A huge thanks to both my betas for this chapter, to Dr Holland for helping me see the unclear passages and for motivating me to continue writing. And to TopShelfCrazy for fine-tuning this chapter and accidentally saying a magic word that made me overcome my anxiety about posting it.
Thank you so much to all the good people who reviewed
To seren for cursing me back to writing.
To silo183 for appreciating my version of a story between Jon and Dany.
To eva for liking this and for giving a chance to the Mummers' Show as well.
To the three guests for making me believe that maybe I'm not a total idiot for writing this in the first place.
xxx
The Hound
The Hound was hewing a man in two when he heard the water running; not trickling softly as before, but gushing forward, fast and treacherous as the Green Fork.
The noble Freys had come to meet their runaway prisoners, scurrying like rats down the winding stair of their bloody double castle. The Hound wondered if the same serpentine existed in the second castle of the Twins. He snatched a torch from the first man he killed and thrust it in the arms of one of the weaker prisoners; the stronger ones had to see clearly in order to kill their attackers.
The narrowness of the stairwell worked in favour of the Hound and the rescuing party; they only had to face three or four opponents at once which made the task of cutting through them much easier. They were climbing and slaughtering and singing like bloody wildlings. That's what they all are, these Northmen, aren't they? Though, truth be told, Lord Umber kept his offended distance from Mance Rayder as if the wildling had at least raped his mother, and maybe one of his maiden daughters.
In the middle of exertion the Hound remembered himself as a younger man, a drunk man lurching forward on a similar serpentine stair in a castle far away, catching and frightening a younger Sansa by chance or a particular kind of fate he never quite believed in, that had brought them together, in the end.
Kill them all! the infernal song rolled on and on among crunching of bones and rattling of broken chains wielded like morning stars. In a pleasing cacophony of death, maybe his ears tricked him and there was no danger from water.
An intake of breath later, the river was still running where it shouldn't.
"Grand-grandfather released the Green Fork!" a young lad squeaked from above, roughly two turns of stairs before his time would come to die. "We'll all drown like rats!"
You are rats, the Hound agreed, not feeling like one.
"Frey would kill his own children?" young Piper squealed from below, somewhere behind Mance and his Bolton-made cloak.
"Of course he would," the Hound said with scorn, "He has too many. Haven't you heard?"
"Less mouths to feed in winter," Lord Umber agreed with Lord Frey's views all of a sudden. The Hound laughed his terrible, barking laugh. The blood from his last kill mingled with water on the slippery floor under his feet as the thunder of the river was approaching. He jumped four stairs at once in a giant stride. The enemy was eager to run away now and he wasn't keen on letting them go.
Frey had too many wives and has too many children. And I have only one wife and I will see her tonight, no matter what it takes.
Mance pushed himself in front before the Hound could cut down anyone else. The buggering singer and King-beyond-the-Wall obviously had to outrun the water. "Is there another way out?" the wildling delivered his question like a well-aimed blow, after having climbed out of the Hound's immediate line of sight.
"No," the frightened young voice that had already spoken said, panicking, "but there is a way to the second castle, if it's not barred."
The fight and the song stopped.
In fear of drowning both the Freys and their former prisoners moved swiftly upward, following old Walder's great-grandson and the tireless wildling. The Hound was no exception. He swam up fast with the human current though he felt no fear. He'd always doubted he would die in bed of old age. To die with steel in hand would be best, water would be far better than fire, but dead was dead, and Sansa was waiting for him.
My wife, he thought and moved with the rest.
The stair ended and the path suddenly forked to the right, on a separation the Hound hadn't noticed when they had been descending to the dungeons.
"They took Lady Arya the other way!" Gendry objected.
"Best if we get up first, and then discuss directions," Mance judged.
The smith's apprentice wouldn't listen, turning the wrong way. Nor would I, the Hound approved, if it was Sansa they took. He had stopped being prudent when Sansa was in danger long ago. But I was never daring enough. The old regret about letting his former master beat her had never quite left him.
Mance gave the Hound a look. Together, they dragged the bull-strong lad in the opposite direction from where he intended to go.
"Dead you're of no use to anyone, boy," the Hound rasped.
They didn't go much further when the torrential flow of water hit them hard in the back from another corridor arching sideways. A wave of stinky, sticky, sweet-tasting water splattered everywhere. The Hound's mouth was full of it and the impact sent him staggering forward. He steadied himself on the wall. A few men fell down, too weak to walk. At least one drowned, calling for his mother. The rest continued scrambling up. The water came almost to the Hound's waist. He didn't much care how shorter men fared but it was certainly not pretty.
