They arrived at the gargantuan bronze doors of the Red Keep sore, tired, hungry, and incredibly irritable. She had been awoken by the footsteps of her father while he was snapping at a steward from outside her carriage, and soon attempted to fall back asleep to dream of a long, hot soak, a roasted fowl, and a soft featherbed. This dream was fulfilled by the morrow, where, in her new chambers in one far-off end of the castle that she had requested to stay in, she was greeted with a hot bath with oils of myrrh and tonka, an elaborate meal of oxtail soup, spiced squash, and crusty hunks of bread, as well as an already-made up bed with thick quilts and thin sheets that were necessities in the humidity of the south.
This became regular routine, to which Edlynn was thankful for. Because of her father becoming the Hand to the King, a fact he had strategically left out in their unfortunate meeting inside the godswood, she was received well by the few who interacted with her in the far recesses of the castle, in one of the towers across from her father's Tower of the Hand, where she spent most of her time, aside from the library, which was so vast and splendidly filled to the brim with the remaining Targaryen novels and historical artifacts she was immediately drawn to the place, as well as the godswood which, in comparison to the one in Winterfell, was not nearly as compelling to her. It was much smaller, an acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees that overlooked the Blackwater Rush, with a great oak, cascading with smokeberry vines draped all across it. Whenever she stepped foot in the meager thing, she did not feel the Gods to be with her, but she felt like she was watched incessantly, and Edlynn kept going back to it for the sole reason to maintain her faith.
One evening, Arya and Edlynn sat at the table, eating a thick, sweet soup made of pumpkin, when their father came into the Small Hall, late as per usual. The evidence of his fights with the council were plainly written on his face, tired and aged.
"My lord," Jory Cassel, a knight of their house whom Edlynn had known since infancy, said, rising to his feet with the rest of the guard. Each man wore a new cloak, heavy grey wool with a white satin border. A hand of beaten silver clutched the woolen folds of each cloak and marked their wearers as men of the Hand's household guard. There were only fifty of them, so most of the benches were empty, yet Edlynn still felt flustered with all of the men flooding the hall.
"Be seated," their father said. "I see you have started without me. I am pleased to know there are still some men of sense in this city." He signaled for the meal to resume. The servants began bringing out platters of ribs, roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs.
"The talk in the yard is we shall have a tourney, my lord," Jory said as he resumed his seat. "They say that knights will come from all over the realm to joust and feast in honor of your appointment as Hand of the King."
It was fairly obvious to see that Ned was not very happy about this, and Edlynn exchanged a glance with Arya, who frowned decisively.
"Do they also say this is the last thing in the world I would have wished?" Her eyes flittered towards Sansa, sat between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole as far away as physically possible without getting chastised by their father. Her sister's eyes were wide as plates as she imagined how her prince charming, that little shithead Joffrey, would fight in her honour, though he was but a boy playing dress up and she did not realise that they wouldn't permit a child to fight in a tourney.
"Will we be permitted to go, Father?" Sansa asked breathily.
"You know my feelings, Sansa. It seems I must arrange Robert's games and pretend to be honored for his sake. That does not mean I must subject my daughters to this folly."
"Oh, please," Sansa said. "I want to see."
Septa Mordane spoke up. "Princess Myrcella will be there, my lord, and her younger than Lady Sansa. All the ladies of the court will be expected at a grand event like this, and as the tourney is in your honor, it would look queer if your family did not attend."
Father looked pained, frowning in a manner similar to Arya, "I suppose so. Very well, I shall arrange a place for you, Sansa." He caught Arya and Edlynn's eyes. "For all of you."
"I don't care about their stupid tourney," Arya said, always having something to say. She knew Prince Joffrey would be there, and she hated Prince Joffrey. Edlynn wanted to agree with her outwardly, but imagining the anger that would flash over their father's face, she thought it wise to ignore it, and sat quietly, scraping garlic off with a spoon.
"It will be a splendid event. You shan't be wanted." Sansa sniffed, head lifted high into the air.
"Enough, Sansa. More of that and you will change my mind. I am weary unto death of this endless war you two are fighting. You are sisters. I expect you to behave like sisters, is that understood?" Their father snapped. Sansa bit her lip and nodded, while Arya lowered her face to stare sadly at her plate, eyes glassy with the sting of tears. Suddenly, Edlynn looked to her father beseechingly.
"I… I will go, father, if it would please you." She murmured. Ned, glancing at her with surprise, for though Sansa would speak to Arya only if their father forced her to, the younger girl refused to talk to Edlynn. He nodded after a long moment, while both her younger sisters stared off at her, bewildered.
