Sandor Clegane
Night had fallen and day seemed to have never broken. There was little in the way of light for Sandor as he awoke from his drunken slumber, yet strangely his head did not hurt, and he was somewhat aware of his surroundings.
He could feel the iron biting at his wrists and the shackles around his ankles. The Hound was among the strongest men in Westeros but even he could not hope to rip iron chains from the wall.
And even if he did where would he go?
The door was undoubtedly locked, and he wasn't particularly interested in showing his burned mug to the world right now. Not after what he'd done.
Sandor had stayed too far back from his Prince's side, he couldn't stand to look at the poor dragon girl after what his brother had done to her nephew. Gregor was always the root of his brothers problems, the day they'd scaled Maegor's Holdfast they'd had a mission, but that didn't mean Sandor wanted to succeed.
In fact he'd hoped Gregor would prove too large, and his climbing spike might fail him, then I'd be rid of him.
Yet it had not happened, and Gregor had crushed the poor babe's skull before Sandor could get a word edgewise. The blood had splattered all over a twelve year old Hound, but he'd been shocked that his brother could commit such an act.
Sandor knew his brother was a monster, but to the world at large surely it could remain no secret. Gregor had swore his oaths before the man whose babe laid lifeless in the Mountains grasp. It had been for Gregor that the Hound had never swore such oaths.
He was a fucking knight, and they were supposed to be the best of us.
The brothers had been about to fight once more when Ser Jamie came in through the window and sliced off the little piggy's arm.
Sandor had done his best to prevent what happened, but it didn't matter.
And once more his good intentions had failed, but this time it actually cost Sandor personally.
This time he was the one who'd done the smashing.
Joffrey, the little shit that he was, deserved every bit he was being given. Besides his size, he's no different than Gregor.
A Monster through and through. If anyone would know it to be true it had to be his sworn shield, the man who acted as executioner to the Princes perverted judge.
Men were one thing, men are meat and I'm a Hound.
But Sandor had done his best to not harm undeserving woman, and until last night he'd done a fine job of it.
He'd seen the entirety of Joffrey's confrontation, and yet he'd acted once more too late.
The girl had been to quick and close for Sandor to intercept her, else wise he might've been able to save her hand from the Queen. Yet after the first blow to the Prince he managed to wrestle her away.
Sandor had done his best to be gentle with the girl, she was not but ten and seven, and in his arms she'd felt as light as Ellinor.
It had been so many years, but the Hound had never forgotten her face. She was good, kind and innocent, and Gregor...
Killed her. He had no proof but if their older brother had been willing to force Sandor into the fire over playing with his toy, what would he do to a girl whose screams kept him up at night...
She was dead and gone, but Sandor had dedicated his life to being what Ellie could have been.
The Hound looked up to his pitch black ceiling, searching for her in the eternal abyss. He wanted to speak with her just once.
"I'm sorry Ellie, apparently it turns out I'm just as much of a cunt as our big brother"
He'd never meant to harm the poor girl, but in his effort to be gentle with her, Sandor had left himself vulnerable. She'd wiggled an arm free of his grasp, and flailed like a rabid wolf.
When the girl scratched his burned half his vision had blurred and his mind clouded, Sandor couldn't think or feel. All that he knew was pain in that moment, and so he lashed out like the dog he was.
In that instant he'd been no better than Gregor. His fist cracked her square in the face and once more blood had splattered onto his mug.
Except this time it wasn't his brothers fault.
He could only look on in horror as the girl thudded with the ground, her face a broken and mangled mess. She'd been pretty before, but she wouldn't be again.
By that point he could see nothing but Ellinor and Prince Aegon, both victims of Clegane savagery. Maybe all we are good for is butchery.
Sandor had only wanted the moment to end, he desired to turn and run away just like he'd tried to do all those years ago.
This time though, it was Sandor himself who'd put his head in the brazier. I've forever shamed myself.
His horror had only been exacerbated by what Joffrey had done afterwards, yet the Hound had done nought to stop his Prince. Instead the near seven foot tall Sandor Clegane had cowered in the corner much like the frightened dragon girl.
Just a scared little kid who grew to be big, that's all I am.
A tear worked down his face, and it bit into the cut upon his burnt side. The sting felt righteous.