The long, winding corridor became faintly grey. The surface was nearing. An opening loomed in front, leading to the inner bailey, the Hound assumed, comparing the Twins with the castles he knew in his head. But as soon as the first Frey man stepped eagerly in the doorway, he fell, feathered with several arrows.
"Such a waste of good arrows," Greatjon Umber observed, and the Hound had to agree as he pushed himself forward through the press. The level of the water was rising, slowly filling up the tunnels under their feet.
They had to get out soon.
"Take cover!" Sandor Clegane bellowed when his unnatural height enabled him to see clearly in front, behind several Freys who stood in first row. "This is no courtyard! It's the bloody bridge, and the tower above it is brimming with archers! And it's either crossing that or heading back to feed the fish."
The Hound regretted they left the empty wine barrels in the dungeon below – they could use them now to shield themselves. Mance began to understand their predicament as well. "Collect all the shields!" the King-beyond-the-Wall commanded.
"Take off your armour!" the Hound shouted at the Freys, "If it comes out to it, you'll swim better without!"
A few cleverer ones listened, others didn't. As usual, Sandor Clegane thought sardonically.
Behind a hastily constructed wall of wooden shields and mismatched armour, Mance, Gendry, Umber and the Hound made a single step through the doorway. The bridge was not short, and the arrows kept falling. The river whirled madly below it, muddy and vociferous.
"How many men are there in the tower?" Mance asked of the lad who brought them there.
"Not so many, a few hundred strong, on various levels. Lots of women and children too. The people are everywhere. And there are archers," the Frey informed, as if they didn't have eyes to figure the last part already. "However, if you pass through the Water Tower, there are no men-at-arms in the second castle."
The Hound thought fast, "We need more cover to break down the tower gates."
There was only one kind of additional cover to be had. Sandor Clegane picked up one, slightly wounded man, wearing the badge of two towers, to use as a living shield. The wildling took a hint and did the same. The Hound's captive started screaming when he was forced onto the bridge, until an arrow grazed his shoulder. Then, he went limp and began to whine meekly. Splendid, the Hound thought, hiding his ugly head and chest behind the crying man. Living human shield is better than a dead one, he reasoned with himself, easier to carry. Greatjon and Gendry remained in the middle, behind painted wooden shields, Mance and the Hound took the flanks with the unfortunate Freys. A few other Northmen joined them from behind, crawling as close as possible to the pavement.
The attack formation exited the castle and arrived to the middle of the bridge, moving through an occasional shower of arrows. The Hound accidentally brushed his bad cheek and realised he was bleeding. Will Sansa fret about it? The thought sent his blood up, scalding hot.
Sansa, would you cry for me if you found me dead or badly wounded on the battlefield? The thought that she probably would made him both sick and oddly content.
Best if we don't know.
The vanguard slid forward as a snake.
"The gates are barred!" Gendry rightfully noticed.
"What did you think?" the Hound rasped, "That they will keep it open and welcome us with flowers?"
The Frey he used as a living shield wept and prayed for Mother's mercy though it was unlikely he would receive any. Behind them, a Northman tried his luck by jumping into the river, which carried him away as a dead log. Not a good day for swimming, the Hound thought as they crossed the remaining span of the bridge and rammed the gates with Gendry's hammer.
The door was strong. Maybe Lord Umber's head would have a better effect, it seems hard enough. The man occasionally stared at the former Lannister dog with that righteous expression the Hound hated.
They hit the gates again with full force, but old oak reinforced with soot-coloured steel would not yield. Umber's leg got pierced by an arrow. It only made his lordship angrier. Enraged, he roared wholeheartedly the simplest verse of the wildling's latest worthless composition, "Kill them all!" The Hound had a moment to ponder if Mag the Mighty was taller than him and Gregor or not. He must have been, he was a giant. The verse rumbled over the roar of the river, and the Hound secretly concurred with the sentiment it contained. Killing had always been something he could understand.
But if they couldn't break through fast enough, the weaker men behind them would drown in the castle or in the river below it, or they would all end up as fodder for archers.
"Move!" the wildling urged them on.
The gate did not budge.
Everything was in vain. The Hound started cursing his luck. Serves you right for wanting to go. The peculiar thing about it was, he still wanted to. He hadn't killed enough men yet to call it a day.
"Father, look at this!" a scream came from the Water Tower, calling for Lord Frey or maybe for the Father above, deaf to the pleas of his children.
