Sandor

It was a common misconception that Sandor Clegane loathed the Lords and Ladies of Westeros. That idea, whispered by the smallfolk, was simply not true in any way, shape, or form and Sandor would be the first to tell all that.

He hated everyone, rich and poor, no matter their standing.

An equal opportunity man of hatred and disgust, in his long life there hadn't been any that he'd met that he could look at and say, "There is a good lad/lass". He had found that everyone he encountered was an utter fool who tended to grate on his nerves and he had little problem in letting them know it. The only problem was that the smallfolk were used to knights and such looking down at them so that it was second nature for them while only a few anointed men were bold and brass enough to mouth off to a lord or lady and let them know on no uncertain terms how much they were loathed. As such it was just seen that he hated those with wealth and power... and treated everyone else like most knights did.

Another misconception about Sandor Clegane was he just hated people because he was a hateful person. Once more that was a falsehood and if one said as much to him he'd laugh in that person's face and tell them to fuck off. No, Sandor Clegane didn't mindlessly hate people. It was far better (or far worse, depending on your philosophical view) than that: in every person he met he found something to hate.

Some were too noble and went through lives like they believed they were in some tale told by nursemaids to spoiled children. Others were utter monsters who killed and raped without reason. Sandor was proud enough to state that he'd never forced a woman into his bed. He'd paid for whores, of course, and he had a feeling some fucked him for free as they hoped to avoid enraging him, but never once had he shoved a woman down, forced her legs open, and had his way with her amongst blood and tears. He wasn't Gregor. And while he had killed MANY people and did nothing to hide that fact he'd always had a reason to do some. Maybe not the best reasons… but he'd never just killed to kill.

He hated farmers because they seemed to never be satisfied. They whined if it rained because it might drown the crops. They whined when the sun shined down because it dried out the crops. They moaned when they raised too little food and sobbed when they raised too much and it all went to rot. And if they grew just enough they complained that if they just raised a bit more they could have sold it off to others.

He hated the tavern owners who were all fake smiles and didn't realize that a man sometimes just wanted to drink in peace and he hated musicians who complained when you beat them over the head with their own lutes. He rolled his eyes at whores who faked screams of passion and whispered words of love and devotion; he was only concerned with his own loins and didn't give a damn what they felt. There were knights who tried to cover up the fact they were just as vile as him by coating themselves in 'honor' and septons who claimed to be so pious then turned around and kicked away those that needed their help. They preached about the gods and how all must honor them without realizing that the cunts didn't give a damn about any of them. Kings and Queens were just petty annoying bastards who found something to complain about when they, of any people, had NOTHING to whine about. The Small Council was filled with schemers who were so focused on their games they'd walk off a pier and be half drowned before they realized what had happened… and they'd still be working on how to spin it to their bloody advantage.

And then there were direct individuals, particular examples that managed to stand above the masses in terms of pissing Sandor off. Jaime Lannister, the pampered kitten who had a pretty smile but who's soul was uglier than Sandor's twisted face. He seemed to believe that he could do whatever he wanted, commit and sin, and then wipe away all his crimes with one decent deed. Then there was the Imp who didn't know when to shut his mouth and complained that all looked down on him before going off to do the very things that made people look down on him. Couldn't forget the Queen, who didn't know when to shut any of her holes. A brat that should have been whipped more than a few times to beat the stupid and vain out of her. If he hadn't be reassigned Sandor knew he'd have killed the little shit Joffrey just so he didn't have to hear the blond walking cock warble and whine. Eddard Stark might have been a man Sandor could have dealt with, worked with; he was a quiet man who didn't let himself get hung up fanfare. The problem was that Lord Stark believed that the world revolved around honor and people like that drove Sandor mad.

'Didn't help his family any against the headsmen's sword and the Black Cells, did it? Didn't protect his father from the Mad King, did it?'

All the fucking Starks were like that, save Antony Stark and he was just the Imp and the Kingslayer rolled into one.