Jeyne, that was her name. In the aftermath of their actions, Sandor had sought solace from the situation. Everyone had begun running and screaming, the entirety of Winterfell charged into where he'd only just been.
No one stopped him though, as he walked unopposed Sandor had little in the way of an idea.
He had no where else to go in the Keep so he returned to his seat in the Great Hall and once more began drinking.
The wine had only brought back memories though,
After a time the Lannisters and Starks had drawn battle lines, they each retreated to their corner whilst Sandor sat alone in the Great Hall.
Soon enough though he found himself surrounded by northmen, they had drawn weapons and called for his surrender. Sandor was to drunk and emotional to care at that point, they meant nothing to him, and only death would relieve him from the pain.
Yet they'd not ended him there and then, instead they'd drug him down into the darkness. Bound him by his limbs, and spat before closing the door.
He began to role his wrists around when he heard mumbling,
"Should we be down here? The King said he's to have a fair trial."
"Shut up we are almost there."
Finally, surely someone will kill me.
"Shhh"
Sandor heard the key turning its lock, and when the door sprung open he found himself once more blinded by torch light.
When his eyes adjusted he saw five men standing in the light of flame. They had steel and he knew at once their intentions, and though he had begged for death only moments prior, his innate reaction was to be defiant.
"Are you going to do it, or shall I die from waiting?" he wailed at them.
"He's awake."
"Great observation dumb ass! How about you unchain me and lets see if your man enough to not shit your britches."
One strode forth from the torchlight until Sandor could no longer see his face clearly. The man stopped just short of Sandor's person, and the shadow drew a knife as it spoke.
"For my daughter."
The kiss of steel was cold, but never so much as the reasoning. His plunge was deep and true, Sandor could feel himself leaking like a wet bag. Yet the shadowy figure did not repeat his actions. Instead he sat in reflection, and he left the knife thrust into Sandor's gut.
"I never meant to..." Sandor wheezed out.
"Doesn't matter. There is to be a trial today, one by combat. Lady Jeyne deserves a far chance, and King Robert decided you'd stand for yourself."
Sandor understood why they'd come.
Not to kill me, but to make sure I died.
They would have him slowly bleed until he passed from his wounds. The pain increased as the man jerked the knife from his side, through torch light Sandor could see the man glaring at the knife. The Figure looked like he wanted to finish it.
"Do it you coward. I'll not lose to any fucker in Winterfell, even with a hole in my belly. DO IT!"
Yet the taunting did not work, instead the figure returned himself from the knife.
"I'm the coward? You're the one who forever marred the face of a unwed girl. You're the one whose responsible for enabling the Prince's actions. None could deny your involvement yet you're to receive a trial as if there were reasonable suspicion towards your guilt."
Sandor did not waste another breath, nothing he could say would change the truth.
He was guilty.
"There is someone coming, we need to go" said a labored voice.
After him the other figures strode, whilst the one nearest to Sandor lingered for a moment longer.
"Die in here if you wish, but make it to the field and I'll not give you a quick death" It said before retreating from the cell.
The door clanked shut after his assailant fled from the room. Sandor could not tend to his wound with his hands bound, and so it was that blood let from his cut and leaked down unto the floor.
By the time another torch gave him vision, the blood had pooled just like the girls.
"Gods he's been wounded! What should we do?"
"We need to get him to the courtyard for the trial, he deserves to die anyway!" said the same labored voice from earlier.
When they unshackled him Sandor though to fight, but what difference would it make?
He couldn't fight himself free from Winterfell. The only way to live was by winning.
So he let the false guards walk him up to the courtyard of House Stark's ancient fortress. When he saw light again he remembered warmth, despite the summer snow. As he was scuttled across the yard Sandor could see the multitude of gathered guests, it was clear to him that his trial was not the only one to occur on this day.
After marching him across the courtyard, his escort finally released him into the custody of Lannister men. They immediately noticed he'd been wounded and questioned the retreating Stark men.
"What happened? Why is he injured?" cried Vylarr, Captain of the Red Guard.
"He put up a fight last night, took a stab in the gut for his part."
They left without further word, and Vylarr began calling for a healer.
