So…it appears that I missed updating last week. Oops! Sometimes when I'm busy, things that I'm not as motivated to do slip my mind, and this is just my weird little AU fanfic. Hope you are enjoying it, anyway!

ln(3)

Chapter VIII: Scoring

As soon as the boy from District 11 disappears into the training center for his private session, Sansa leans against Jon, laying her head on his shoulder. Jon wraps his arm around her and holds her tight against him. He knows that the last three days have been hard on her. They've been hard for him too.

They both would've preferred it if he could have kept Sansa with him at all times during training, but he figured that wouldn't be a good idea. It would make Sansa look weak, like she has to depend on Jon for everything. So sometimes during training they had to split up for appearances' sake, and Sansa could never hold his hand or embrace him in view of the others.

Now, though, there is no one left to see, so she takes his free hand in both of hers. "I'm nervous," she says, though she seems steady pressed against Jon's side.

"You're going to do fine," Jon tries to reassure her. "Just do as we discussed—the plant identification test and then the camouflage station if you have time. You've gotten really good at painting yourself into trees, sister." He presses a kiss to her bowed head.

Sansa fits her small fingers in the valleys between his knuckles. "I didn't really mean the private session," she says. "I meant more the plan in general."

"What's bothering you?" Jon asks.

Sansa shrugs. "Are you sure this is going to work? We've been hanging out with the Careers for the last three days, but they haven't actually invited us to be allies yet."

"They're just waiting to see what our scores are," Jon told her. "We're not your typical Careers and they know it, so they want to be sure of what they're getting before they decide to ally with us. If our scores are decent, they'll let us in."

Sansa nods slowly. "I think you're right. Joffrey and Margaery especially really seem to like us."

Jon huffs a laugh. "They like you, you mean. They all like you."

"Asha doesn't."

"Asha doesn't like anyone, not even her own brother." Jon can see that there is something still bothering Sansa though. He bends down to catch her eye, and when she glances at him, cocks a brow in a silent question.

Sansa looks back down at her lap, where she plays at his hand with both of hers. "I think Joffrey likes me too much," she admits. "I don't like the way he looks at me sometimes."

Jon thinks about this. He doesn't like the way Joffrey looks at Sansa either. He doesn't think his dislike of the boy is entirely due to being an overprotective older brother either. He clearly remembers Clegane warning them about Joffrey that first night on the train. And even though Joffrey is the youngest of the boys in the Career pack, the rest of them still seem to look to him as the ringleader. Jon has always put this deference down to him being the heir to Westeros, but maybe the boy really is more dangerous than he seems.

If he is, then Jon is leading Sansa into a trap.

Jon holds his sister tighter to him. "We don't have to go through with this, you know. They haven't made the offer, and we haven't accepted. If you think this is a bad idea, if it makes you uncomfortable…We can go it alone."

Sansa hesitates for only a second before shaking her head. "No. You were right, we're better off with allies in the beginning. Besides, we've spent all this time hanging out with them. If we back out now, they'll think we were only kissing up to them to find out their weaknesses. They'll go for us first after that."

This is just what Jon is thinking, so he's a little relieved that Sansa understands. He'll just have to keep a close eye on Joffrey.

He sits with his arm around Sansa until she's called into her private session. He reluctantly lets go of her and she stands, ready to follow the attendant into the center. She takes a few steps away from him before turning back.

"Shoot straight," she says to him, her face lighting with a tiny smile.

Jon returns her smile with one of his own. "Do good," he replies, and she disappears into the center.

Jon waits alone in the cafeteria. Without even really thinking about it, he falls into the meditative stillness he's accustomed to whenever he's by himself. When he's out in the woods, waiting in a blind for game to come by, he has to be perfectly still and silent, but also aware of his surroundings so that he's ready to shoot at any moment. His breathing deepens and evens out, and his ears sharpen to the smallest sounds of his environment. His thoughts slow and finally stop, his mind becomes blank and clear. When he's like this, hours can slip by with him barely noticing. He always comes out of the woods calmer than he went in. But this is not the woods. The sounds are different, the air is different. The smells are all wrong.

