I hope that everyone is having a great week. My husband just left for Ecuador, I am on a vacation from work, so there should be enough time for quite a few updates. Thank you to all of my readers. Enjoy!

-Moa

The weeks passed brutally slow. Time itself seemed to have become a tyrant, raging against everything that it confronted: the wind seemed to move at a dead pace, struggling even to roll a grain of sand against a marble floor. The weather was too clear, the last revelries of summer stretching out, as though they would last forever- an eternity of hours in a sea of pleasantries. The Flowers from Highgarden had already the task of laying their own roots, choking out all of the plants that did not suit their purposes. The Hound realized that he was quickly becoming an anachronism. He'd soon be in the shoes of Barrister Selmy, being dismissed like a flea from a dirty dog being washed. The Red Keep would soon be a bad memory, too. He was almost 30 years of age, old enough to be worn down by the dregs of time. Life would become an endless wine skin on some rocky shore in the Free Cities, life like a flame extinguishing under a glass bell.

The Little Bird was taken care of now. Her engagement to Ser Loras Tyrell had been nearly confirmed and seemed, like all other things, to be just a matter of time. She'd soon leave in a caravan, perfumed like a dream and emblazoned in damask, disappearing from court forever. She'd have some fine palace with her Knight of Flowers, dress in silk and velvet, and do her duties like a good wife. It would probably take years for her to figure out that her loving husband was buggering the stable boys, but that was another matter. He was sure that there would be some loyalist to the family that would happily take care of her own needs, sealing the honor of the family and smoothing over any discord. Ser Loras and his Lady Sansa would probably find that their marriage was a tender joy of endless decorating and entertaining and courtesies. She'd be a flowering Jonquil, and King's Landing would only exist as the thing that woke her up from her sleep with a shriek in her throat. Her gold embossed sheets would comfort her better than any white cloak could, and she'd fall into a new and better dream.

He was pleased that he'd saved Ser Loras from his brother, if only for the Little Bird. And even for himself. When she left the strange emptiness that she inspired in him could possibly abate. The hard wrenching in his chest when he laid eyes on her was enough to make him feel outside of himself. The absurdity of feeling anything at all for that little empty headed creature frightened him. He found her to be more terrifying than any sight that he'd seen before. Two days prior he'd happened upon her while walking the halls of the Red Keep. She'd been on her way to the gardens, and he'd been on his way to the wine sink. For the first time since he'd pulled her out of the bread riots she looked him in the eyes, her lips curling into an enigmatic smile. She bent her knees as though she were to curtsy- her pleasantries seeping from her like a wound left open. Her eyes spoke of some secret, a strange happiness that he'd not seen since she was but a child at Winterfell. It made him feel as odd as one might feel if one woke up to find oneself transformed into a beetle. He greeted her with a sneer of petulance and roll of his eyes.

"Have you sunk so low that you'd kneel before a dog, girl?"

"What have I done to displease you, my lord?" She asked him, her voice imbued with strength where it had once only trembled.
"You chirp too much." He answered before hurrying away from her, looking for some kind of shelter. The wine sink seemed farther away than the hills outside of Casterly Rock. His mind filled up with the rebellious thoughts that he'd worked so hard to conceal, and another thread was pulled loose.

The Hound half stumbled off towards his room, haphazardly wondering if the color had returned to his face. Another measure of his finely hewn self control had slipped- it was the tangle of red hair that was as brilliant as the blood on her corpse that threw him over. If recognition didn't happen as quickly as it did, a king slayer he would have become. How much had his face betrayed, that moment of shock? He wondered if his eyes had turned from stone to horror, if his face told the story of his thoughts? If they did, the King hadn't said a word or indicated notice. Treason happens that way, though- a gesture or a glance, enough to raise the suspicions of the King, his council. The Spider kept his own cache of little birds, the whispering faces that slipped through the kingdom like phantoms.

The Hound had been called to the side of the King by a nameless guard- insisted that he come quickly. The King had something to show him of great import. The Hound forgotten about the talk of archery and target practice like many of the other things that he didn't allow to take hold in his mind, thinking nothing of being summoned in the dark hours of the night. Since childhood Joffrey would summon him to his side for no reason at all. When he was just a small boy it would be because something frightened him, and he had no others to turn to. As he grew older he'd be called in the thick of a tantrum, or to be shown one of Joffrey's grotesque experiments. Once he'd taken one of Tommen's kittens to practice field surgery- the pitiful creature wailed like a creature from the lost world when The Hound found it. Its hind legs had been removed, and the stubs had been cauterized over an open flame. The Hound was expected to show how impressed he was by the boy's cleverness, and then snap the neck of the mewling wretch, nothing more. It was not within his station to beat the boy for his cruelty, or banish him to his room forevermore. The same as it was then, being called in by a guard at the King's behest was like the clockwork of the Red Keep. It was an exercise in his power as protector, and powerlessness as the King's human pet.

And now it was done. He'd seen the King's handiwork and was dismissed, to wander through the halls of the Keep with his stomach churning bile.

This wasn't supposed to be happening to him- he'd been beaten down enough. He'd emptied his head of all of the things that bound him to his childhood suffering. He'd burnt, he'd hardened, and he'd approached death enough to know its form and its particulars and not fear them, only accept them for their harsh truth. The body of a dead whore shot through with arrows and hanging from his King's four poster bed was not supposed to rip through him like daggers against old linen. And yet it was happening, completely outside of his control.