He loathed Baelish and Varys, both of whom had tried to make him their man. Varys had tried to use pretty words and claims of giving him what he wanted if ONLY he would do the kind thing and whisper to him secrets. He'd spat in the eunuch's face and laughed at his shocked look. Varys should have been happy with that, as it was better than Baselish got; Sandor hadn't seen the man's face when he'd found his pretty boy messenger's hacked apart body in his bed but he had heard the scream through the Red Keep and it still made him chuckle.

Then there was Tywin Lannister, his liege lord. Plenty of people hated him, from small to mighty, but Sandor had his own reasons. The glowering bastard who seemed to think he was the only one who had suffered a loss. His wife was just another woman who died, it happened all the time, but the man seemed to believe that he was the only one to lose something and thus never let himself feel a touch of enjoyment. Sandor wasn't one to dance and sing but he could at least enjoy a meal and smile when he saw a nice pair of tits. It burned him that a man like that, all the wealth of the world, his looks (while Tywin was nearing the winter of his life he still had a regal standing and there were women that thought him handsome) with two beautiful children and a grandson who would be king… and still he went about like someone had stolen his pudding.

And probably the person Sandor hated the most was himself for not spitting on all the fuckers and toddling off someplace to drink himself to death.

There was only one person he'd ever found that he could stand to truly be around. Only one that had earned his loyalty and suffered not his biting words nor acidic tongue. The woman who he now stood guard over, who had healed his wounds and proven herself above all others.

Sansa Stark.

He stood silent and still, sword at his side though there was no need for it. Not when Sansa could fight like a demon from hell. He still remembered what she'd done to those rapists, how she'd torn them to shreds. He didn't know how she'd done that but attributed it to the same powers she had learned during her time among the dead. Where once he had scoffed at the tales of spells and magic he now took such words with a grain of salt. He still believed most of it was horseshit… but even horseshit could be useful at times. She had shown him that.

Yes, Sandor did not hate Sansa Stark. But that didn't mean he didn't think her at times quite foolish.

Like now, as she listened politely to the old woman she'd invited from Lannisport prattle on.

The windows had been covered with thick semi-porous material that blocked out the sun but still let the air blow in and swirl about the room. Bowls filled with crushed fragrant flowers had been set all about them, to drive away the stink of King's Landing. Just like the royals that lived within the city so much effort was put in to making King's Landing look grand and beautiful but there was nothing that could cover up how horrible it truly was. Take a few steps out of the Red Keep and the stench of unwashed bodies, piss in the gutters, rotting corpses, and burning fires filled ones nostrils. Still, in the darkness of his queen's room it was easy to forget such things. Sandor didn't, of course, but it was possible.

Sansa sat at the main table in her chambers, the one set aside for if she wished to dine by herself, holding herself with dignity yet without the stiffness that Cersei tended to adopt. There was a relaxed nature to her, of someone utterly comfortable with themselves and their surroundings. She was wearing one of the dresses that Joffrey had commissioned for her that actually fit her grown form but still, because it was designed by the little shit, had been cut so low that it would have look perfectly in place on a Dornish whore. She'd gone without slippers and her feet, pale as milk just like the rest of her skin, stuck out from just below the hem of her dress. Her long locks had gone from a vibrant red to a mix of ivory and crimson, like blood mixed with snow, and was braided in an elaborate design. She'd also taken to an Essos style of painting ones nails and both her fingers and her toes had been colored an icy blue that complimented her bright brilliant blue eyes.

In contrast the woman she was talking to was everything Sansa wasn't. Sandor honestly didn't believe that a woman could get to be that old… once their tits began to sag what use was there for them, after all? She had a face filled with more crags and crevices that a mountain pass and her fingers were twisted like tree roots and just as knotty. The only thing that was impressive about her was how someone so thin could pack away so much food as the wizened old woman had polished off two trays of lemon cakes. Of course Sandor wished she'd just keep eating as it was only when she was pushing a pastry in her mouth that she shut up for a few seconds.