The Hound stared at the river. The bowmen stopped shooting. Something was coming down the stream of its own free will, not entirely at the mercy of the torrent. On a long, low wooden boat. Or boats. Many boats. All manned. Navigating between the shores with the help of elongated wooden poles, the boats flew over the tumultuous river as if they were possessed by some magic, or rather, moved with some art the Hound had no knowledge of. Sandor Clegane hid his ugly head better behind a whimpering Frey.
"The frogeaters!" a mocking laughter rang from the high rectangular walls of the watchtower. "The mudmen!"
In the foremost boat there stood an unarmed short man with dreamy moss-green eyes, clad in bright green garments. His arms were widespread in a gesture of peace.
"Get down!" the Hound found himself speaking sense to the unknown man on the boat who seemed to have none.
The little green man made no attempt to hide.
"Lord Reed," Mance Rayder rejoiced next to the Hound. "Well met!"
So that's the lizard lion... the Hound took a good look at the strange newcomer from behind his moaning shield.
Several boats pooled under the powerful stony arches of the bridge, thus sheltering themselves from arrows. Others drifted further down the stream. Launching long, sturdy ropes and ladders, they hooked themselves to the castle windows overlooking the river. The mudmen started invading the Twins, armed with blades of bronze and iron.
"Fold back!" Mance ordered his party, stuck in the middle of the first half of the bridge, between one of the castles and the tower. "We'll shield the men boarding! To the boats, everyone! The Freys as well!"
In the end, when the longboats were as full as they could get without sinking, the Hound surmised, there were still many men left at the beginning of the bloody bridge, waiting for more vessels or for what misfortune would bring.
Their cover was growing thinner.
The Hound realised his mistake too late; he had lowered his living shield on a boat as well. "Find a maester," he had told him.
The man Mance had been holding was gone as well, shot dead through a bony neck. Several pieces of armour floated in the water. The Hound squatted behind what was left of their shelter, yet he was almost completely exposed to the bowmen.
"Shoot the green man first!" one of the bastards shouted from the tower, "He's a sorcerer! No one can brave the Green Fork in this season!"
There was temporarily no way out for the survivors. More boats appeared on the northern horizon but it would take some time before they reached the bridge.
Reed addressed the soldiers in the tower, "Leave your posts now! Go to the second castle! If you truly believe in my sorcery, leave! You won't have another chance..." The lord of bogs has a strong voice for such a small man, the Hound had to admit. Or maybe it is sorcery. He dismissed a stupid thought. There was no sorcery. Only tricks he didn't know about.
"Get down!" the Hound heard himself yelling at the green lord who seemed unable to follow his own counsel. All archers aimed for Reed now. There was no way he would stay unharmed.
"This is not the day that I die," the little green man said calmly.
The tower defenders diligently grasped their weapons to prove him otherwise. Some reasonable rats had already started leaving the Water Tower and crawling to the twin castle across the river.
The Hound saw the northern sky go black.
"No..." Sandor Clegane whispered in terror.
A familiar black shadow flapped its leathery wings in cruel splendour, mercilessly closing the distance. Only one animal was that large and advanced that fast.
"Listen to the little bogman! Leave your precious tower now!" the Hound screamed. Or you will burn... You'll see what hell is like, first hand.
The air became so hot that it could almost cook a man alive.
The Frey arrows were about to fly, searching for the heart of the tiny green lord. The sky above the Crossing turned utterly black.
And then it burst into flames of orange, yellow and red. The secular bridge trembled under the Hound's huge feet, wobbly all of a sudden, as if it were made of rickety wood and not of solid stone.
"Seven buggering bleeding hells!" Sandor Clegane cursed.
The grey winter clouds looked like a many-headed monster lit and coloured by dragonfire, and not by the cursed green piss of the alchemists the Imp used to defend King's Landing from Stannis. Yet the terror sowed by the dragon was no less intimidating. Maybe more. Starving tongues of bright flames were devouring the Water Tower, which started crumbling down amidst strident cries and wailing people. Everyone was screaming now, friend or foe. The Hound felt cold sweat on his back but all he could do was observe the destruction in morbid fascination.
The little green man still stood on his boat, wearing an infinitely thin, sad smile. "I warned you," he said, as a man used to the truth that people didn't believe him. A few more boats reached the crumbling bridge. "Get on board!" Mance shouted, and the rest of the prisoners and the Freys obeyed, lowering themselves into the safety of wood and water, well under the burning world above. Gendry and Mance were among the last ones. Only the Hound lingered.
He was unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the melting tower; disabled and appalled. The bridge was cracking under his feet now and the stones were coming loose.
In a moment, there would be no more crossing.