It's no time at all, only about fifteen minutes before the attendant calls him into the center. As soon as he enters the room, what little calm he's gained from his stillness evaporates. He can tell he's in trouble. The Gamemakers have been here too long, almost six hours of private sessions plus the morning training. They've sat through twenty-three other tributes and had too much wine. They just want to get this over with and go home.

There is nothing Jon can do about that, however. He'll just have to proceed with the plan and hope his shooting speaks for itself.

Speaking of which, he can feel his excitement ratcheting up the closer he gets to the archery station. He's been waiting three days to get his hands on one of these weapons, and now they're spread out in front of him, bows of all sizes and types, flights of arrows with perfectly straight fletchings, ready for him to use. Jon wishes he could spend the whole day trying out all the different bows, but he only has fifteen minutes and he has an audience to impress. He passes up the more complex bows with pulleys and scopes and picks up one that looks most like the one he uses at home that his father made.

As he strings the bow, he notices that whatever it's made of, it's definitely not wood. It's more rigid than his father's handiwork. When he draws it, the tension is greater. His initial plan was to start shooting at the dummies and move on to trick shooting by the end, but now he's having second thoughts. He'd best start with the archery targets to get a feel for this unfamiliar weapon.

Jon realizes that he was right to start with target practice when his first shot goes wide, landing in the white area around the target. When he glances up at the Gamemakers on their balcony, he sees that he's lost what little attention he had. He shakes his head to clear it, breathes deep to calm his nerves, and lines up his next shot.

He shoots until he has a feel for the new weapon, then moves to the center of the gymnasium. He shoots three dummies on the other side of the room in the head in rapid succession, then spins around and severs the rope that holds a tarp used to divide the gym down the middle to the ceiling. The tarp begins to fall, unfurling from top to bottom, and Jon runs and slides under it on his knees, shooting out a light on the ceiling as he does, a shower of sparks and glass bursting from the rafters.

Jon knows he nailed it. That was excellent shooting. But when he looks back up at the Gamemakers, only a couple of them are watching, nodding in approval. The rest of them are gathered around a whole roast pig that has just been served at their never-ending banquet.

Jon is abruptly furious. This session could mean life or death for him and for his sister, and all they can think about is a dead pig. He feels his heart pounding and his face burning, and all of a sudden he finds he's nocked an arrow and drawn the bow without even being conscious of having done it.

The shot takes the apple in the pig's mouth right through the center, so forcefully that it is propelled from the table and pinned to the wall beyond. Gamemakers jump back and cry out in alarm. Then all heads turn toward Jon, and he could have heard a pin drop in the shocked silence.

All eyes are on him, and he feels that he should say something, but he struggles to think of anything that would be even remotely polite. "Thank you for your consideration," he bites out, and is distantly surprised that apparently he can be almost as sarcastic as Tyrion.

Jon does not wait for their dismissal. He simply gives them a stiff bow that fails at being respectful and turns on his heel, heading for the elevators, throwing his bow and quiver away as he goes. He punches the number twelve and the elevator doors slide shut.

He numbly watches the ground floor recede below him as the elevator carries him up. The adrenaline rush is fading, leaving his whole body trembling. His chest feels tight like he's holding his breath and can't let it go.

Now he's done it. He's antagonized the Gamemakers, and in so doing ruined any chance he had of getting his sister out of this alive. They will surely target him in the arena now. They'll probably target Sansa too, just because she's his sister. The Capitol is not above using family members against people they want to punish, Jon knows.

By the time the elevator is slowing to a stop at the twelfth floor, he has only one thought.

What will happen to Sansa now?

As soon as she hears the chime that signals the arrival of the elevator, Sansa dashes to the hall to meet Jon. The minute she sees him though, she knows something is terribly wrong. His face is pale and his gaze distant, like he's looking at something that's not even in this room. When she runs into his arms, he's slow to embrace her and his hold on her is limp; she can feel him trembling against her.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," he whispers to the crown of her head. "I messed up."