Sansa didn't seem to mind though. The old woman, Dorys, had served the Lannisters for years, first as Joanna Lannister's nursemaid and then, when she'd married Tywin, going with her young charge to Casterly Rock and watching over the gold brats and the Imp. Sansa had requested she be brought to the Red Keep and Joffrey had given in to her sweetly whispered demand, bundling the old woman up and bringing her secretly to the Red Keep; she'd insisted on that as well, stating that she did not wish to bother the Imp or the Queen. The old crone seemed to have a story for every minute of every day of her long life and she was happy to share them all. She had been yammering on for hours, stopping only long enough for several of Sansa's pale quiet servants to ghost into the room with their lunch: beef drizzled in a thick gravy, a mix of asparagus and dark lettace, and a chilled soup. Sandor had been commanded to join them (his queen was considerate like that, as most nobles would have forgotten that he needed food like everyone else) and he'd hoped that once they were done the decrepit old bitch would shut up and go but instead she'd just continued on, Sansa laughing and smiling in all the right places while her silent severants moved like wraiths to clean up and Sandor resisted the urge to walk over and press the bat's face into the wall until the sounds stopped coming out of her mouth.

"Oh, she was so nervous to tell him she was with child," Dorys said with a croaking laugh like a wood witch. "Such a flutter of nervous! She spent hours pacing, wondering how she should tell Lord Tywin. She wanted it to be perfect, you know. Or you will, when you have a child of your own, milady."

"I am sure," Sansa said with a polite smile, patting the hideous twisted fingers of the old woman. "But I believe we must end this talk now. I have taken up much of your time and I do so need to prepare for dinner tonight with my beloved Joffrey. But we will talk again tomorrow."

"Yes, of course milady!" The woman stood up and shuffled to the door, Sandor not even glancing her way as she made her exit, the door shutting with a firm clank.

"Thank the gods the old bird is finally gone," Sandor muttered.

Sansa smirked at that. "One would almost think you didn't like her!"

Sandor glowered, folding his arms over his chest. "Just don't see the use of an old warbling bird like her." When Sansa merely raised an eyebrow he let out a huff and elaborated. "Can't produce children so all the rich assholes who need to 'secure their lines' have no use for her."

"I don't know... Littlefinger is quite fond of claiming that for every twisted, disgusting creature in the world there is a man who wishes to know it intimately." She paused and smirked. "He loves me, you know."

"If by love you mean he wants to fuck you while pretending your Catelyn Stark then yeah."

She laughed at that. "It's rather pathetic, isn't it? He has accomplished so much but like so many men who like to think themselves so large and mighty when you boil away all their lies and tales they are... rather small." She walked over to the vanity that sat in the corner of the room and picked up a brush, running it through her long hair. Sandor scrunched up his brow; it seemed that with every pass her locks became lighter. A trick of the light, nothing more, most likely. "Do you know he's been trying to 'educate' me? He claims he wishes to help me survive King's Landing and the monsters that dwell here." She giggled at that, though Sandor didn't quite get what she found so amusing. He'd come to understand that Sansa found many things entertaining that he did not; it were as if she were in on some grand inside joke that the rest of the world wasn't privy too. "He cornered me just yesterday and sought to teach me why war is so grand and all that is happening is so wondrous." Her voice took on a mocking tone as she mimicked Baelish's ever changing accent; the bloody idiot liked to pretend he was higher than he was but would slip at times and forget exactly what regional dialect he was supposed to be using. "'So many in the realm think that all this chaos is some deep infernal pit that will sink us all, consuming the land and leave nothing but ruin. Ah, but they are wrong, sweet Sansa... Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. They cling to the real or the gods or love. Illusions.

Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is'." Sansa paused, looking at Sandor's reflect.

