The sun had barely lit the sky when they rose to break their fast. Sansa nursed life back into the hearthfire and warmed milk in a pan while Sandor took the pup down to the street and painted the mask to his face. She and Sandor broke their fast on stale rolls; there was even one for the dog, soaked in a bowl of milk. Neither of them mentioned the Second Sons.

"What do you think we should call her?" Sansa asked, cradling the little thing like a babe.

"Your dog, little bird," deflected Sandor. "I'm sure you'll have plenty of names for her if she starts whining through the night."

"You wouldn't do that, would you, princess?" Sansa whispered to the little dog.

Sandor snorted. "She's a hound, not a bloody princess."

"She's not a hound," protested Sansa, wrinkling her nose. "Farlen's hounds were huge and slobbery. And smelly. You're a proper little lady, aren't you princess?"

"All dogs are slobbery and smelly," Sandor grumbled.

"Lady wasn't."

"Lady was a fucking direwolf, and if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I'd have never believed that serious, sensible Ned fucking Stark gave wolf pups to his children."

Sandor gulped down his milk, regarding Sansa and the pup warmly. They made a picture of contentment, the beauty seated by the fire, gazing lovingly at the sweet pup that licked her fingers. As he soaked in the sight, it jolted him to realise Sansa might want her own real babes one day.

And it's not like you can give them to her, he thought ruefully. You're the dog, and she's a princess for true. These days are sweet, but don't get your hopes up that she'll bind herself to you forever.

He pushed the thought away. Safety, safety was all they needed now. Not the details of a far future.

"I thought I might call this one 'Lady' in Pentoshi."

"'Riña'," he recalled.

"Yes. It doesn't seem to suit her."

"She's a scenthound, or would be if she wasn't being cuddled to death and called a princess," Sandor pointed out. "Ilmerio calls her mother Pungaera. What's that? 'Big nose'?"

Sansa laughed, the sound cutting Sandor adrift from his worries for just an instant as it always did. "'Nosy' would be closer to it. I'm sure I'll think of something."

The morning was slipping on; Sandor let his chair scrape back and went for his coat.

"I thought about that offer, Sandor," said the girl suddenly. He tensed. It had been a long while since Sansa had uttered his true name in daylight, and it got his attention as it was no doubt meant to. "I think we should go see these barracks of theirs."

Sandor let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "You're sure?"

"As sure as I think I'm ever like to be. I'd like to get the measure of these men before we put our safety into their hands."

"I'll get a message to them. Be ready when I get back tonight."

She nodded just once, then he pressed a kiss to her forehead and lurched off to Ilmerio's yard.


It took Sansa most of the afternoon to ready herself as Sandor asked. First, she had to find the Lysene woman who worked with the brides on their way to the temple. It was difficult, as she'd only heard the woman's name mentioned in passing by Della and another neighbour, and Sansa had to walk up and down the street foolishly until she spotted the right awning.

Leaving barely an hour later, Sansa forced away the silly grief. I did not carry these tears all the way from Westeros. They belong in King's Landing, not Pentos.

She returned to the rooms with a fresh pail of water and mixed the preparation as the Lysene had advised: half a bottle of the black, two drops of red and one drop of purple.

When it was done, she longed for a real silvered mirror instead of the bleary copper sheet that passed for a looking-glass in their straitened circumstances. Sansa felt a stone drop into her stomach at the result.

I look like Arya.

When they were girls, back in Winterfell, she had turned a blind eye when Beth and Jeyne spoke cruelly to Arya; they'd called her 'horseface' and compared her unfavourably to Sansa. Sansa had favoured their mother in looks, manners, and temperament, while Arya... Arya looked like Father but lacked his solemn reserve. Arya was like Jon, but she had a wildness to her that Sansa had once heard Old Nan refer to as "wolf blood" - before Ser Rodrick cut her off with an admonition that had seemed unduly harsh to Sansa.

Now, Sansa could see the resemblance. With her hair worn like this, the eye was drawn across her face differently; it seemed longer, somehow. The fine high cheekbones Sansa had attributed to Mother were not so unlike the sharper ones that belonged to her sister. There was some echo of Arya's face in the shape of the jaw and the curve of brows. It had been there all along, but Sansa had always been distracted by their differences: rich auburn to Arya's brown, serene blue eyes gazing on expressive grey.

I am much fonder of grey eyes than I used to be.

Her hair was a necessary sacrifice. If she were to live a lie in the camp of the Second Sons, she meant for it to be a lie that had a great deal in common with the truth. She meant to be Sansa, but a lowborn Sansa with no great houses in her blood. If she kept her given name, she had to lose her hair. Her hair was feature Sansa was most proud of; it was the first thing most people commented on when they complimented her. She was unsure how Sandor would react to its loss, though she was never sure how far his attention was directed by things his particularly liked about her, and how far it was driven by his affection for her, generally.

When the hour arrived, Sansa was cleaning up the puppy's latest accident. It was frustrating to try to command her without having decided on a name, though one idea in particular was appealing to her more and more as the day went on.