The Freys would no longer be able to exact their toll. The king whose family they slaughtered didn't need their pathetic bridge; Rhaegar could cross any river on his way on the back of the dragon. The Hound's long legs dangled in the empty air, his greatsword hung as a useless appendage in his right arm. He didn't sheathe it in time. He was a good swimmer though and he wasn't wearing armour. He stilled and waited for the shock of the cold, dangerous current.
The fall was slower than it should have been.
A claw was stopping him.
A set of black claws caught him by the waist like a puppet, pulling him up with singular dexterity, considering that each nail was almost as long and sharp as the Hound's sword. Perhaps it was better than swimming in the river gone wild, yet he didn't relish flying a dragon. Maybe his scales can cause burns as well.
There is a first time for everything, he told himself. I need to endure. The beast could have killed him easily so the fact that it did not was an encouraging sign. He almost, almost closed his eyes, but he didn't want Rhaegar to see him turn craven.
Instead, with great care, he sheathed the sword over his broad back. It wouldn't do to cut the dragon by chance. Not that it would hurt him much, but it could anger him. The beast had always looked revengeful and unforgiving to the Hound, as if it could hold long grudges of its own. With as much bravery he could muster in a humiliating situation, he glared insolently into one black, mean eye of the dragon. The beast was still breathing out fire, which streamed loose through its gaping mouth, raining down on what remained of the Freys' once valuable bridge.
The Hound looked away from all the burning. There was a waterfall of silver hair high above the dragon's head, too pretty to belong to a man.
"Brother," the king said, relentless in calling him that, "I trust I was on time." The quip was empty and the joy from Rhaegar's normally vivid eyes gone. They were the colour of dark indigo now, neither purple nor black. Sandor saw the burning tower reflected in them while he kept hanging on the dragon's paw.
You wouldn't pull me all the way up, would you? he thought. The beast must have heard him because it immediately obeyed and dragged him to sit behind the king. The Hound had no dragon blood so he could not hear what the dragon was thinking or if he had been thinking at all.
Drogon.
It was a good name. Drogon certainly didn't look as upset by the carnage it was unleashing as the dragonlord riding it.
Rhaegar leaned his face on the dragon's neck and whispered fervently. Sandor could not hear the words, but Drogon closed his jaws like a good dog, inhaling and swallowing the rest of his fire which was still floating on the wind. The two men and the dragon flew in straight line back to the first courtyard of the Twins where the Hound had entered the castle earlier that day. The dragon landed neatly, folding its wings like a giant bird. The smallfolk cowered in fear from it. The king and his shield stepped down one of the enormous black paws.
The castle yielded to fire. The day was over and it belonged to the dragon. The winter wind smelled of sulphur and all seven hells in one place. The Hound's eyes itched from the smoke rising into the air. Tears of irritation ran down the ruin of his face. He wiped them before anyone noticed and took the wrong meaning.
The little bronze-armed men clad in brown and mud-green seemed to be victorious as well, in their well-organised assault on the Twins. There was no single weasel face to be seen walking around freely and the mudmen were everywhere. Not frogeaters, the Hound thought respectfully, little lizard lions.
The king strode into the Great Hall of the Twins. The Hound padded behind. The queen was already there, holding the king's lance. It was too long for her, but contrary to what most men would expect, she could use it very well. The Hound was not most men and while being confident in his own skills with good reason, he rarely underestimated an opponent. Aegon was guarding Lyanna, his shiny sword, Dawn, bare in his arms, though no one was so much as looking at the queen with the intention to do her harm.
So His Grace left them here before flying out to do his duty and defeat his enemies. Dragon wings were the only way Lyanna and Aegon could have arrived so rapidly to the Twins. The Hound could understand why the king left his wife behind for the nasty piece of business concerning the tower. Drogon surely took his long, sweet time burning it. Even for the Hound it was one thing to kill the Freys, yet it would have been a completely different thing to take Sansa with him and make her watch.
In the middle of the great hall, the rat growing pretty, Sansa's little sister Arya sat gingerly on the high seat of the Freys with her tiny sword laid across her knees. The Hound was pleased and not surprised at all. Nothing could kill that one.
Old Frey sat helplessly at her feet, like a dog kicked out of the kennel. More like than not, he could not walk when tossed out of his litter. The she-wolf held him firmly him by the throat, lovingly plucking the last white hairs from his spotted head and face.
"Meet my lord husband," Lady Arya told the royal couple when they approached, pointing at Lord Frey with the tip of her sword.