His words scare her, but Sansa conceals her fear as best she can and puts on a brave face for her half-brother. "I'm sure you did fine, Jon."

Jon makes a sound like he's choking, but doesn't speak. Sansa can feel him shaking his head above hers. He finally tightens his arms around her to hold her closer.

They stand like that for a minute or two; Sansa isn't quite sure how long exactly, but she knows that it isn't long enough for Jon. Supper is on the table though, and the others are waiting on them, so she leads Jon by the hand into the dining room.

She can see that the adults have realized something is wrong, either from the way Jon's pushing his food around his plate without really eating it or from the way Sansa can't help but glance over at him every few seconds, so they ease into conversation first with some talk about the weather followed by discussion of a fresh scandal involving some minor celebrity or other.

Finally Tyrion turns to them and says, "All right, I suppose we've prolonged the inevitable long enough. Exactly how bad was it today?"

Sansa jumps in to spare Jon from having to tell what happened for a few more minutes. "I didn't exactly follow our plan." She glances at Jon again, looking away quickly so he won't see the guilt in her eyes. "By the time it was my turn, none of them were paying attention to me. When I came in, they were singing some kind of drinking song. I knew they wouldn't care if I could name every plant in the world. So I just went straight to the camouflage station and used the dyes to disguise myself to look like one of the natural settings they have staged there. When my fifteen minutes were up, some of them finally remembered that I existed and tried to dismiss me, but they couldn't find me." Sansa allowed herself a small smile as she remembered the puzzled looks on their faces. "So I waited until most of them were looking around for me and then I waved. Some of them laughed. I'm…not sure if that's a good thing."

She glances over at Jon again and this time finds him looking at her with a small, fond smile on his face. Sansa is so relieved he's smiling that she returns it, no longer worried about the Gamemakers laughing at her. It was worth it if her story cheered him up.

Tyrion is smiling too as he says, "Well, at least you managed to stand out, in a manner of speaking." Then he turns to her half-brother. "How about you, Jon? Did you manage to capture the attention of our esteemed Gamemakers?"

The small smile immediately drops from Jon's face. He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine a bit, like he's steeling himself to do something unpleasant, and addresses the table at large.

"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

Everyone freezes. The horrified silence is so thick Sansa could cut it with a knife. She stares at Jon, completely flabbergasted. Of everything he could have said, this is not at all what she had anticipated. Jon is usually very even-tempered, like their father. Something like this she would have expected from Arya, or even Robb, but Jon? What had gotten into him?

"You what?" The horror in Septa Mordane's voice is palpable.

"I shot an arrow at them," Jon repeats. "Not exactly at them," he explains, "but in their direction. It's like Sansa said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I—I just got so angry…I lost my head and—I shot the apple out of their roast pig's mouth."

"What did they say?" Shae asked cautiously.

"I don't know. I left after that."

"Without being dismissed?" Septa hissed, hand clenched in her napkin moving to cover her heart.

"I…dismissed myself," Jon mutters, shoulders slumping as he looks down at the table.

"Well, I'm sure that you definitely had their undivided attention, at least," says Tyrion, and takes another gulp of wine. "You're sure they didn't say anything?"

"No. I didn't really wait for them though. I just said, 'Thank you for your consideration,' and walked out."

Sandor Clegane's sudden bark of laughter makes everyone at the table jump. His scarred face is twisted in what appears to be genuine amusement as he leans back in his chair, shaking his head and chuckling. "'Thank you for your consideration,'" he mutters, and laughs again.

Jon's hands clench into fists as he glares at Sandor. "It's not funny!"

Sandor is still smiling, unaffected by the grave faces of the rest of them. "Sure it is," he says.

"Well we're not going to find it so funny if they decide to take it out on us!"

"Take it out on you how? By making your life hell in the arena? That's pretty much guaranteed in any case, boy."