"Thank you, Edlynn, for being the… Peacekeeper of your sisters. The Kingslayer will be in attendance, I presume." He gave her a look she could not particularly decipher, and abruptly stood up, "Pray excuse me," her father announced to the table. "I find I have small appetite tonight."
"Goodnight, father," Edlynn said quietly, and Eddard nodded to his daughter, leaving the Small Hall. As soon as he left, she heard Sansa giggling with Jeyne, and the hall erupt in noise again, while Arya sniffled quietly as she stared at her plate and Edlynn shook silently. Suddenly, Jeyne Poole's dark eyes slid over to the older girl slyly, while Sansa's awful, tinkling laughter continued.
"Why did your father mention the Kingslayer? Is he planning on riding you in the tourney, Horseface?" Sansa erupted in peals of giggles, and Edlynn felt her face burn red, scowling.
"No, he isn't, you utter troll– if anything, he'll be letting me do the riding on our wedding night!" She snapped, not much caring if her words were crass or not. Jeyne's face was the one to turn bright scarlet, the tips of her protuberant ears glowing pink, and Sansa's laughter soon induced her into a coughing fit, while the men around them, particularly Harwin, the son of Hullen, who was known to be outrageously bold, cackled loudly.
"Edlynn Stark! Watch your filthy mouth!" The Septa suddenly erupted; Edlynn found it amusing that the old woman had nothing to say when Jeyne Poole was calling her a horse. While she began yelling at her eldest sister, Arya pushed away from the table, abandoning her courtesies and running for the door, when Septa Mordane began to yell for her, voice growing shriller and shriller. The septa stood and chased after Arya, leaving the elder two sisters and Jeyne Poole, still blushing furiously. Following, Edlynn, with pink cheeks and a heavy heart, fled in the opposite direction, off to her chambers, to have a bath or to take a nap or to start a war.
Soon enough, the Hand's tourney rolled about, and Edlynn was forced to ride with Sansa, Septa Mordane, and Jeyne Poole, the latter of whom still refused to look the betrothed girl in the eyes after her snide reply. The litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them revealed the entire world swathed in beautiful glimmering sunshine, a hundred pavilions and the many common folk, the shining armor, the decorations of silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd that only slinked into her ears, the banners sashaying in the wind, and the knights, so many knights.
"It is better than the songs," She heard Sansa whisper, and for once, Edlynn agreed. She had read plenty of fanciful fairy tales like the romanticised songs Sansa fawned over endlessly, and none of them quite lived up to the beauty and grandeur of the tourney itself. They found the places father had promised Sansa, among the high lords and ladies, and though Edlynn felt uncomfortable and out of place, she knew her younger sister thrived on attention, she kept her posture straight and stared forward, feeling the prying eyes of others surrounding them. She had made sure to keep in mind their father's plight, and, in efforts to keep the sisters together, Edlynn had allowed Sansa a variety of childish things– to dress her up, to do her hair, and, unfortunately, court her out in front of Jaime Lannister, who, until that point, had been far out of her mind, since Tyrion had been by the Wall for some time with her bastard brother. Thus, he had been out of mind until Jeyne Poole and her big fat mouth had gotten in the way of that.
Thus, Sansa had spent the entire morning anointing her with perfumes and gabbing on about how glad she was Edlynn was making an effort into being more feminine (and, ergo, "more presentable"). She smelled of rosehips and, though she felt as beautiful as she ever would with the lingering nickname of Horseface on her mind, she felt awkward and stuffy in the dark red velvet, heavy on her skin, sweat puckering on her upper lip.
The group watched the heroes ride forth, from the white-clad Kingsguard with Ser Jaime in elaborate gold armour, his lion's head helmet and golden sword glittering brightly; Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, thundered past them like an avalanche. Edlynn remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years before.
"His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm," Sansa whispered to Jeyne. Edlynn forced herself not to roll her eyes.
Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. He had cut down three of Rhaegar's bannermen on the Trident. The girls giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until the septa told them that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand. There passed hedge knights from the Fingers and Highgarden and the mountains of Dorne, unsung freeriders and new-made squires, the younger sons of high lords and the heirs of lesser houses. Ser Balon Swann. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Bronze Yohn's heir, Ser Andar Royce, and his younger brother Ser Robar, their silvered steel plate filigreed in bronze with the same ancient runes that warded their father. The twins Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, whose shields displayed the grape cluster sigil of the Redwynes, burgundy on blue. Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason's son. Six Freys of the Crossing: Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Ser Danwell, Ser Emmon, Ser Theo, Ser Perwyn, sons and grandsons of old Lord Walder Frey, and his bastard son Martyn Rivers as well. Jeyne Poole confessed herself frightened by the look of Jalabhar Xho, an exile prince from the Summer Isles who wore a cape of green and scarlet feathers over skin as dark as night, but when she saw young Lord Beric Dondarrion, with his hair like red gold and his black shield slashed by lightning, she found herself cursing her father for having her betrothed to Jaime, for she would have been more than willing to accept the hand of such a handsome man.