Old Lord Walder doesn't do things by half, the Hound thought. How stupid can you be to think that a Stark would just walk into your castle unprepared? Maybe if you have a double castle, you are doubly stupid.
Arya flushed a half smile of recognition and gratitude backward at Gendry, who stood with his hammer behind the high chair.
So you were on time to help the she-wolf in bringing old Frey to kneel, Sandor thought about Gendry. Good luck, boy, with courting that one! In the Hound's expert opinion, fortified by the experience of travelling with the incorrigible brat, the boy risked being murdered in his sleep if he couldn't keep his hands and thoughts to himself.
"Not all weddings go as planned," the northern queen said sweetly to old Walder and kissed her niece's cheek in affectionate family greeting. "Wouldn't you agree, Lord Frey?"
Soaked wet from the waist down, the Hound nearly shivered from cold when Lyanna Stark addressed the oldest and the ficklest of the riverlords. His lordship had no answer to give.
"Take him prisoner!" the queen commanded the mudmen in a voice more serious than Eddard Stark's when he had been Hand of the King. "Bring some of his children and grandchildren as well. Let us all go to Greywater Watch. I long to see Lord Reed!"
The Reeds are the Starks' bannermen, not the Tullys' the Hound forced his underused brain to remember.
"I am here," the little green man said, entering. The queen faced him, forgetting Lord Frey.
"Howland," Lyanna said, and there was everything in that word. Black sadness and unmeasured joy. And sweet music caressing the senses, for as much as the Hound mostly hated music.
"The Knight of the Laughing Tree... " Lord Reed replied with tears in his eyes, unashamed of crying unlike the Hound, who had cried three times as a man grown and he'd rather not remember any of the occasions.
"I had never hoped..." The lizard lion pointed at Mance Rayder who was never far. "When I told him everything about Jon's and Aegon's birth, I had never thought... I had never dreamed of seeing you and your husband alive."
"I know," the queen said simply, "neither did I."
The Hound hoped that a happy song of reunion could be avoided. He meant to listen to a different tune as soon as it could be arranged. His blood was still up and the killing was obviously done for the day.
Sansa, he breathed out in his head, would you sit on my face?
Rhaegar's queen let go of the lance, and Aegon was there to catch it. She hugged the green-clad man with honest strength. "Howland..." She sniffed into the long sleeve of her dress and then returned her gaze to her husband. "Rhaegar, meet my dearest friend and the most faithful bannerman of the House Stark, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch."
The king nodded. "It's an honour," he said cautiously. "We met your envoys on the causeway and Lyanna urged me to heed your words and fly to the Twins. How did you know that Lord Frey would almost win this day without a little help from a dragon?"
Lord Reed looked at the queen. His strange visionary eyes begged for help. "He dreamed about it," Lyanna explained, and Rhaegar frowned.
"I thought that such things were possible only in the mummery," His Grace said wisely.
"I know, my love," Lyanna answered in all seriousness, which always made her pretty face look long. "Twenty years ago I didn't believe in the power of dreams just like you're doubting it now."
Rhaegar scratched his silver head. "Was there no other way?" he asked of the lizard lion.
The little green man shook his head. "My men are searching the Fork. They will help anyone who can still be helped. I gave them a fair warning as well."
Rhaegar looked around the great hall where smallfolk hid in the corners, as far away from the captured weasels-at-arms and the new dangerous intruders. "Were there so many in the Water Tower as well?"
"I do not know," Lord Reed said, "I do not dream of everything that passes. No one does."
The king embraced his wife. From afar, the gesture must have looked proper and restrained, but the Hound stood nearby and noticed how the king was desperate and tight as a bow. His blood must have been boiling too.
"I need to fly now," Rhaegar whispered to Lyanna, his voice intense and demanding. "I know the feeling," she retorted, dark eyes on the ground. "But I fear I cannot follow. I... I have flown too much and too long of late…"
The king gave his wife a very questioning, worried look before she continued, "I loathe rest but I require it now if I don't want to put myself in jeopardy. It is my wish to travel farther with Howland. I would see you soon, in Greywater Watch," she added, almost as shy as a young girl, awaiting her lover's reaction.
Lord Reed had an announcement of his own and it involved pointing at the Hound. "I can't take him with us, Your Grace. Our boats will not carry him. I'm sorry." The look of apprehension and possible disgust spread all over the chief frogeater's face. Sandor Clegane hadn't seen the familiar expression for a while, ever since he openly enjoyed the new king's favour. Quite frankly, he hadn't missed it.
