Disclaimer: All places, characters, etc etc belong to GRRM.


Chapter Twelve
Sandor


On one hand, there was the girl.

The Kingslayer was an arrogant bastard, but he'd been right: it would have been reckless to bring the little bird anywhere near Gregor. The trouble was, Sandor hadn't known what else to do with her. The only kin she had left were the Lord of the Vale and the Lord of Riverrun: a sickly child and a Lannister hostage. So he'd brought her with him, and vaguely hoped some solution would present itself. Truth be told, he hadn't thought that far ahead.

He wouldn't pretend his thoughts of her were entirely chivalrous, but he wasn't a knight so it hardly mattered. Her ordeal in the Vale had hardened her somewhat, but she was still the girl who had captivated him at King's Landing.

The years had made her shrewd without making her cynical. Her smiles still came as readily as when she'd belonged to Joffrey - and her tinkling laugh, too, the one that had always caught his attention whenever he was in the room. It was relief to no longer have to feign disinterest, and an honour to be the one with whom she was laughing. She treated him with the same sweet courtesy that had once infuriated him as empty nonsense. Nobody had really considered Joffrey's dog worthy of gentle words, apart from those spoken in mockery. The little bird was even polite to Lannisters, and he was certainly better than them.

But where her words had once been underlaid with caution, if not actual fear, there was a warmth now. His mind kept returning to how her expression had melted just before she embraced him tonight. No one had ever looked at him with that sort of tenderness before; no woman had ever sighed at his touch. I could love her just for that. He thought of the feel of supple muscle under her skin and the softness of her lips on his scarred cheek, and he couldn't help imagining how it would feel to take her in his arms and make her sing for him properly.

Ser Stump said the Imp never made a lion out of her, and he loved her for that, too. She'd never given in to them even after they killed her family, broke her dreams and stole her maidenhead. She'd fought after all. Maybe there was more of the north in her than he'd thought.

Physically, however, she was still as helpless as the day Boros Blount beat her bloody. He didn't trust the armoured wench to see her safely to the Quiet Isle, or anywhere else, for that matter.

Sandor didn't need to take any oath; he already suspected that if it came down to his skin or hers, he wouldn't even hesitate to die for her. What does that make you? he wondered, and he was fairly sure he knew the answer.


On the other hand, there was Gregor.

The name said it all. It didn't just mean the man. It meant everything.

Everything Gregor had taken from him. It wasn't until he squired at Casterly Rock that he began to understand how a castle could be noisy, the servants chatting amongst themselves, the men-at-arms japing, the animals frisky and unafraid. For a long time after he left home, he winced at sudden sounds, listening for the echoing footsteps that were sure to follow. Sometimes, when he woke in the night, he still found himself listening for them.

Until the last year or two, all his dreams had been about Gregor: filled with the smell of burning flesh, and the sight of a girl's grey eyes.

"Just like their mother's eyes," their father said. Sandor had never known their mother. There was a female face in his mind that might have belonged to her, but it might as easily have been a wetnurse, or some serving-girl who'd dandled him on her lap once. His little sister had been named for the woman who died birthing her, but Gregor would permit no talk of their mother. Gregor would permit no talk at all as the years passed.

He and his sister would flee to the woods and hills to play out of earshot, using sticks for steel. They liked pretending they were Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden on the Stepstones. Later, when the bandages came off, she said he must play Maelys the Monstrous instead.

When Gregor hurt her, she'd always known better than to cry and scream like Sandor had. Gregor usually found her by herself, singing away as happily as ever. Their father said Sandor would be a knight some day, and true knights protected the weak. "If you cried out, I could come help you," he'd said, trying to sound brave, but she'd only looked at him sadly. Sandor was a big strong boy, freakish big next to anyone save Gregor, but their sister was only little. He remembered the way she'd breathed near the end, fast and shallow, but always quiet. So, so quiet, all because of Gregor.

Gregor meant the bruise that flowered across Maester Ardys' face. The hand that dangled as they carried away the singing nursemaid. The brief yelp that Sandor's pup made a moment before the crunch. The glint of bone in his sister's ruined arm. The hiss of his own skin against the coals. The silence that rang across the courtyard when the wench hit the ground.

The helm they had to cut from the new master-at-arms, the one with the jolly Gulltown accent, who'd not seemed bothered by Sandor's burns. The pain that filled his father's eyes when he saw the horse, or what was left of it. The fear that filled his sister's, after agony had dulled their sparkling grey; her brave smile bloodied and broken, all the wickedness gone from it. It took her three days to die.