The Hound entered the lists as well, and so too the king's brother, handsome Lord Renly of Storm's End. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin rode for Winterfell and the north.
"Jory looks a beggar among these others," Septa Mordane sniffed when he appeared. Edlynn couldn't resist the snort that escaped her, far from ladylike, which immediately caught the attention of the Septa, who scowled.
Though Septa Mordane cursed him, Jory did well for himself, unhorsing Horas Redwyne in his first joust and one of the Freys in his second. In his third match, he rode three passes at a freerider named Lothor Brune whose armor was as drab as his own. Neither man lost his seat, but Brune's lance was steadier and his blows better placed, and the king gave him the victory. Alyn and Harwin fared less well; Harwin was unhorsed in his first tilt by Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard, while Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann.
The jousting went all day and into the dusk, the hooves of the great warhorses pounding down the lists until the field was a ragged wasteland of torn earth. A dozen times Jeyne and Sansa cried out in unison as riders crashed together, lances exploding into splinters while the commons screamed for their favorites. Edlynn, however, stayed deathly silent, watching in morbid curiosity as the men fell, while Jeyne covered her eyes like a frightened little child and Sansa, though notably a craven, kept her composure. The elder girl, though, stared unabashedly, the rush she would get in sparring Arya (who, as of lately, had been getting lessons form one of the best swordsmen in the land, a fact Edlynn grew jealous of and had been distant from Arya ever since) only barely quenched when a man was knocked off his horse.
Edlynn watched the Kingslayer the most– he rode brilliantly. He overthrew man after man easily, but took a hard-fought match from Barristan Selmy, who had won his first two tilts against men thirty and forty years his junior. Sandor Clegane and his immense brother, Ser Gregor the Mountain, seemed unstoppable as well, riding down one foe after the next in ferocious style. The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Edlynn was seated.
The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.
Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, and Edlynn turned to comfort her sister, but found Sansa sitting with her hands folded in her lap, staring intently as well. It was different to Edlynn, who had gone on plenty of trips with her brothers, who had seen plenty of executions; she had expected to see her sister bawling at the demise of some knight she hadn't even remembered the name of, but found her surprisingly dry-eyed, and Edlynn watched back as it came to the Hound, his monstrous brother Gregor, Jaime Lannister, and Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, his intricately fashioned armour and snow-white stallion making him the most beautiful painting of a prince she could ever imagine. He had flounced over towards Sansa and Edlynn, much too comfortable assuming every boy would go to Sansa, sweet Sansa, Sansa with the sleek auburn hair and the big doe eyes, watched boredly as the boy, no older than sixteen, trotted his steed over in front of her.
To all the other maidens, he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red.
"Sweet lady," he said gallantly, "no victory is half so beautiful as you."
Edlynn, staring blankly at the rose, pointed to herself dumbly, very much certain he was mistaken, to which Loras laughed lightly and nodded in affirmation. She took the flower timidly, her fingers trembling. He was a very handsome boy with messy brown curls, eyes like the glinting sunshine. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat, hunching over long after Ser Loras had ridden off. When she turned to Sansa once more, she was gaping, as well as Jeyne Poole, whose ears seemed to almost permanently perk up. Even the Septa had her brows furrowed in shock, but soon returned to her plain countenance, and Edlynn smiled secretly into the flower's petals.
However, when she turned to Sansa, there was a short, older man looming above both of the sisters.
"You must be one of her daughters," he said to Sansa. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. "You have the Tully look."
"I'm Sansa Stark," she said, and instinctively, Edlynn moved closer to Sansa, as weary of the man as her sister. The man wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird, and he had the effortless manner of a high lord, but she did not know him.
"I have not had the honor, my lord." Edlynn said swiftly.
Septa Mordane quickly took a hand. "Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king's small council."
"Your mother was my queen of beauty once," the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. "You have her hair." His fingers brushed against Sansa cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Edlynn was quick to reach out and smack his hand abruptly. Though Sansa hated her a large amount of time, that wasn't going to stop her from protecting her from any men, King's council or not.