Take me where? What have I done to you? And how can a bloody boat refuse to transport someone? Or is it my face and my name again? The old anger at the world and its ways was instantly back, simmering under the mask of indifference he wore.
"I will take my brother with me then," the king announced, to the Hound's mild surprise. "I thought you might," Lyanna gave her husband a soft kiss. "Fly safe, the both of you."
Rhaegar whispered a word of farewell to his wife and walked out the hall. The Hound followed, maintaining his usual aloofness with some difficulty. There was stubborn, uneasy silence between the two men until the dragon lifted flight again under the sad, gloomy clouds. The river was a twisting, convulsive snake slithering through the lands below. The king's back slumped in front of the Hound and there was something wrong, a small defeat, in the way he embraced a tall spike on the dragon's thick neck.
"They would have killed all of us gladly if they could," the Hound surprised himself by broaching the issue at hand, "you first of all, Your Grace. I wouldn't even put it past old Lord Frey to wed your wife after murdering you if he could gain some advantage by it. The man is known to be easy to slight and overly ambitious."
"Lyanna?" the king smirked, pinched in his sadness. "She would gut him first."
Thinking on it, the Hound was surprised Arya didn't gut the old man already.
Sandor Clegane couldn't believe he had been the first one to start talking, but what he said was honest and he couldn't leave Rhaegar to his brooding. This is what you get for unknowingly befriending a dragonlord. You become all soft and a wet nurse to one.
"There were women and children in that tower," the king said quietly, his sorrowful mood returning. "I saw some running away."
"Some," Sandor agreed, "and if they didn't die here, they would have died somewhere else. They were warned. It was much more warning than their liege lord gave the Starks. This bridge could not be left standing. You know that as well as I. Not for the Freys after what they had done, nor for the grumkins who could use it to cross freely east and west. That is also why you deepened the fords of the Trident, isn't it? You're dividing the lands to make the advance of the enemy more difficult should it cross the Wall in greater numbers." It was what Tywin Lannister would have done and it sounded like a sensible war strategy. They had no idea how many white walkers they were up against.
The king could not keep the image of the burning tower out of his head, it seemed. His dark eyes remained empty and cold. Then, as though he had reconsidered, he focused on the Hound.
"You finally omitted calling me Your Grace," he said warmly. "When will you call me brother again?"
The Hound did not reply. Somehow, keeping distance from people had always come easier for him. It made his world smaller and simpler, with less chances to be lied to. It had always been that way since he ran away from home and took service with the Lannisters. He realised that a particularly sharp dark red dragon scale was uncomfortably lodged between his legs. Sandor Clegane wriggled into a more bearable position. "You know me," he said lamely.
"I'll never do this again, I swear. I'd rather die," Rhaegar said then, brusquely, and remained silent in turn. The Hound didn't have to ask him what he meant.
"This is what kings do," he ventured again on the uneasy ground of advising his friend. And best you do it again because Stannis Baratheon may be a better man but he is no less stubborn than old Walder Frey...
The Hound had recognised the banner flying above the Twins if no one else did. He'd never forgotten the sight of it. Stannis' men unfolded it when the Blackwater burned and the Hound led good men to die in the sea of wildfire.
King Robert had uses for his brother Stannis but he had always thought of him as a large pain in the ass, and for a good reason. The man was so scrupulously righteous that he ended up doing worse things than an average sinful man.
Rhaegar... Rhaegar was different. He could see the shades of right and wrong and make reasonable decisions, although he doubted his own judgement. Must be that the understanding comes from his own sins... Stannis never sinned as far as the Hound knew. Sandor Clegane wondered if Rhaegar's son inherited the peculiar sense of justice from his father. Or if he was more like Sansa's father, breaking his fast on honour instead of bread, as Cersei once said with scorn.
"Did this beast of yours find your son?" Sandor blurted.
"I think so," the king stirred to life, "Drogon believes him to be safe. My sister is with him. But Jon either can't or won't come to meet us... I cannot say I blame him... The things he must have heard about me..."
Now, Rhaegar looked more morose than before, when only the burning tower was the source of his melancholy, a feat that the Hound thought impossible.
"Well that's all in the past and crying over it won't make it any better," the Hound said rudely, "you just have to live on!"
"That's what I'm doing, am I not?" the king retorted, dark eyes staring north with determination.
You'd better, the Hound thought, for there's no way I'm letting you die. The long and prosperous reign of King Rhaegar, First of His Name, and later on of his son, was the only reasonable guarantee of Sansa's safety in a world which wasn't going to become less awful overnight.