The ringing in his ears when he saw the shape slung over the saddle. The whole world had turned beneath his feet, but Gregor, they'll call him Master Gregor from now on, but no one would ever make him a ser, not now, had ridden through the gate as straight and tall and grim as ever. Sandor left within the hour. He was ten years old.

If you ever want to fight your brother, this is your last chance.

Gregor was the monster from the stories. Gregor was the hurts of a little boy, who'd fled his home for fear of his life. Gregor was that grief and loneliness. Gregor was the horror in the looking-glass that no-one could love, and the cruel japes, and the revulsion on strangers' faces.

That was Gregor. But most of all, Gregor meant revenge.


Sandor was surprised when the little bird put her bedroll next to his again. From the way she coloured when the Kingslayer questioned Sandor's intentions, he thought she was embarrassed about what happened earlier and wouldn't want to arouse Ser Stump's suspicions any further. She's married to his damn brother, he thought irritably.

She wasn't asleep yet; he could tell from her breathing. She hadn't protested when Brienne of Tarth laid out her plan. She hadn't expressed a preference for her escort, or, in fact, addressed so much as a word to Sandor since the Kingslayer and the Beauty came upon them. And yet she lay inches from him, her breath warm against his back.

Keep the girl, or come with me.

If he went with the Kingslayer, he'd finally get to lay his family's ghosts to rest. And he'd be preventing all those horrors Gregor had yet to commit. The satisfaction of prospective kinslaying had sustained him throughout his adult life; if he didn't take this chance, the regret would haunt him for the rest of it.

And yet it didn't hold the same savour any more. This thing, this Ser Robert Strong - could he even be sure it was still Gregor, the Gregor he knew and hated? Was it worth risking his life to fight some mindless beast in his brother's armour?

And the girl...

The north was burned. The Starks had fallen, and she had nowhere else to go. She would always be safe with him. Maybe that would be enough. He thought Gregor had stolen away all possibility of the normal life most men carved out for themselves: a modest home and the beginnings of a house of his own, too, but here was a woman who might be able to... Only that was foolish: she was still Lady Stark, and a name like that would always mean something.

Losing Sansa or losing Gregor. Which lifelong regret would he prefer?

"Sandor?" she whispered suddenly. Her hand was on his shoulder again. His blankets rustled as he rolled over, but he stayed quiet. Lying here, it would be so easy to pull her close, but somehow that would feel like a betrayal in itself. She chewed her lip nervously before she spoke. "Are you going with Ser Jaime tomorrow?"

"I haven't decided," he muttered. Fool. You know the answer's yes. Just tell her.

"Oh." She sounded surprised, but when he met her eyes, the sadness was unmistakeable. She knew already. She doesn't want me to leave her.

He was desperate to say something cheerful; he didn't want to let her down, or make it sound like he was about to. "I could come back for you," he heard himself say. "I would find you."

But it would be wiser not to. He'd have to tear himself away from her sooner or later. Even if he came back in one piece, it didn't matter what he felt for her, or if she really did feel something for him in return - should she ever be able to wed again, she'd be married off to some political ally. He was far too lowborn to ever aspire to her hand himself. Though I'd kill whoever they wed her to, he decided calmly.

She reached out again and touched his cheek, timidly. "And what if he... what if you never return?"

He looked at her for a long moment before reaching under her blankets and jerking her bedroll closer. His arms slid around her and he folded her to his chest, not daring to meet her eyes again. Instead he kissed her brow and rested his chin against her forehead.


Sandor awoke to a toe in his side. He rolled back, releasing the little bird from his embrace.

"I do hope you haven't smothered my sweet sister in the night," said Jaime Lannister, the dawn light blazing off his golden armour. Sandor extricated himself from his blankets and struggled to his feet. "Well? Are you staying or going?"

He looked at the girl rubbing sleep from her eyes. He looked at the sword strapped to Jaime Lannister's wrong hip. He frowned.

"Why do you think they'll go to Casterly Rock?"

"Where else would Cersei hide? It's all she knows." Jaime yawned. "I'll mount a search from there, most like, and have the guards fan out."

"Send some of them to my father's keep; that's all he knows." Sandor refused to call it his brother's keep - though with Gregor technically dead, maybe it belonged to Sandor now. He wasn't sure. Gregor has taken enough from me, he decided. "And besides. That's where I'm taking the little bird."