Suddenly, affronted, he turned and walked away. By then, the moon was well up and the crowd was tired, so the king decreed that the last three matches would be fought the next morning, before the melee. While the commons began their walk home, talking of the day's jousts and the matches to come on the morrow, the court moved to the riverside to begin the feast.
Six monstrous huge aurochs had been roasting for hours, turning slowly on wooden spits while kitchen boys basted them with butter and herbs until the meat crackled and spit. Tables and benches had been raised outside the pavilions, piled high with sweetgrass and strawberries and fresh-baked bread that Edlynn smelled almost immediately underneath the heady smell of burning flesh. The sisters and the Septa were given places of high honour, to the left of the raised dais where the king sat next to the queen, the "blithering idiot" Joffrey sitting himself to Sansa's right, the Septa in between the sisters.
Edlynn's eyes sought out the golden lion himself, and found him staring right back, his biting emerald glare going to the red rose still clutched in her hand. Quickly, she placed the flower on her lap, and broke their stare as the first course came. For the rest of the night, the meals came and left– thick barley and venison soup, sweetgrass and spinach salad with plums and crushed nuts, honey and garlic snails, clay-baked trout, pieces of the slow-roasted auroch, and later came sweetbreads, pigeon pie, baked apples, lemon cakes… By that point, Edlynn had only managed to stuff down only one fig tart, as much as she loved them. Through the haze she had gotten from her profuse drinking, attempting to block out the loud noises and the glances the Kingslayer would pay her.
By dessert, when she had managed to down her tart, King Robert had grown louder and louder with each incoming course. She heard him over the clanging of cutlery and laughter, but chose to stay ignorant of both him and the rest of the royalty, until late into the night.
"No," he thundered in a voice that drowned out all other speech. Edlynn, shaken out of her drunken stupor, looked to see the king on his feet, face beet-red, reeling, a goblet of wine in one hand, as drunk as possible.
"You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed at Queen Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!" Everyone was staring. Edlynn saw Ser Barristan, and the king's brother Renly, and the short man who had tried to touch Sansa, but no one made a move to interfere. The queen's face was a mask, so bloodless that it might have been sculpted from snow. She rose from the table, gathered her skirts around her, and stormed off in silence, servants trailing behind.
Jaime put a hand on the king's shoulder, but the king shoved him away hard. Jaime stumbled and fell. The king guffawed merrily.
"The great knight. I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer." He slapped his chest with the jeweled goblet, splashing wine all over his satin tunic. "Give me my hammer and not a man in the realm can stand before me!"
Jaime Lannister, with a look she could not decipher, rose and brushed himself off. "As you say, Your Grace." His voice was stiff. Lord Renly came forward, smiling.
"You've spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh goblet."
Suddenly, she heard Joffrey speak, and when she looked to him, his hand laid on her sister's arm.
"It grows late," the prince said. "Do you need an escort back to the castle?"
"No," Sansa started, but looked to Edlynn, whose face was more than likely as red as the king's, and then to the Septa, who was fast asleep with her head on the table, snoring softly.
"I mean to say… Yes, thank you, that would be most kind. I am tired, and the way is so dark. I should be glad for some protection." Sansa said genially, taking her sister by the hand for the first time in years. Tugging the taller (and heavier) girl up, Sansa stood with her sister who shook on her two lanky legs, like a newborn fawn just learning to walk.
Joffrey called out, "Dog!"
Sandor Clegane soon appeared, his sudden arrival making Edlynn nearly jump out of her own skin. He had put on a red tunic with a leather dog's head on the front instead of his armour he had worn earlier. Sansa held onto her big sister's arm much like Arya had once done when they had first met the royals, and Edlynn stood, too drunk to be afraid of anything much, head raised high and proud like Sansa had been taught.
"Yes, Your Grace?" he said.
"Take my betrothed and her sister back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls them," the prince told him brusquely.
And without even a word of farewell, Joffrey strode off, leaving the two of them there.
Alone, with the Hound, Edlynn did not feel his eyes on her, thankfully enough. A curl that had been carefully slicked down bounced out of place when she stumbled slightly to face her younger sister fully as the Hound unblinkingly glared down at Sansa.
"Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?" He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. "Small chance of that. Come, you're not the only one needs sleep. I've drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow." He laughed again.
Suddenly terrified, Edlynn pushed at Septa Mordane's shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. King Robert had stumbled off and half the benches were suddenly empty. The feast was over, and the beautiful dream had ended with it.