Nevertheless, it was not only for that reason that the Hound wanted to protect the king. Sandor Clegane had grown to love and respect Rhaegar as a true older brother. But the Hound was well practised in burying his feelings on the inside, until it seemed to the outside world that the only thing he felt was anger.
Or nothing at all.
"Your son, he has the making of quite a swordsman," the Hound decided on a different approach. If you couldn't cut through your opponent, you could fight your way sideways. When he was still a dog set to guard Joffrey, Sandor Clegane observed the Stark children playing at swords in Winterfell as a part of his duties. He had to know the enemy if he was to protect the little shit of the crown prince. The black-haired boy they called a bastard was by far the only one with true gift for swordsmanship. "You give your son a shiny sword as Aegon has, and he will beat him in no time. He might beat me one day too, when I am older."
Rhaegar listened with genuine interest. "Excellent," he said in the end with pride, "we have enough jousters in this family."
After that, the flight north continued uneventful and pleasantly silent. Two men and the beast left the hell brought into the world by dragonfire far behind. The putrid smoke of melting stone and flesh from the Twins ceded place to different evaporations from below; a pungent, threatening scent of a large swamp swerving with life in the middle of bloody winter.
The Hound's muscles started throbbing, the tension of the short battle slowly leaving his body. He had been wet and now he was pleasantly drying on the warm back of the dragon. The warmth stirred other muscles, not used for fighting men, in his case at least. Late Ser Loras may have had a slightly different opinion on the matter.
How am I to tell my beautiful, sweet wife to sit on my face? The mental image was a delight of the senses. His arms would be long enough to cup her breasts while he tasted her inside and out. Just tell her, dog, he mused, you've told her much more awful things before. She might love you for it.
Drogon landed with his paws in yellowish, muddy water, in front of a large river island. Amidst the oppressive greenery rose the strangest castle the Hound had ever seen. The quiet, wooden giant lay hidden by brown and green walls of pliable reeds and weeping willows. Its majesty almost equalled that of Casterly Rock though it was not made of stone, but of bark and leaf. Uneasiness washed over him. He would find no joy here. The place seemed to hate him for no reason at all, just like those bloody boats did.
Several short men and women rushed forward to meet them.
"Your Grace," an elderly woman said, "the rooms are prepared for you and your retinue. The rest of your army is camping further north, on a safe site between the bogs, away from the road and its dangers."
"My wife, where is she?" the Hound inquired spontaneously, realising too late that the woman could not know about him and Sansa.
"My niece, Lady Sansa, is she here?" the king helped him out.
"Inside with a young boy who has no name that I know of," the woman said.
Mance's son, the Hound did know. Sansa occasionally looked after him. Sandor never knew what to think of that. The notion of becoming a father made him very uneasy, to the point that he was relieved when Sansa's moonblood came and went. Any child of mine could be like Gregor, couldn't it? He was old enough to understand that there were evil and not so evil men in every family. But in his family, the evil had an entirely different dimension.
Once more he thought of Sansa sitting on his face and squinted against the weak sun. The buggering swamp seemed to be the last warm place in Westeros and he was now sweating in earnest.
"Go, brother," Rhaegar said, "I guess I'll just stare at the water and wait for my own wife. This is where the boats will dock, am I right?"
The crone nodded. Her face and neck were spotted from old age. Dappled, the Hound thought.
"Here, take your scarf," Sandor Clegane handed the red garment he used to disguise his head at the Twins back to the king. "I did my best not to bloody it." The king laughed. It sounded much better than his incessant questioning the things he couldn't have done differently. The success of his discourteous remark pleased the Hound so much that he continued politely. "Please," he told the short woman, "may I be taken to the Lady Sansa? She is my wife."
The confusion on the woman's face was telling. Be as it may, she stifled it by the habit of what was probably a lifetime of servitude and showed him the way. They walked through the gates protected by a grid wrought of iron in the most intricate herbal pattern the Hound had ever seen, and then overgrown with living vine. Little bird must love this.
The pillars in the first courtyard were shaped like children standing and holding the flat beam above their big-eyed heads; long-haired children with jagged teeth. They were only wooden statues, yet it seemed to the Hound that they studied him with knowing eyes and hissed through their teeth as he was led past, sharpening the knives some of them were holding. This castle has no love for me.
In the second courtyard, the feeling of being watched by silent eyes increased. The Hound was relieved when a spacious chamber opened before him from one of the brownish corridors. The warm yellow light of a short day bathed the little bird and Mance Rayder's son.
You love me, Sansa. Just as I love you, with all my wicked heart.
He had to stoop to come in.