By the time they'd attended to him Sandor had lost enough blood to render a normal man useless. Yet he was no ordinary man.
He sat from his accused booth, and beheld the spectacle that was about to commence.
King Robert sat atop the battlements of Winterfell and raised his voice for all to hear.
"In the case of Prince Joffrey versus House Calimanenar, champions present yourself."
Out strode the dark haired bastard of Winterfell, he looked a pretty sight in his dark plate armor. Across his breast plate a golden star had been painted, and from the distance Sandor thought the boy was someone greater. Almost like a King.
From the other end of the yard strode a pale shadow, the sun caressed a balding head and Sandor took the man at once for the cowardly Ser Boros Blount. The man latched his helm, but even from the distance they'd been separated the Hound could smell the fear emanating from the retched craven.
Piss had not yet run down his leg though, Sandor concluded.
Yet the white knights bladder held by a thread.
The two champions met before the Stag King, and he bestowed upon them the rules and judgement that would be doled.
Would you get on with it already.
"House Calimanenar charges Prince Joffrey Baratheon with attempted assault and threats against their well being. Both sides have put forth their claims, and now the Gods shall judge the truth. This trial shall not end until one man submits or perishes upon the field of battle. Do you both understand?"
Both champions lowered their heads in acknowledgement. The Lord of Moat Cailin was of a decidedly cooler temperament to the shivering Ser Boros.
"Should Prince Joffrey's champion be victorious then all guilt of wrongdoing upon the Lord and Lady of Moat Cailin shall be forgotten as if it never happened. However should House Calimanenar's champion be victorious none shall bare their tongues to the tales, and due to my close ties with the accused I shall offer one boon should the chance arise."
"Kneel before your king and let the trial commence." Both did as they were bid, before separating from one another. Both champions stood before drawing blades, each man wore heavy armor but with the swords they were swinging helms or breastplates wouldn't last long.
As Sandor finally received the medical attention he needed, he saw that in Ser Boros ever shacking right hand was the valyrian steel blade Duty, yet he looked like he wanted no part of what his Queen desired.
Opposed Jon Calimanenar had the dark rippled blade Hailstone, each had been folded a thousand times. Sandor had always desired a valyrian steel sword, but he'd never had the chance to kill a man with one.
It seemed like people who had those things deserved them. Yet as the two moved towards each other it was clear that one man who held one clearly wasn't worthy of the blade.
They clashed and with a quick parry Jon Calimanenar was on the offensive, never did he relent his fury and Ser Boros was driven ever backwards. Finally after Jon had whittled the white cloaks shield into a toothpick, the craven began to openly circle the Lord of Moat Cailin in an attempt to find salvation.
Yet the fat man had not the stamina to continue his own chase, and soon he fell to the ground. He laid there for an entire moment to the delight of the Stark crowd and chagrin of the Lannisters. He must've been out of breath, and though his opponent had been unworthy, Jon Calimanenar seemed every bit a proper warrior.
Even once the pale shadow had been downed the Lord of Moat Cailin kept his distance, weary of any false pretense. When he drew in close the white snake latched out with a last ditch strike attempt,
Yet the two blades sang as Jon parried his blow, and with his momentum the Warden of the Causeway flung Ser Boros blade from his hand. In that moment the duel was decided. The boy needed but to thrust his sword a single more time and the false knights armor would give way like parchment before his valyrian steel.
But instead the Lord of Moat Cailin put the blade to Ser Boros throat,
"Do you yield?" he yelled out for all to hear. Should've killed him.
Yet evidently that was not this boys way. Ser Boros was most obviously in tears at the thought of losing his life, and perhaps it was the Queen whom he looked at instead of the King.
You should be worried about what she'll do. We are supposed to win or die. That's the only way to escape her wrath.
"Do you yield?" questioned the Lord of Moat Cailin once more.
The pale shadow sat backwards upon his ass in submission, staining his white cloak with the cold brown dirt of Winterfell. He was most certainly in tears beneath his helm when he called forth his submission.
"I...I surren..surrender. Please don't kill me."
How could this man be worthy of knighthood?
Why were men like this allowed to swear the vows?
Cravens or Monsters, those seemed to be the only Knights these days.
The Lord of Moat Cailin accepted his surrender and returned himself before King Robert. He knelt down into the milky summer snow, and removed his helm.