Sansa hadn't thought about it in that light. "What about our family? Will they do anything to them?" she asks.

"I very much doubt they will," Tyrion reassures her. "It wouldn't make sense to go after them. What happens in the private sessions is supposed to be secret, so they'd have to reveal what happened in order for the punishment to have any worthwhile effect on the rest of the population. And where's the sense in that?"

Sansa feels a weight lift from her shoulders as Tyrion and Sandor's words sink in. She knows Jon feels the same by the way the tension bleeds out of him and he begins to relax.

"What were the looks on their faces like?" Sandor asks Jon, grinning as he rips a chicken leg apart with his hands, at which Septa wrinkles her nose in distaste.

"Pretty ridiculous," Jon says, a smile edging onto his face. "One man tripped and fell backward into a big bowl of gravy. Looked like he shat himself."

Sandor guffaws again, and this time the rest of the group joins in. Even Septa appears to be suppressing a smile.

Somehow, surely without actually meaning to, Sandor has done the impossible. He's made them all feel better about the situation, even turned it into something they can laugh at. Sansa continues to watch him surreptitiously as they all move over to the sitting room to watch the scores. Perhaps this means there's still a chance he can be persuaded to help them.

The Careers, predictably, get high scores, in the range of eight to ten. Most of the other tributes average a five, with a few notable exceptions. The Martells from District 9 score almost as high as the Careers, and Renly from District 11 gets a ten. His little sister Shireen, though only twelve years old, actually manages to come up with a seven, so she must have at least one trick up her sleeve to impress the Gamemakers with. Sansa is glad of it. The girl had seemed so vulnerable during training, so small and alone, her face set in a permanently melancholy expression because of the greyscale scars covering half of it. It was clear that she and her brother were not a team as many of the other sibling pairs were. That was at least understandable for Edric and Mya, who hadn't known one another, but Sansa had often wondered why Renly and Shireen did not work together whenever she caught the little girl gazing wistfully at her and Jon.

When Sansa's score is announced, she's heartened to see that she has managed a seven as well. That's not bad, really, especially considering they laughed at her. Jon smiles at her and Shae pats her on the back.

Then Jon's score is announced. Sansa can hardly believe her ears when emcee Illyrio Mopatis gives him an eleven.

Eleven!

Everyone gasps as one and then breaks into celebration. Septa claps her hands together with a cry of delight, and Tyrion slaps Jon on the back while Shae swoops down on him and kisses him on both cheeks. That's the highest score of any of the tributes this year! Sansa is elated and a little surprised, after what he did, that he would score so high, though she knows that Jon deserves that score. But when she looks at Jon, his face is slack with shock.

"How can that be?" he says, looking at Sandor, who is the only one not demonstrably excited. "I walked out on them."

Sandor grins at him. "They must've seen that you've got guts, boy. They have a show to put on, after all. They need tributes with some fire in them."

Jon's brow creases. "So they only gave me an eleven to make me look more exciting?"

Sandor just waves his words away with a giant hand. "If you're going to try to stab your mentor and shoot arrows at the Gamemakers, you get what you deserve."

Tyrion looks around so fast he nearly overbalances. "Wait a minute, he tried to stab you?"

Jon flushes. "I wasn't really trying to stab you, I was just trying to make a point. And you're not much of a mentor," he mutters.

That makes Tyrion laugh again. "I think I'm really starting to like this boy," he cackles.

Another round of congratulations follows, and then Septa is ushering them off to bed. "You've both had a long day today, and it's going to be a big, big day tomorrow. You need to get your rest."

Sansa allows the fussy woman to escort her to her room, though she has no intention of staying in it. She'll change into some pajamas and then go to Jon's room. She knows she won't get any sleep if she tries to sleep alone, and as Septa said, tomorrow is a big, big day.