He knew that he must have the pallor of a ghost- knew it in his body and his blood. He only longed for his room, and solitude, and sleep. He wanted to drift off, far and away from whatever it was that was feasting in him.

The Spider, Lord Varys, waited in Sandor Clegane's solar, a single candle illuminating the room, flickering and casting shadows about like giants. He looked like a man made of the shades, not completely of this world. He smiled politely at Sandor, bowing his head to him, as calm as a gust of spring wind. It was as though he were meant to be in the room, like he wasn't an intruder.

"My Lord, I am so glad to see you. I was worried that I would have missed you. I wouldn't have shoved in, but late night conversation can be difficult in these situations- the social season has me exhausted and I just long for private conversation. Do you mind that I am here?"

At first sight of the Spider the Hound felt for the pommel of his sword, dropping it just as quickly. There was no use or reason to draw a blade against The Spider. The man seemed as though his life were made of mist that could disperse without effort. If he wished anything to happen to The Hound it would occur silently and without warning.

"How may I help you, my Lord?"

"Ah, yes, My Lord. A better title than Spider, don't you think? I certainly do. After all, being called by the name of another creature can be quite taxing. We tend to lose ourselves in our names, don't we Lord Clegane? You don't mind that I call you that, do you? I see more man in you and less Dog every day. I was wondering if you'd like to tell me why that is?"

Lord Clegane. Another sick wave rolled over him. Treason begins in the eyes.

"You may call me by any name that suits you, my Lord."

"It suits me to call you by your true name. Sandor Clegane. Not the Hound of the Westerlands, youngest brother to the Mountain That Rides, body guard to the King and a White Cloak, but not a knight made. That is a title. I prefer the truth that a name provides. It is a wonder how men like you and I rise so high in our ranks, while others fall beneath the weight of their achievements, their titles. How is it that you have climbed the ranks so well?"

A measure of silence passed. The Hound knew that this wasn't a question, but a point that was intended only to indicate some abstract nuance of life at court- Lord Varys never said a word that wasn't laden with some deeper meaning.

"Ah, yes. I suppose you have seen the tragedy that has befallen that poor girl by the hand of our most beloved King. His tastes are so difficult to satiate, one cannot help but marvel at them." He sighed deeply. "But, please, we must exchange pleasantries. Sit, sit, I wish to speak to you of large matters."

The Hound took a seat, keeping a measured distance between himself and Varys.

"My Lord Clegane, you must not be so quiet with me. Speak freely, and speak as yourself. I know that you are a man of strong ideas."

"Am I?"

"Oh, yes. My little birds tell me all about your mind. It has even come to my attention that you have your own little bird..."

"What are you getting at?" He asked, wondering how badly he was diminishing in front of the Spider. He was an extractor of secrets. The Hound knew that he could speak as much or as little as pleased him, and Lord Varys would get his answers in the same fashion.

"So it is true, then? I'm so glad to hear it. Though, it might grieve you to hear of the newest developments in her engagement to the Knight of Flowers. She has been thrown over, and now our heroic Lord Tyrion is posed to be the benefactor of this change. He is set to marry our Lady Sansa, much to his and her mutual displeasure."

"And why in Seven Hells should I care about her marriage?"

"Of course. Why should you care? I suppose that you just saw the King's newest project- it seems to have shocked you, as it did me. A terrible tragedy indeed. The poor girl, Ros, was helping me with my own troubles, and it seems that a certain Mockingbird found her assistance to be unacceptable. She was sold at a heavy wage by the Master of Coin- former Master of Coin, that is, to our King. It appears that this same man has designs on our forlorn Lady, and I shudder to think of what he has in mind for her."

"I am not her keeper."

"No, you are right. You aren't her keeper today. But I am sure that there is some not-so-small part of you that wishes to assist her in her own struggles." Lord Varys tilted his head, searching The Hound's face. "You see, I worry that the impending marriage of Lord Tyrion to Lady Sansa would not benefit the realm, and would serve the purposes of a single house. I have it on the best authority that Robb Stark isn't long for this world, and that Lady Sansa is to become the most sought after jewel in Westeros. But, as you know, winter is indeed coming. A marriage in the North would suit no one, and her life has become that much more valuable."

"And this concerns me how?"

"I know that my associate Lord Baelish has designs on spiriting the young lady off to the Vale. His ship is already waiting in the bay, equipped with two featherbeads. Side by side, my little birds tell me. I worry that a marriage to the Lannisters will cause chaos in the North when we need men defending it against the horrors that live beyond the wall- and I worry that our Lord Baelish sees too much of Lady Sansa's mother when he beholds her. I believe that he would use the poor girl like a chess piece. I fear for her life in both of these situations. After all, you have seen what he will do to someone who displeases him- and what the King is capable of in his rage. I had attempted to make a match for Lady Sansa of Ser Loras, but I was alas overpowered in the end. I believed that a beautiful land and a beautiful knight would have suited her well. This is not to be. And yet, after much deliberation, I have found a better way to offer her safety and independence from those who would use her for her title."

"And what is that?" The Hound asked, his jaw tightening.

"It's simple, really. You."