"...now that is some fancy bullshit if I've ever heard any," Sandor finally said. "Chaos ain't no fucking ladder. Chaos is chaos, pure and simple. Random, dumb, and unmerciful. I've fought in many battles where plans went to hell and I never felt like I was climbing a damn ladder unless there was a real one in my hands. Chaos is just chaos, plain and simple."

"Hmmm... perhaps. I prefer to think of chaos as an opportunity." She smirked. "After all, in chaos no one notices a knife being stuck in their ribs until it's too late."

"Now that sounds more like what I've seen," Sandor commented.

Sansa hummed to herself. "Maybe I'll let Littlefinger kiss me. He wants to, I can tell that. To hold me close and pretend I am his lost Catelyn and that if he wins my heart then he has won her's. Just a kiss. Chaste and sweet. A promise of something more. And then when he is gone I will brutalize myself. Pull my hair and claw at my own breasts and abuse my nethers until they are bruised. THen come weeping to Joffrey. 'Oh my golden lion, look what that vile mockingbird did to me! How he tried to use me! I ran and cried-'." Sansa blinked back crocodile tears and turned to look at Sandor. "Or maybe I'll claim the same to him. That the King hurts me so and if he'll only find a way to save me...hmmm, what fun I might have. All the sweet little fools tearing their throats out for me and leave happy little corpses as their offers…"

Sandor shivered slightly. He was loyal to Sansa but sometimes she frightened even him with her love of blood and confusion and violence. Whatever had happened between her striking her head and awakening in the sept had left her quite altered and there were brief moments when she revealed herself to be just as much a monster as men and women claimed him to be.

"But you truly do not see any use for that sweet woman?" Sansa finally asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Not unless you enjoy old bats like that raping your ear with their nonsense."

"Let me ask you something, my brave knight. Suppose you were commanded to fight against a knight... perhaps one from the Reach or the Vale. And let us pretend your brother was still among the living and not the wonderful and loyal dead and that defeating this knight would earn you that chance to battle Gregor one on one at long last, to settle all your scores against him." Sandor clenched his fist at that. While it gave him great satisfaction that his brother had not only died a messy and violent death that had left only a mangled corpse but also had been left such a disgrace that generations from now people would mock him as the fool that had dared to try and abuse Tywin Lannister's trust... he still wished it had been his sword that had ended the bastard's life. His shield. His hands. "What would be the first thing you would do, hmm? Would you sharpen your blade? Attend to your armor?"

Sandor shook his head. "Normally I'd just go there and kill the bastard. That is my normal method. But something that important?" He considered that, truly, and finally came to the answer. "I'd find out all I could about the soon to be corpse I was to fight."

"Exactly," Sansa stated, unlacing her dress. "You would learn how he fought. Preferred weapons. Preferred styles. His weaknesses, his strengths. And the more you learned of him the better you would understand how to destroy him." She smiled, turning and letting the dress fall from her youthful form, revealing her ivory skin, her round and full rear swaying slightly as she looked back at him over her shoulder. "And that is why I talked with that old woman. To learn of my enemy."

"The Lannisters?" Sandor asked, not startled at all by her nakedness; she'd done this far too often. "I thought we were working with them."

"They are working with us, not the other way around," Sansa said as she moved about the room gloriously naked, without a care in the world. "Starks and Lannisters. Baratheons and Tyrells. Martells and Greyjoys. All of them are our enemies. They may not realize it, may not believe it... they may go to their graves believing that I was their kind hearted ally even if it was my fingers wrapped around their throats as they gasped their last breath. Everyone who lives is my enemy... save you, my dear knight. Save you." She sat down at her parlor desk and began to dab various perfumes upon her snowy flesh. Two drops from a red bottle at the soft junction of her neck. One from a blue bottle that she ran down her throat. Another few on each wrist from a green bottle. Three on each nipple that she swirled about, teasing the dusty teat till it was firm and several more from a black bottle that she placed between the junction between her legs. "I now understand so very much about the Lannisters. Not just the Queen and the Kingslayer and the Imp but their father... and mother. Knowledge, dear Sandor, is power."

