A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.
Chapter 10 – Sandor
The little bird had fared better once her feet were set on steady, solid ground. He'd be prideful to say he didn't feel a mite sickly at sea. For one, he was rightly thankful for whatever the Seven did to calm the waters for the last leg of the watery travels. Not only did it cease the roiling in all their guts, but it got him out of the close quarters with the bewitching redhead that had become his lady liege.
It was his first time in Essos – he'd never ventured far from Westeros in his odd years and had never intended to.
Pentos was a feast for the eyes, though. Tall, strongly structured brick towers pierced the sky at a respectable height to rival the spires of Oldtown and King's Landing. Villas terraced the hills and high walls curtained lush gardens that threatened to spill out over the tops into the grassy lanes.
They'd disembarked and bid the captain to burn all evidence of their crossing. He'd complied at the promise of a hefty bonus and even torched the sheets they'd slept in for good measure. The log was altered and the crew simply was kept in the dark concerning the identities of their latest passengers.
Soon enough Ser Randol had collected their worse for wear mounts from the hold along with their belongings.
Sandor had flatly refused to leave the old destrier. Selfish of him, as the horse would've lived comfortably on the Quiet Isle and catered to despite his brutish temperament. But as sure as the wind was strong, the horse had nearly knocked the wall of his box out when he caught sight of Sandor lugging out his tack from the stable's storerooms.
They were all dressed down to simple roughspun and leather. What was left of his armor was strapped across Stranger's rump – likewise with Ser Randol. The elder brother seemed well at ease on the placid plowhorse he'd brought from the isle. The Stone girl rode pillion with her 'husband' as the little bird did, but sat more at ease in the saddle with just an arm slung over Ser Randol's broad shoulder.
Sansa was a different tale. She clung to him like a prickly spur, her head held high but the better half of her form molded to his backside. It was a distraction that had his grip on the reins jerky enough for even Stranger's mouth of iron to notice. The horse shot him a look that seemed to ask 'What's the trouble?'
He simply nudged the horse with his knees. The stallion didn't put up much of an argument – every lane was well manicured and bogged down with thick turf. Compared to the shit slicked cobbles of King's Landing, this was a horse's dream for a thoroughfare.
The villa they came to put even the fairest he'd seen so far to shame. It was expansive, set high on a hill with terraced gardens and statues littering the grounds.
A few fat men in breechcloths and spiked helms stood sentry at the ornate gates.
"Unsullied," he said to Sansa after her question tickled the shell of his ear. "Best foot soldiers you can buy."
She murmured in surprise, obviously having heard a thing or two of such men.
The soldiers rasped out in the thin, high voices you could only cull from castration before puberty – albeit in the stilted Valyrian dialect of the city. Sansa, bless her, did her best to stutter out a reply.
Whatever she said gave the stoic guards pause enough to send a runner from the gatehouse up to the manse, and soon they were admitted at spear point into the grounds. Sandor shot them all a damning look, keeping a hand on his hilt and nudging Stranger into a mood. Stranger's moods were whimsical in terms of battle ready – anywhere from a bone crushing kick to a wicked bite that would take fingers and noses with it. But the stallion was brimming with pent up energy that coiled in his bulky frame. Too many months spent idle had made him as fidgety as his master, and hungry for a good fight.
The stallion still kept his composure despite his ears being pinned back.
"Friends! Welcome!" boomed a sonorous voice in the common tongue from the manse's foyer after they were led in by the Unsullied. Tension dissolved from his traveling companions, but Sandor didn't flag off. He held his ground behind the little bird and sent looks to the Unsullied that had even their disciplined stares narrowing in guarded wariness; all the while he eyed the fattest man he'd ever seen in all his years that had come to greet them. Which was substantial – he'd seen his share of fat fucks, but this one took the lead in terms of massiveness.
The fat fuck made some noise over their worn appearance, and then slobbered over the little bird's hand after she had dipped a proper, prim curtsy in her rough spun jerkin and breeches. She was starting to have that effect on men that made Sandor seethe – not that he could blame them.
"Sad am I to see that you come so worn out, friends. But glad am I to see a plan come together so neatly! This humble servant goes by the name of Illyrio Mopatis, a trader in spices and other such rare goods," he rumbled out in the deep voice from within that bulging throat. Sandor had an instant sense of dislike for the man, but he had a dislike for most. This one, however, struck him as especially suspicious.
Randol made his greetings, introducing them all by their true names and ending with Sansa –now Lady Stark for all intents and purposes. Illyrio's fleshy lips stretched into a fat, piggy grin at that.
"I had the honor of hosting your husband not long ago, Lady Stark. He is, how you say, very feisty, no?"
Sansa paled a few shades, and Sandor saw her hands tremble in a small show of shock. The Imp alive?
Sandor toyed with the image of punting the little lion's head into the sea after he had rid the little bird of the burden of her spouse – but then came back to himself as the conversation picked back up.
It seemed that this 'humble trader' had a personal investment of restoring Tyrion as Lord of Casterly Rock along with the last Targaryen to the throne of Westeros – Sansa seemed to fall into the category of someone he wanted back on the throne in Winterfell. Or at least, that was what Sandor surmised. What use was the little bird to this greasy sea cow otherwise?
They were led through the foyer littered with tinkling fountains and odd, expensive curios into the guest wing. Everyone was given their own chamber for the short visit. Sandor resisted the urge to snort as the fat fuck led the little bird to the chambers that rivaled the royal bedroom in Maegor's Holdfast. But to her credit, Sansa didn't bat an eye at the gesture Illyrio was making. She just bowed and murmured her thanks in that infuriatingly gracious and womanly way that drove the Hound up the wall.
Illyrio made his departure with his half-dressed army of servants and left the four alone in the chambers.
"Well," the Stone girl said, "it could be worse."
"Much worse," Randol agreed. He didn't seem as overawed like they all should be by such grand surroundings – in fact, all four of them were rather on edge. Despite being situated in an obvious ally's house.
"I trust the greasy lummox about as far as I could throw him," Sandor grunted. The others got the idea that even someone as oversized and muscle corded as the Hound wouldn't manage to toss the Magister all that far.
"You pair off with the Stone chit tonight and keep watch in her room, Lydden. I'll keep watch over her," he muttered to the knight with a pointed glare at Sansa. She raised her chin a few degrees at the look.
"I think it's in our best interest to not be rude – wash up and join him for dinner?" Sansa said diplomatically to the rougher companions.
They all agreed, and the other man and woman left for their chambers and packs that had been brought up. Fresh pressed gowns and tunics were laid out on the expansive silk bed canopied in the center of Sansa's room, and Sandor found similar garments in a male fashion on his chamber's bed after he had left her room thoroughly turned over for any lurking assassins or other such deadly devices. He scowled, rounding on the washbasin and stripping down to his breeches to tidy himself with the clean scented soaps and sea sponge. The least he could do was give the good half of his face a trim and put on the gifted clothes. Just to show the little bird he could chirp and engage in this mummer's farce as well as she could.
He didn't quite give a shit about his appearance. But he could start caring in order to keep their only hope of income content and satisfied like the others were making an effort to show their thanks towards.