The Hound snatched up a torch to light their way. Edlynn, trying to regain her alcoholic pride, followed close beside him, Sansa behind her, clutching onto her skirts. The ground was rocky and uneven; the flickering light made it seem to shift and move beneath her. She kept her eyes forward, watching where he went– she was bound to stumble anyways. They walked among the pavilions, each with its banner and its armor hung outside, the silence weighing heavier with every step.
"You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor," Sansa said uncomfortably, so quiet Edlynn hardly thought anyone else heard, until Sandor Clegane snarled at her.
"Spare me your empty little compliments, girl… And your ser's. I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?"
"Yes," Sansa whispered, trembling.
"He was… Gallant?" the Hound finished. He was mocking her.
"No one could withstand him," she managed at last, proud of herself. Suddenly, Sandor stopped in the middle of a dark and empty field. Edlynn felt herself grow enraged steadily as he began to speak again.
"Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite."
"That's unkind–" Sansa said, trembling again. Finally, Edlynn straightened her back, putting her haziness behind her. She tucked Sansa behind her, away from the prying eyes of the giant man, who raised one brow at her in amusement.
"It's the truth enough. No one could ever withstand Gregor. That boy today, his second joust, Gregor was just being a right ass, really– he didn't have his gorget properly fastened, and he saw it, didn't he? He's not gallant in the slightest, and the lot of your are– you're– you're all mad!"
Sandor, as though he had suddenly seen her for the first time, smiled very eerily. She could feel Sansa shaking behind her.
"Oh, so your the little bird's big sister, huh? Not as empty-headed as a bird for true, and more ballsy than one too… Gregor's lance goes where Gregor wants it to go." He put a huge hand under her chin that was already pointed defiantly up to him, squatting in front of her and moving the torch closer.
"There's a pretty for you, Loras's little petal– take a good long stare. You know you want to. I've felt you staring at me all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look." His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. She felt little fear in her, aside from the thought he could easily crush her skull with his fist alone. Drunken eyes met drunken eyes, both sullen with anger. The right side of his face was gaunt, sharp cheekbones, a grey eye beneath a heavy brow, his nose big and hooked, hair thin and dark, brushed over his burns on the left side of his face. Burnt away ear, leaving only a hole, twisted mass of scar pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks that look wet when he moved. She could hear Sansa begin to cry, and he let go of Edlynn, snuffing out the torch in the dirt.
"No little pretty words like your sister? Nothing?" When she refused to answer, he continued. "Most of them, they think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. One fool asked if it was dragon's breath." His laugh was softer this time, but just as bitter.
"I'll tell you what it was, girl," he said, a voice from the night, a shadow leaning so close now that she could smell the sour stench of wine on his breath. She purposely puffed a burst of her own breath into his face, but he only smiled cruelly again.
"I was younger than you, six, maybe seven. A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father's keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don't remember what I got, but it was Gregor's gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. Gregor is five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him, he was already a squire, near six foot tall and muscled like an ox. So I took his knight, but there was no joy to it, I tell you. I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me. There was a brazier in the room. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. The septons preach about the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is truly like.
"My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Arise, Ser Gregor.'"
The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. He was a foot and a half taller than her and nearly a foot wider, too, she realised, but she wasn't afraid of him anymore. Sansa's sniffling had ceased, too, and Edlynn stared, unflinchingly at him. She thought, though his story was tragic, he had no right to be so rude and intimidating to her and her sister, nor did he have any room to give her the inclination he thought her to be ugly, when he was just a scarred little boy in the body of a hulking man.
"He wasn't a real knight." She said clearly.
He stared blankly down at her for a long, silent moment,
The rest of the way into the city, Sandor Clegane said not a word. He led her and Sansa to where the carts were waiting, told a driver to take them back to the Red Keep, and climbed in after her. They rode in silence through the King's Gate and up torchlit city streets. He opened the postern door and led her into the castle, his burned face twitching and his eyes brooding, and he was one step behind her as they climbed the tower stairs. He took her safe all the way to the corridor outside her bedchamber.
"Thank you, my lord," Sansa said meekly, always the polite one. The Hound caught her by the arm and, when he tried leaning close, Edlynn reaching an arm between them, just as she had done with the little man earlier. Instead, he put his other hand on Edlynn's wrist.
"The things I told you tonight," he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. "If you ever tell Joffrey… Your other sister, your father… Any of them…"
"I won't," Sansa whispered. "I promise." His eyes swivelled to stare at Edlynn.
"No, never," She swallowed thickly. "I won't tell."
It was not enough. "If you ever tell anyone, either of you," he finished, "I'll kill you."