The grim warrior didn't smile at that, though it wasn't out of any loyalty to his liege lord. "You do realize that the Toothgrinder is getting his army ready to plunder and pillage all of King's Landing even as we speak?" He shrugged and walked over to the table, grabbing a bottle of wine. "Maybe put some of that knowledge hunger towards dealing with him and that fiery bitch that's with him. Hell, they claim he has a god on his side." He took a long pull on the Arbor Red and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Stannis isn't going to think twice about putting you in chains... or worse."

"Thor Odinson is of no concern to me," Sansa said coolly. "He was lucky with Bran and Azor and but in the end failed and he will again. As for Stannis I've decided to let the Imp deal with him. My loyal subjects have whispered his plans to me and while I hate his methods so long as they are turned towards our mutual enemy I will allow him free reign."

"And what exactly has the dwarf cooked up to defeat Baratheon?"

Sansa stood and padded over to where more dresses hung, selecting a powder blue one with black lace. Without a word her servants reappeared, their gaunt faces and hollow eyes, like those of a corpse save for the intensity of the blue within them. They moved to help her dress and Sansa smiled, running her fingers along the fabric. "He has constructed a great chain that will be hidden under the water only to be pulled up when half Stannis' fleet as crossed into the Blackwater. It will split his forces in two and prevent those that get through to retreat."

"And why the bloody hell would they retreat?" Sandor demanded, curling his nose as one of the ladies in waiting passed by; the bitch must have forgotten to bathe that morning as the stench of King's Landing clung to her. "What could scare the hell out of Grinder?"

"Wildfire," Sansa said, her voice for once not full of bluster or confidence but instead a touch of fear. The servants all paused and backed away, fleeing the room as Sansa hurried over to him and grasped his hands, holding them so tightly it hurt. "My dear knight, you must promise me that you won't leave my side when the attack comes. My powers won't be able to aid you against such a threat. Please, let others deal with the city..."

"Of course," Sandor said, looking down at her and nodding after a moment. "If that's what you say... I have no problem avoiding that green pig shit." Sansa let out a sigh of relief and Sandor found it so odd that, of all the things she had encountered, it was wildfire that scared her. Not because it wasn't scary... in fact that was the reason why he found it so odd. Everyone feared wildfire and Sansa wasn't like everyone.

'Hell, I can't believe the Imp has the balls to use it! We must be pretty fucking desperate for him to resort to that!'

He knew people whispered that he was scared of fire, after what had happened with his brother. Sandor's answer, right after he caved in their heads for being so fucking stupid as to say that to his face, was "Fuck yes I'm scared of fire and you dumbasses should be too!" Only brain addled fools like that Thoros of Myr enjoyed playing around with fire; Sandor was happy to let fire cook his chicken and make his swords.

Still, it seemed so odd for Sansa to be afraid of wildfire. After her return to the world of the living she had told him that after death there was no need to feel fear, that she was beyond it.

Yet she trembled even now at the thought of it.

There was a knock at the door and Sansa gathered herself, quickly lacing up her dress and making sure she was presentable while Sandor moved to open the door. He looked down at the new arrival, a small man with fading brown hair who was wearing a muted green shirt and britches the color of dead leaves. He had a bow on his back and several knives on him and from the dirt that caked his boots Sandor knew that this man was one of the forest hunters that so enjoyed prowling through the trees and underbrush to collect stags and rabbits.

"Lady Sansa?" the man asked. Sandor gave him a dark look and he stammered, "I mean is this her room... not that you are her..."

"Just get in here, ya daft bastard," Sandor growled, letting the hunter in. Behind him two guards came with a large crate, setting it down before making their way out of the room to do whatever the redcloaked dumbasses did when they weren't standing around doing nothing.

"Milady," the hunter said as Sansa looked down at him and smiled serenely. "I have brought what you asked for and it has been prepared as you requested. I had to make do with other organs as the rot was too great but they are a match for what you requested-"

Sansa held up a hand, her brow furrowing. "I'm sorry... organs? What are you talking about?"