Robert seemed thrilled that the boy had been victorious.
"You've raised a proper soldier Ned, you must be proud."
"You speak highly of me Your Grace, and I am therefore flattered. I pray you'll keep me in your good graces."
"My word is the law, Lord Jon Calimanenar you may ask anything of me, so long as it is within my power. So what would you have of me?"
The boy rose to his feet, and from Sandor's perspective he looked more a King than Robert had ever been.
He could ask for Joffrey's disinheritance.
"It is no secret that my Lady wife's family has been disgraced, rightfully cast down from the throne they held so precariously. We would've once settled with fading into obscurity, we had all but forgotten where my lady wife Daenerys had come from. But with the gods as witness Prince Joffrey has seen to forever ensure that all remember our future children's heritage."
"And I am now of a mind with him, our children should not be ashamed of who they descend from, they shall wear no crowns Your Grace, but I ask that you allow the honorary title of Prince or Princess to be bestowed upon their birth."
Sandor could not tell how the King took such a request. Robert had fought a damn war to see the Targaryen's extinguished, yet he'd failed and now he was being forced to recognize that.
It wouldn't have come as a surprise to Sandor if the King requested their heads right now. Yet something stifled the King's rage. Perhaps it was something about the boys look...
"I..This is within my power, and I have no right to deny you such a request. I, King Robert Baratheon, first of my name, forever decree that the children of House Calimanenar shall be given the honorary title of Prince or Princess. So long as they continued to serve fealty to House Stark and the Iron Throne."
The Queen was very displeased and she would've splintered her arm chair had she been so strong as Sandor. Yet the Northmen as a whole cheered for their champion, and it seemed to them at least that justice had been done.
Yet there were more trials.
"In the case of Jeyne Poole versus the Crown, champions present yourself."
Ser Boros had fled without Sandor noticing, He'd best march his ass to the wall. Else wise the Queen might have him mutilated.
So instead from that direction walked the King's own squire. Lancel Lannister strode forth from the Lions ensemble,
He was strong and many a maiden fawned over his emerald eyes. He was a few inches shorter than his famous cousin, and a far worse swordsman.
Yet he strode forward nonetheless, covered from head to toe in black and crimson plate armor. Perhaps it will hide the blood he's about to spill.
Cheers went with him though and they hollered of "Ser Lancel!" and when Sandor asked the meaning of such a title the Maester informed him that only this morning had Ser Jamie graced his cousin with the vows.
Opposing the overwhelmed boy was a long legged figure, clad in dark grey armor. A white tree had been painted upon his breastplate, and his face guard was painted the color of milk with a red smile upon its lips.
From within the helm were haunting grey-blue eyes.
They were almost the same eyes as the girls. Perhaps he is her father?
Yet the man did not have the rough look of his assailant.
"The Crown accuses Lady Jeyne of House Poole with assaulting the Crowned Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Both sides have put forth their claims, and now the Gods shall judge the truth. This trial shall not end until one man submits or perishes upon the field of battle. Do you both understand?"
Both champions lowered their heads in acknowledgement.
"Should The Crown's champion be victorious then the punishment shall be death for the Lady Jeyne, as no other form of penance was accepted. Should Lady Poole's champion prove victorious then all shall know her innocent of any wrongdoing."
"Kneel before your king and let the trial commence."
After doing as they were bid, The tall shadow strode backwards from his crimson counterpart. Lancel was clearly scared, yet he'd hidden it better than the craven white cloak who'd dueled before him.
"Lay down your arms and let justice be had for the wrongdoings! I swear to the Seven that I shall be merciful and honorable! I don't want to harm you Ser!"
Only fucking Lancel would try to talk his way through a trial by combat.
"I'm not a Knight." That was a sentiment Sandor could get behind.
The two began combat, and this time neither had a valyrian steel sword. Instead they swung plain live steel at each other. Before either of them could bleed though Sandor himself felt his own would flow.
His vision once more became foggy, and he struggled to tell the combatants apart for a moment.
The crimson child was forever flailing his blade at the pale northerner, yet when he managed to make contact the youthful lion found only his opponents blade. His opponent however was blocking or parrying each of Lancel's strikes, and he forever pushed forwards.