As Sansa undresses, she realizes that she doesn't really know what to expect tomorrow. The day is scheduled for tributes to spend in coaching for their interviews with their mentors, but…she and Jon don't really have a mentor. Sandor seemed a bit more reactive toward them tonight, but he hasn't expressed any interest in actually picking up his mentoring duties again. Septa Mordane has assured Sansa and Jon that she has been talking them up to potential sponsors, but she also told them that she's been telling people that "when coal is put under enough pressure, it turns into pearls!" She means well, Sansa knows, but she's definitely not the brightest.

What are they going to do without a mentor? She and Jon have been able to muddle through on their own so far, and they can probably make it a little longer, but once they get into the arena…

Sansa walks out her door and pauses in the hall. Instead of turning right towards Jon's room, she goes left.

She has to fix this. Jon has worked too hard to get them to where they are now for it all to fail just because he and Sandor are trying to out-stubborn one another.

The sitting room is empty, but there's a door at the end of the hall that she can see is ajar. She goes through it and up a flight of stairs, emerging through another door onto the roof of the building. The cool night air, her first breath of outside air in days, is refreshing, despite the fact that it's tinged with the smell of exhaust fumes. It's dark up on the roof, but she can see the Hound's huge, black silhouette outlined against the lights that always burn in the city. He doesn't even need to look around to know that she's there.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, little bird?" he rasps, staring into his cup of wine. "Or did you lose your way going to your brother's room?"

Somehow Sansa isn't even surprised that Sandor knows that she and Jon have been sleeping together.

"I needed to talk to you first," she says. She skips over her usual courtesies, though it pains her to do so. If he hates them so much, best forget about them. "I want you to reconsider being our mentor."

Sandor just gives a darkly amused chuckle. "Small chance of that, little bird."

"Why not?" Sansa asks, genuinely puzzled. She approaches him, trying to put herself in his sightline. "You were going to that first night on the train. You said Jon was a contender even back then, and now he's proved it. He got an eleven! He could win if you helped him!"

"No, he can't. Doesn't matter what score he got in training," Sandor growls. Sansa opens her mouth to protest again, but Sandor cuts her off. "He won't let go of you, girl. And it's only going to end up with both of you dead. Sharp steel and strong arms are what rule the Games, don't ever believe any different. If you can't protect yourself, then die and get out of the way of those who can."

His harsh words freeze her heart with horror. "You're awful," Sansa whispers.

"I'm honest," Sandor rasps. "It's the world that's awful."

Silence follows Sandor's harsh pronouncement. Sansa studies his profile in the dim light, the twisted scowl on his face evident despite the darkness. She surprises even herself when she opens her mouth and says, "I know."

The Hound turns to look at her, eyes glittering in the semi-darkness. Sansa is reminded of the way a dog's eyes reflect light at night.

"I know I'm holding him back," she says. "I know that I make him vulnerable. And I know that I don't stand a chance of surviving this." Sandor raises an eyebrow to hear her admit it. "But Jon—Jon does. He has what it takes, you've seen it. And—and he deserves to make it out of this alive."

Sandor is still just watching her, listening. "So you would sacrifice yourself for him? Does your brother deserve your death as well?" Sandor shakes his head. "What a stupid little bird."

"You're right," Sansa says, gulping back tears of frustration. "You're right—I'm just a stupid little bird chirping away in a cage that I haven't the power to escape from. I can't save myself. Neither can Jon, though he may try." She takes one hesitant step towards the Hound and tries to force her voice to be steady. "So won't you help me save him?"

"You're a fool, little bird," Sandor growls. "You're both fools, you and your brother. Neither one of you has a lick of sense."

"I know. I know, but can't you see why I'm doing this? Why Jon's doing this? Can't you just—try to understand and just help us as best you can?" Sansa has lost her battle with her voice and the tears are falling freely. How can he be so cruel?

The Hound laughs then, a deep, guttural, angry sound. He bends toward her, shoving his face right up close to hers until Sansa has to look away from his ruined visage. This only makes the man angrier. He growls and grabs her arm with one of his huge hands, pulling her toward him.