Sansa turned her head at the sound of the door.

"Seven hells, Sansa," he gasped, removing his hand from the dagger-hilt. "I barely recognised you."

She rose, skirts rustling back into place, and went to him. A hand went to his masked cheek. "That was rather the point," she said unhappily.

He doesn't like it.

It wasn't surprising. Sansa didn't like it either. She watched as he ran his eyes along the sleek black locks that ended just below her ears.

"Good thought, little bird. We should get going," he said gruffly, carefully avoiding her eye. His gaze sharpened on the sight of wet rags by the hearth, though the troubled look did not leave his face. "Named the dog yet?"

"I have, actually," said Sansa lightly. "I'm going to call her Dōnae."

Sandor's eyes rolled to the ceiling as he searched his memory for the meaning. Sansa decided to save him the bother.

"It means 'sweet one'."


The walk to the Silver Quarter would take them half the night. They could see its high walls from the hill-brow near their lodgings, in the small square where Sansa bought bread. Though not terribly far as the crow flew, to get there they'd have to skirt the Guild Town that dominated the centre of the city. The Guild Town was the oldest, wealthiest part of Pentos. Its lofty peninsula was flanked by twin harbours and walled with steep bastions. The dome of the Prince's Palace loomed large in the skyline there, standing apart from the nearby merchant towers thanks to the broad, lush gardens that swaddled the manse. Beyond it, the spires and cupolas of the Temple District descended on the far side to meet the sea.

"We'll cut through the Temple District," Sandor said. "That pontoon bridge is back up for some reason."

"The Daughter-Port needs repairs before winter comes, so it's been closed off," explained Sansa, referring to the narrow deepwater quay that faced the Temple District. "I'm surprised Ilmerio didn't know. They'll need that honey-coloured stone of his if they're working on the main wall."

"Ilmerio's done a deal with some uncle of the Prince. All that blond stone is going to fix the harbour wall." Sandor paused, glancing at the little bird and the small, sceptical twitch of her eyebrows. "You think he's selling it on?"

"Only if Ilmerio was foolish enough to give him an obsequiously large discount. You know what they say about the Prince's maternal house. 'Hae syz hae istisi sagon.'"

Sandor grunted. 'No better than they ought to be.' Grasping new-made nobles with no sense of decorum - fucking people over in broad daylight with ledgers and fists, not with a quiet word in the right ear after feasting and fine wine.

This sort of city gossip was just another reminder of the distance that had grown between the Sansa he knew now and the Sansa he'd left at King's Landing. He'd pitied that girl almost as much as he revered her; he'd risked his life for that girl, driven by a strong regard that was selfish and private and barely involved her at all. It made him uncomfortable to reflect upon it. It bothered him to realise that the Elder Brother might, in small part, have had the right of it. He'd built a fantasy in his mind of a perfect lady, uncorrupted by the world. It made her infuriating and ignorant to the point of delusion, but also gentle enough to show kindness to a beast like the Hound.

The woman he shared his life with was nothing like that. The true Sansa was sharp and subtle as stiletto blade. Years at a hostile court had primed her to soak up every detail of a situation: every word spoken or left unsaid, the relationships and loyalties of those around her, and a keen eye for the missteps that belied a hidden agenda. She made him laugh. She was passionate in a guileless straightforward sort of way that cut to the heart of him. He'd miss smoothing a hand over her pretty auburn hair in the night, but the short dark hair only called more attention to the fineness of her features.

How the fuck did she wreck her crowning glory and end up as perfect as ever?

It seemed unfair on some basic level, albeit an unfairness he was entirely happy to live. While this new appearance would take some getting used to, with the initial shock now past, Sandor found that he did not mislike it. The wolf in her was plainer this way. The way she flashed those white teeth when she made a wicked jest, the expressiveness of her face - she looked less damned highborn somehow, though no less beautiful. He wondered if she'd done than on purpose, too. She wore an unfashionable dress of some maroon fabric, all practicality with pockets and a high warm collar. Her boots had been expensive: waterproof leather, soft as butter, lacing to the midshin. That she still turned heads even in simple attire sparked a quiet, possessive pride in him. He had a suspicion that he gaped like a lackwit whenever he looked at her, but somehow could not bring himself to give a fuck what anyone might think.


The Temple District was the part of Pentos where Sandor still felt like a stranger. The enormous red temple stood off its own plaza, its black marble porticos enclosing three sides of the square. With the sun setting, the city's largest nightfire was already burning in the centre as they passed. Voices chanted the mantra of the Lord of Light in a jumble of different tongues, echoing through the plaza in a maddening cacophony.

"Look," Sansa hissed. "It's the red priestess who took ship with us."

Sandor did not look. The whole scene made him uneasy, not just because of all the bloody fire. There was a mania to these followers of R'hllor that made them unpredictable. The old burns on his left arm itched just to think of it.

