as he ducked under the line and he sneered his twisted half-lip sneer.
"Of course not: shadowcats live beyond the Wall…with the White Walkers," he made another face: he knew she didn't like scary stories, "and in the Vale. But I'm going to hunt one someday. I'll even bring you the pelt to wear in winter."
Beth quieted. "I can't take a gift like that," she told him now, "and you shouldn't be here: my family's in the village." She knew she wasn't a proper lady but still she knew she was not supposed to be alone with boys anymore.
"I know, I saw them; that's why I came," he told her in his hoarse voice. "Let's go somewhere: I know caves where we can hide, and paths up mountains you haven't climbed: I'll bet we can see all the way to Lannisport from the top, maybe even to the Sunset Sea. What do you suppose is beyond the Sunset Sea?"
"Water," she answered shortly, and then she looked down. "I have chores, Sandor: there's the washing and I have to milk the cow and weed the garden and soak the barley for supper, and all before they come back. I can't just leave when I want, not like you can."
His face darkened with anger. "Don't you want to be my friend anymore?" His voice got tighter and scratchier when he was mad.
"We don't have servants like you have at the Keep, Sandor; we have to do things ourselves. I have to do things too."
"So that's what you think? That I sit on my ass on velvet cushions while servants bring me platters of fruit and flagons of wine? Well, I have things to do too, you snotty-smallfolk-maiden, I don't have to come here!"
She blinked at him, trying not to feel hurt. It was better to ignore his insults; he always got so very mad that he said terrible things and then after he would mumble apologies and say he hadn't meant it. "What things do you do?" she asked instead.
He grunted and kicked sullenly at a peg she had dropped when he had scared her. She could tell he wanted to stay mad at her but he also wanted to talk. "I train with swords," he told her finally, "real steel too, not the blunted kind. And I'm good too; I'm very good; the maester-at-arms says so. I can clean and hone a sword as good as any man. I have a dagger too." He reached for his belt and pulled the hilt so show the blade before sliding it back in. "I learn about battle strategy and even history. I bet you don't even know about Harrenhal," he challenged her smugly.
"Is it the castle in the Vale burned by dragons?"
"Shadowcats are in the Vale; Harrenhal is in the Riverlands," he corrected her scornfully. "You don't know anything, do you?"
"No," she said resignedly. He didn't understand lessons were taught by maesters to well-born boys, never to low-born girls. She saw him pause curiously and narrow his eyes, she usually argued back with him, but he was not about to stop baiting her yet.
"No; I'm going to learn Valarian, like they speak in the Free Cities, and you can speak the common tongue to cows and sheep."
She nodded absently. "I have to milk the cow now." She walked away, dropping the washing basket on the step and picking up her pail and three-legged stool. She looked back over her shoulder at him. "You can come too, if you want to tell me more." Then she crossed to the small enclosure and opened the gate as the cow meandered towards her. She set down her stool and put the pail under her udders.
"Why did it walk to you? I thought you would have to chase it."
"She needs milking," she said simply, and set to her task. Before long he came to watch, she could sense he was there. He had a powerful gaze: even if you didn't see him, you could just feel it. She thought maybe because no one would look at him he could stare as long as he liked; but she was used to it now.
"I know about horses," he began, almost defensive once he saw how competent she could be. "I have a courser that can ride into battle; it even has its own armor with our sigil. I can jump him and fight on horseback and I can even wield a lance. One day, I'll enter the lists in a tourney as a mystery competitor, like Barristan the Bold…he was ten though, and I already turned twelve." He sounded jealous; usually he scorned everything and everyone.
"I'm almost twelve," she told him. "But you're big for twelve and still growing; this Ser Barristan won't get any taller," she teased him. "Do you want to be a knight, Sandor?"
When he didn't answer, she looked up at him. He was staring at the ground and his chest was heaving. She could hear his breath coming loud and fast, like a bull about to charge. She was so startled she stood up from her milking. Sandor turned his head and spat.
"Knights," he sneered, "that's what I think of them and their vows. Do you know where my brother was riding when he killed your kitten? He's going to be knighted…by the Prince." He was seething with outrage and almost wild with anger. "He's going to pledge to protect women, the young and the innocent; and you're all of those. He's going to be anointed and swear faith to the Seven. Well, piss on that; and on all of them too" he raged.
"Sandor! Don't say piss on the Seven, the gods won't like it," she told him worriedly.
"Well, I don't like them either," he snarled and he bent towards her and pushed his hair back from his face. "What kind of gods do this to anyone?"
It came to her suddenly: "Your brother did it." She said it as soon as she realized it, and then wished she hadn't.