"It's you!" Sansa exclaimed as soon as she had seen him. Carefully, she lowered the little boy from her lap on a pile of fresh rushes on the floor. The boy immediately placed one in his mouth as if it were a tasty treat from the royal table. "Don't eat that," Sansa said, admonishing him, but the boy wouldn't relent.
Damn boy! Where was he going to put him until Mance arrived?
Unexpectedly, the old woman gave a helping hand. "I shall take him to the king," she said, "the river is beautiful to see in the evening. The water flowers close their petals and it's the best time to see lizard lions swimming! Come, boy!"
"Thank you," the Hound almost chirped with merriment, and loaded the boy in the crone's arms before she changed her mind. Then, he put his sword away, lowered himself on the floor, finally got rid of the tunic and loosened his hair from Sansa's blue ribbon, noticing how it was all dirty and ruined. She'll give me another one, he hoped. He had no idea where he had left his cloak. Probably in the dungeons. I'm good at leaving those behind.
Sansa was next to him in an instant, her hands on his face.
"You're bleeding!" she rightfully concluded.
"It's nothing," he muttered.
The water basin seemed to be conjured out of thin air. Soft cloth was cleaning his burns, as gently as he once dabbed blood from his future wife's lip. He would never forget how the girl the entire Lannister household considered stupid thought of pushing Joffrey from the battlements of the Red Keep. "Come closer," she said now.
She is fretting over me.
To his great surprise, he had to suppress the desire to pretend he was worse off than he was.
"It's nothing," he insisted on telling the truth, "we killed some Freys, His Grace burned some more, he's upset about it, but it will pass. It must." A very weak wave of shame hit him as he allowed himself to admire his wife. I am home and others are not. Maybe the king has the right of it and we should not be doing any of it. We are all trained to kill and for what? He wondered if the Frey he had used as a living shield had made it. Maybe he had a wife and a snotty child somewhere waiting for him.
"You are bleeding," Sansa complained weakly, "you're back, gods, you are back... they told me the boats would only be back late at night when I asked..." Of course she would be asking about me. The Hound suddenly felt very, very grateful to Rhaegar and Drogon for the ride.
"The others are not back yet," he said, "only the king, his dragon and me. Everyone is fine though," he added hastily before she'd have to make another question. She must want to know about her sister.
"How was it, coming back?" she asked with great care. You mean to ask me in that cursed, polite way of yours if I was afraid to fly a fire-retching monster. Well, maybe I was, but only a little bit. If truth be told, the uncanny experience went better than expected. The beast was as clever as Stranger and equally mean. The Hound had acquired a new admiration for the black dragon.
"It was fine," he grumbled, unwilling to discuss his reticence toward the big fires, "different than anything else." That was the truth of the matter as far as he could express it. There was nothing that could compare to flying with the dragon.
"I know," she said. She did it once before, he remembered. Sansa had returned to King's Landing from Highgarden with Daenerys and Drogon.
Flying must come naturally to birds.
His hands were free to roam the bodice of her gown. The laces were never as firm as women wanted them. The chamber was lit with soft light emanating from bowls of some sort of smelly oil or resin burning instead of candles, and he thought he glimpsed a bed in it as well. Probably it was a poor one with the mattress filled with the tree bark half of the bloody castle seemed to be built of, and probably his legs wouldn't fit in it. Yet after weeks on the road, it was a sweet sight. And Sansa's breasts seemed larger than ever before, a landscape of softness he could get lost in and never regret it. They are still growing. He filled his mouth with one of them. That stopped her from trying to nurse his damn scars.
His earlier fantasies of making her sit on his face disappeared like the excessive smoke swallowed back by the maw of the dragon. Some other time, we have plenty. He stilled his mouth on her teat, his mind a blank, waiting for anything she would do to him next. She began cradling his head against her chest as a precious thing.
"What do you want us to do?" he asked, in a rasp deeper than Drogon's growl.
Sansa never answered those questions, she probably wouldn't know how to if she tried. But she always found a way to show him, somehow, and to respond to him, until they both reached their pleasure. And what pleasure it is... He had never known anything remotely similar. The Hound wondered if she knew how helpless he was in her presence.
"Kiss me now," she surprised him by talking. "It's been too long."
It was only a day, he thought, but he kept his mouth shut.
She has the right of it, he realised. For me as well.
She was all a man needed.
Sansa was everything he ever needed.
He never thought he'd be this happy in his bloody life.
He'd do anything to make it last.
xxx
A/N
If you read so far please, please, please consider leaving a review. The author is silly and sensitive.
Next chapter will probably be Jon