They passed the paired temples of the Lysene patron-gods, the Weeping Lady and the Joyful Lord. The silver-blond faithful milled about before their service, the men as pretty as the women. Further on was a tall church for the Drunken Lord of Tyrosh, and a clutch of black-robed Starry Wisdomers. The Qohoriks worshipped in the open air beyond a brick wall, behind which a horse was screaming.

Sansa tugged on his arm, turning his attention towards a narrow side-street. A plank nailed to the wall had Vokadrentor Andalos painted sloppily onto it, along with an arrow, and Sansa made to follow. He could guess what she'd spotted.

The sept was tiny, even smaller than the perfunctory one he'd seen at Winterfell. At least that sept had been stone-built; this shrine barely as big as the Hermit's Hole the Elder Brother had lived in back on the Quiet Isle. Before he could stop her, before he could count the risks of meeting other Westerosi, Sansa was pushing on the door.

"Locked," she said softly.

Sandor scanned the side of the shrine and found a tattered scrap of paper listing the days when the sept was open. As much as he regretted Sansa's disappointment, he felt some savage joy to see the gods of his childhood so clearly rejected by the people who first made them up. He wondered what the old fools in Baelor's crystal crown would have made of it.

Even the madmen who worship a sky-stone don't have such a poor showing a this.

Sansa just sighed and took his arm again, ready to return to the road. Sandor felt his mouth twitch in annoyance, mainly with himself. "We can come back in two days, when it's open. If you'd like."

The girl opened her mouth, hesitated, and then said, "You don't mind?"

If it would please you, my lady. "No, little bird, I don't mind."


The compound of the Second Sons looked like no barracks Sandor had ever seen. It was a manse like any other, except where its neighbours had eunuch-soldiers standing at attention, the Second Sons had only shabby men-at-arms. One of them leered openly at Sansa, until Sandor deflected his attention with a cold glare.

"Clegane," he told the steward. "Here for Inkpots."

It seemed the watchmen were not the only part of the establishment that looked worse for wear. The whole manse, while no doubt opulent in its day, was in a state of disrepair. Its marble floors were clean enough, but its rugs were threadbare and its walls scuffed. Even the grey-and-navy company banners bedecking the entrance hall looked frayed and motheaten.

The steward led them through a series of musty-smelling drawing rooms, then down a long hallway lined with crooked portraits. The last in the sequence showing a gaunt man with a thick red-gold beard. There was something cold about the man's eyes that put Sandor in mind of Tywin Lannister. Next to it hung two empty frames, waiting for their portraits.

The hallway opened into a good-sized banqueting hall panelled in wood. The fat treasurer sat at one of the long tables - not at the High Table on the dais, Sandor noted approvingly - with a misted silver jug and a sheaf of papers.

"Lord Clegane," the fat man greeted him, swaying to his feet. "We are pleased to receive you. And your lady wife?"

"Just 'wife'," said Sansa with a curtsy. She shot Sandor a sly look, as if daring him to reject the title. He decided not to give her the satisfaction, and let it slide. This time.

"This is Sansa," he said carelessly.

"Lady Sansa, I have the honour to be Tybero Istarion, paymaster and fourth officer of the Free Company of Second Sons."

"The honour is mine, my lord," said Sansa brightly. After a moment, Sandor realised she'd said it in Pentoshi. The big man quirked a smile at her and took two more cups from the sideboard.

"We are busy men, Lord Clegane, so let us skip straight to business. Your note said you had questions."

"We're busy men, my lord," Sandor ground out, "so I'll be blunt. There are plenty in Westeros - and some who've fled it, no doubt - who'd like to see my ugly head parted from my shoulders. Why should I make myself a sitting duck for them?"

Tybero Istarion regarded Sandor calmly, offering no answer.

"And a second question: why does an old company like the Second Sons need a new Master-at-Arms? Surely you have plenty of fighting men of your own, and a few good ones who are getting too old for the battlefield."

Again, no answer. This time, Sandor let the silence ring in their ears until the Pentoshi spoke.

"The answers you seek are very simple, Lord Clegane. I shall start with your second question, on the understanding that this information does not leave your lips beyond our gates. Four moons ago, we had three dozen men who would have slain their own sons for a safe posting in Pentos and the kind of salary that is due to the Tenth Officer of the Second Sons. Four moons ago, I am sorrowful to say, those men died in dragonflame before the walls of Meereen. I cannot tell whether I was blessed to escape with my life, or cursed to escape with the memory of that sight. Our new captain bade me return to Pentos to rebuild our strength, and with the cream of our corps dead on the field, I had to find the best man for the job."

"As to your safety, Lord Clegane… If your reputation is even half correct, I will consider this investment a good one. And I have a singular urge to protect my investments - with all the steel that gold can muster."

Sandor said nothing. On the bench next to him, Sansa squeezed his hand; he looked down to see her blue eyes turned imploringly up to him. He thought there was concern in them, but then she gave a tiny nod and turned back to Inkpots.

This is it, he sensed. This is where it all turns, for good or for ill. The girl is braver than I am: she's not afraid to make her mind up.

"A third question, then," Sandor rasped suddenly. "Where can we keep the dog?"