"The organs... you asked me to prepare them, as they do in Meeren for their dead. I'm afraid the originals ones were quite rotted and gone but these new ones are a near perfect match..." The man walked over to the crate and opened it up allowing Sansa to peer inside only for her to jump back, eyes wide. Sandor, his hand on his sword, hurried forward and looked inside only to tilt his head.

There, standing perfectly preserved, was Sansa's direwolf.

The fur had been cleaned and the combed so that it shone brightly and it was only by looking very close that Sandor could see where Ned Stark had sliced into the wolf and ended her life. Fine glass eyes, most likely from Essos, had been placed in the sockets and the body had been posed so that the beast looked as if she were at attention, ready to be given a command. Sandor, despite himself, found it a rather good recreation and thought that the dirty hunter had actually done a fine job recreating the direwolf.

Yet Sansa was staring at Lady in surprise.

"The organs were mummified as you asked and placed inside, along with all the bones, though I did have to reinforce them with a bit of steel. The pelt took a while to find but you were right, Lord Stark did bury her in the godswood of Winterfell. Wasn't easy to sneak in there with your brother ruling over the keep but I managed." The hunter puffed up a bit. "A fine job, I must admit!"

"Why... why did you do this?" Sansa asked.

"Milady?"

Sansa snapped her head so she could lock eyes with the hunter. "Who told you to do this? To get that wolf?"

"Y-you did, milady!" the hunter stammered, startled. "You sent a letter..."

"I did not such thing!" Sansa began to stalk towards the hunter, her fingers curled like talons.

Sandor stepped forward. "You did, Sansa." She snapped her head in his direction and he swallowed, a feeling of dread coming over him even as he pressed on. "I was there when you wrote the letter. It was a day or so after you awoke in the sept. You said you wished to have the wolf back and had me find the name of a hunter that could help. I could not find one but did find a man who knew a man… and you said that was fine and sent the letter."

"I did?" Sansa said, brow furrowed before she shook her head. "I... I am sorry, good hunter. Those days... they were a blur... I forgot. This is a... lovely gift. Thank you." She walked over to a set of drawers and pulled out a sack of silver stags. "Here, I hope this is enough."

"Of course!" the Hunter exclaimed as Sansa practically tossed him the bag. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"Yeah, yeah, you're happy," Snador groused. "Now go get yourself a whore and some wine and stop bugging us." He shoved the hunter out the door and slammed it firmly, just in case the fool didn't get that they weren't interested in dealing with him anymore. He turned back and found Sansa staring at the stuff direwolf ('Lappy? Landy? She named it some stupid name') with a look of utter confusion and worry on her face. "My lady?" he asked, taking a step forward. She was murmuring to herself, her entire posture screaming of just how unsure and unsteady she had become after meeting with the hunter.

"I asked for it?" She ran her fingers through her hair, her face even paler than it had been before. "Did I? Did I forget? It may be useful but… no I would… but…"

"Lady Sansa?" Sandor said, the foreign feeling of having concern for another. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had concern for himself. She finally looked at him and he waved his hand towards the direwolf. "Would you like me to get rid of this-"

"No!" she said harshly only to quickly gather herself. "No. Just… place it somewhere… somewhere I don't need to see… just remove it for now to someplace… else." He stared at her and she snapped. "Just do it!" and with that spun away and turned towards the window, staring out below while still murmuring to herself.

Deciding to take it to the room they used to store her extra dresses and the gifts that Joffrey and the court had given her Sandor placed the lid back on the crate and hefted it up easily, casting one last glance at Sansa before heading towards the door.

"help me."

"My lady?" he said, turning towards Sansa.

"Yes?"

"Was there something else?" he asked.

"No. Please… I want to be alone." She managed to small smile. "Thank you."

"Very well," Sandor said, swallowing as he made his way out of the room.

The whispered plea followed him as the door shut.

"please… help me…"