Soon enough this smiling tree had forced the baby Lion against a brick wall, the eldest son of Ser Kevan Lannister must've realized that he'd been backed into a corner for he brashly tried to free himself.
Lancel forced an idiotic flee attempt, he held back the northerners blade with his own, and then began his go by kicking at his assailant's knee. He gave himself just enough room, and then tried to slide through the White Tree's trunk.
The cub was neither as skilled as the Kingslayer, nor was the newly made knight so clever as the Imp.
When he dove down the northerner smashed him with a tremendous knee to his helm, the boy's brain must've rattled within its steel cage for Lancel fell face first to the ground.
In this moment the Northerner gave room so as to reset his feet. Lancel attempted to use his swords hilt in aiding his arising. Yet the Northerner booted Lancel's sword from his hand, and it went tumbled away from the boy.
"Yield!" the Northern Lord commanded, yet Lancel was not one to disappoint the Queen.
Instead the cub crawled swiftly, and reached once more for his sword.
A moment later and his pursuit ended.
The Northerner brought his sword clean and through the gap in Lancel's gauntlet, and a hand fell from within its metal sheath once the steel had struck dirt.
Lancel cried at the top of his lungs in anguish, he reeled over onto his stomach and clutched at what remained of his stumped left arm.
When he came to a stop in his whining the boy found a blade at his throat, ready to finish the job.
The Lion Cub screamed quickly for help, yet only laughter and cries came to him. He was losing a lot of blood very quickly, and the boy seemed to faint from his shock.
The Maester abandoned Sandor in favor of the downed boy.
His northern opponent paid no more attention to the grounded cub, instead he returned to the King's grace and knelt down below him.
"I accept his defeat."
The Queen seemed sly, but Robert reasoned that Lancel was either dead or defeated.
"He can't fight with one fucking hand! He could barely fight with two."
Needless to say the Royal couple were not happy with each other.
"I, King Robert Baratheon, first of my name, declare Lady Jeyne Poole innocent of any charges by the Crown."
The Northerners thundered cheers at the notion, and the tall Lord returned to the side of his Stark pups.
Once he'd arrived amongst them the white tree removed his helm and kissed the veiled cheek of the girl whose honor he had defended, and whose life he had saved.
Lancel however was whisked away for treatment, Sandor no longer saw the Maester, and he'd only wrapped Sandor's wounds. Masking them from the outside world.
Whether it had been done so intentionally the Hound could not say, yet regardless of the truth destiny came.
"In the case of Sandor Clegane versus House Poole, champions present yourself."
Sandor felt himself being risen to his feet, and from behind several hands quickly outfitted him in his soot colored armor, threw his olive green cloak about his person, and fastened his dogs head helm to his cranium.
Vylarr placed the Hound's longsword into his hand before guiding him from the booth.
Upon being forced to stand on his own power Sandor immediately fell down to his knees, blood was soaking into his undershirt, but it would not seep through his armor.
"He's drunk!" One voice cried.
"I would be if I looked like that." Another said.
"He's about to meet the Gods, who cares how he goes!" Yelled one more.
After that Sandor sounded them all out, he fought to free himself of his burden, and rose to his feet.
Where movement might have once been impossible, steps eased to becoming difficult soon after. He found that his blood was now flowing, and not just to his wound, but throughout his body.
It'll be only a matter of time before I bleed out.
Sandor finally had the strength to lift his head and he met the gaze of his opponent.
The shadowy figure, he recognized at once. Light had deprived this man of any mystique, and now he was what Sandor saw of nearly every man.
Yet something was strange about the man, for as The Hound gazed into his eyes he did not find those of the girl. This isn't her father.
After the conclusion he wearily looked the man up and down.
His assailant was dressed in thick dark armor, such the like that Gregor might wear.
That was all the Hound could see before he fell to a knee once more, and though the dark figure was uninjured it followed him to the ground.
It was only after Robert began speaking that Sandor realized he'd made it before the King.
"House Poole charges Sandor Clegane with the use of unnecessary force against the Lady Jeyne Poole. The gods alone know the truth of the matter, and as such it is they who shall judge. This trial shall not end until one man submits or perishes upon the field of battle. Do you both understand?"