"Look at me, girl," he snarls. Sansa can feel the heat of his body so close to hers, can almost feel the vibrating tension in him. She slowly turns her head and looks him straight in the face.

It is just as awful as it always is to see his terrible burns, the way the black, hard scars are fissured by red cracks. In the low light they gleam as though wet with blood. Sansa is a healer, but she can barely stand to look at them.

"Understand?" he rasps. "What do you think I don't understand? Brotherly love?" He laughs again, but it is more a snarl than a laugh. "Let me tell you something about that, little bird. I have an older brother too, did you know that?" Sansa shakes her head mutely, afraid of the turn the Hound's mood has taken. "Oh yes. You think I'm a big man? You should see Gregor. He stands near a foot taller than me and outweighs me by at least four stone.

"He was already as tall as a man at the age of twelve. I was eight when our father came home with toys for each of his children. I don't remember what I got, but it was Gregor's toy that I wanted. He had a hovercraft, with a pilot that actually moved. Gregor never played with it. He considered himself too old for toys. So one day, I took it. I had no joy of it though. The whole time I played I was afraid that Gregor would catch me with it. And catch me he did.

"When he saw me with his toy, he didn't say a word. He just hauled me over to the coal fire in the hearth and pushed my head down into it. He held me there while I screamed and my face melted off. It took my father and two of his friends to pull him off of me.

"Nan did her best, but she couldn't save my face. My father didn't want it known what kind of monster his eldest was, so he spread it about that my bedding had accidentally caught fire. I lived in the same house with that beast for six more years, until I was reaped and Gregor, who was nearly nineteen and big as a bloody aurochs, stood by and sneered."

Sandor snorts and his voice becomes even rougher, as though he is trying to force the words out. "When I returned a victor, he was gone. Joined the Peacekeepers, they told me. They also told me that my father and sister were dead. Said it was an accident. But I know better."

Sandor glares at her, angry eyes glimmering in the dark. "You can't bear to look at my ugly face, can you, little bird. Not a pretty sight, is it? Well now you know why. That is what a brother's love is worth to me."

Sansa is stunned. She never would have imagined that Sandor had been through such trauma. She can feel tears pricking at her eyes from the horror of it. She cannot bear to think on what it must have been like growing up with a monster like that. He was only a child, and his father should have defended him, but he'd failed him instead. She grieves to think of how lonely he must have been, must still be, with no family.

Sansa has always found it difficult to look at his face, it's true. But not because it is ugly. She hates to think of how much pain he must have suffered when it happened. Now she knows that pain runs much deeper than his skin.

The only sound for quite some time is that of the Hound's heavy, uneven breathing. She cannot see the expression on his face, shrouded in shadow as it is, but she feels his fingers digging into her arm, not quite hard enough to bruise. She gropes in the darkness and rests a hand on one of his broad shoulders.

"He was no true brother," she says.

The silent bubble they seem to have created around themselves lasts but a moment longer, then he steps back and turns her loose.

"You'd best get back to your nest, little bird, before your brother wonders where you are."

Sansa nods and whispers a "good night," then slowly goes to leave the roof. Just before she gets to the door, he speaks again.

"Girl." She stops to listen, but doesn't turn around. "If you ever tell anyone what I told you tonight, I'll kill you," he rasps.

Sansa jerks a nod in acknowledgement, then flees down the stairs to Jon's room.

Jon is already in bed, but not really asleep yet. As she climbs under the covers, he rolls to one side and lets her nestle in under his arm. She presses herself as close to him as she can, nuzzling into his bare chest and breathing in his scent, listening to his heart beat.

"Thought you'd changed your mind," her brother, her true brother, mumbles sleepily.

"Never," Sansa whispers, and closes her eyes.

Author's Note: If you guessed Renly and Shireen for District 11, you were right! Yes, I know they're not siblings, but all will be explained in due time. Any guesses for the rest of the Districts that haven't been named yet? Several readers have already figured out who District 7 is…