Sandor's eyes grew huge and he rushed at her. She thought he was going to push or even hit her but instead he clamped his hand down over her mouth and shook his head, his expression wild and terrified.
"Don't say it," he whispered hoarsely, "never say it again. He'll kill you if he thinks you know."
From the way he looked into her eyes, Beth knew he meant it. Her tears welled up and his face blurred in front of her. He took his hand away.
"Sorry," he muttered. "But it's important you remember: my bedding caught fire. That's what my father says; that's what I have to say." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Now it's what you have to say, do you understand?" He was quiet and deadly serious and kept his eyes on hers and it scared her more than any of his outbursts or rages ever could.
"But…it's a lie. You hate lying…" she reminded him tearfully. She felt very confused: he would think she really was stupid.
"Do you think your kitten is the worst he's done?" he asked her angrily. "He probably wipes his humongous ass with kittens and puppies before he even breaks fast. If you hadn't shown him your fucking kitten, he would have bashed your head into the tree. He's not just mean, Beth; he's a killer!"
She nodded obediently now, making her tears roll down her cheeks.
"Stop crying," he ordered her, his sneering expression returning, "and don't feel sorry for me; I can take care of myself now. I've been practicing everyday he's been gone. I'll be a better fighter than him soon; he's bigger but I'm quicker and smarter. Besides, my father wanted him to be a buggering knight, maybe he won't be angry all the time now they made him a buggering knight." He didn't sound like he believed it though.
"Sandor…" she whispered, and realized there was nothing she could say: he would never let her. She dried her eyes on her apron instead.
He looked her over now. "Why don't you wear the one I gave you? Don't you like it?" He asked harshly. He meant the apron from the basket.
She sniffled. "Mama says it's too fine for work." It hung on the same peg as her cleanest dress over her sleeping pallet.
"I'm going now," he told her abruptly, "before your family comes back. Forget what you said, and never forget what I said." He looked much older to her now. "Finish your chores," his mouth twitched into a smirk, "maybe we can go climbing someday."
She watched him cross the yard and then the road and then disappear behind some brush and trees on the other side. He never took the road unless he was on horseback and even when he rode he liked to hack across the hills and crofts. When she was in the village she heard people complain that he jumped their fences and scattered their livestock; she knew it wasn't nice even though it was his father's land, but no one was nice to him so she had to look down to keep from smiling. But she didn't feel like smiling now.
The last time Beth had gone to the village, her mother had brushed and braided her hair tightly and told her to wear her clean dress and the fine linen apron then had led her to the door where her father waited. He told her as they turned onto the road that they had business with the sheep shearer. Beth followed and when they arrived, she was invited inside instead of being made to wait on the bench outside like she always did. The sheep shearer's wife had given her weak tea in the back kitchen while her father and the shearer talked in the front room in low voices. The woman smiled and asked about her family, her health and her chores and looked her over with sharp eyes. Her eldest son came in saying he'd forgotten his knife, he greeted Beth and left. Then the younger son came in and said he had left his cap; he nodded to Beth and left. She realized she was being brought forth for marriage: they were not unkind but she still felt a like a sow being vetted in the market. Worse, her father and the shearer were probably haggling over how many sheep she was worth.
Beth knew that marriage was something parents arranged; love was for the singers' ballads, not for smallfolk. She had known both young men for a long time since they sheared her father's sheep and the younger son was of an age with her brother. At one time she would not have objected to either: they were plain but strong and healthy and did not have boils or bad teeth. But at one time she had also not known Sandor; and she could not think of either boy now without imagining his devastating scorn. He would sneer and call them dumb sheep-fuckers or worse; she also worried he would think that she would no longer be his friend.
They probably should not even be friends now, she knew that even if he didn't; he was too far above them and people would say she had ideas above her station. People would think and say terrible things because he was the son of the master and because he was disfigured and thought cursed and because she was a shepherd's daughter from his father's land. It wasn't fair but people and life were seldom fair unless you were handsome and rich like Lannisters.
"Piss on that," she sobbed into her milk pail.
She had tried to be distant to him today but then she had learned the horrible truth about the Mountain. So she pulled weeds in the garden, ripping them out with ferocity and wishing each one were big, ugly Gregor's head, arms and legs. Then she stood and wiped her hands on her old apron, and went inside to soak the barley.
She sat desolate in her mother's chair and her kitten came and jumped in her lap, purring for pats.
How could she tell him that she could not see or talk to him anymore? She knew his terrible secret and his fear and he trusted her. He would think that she was a coward and that she had betrayed him. He would hate her. He was her best friend.
"Oh, kitten," she sobbed again, "Brave Sandor."