Sandor stared at the ground, trying to pull himself together, but he imagined Lord Poole had done as was bid.
"Should House Poole's champion be victorious then all shall know of Sandor Clegane's misdeeds. Should the accused survive this incident he will join the Nights Watch per Lord Stark's request. However should The Hound prove victorious none shall carry the tale upon their tongues."
I'm not swearing any vows. He felt himself bubble, the anger he held for everything that had soured in his life was upon his mind now.
"Let the trial commence."
His assaulter stepped backwards to allow the Hound room to find his footing, yet Sandor was still slow to reach his feet. When at last he did the Steward ran forward and kicked at the Hound's legs. The man threw enough weight around that Sandor flopped to his back.
The sight must've been hilarious for laughter went up all around him, Sandor did not immediately regain his composure, instead he gripped at his wounded belly.
A shadow loomed above him, and it came dropping towards him with great speed. The end of a sword reached forth towards him, intent upon claiming what no other had before.
Yet Sandor managed to wrestle his blade into a block, and with the might he could muster he pushed the Steward onto his heels.
The Hound managed to find his way back to a single knee base, yet before he could press himself to stand the Lord of House Poole returned upon him with thrice the intensity of before. He swatted at Sandor's blade as if he meant to drive through it and into the Hound's shoulder, but the man was not strong enough for such an endeavor.
Instead he delivered a devastating kick to Sandor's injured stomach. The Hound fell back to both knees, reeling from the pain of his wound. Following that Lord Stark's steward drew back before smashing his greave alongside Sandor's hound helm.
Ringing over came his hearing for a moment, and he felt his sword being knocked away, but when his ears returned to him he found the Steward mocking his downed opponent.
"This is for you baby girl!" He stared in the direction of his veiled daughter, she smiled no more than Sandor who gazed upwards towards the heavens.
What would death feel like? He'd given the gift for so long, but it was something he himself had never tasted.
Will I see Ellinor again?
No. She was an angel, and I'll be going somewhere else.
I need to earn her presence. I can't do that if I'm dead.
Perhaps I should join the Night's Wa...
That was the last thought on his mind before the Steward stabbed at his armor, the tip broke through the corner of Sandor's soot plate, and sliced at his breast. Sandor winced at the additional pain, lowering his head to the ground.
Yet the Steward took it for a debilitating blow, and as such his inexperienced opponent looked once more towards the gathered lot.
Without hesitation Sandor used this lapse in judgement for his advantage. He pulled at the Steward's foot and with the strength that remained to him yanked the man down.
The Hound forced his opponent to a knee and so rose with the tides. He sat up and delivered a devastating punch to the Steward's mug.
Not so different from what he'd done only the night before.
Yet this time he'd meant to strike, and he had not hit so hard as before.
No teeth came shattering from this mans face,
But once more blood had splattered onto Sandor's mug.
He fell on top of the Steward and went to placing his thumbs at the downed mans eyes. Yet Sandor hesitated, it was not so different a thing than what Gregor had intended for the Princess.
Instead the Hound gave the man a chance his brother never would have.
"Yield! Fucking Yield!" He demanded,
The man laxed for a moment, and Sandor thought he'd submit.
Yet a punch befell his gut, and blood ran from his armor. Several more cold plunges were placed in his side before Sandor realized the Steward had pulled a hidden dagger from his person.
"FOR JEYNE!"
The Hound cried out in agony as well, but still he pushed down,
And collapsed Lord Vayon Poole's head into itself.
His death was thunderous, and the cracking of his skull could be heard by all in attendance.
Sandor fell from atop the headless splatter and found himself cuddling amongst the mud and blood. Sandor rolled onto his stomach, and began to force himself to his knees. The courtyard had gone silent with his victory, until a single voice broke through the summer snows.
"The Hound Sandor Clegane is innocent in the eyes of all our gods. Let him be so to in the eyes of men."
What do the gods know of my guilt?
They're the ones that claimed a vengeful father, and not his daughters assailant.
Sandor then fell back to his former state and laid there staring into the heavens where his sister had gone so many years ago.
Others rushed forth towards him, but he was concerned only with the smiles she sent down to him.
I'll be better. He thought once he closed his eyes.