Author's note: This story was inspired by a line from Flogging Molly's "Death Valley Queen," quoted below. The similarities between that song and Sandor's and Sansa's relationship are striking, except for said line; therefore that scene seemed to be crying out to be written. Warning: My beta reader told me that Jeyne seemed a little Mary Sue-ish. She didn't feel like one while I was writing her (I used to write Mary Sues when I was younger, so I know what it feels like), but when I went back and looked at the story, I could see where my beta reader was coming from. So be warned. PG-13 for adult situations and one kiss.
"So I found me a whoreWith a face just like yours
After sev-e-ral gallons of porter…."
--"Death Valley Queen," from Flogging Molly's Drunken Lullabies
The first thing Jeyne noticed about the man in the doorway was his height. The doorway cleared the top of his head by less than an inch, and his silhouette almost completely blocked the view of the rainy night outside. The second thing was that he was very drunk, clutching a wineskin in one hand and swaying on his feet; as she watched, he caught hold of the doorframe to steady himself. That was not surprising; she'd seen many drunk men since she had come to the Light Feather a year ago at the age of fourteen, frightened and alone. The third thing, she did not see until he turned his head, but when he did it caught her attention—the hideous burn scars spread over the side of his face.
"Look at that!" she whispered to Ellie who joined her on the stairs; she averted her eyes although the man was so drunk and she was so far away that she doubted he could see her staring. "You ever see anyone burned like that before?"
"Nope," Ellie whispered back, "but I heard of one. Joffrey's dog." And she nodded meaningfully at her friend. Ellie was a year older than Jeyne, who at fifteen was the youngest girl in the brothel; as such, Ellie often treated Jeyne as a younger sister.
"Joffrey's dog?" Jeyne whispered, brushing an auburn curl back from her face. "You don't think he's really Joffrey's dog, do you? What would he be doing here, so far from King's Landing? He can't be him, he must be someone else."
"Well, maybe he is and maybe he isn't, but you can see Maila's keeping an eye on him," Ellie replied, and indeed, Jeyne saw, Maila was gesturing behind her covertly with one hand as she approached the newcomer. The brothel's bouncer, a middle-aged former sellsword named Rajev, stepped up close behind her. Rajev was a bluff, hearty man with only one eye—the other having been lost to a past battle—who seemed to see all the girls as his daughters. He was a big man, but even so, this newcomer overtopped him by a head, though Rajev's shoulders were as wide as his. Rajev was watching him carefully.
The newcomer lurched forward a step, allowing the door to swing closed behind him. He turned, blinking as if his eyes could not quite focus, and caught sight of Maila, coming toward him. "I want a girl," he said. His voice was a drunken rasp, so slurred that Jeyne could barely understand the words.
Maila glanced over her shoulder at Rajev, then looked back at the newcomer, sizing him up. After a moment, she gave her best professional smile. "Well, you've come to the right place. We've got the prettiest girls this side of the Trident, ser, sweet little things that—"
"Don't call me ser," he said roughly. "I said I wanted a girl, not talk."
Maila blinked. She glanced at Rajev again for a long moment. When she went on, she had dropped the smile. "Of course," she said. "It's two coppers a go, or six coppers if you want to stay all night." She put her hand out, not trusting him to pay after the fact. The newcomer stared at her for a moment as if he were trying to make sense of her words, then fumbled awkwardly with a leather coin pouch. After a moment, he pulled out a coin and handed it to her, almost dropping it in the process. Even from the staircase, Jeyne could see the gleam of gold.
"There. How's that?" He made a rough, slurred sound that she guessed was supposed to be a laugh. "Enough?"
"Certainly," Maila said. She was obviously impressed and obviously trying not to be. She turned and gestured sharply to Ellie and Jeyne on the staircase, and to Tara and Rikki, who were loitering in the shadows. "There's Tara and Rikki and Ellie and Jeyne," she said, pointing them out as they came forward, "and Lanna's upstairs with a man but she should be down soon if you want to wait—she's very popular, a nice girl, everyone likes her. Which one will it be, s—which one?"
He stood there, swaying on his feet, looking them over for a moment. Jeyne hoped it wouldn't be her. This man frightened her, she realized; whether it was his silence or his drunkenness or his horribly scarred face or the aura of menace that hung about him, she realized she hadn't been this scared since her first man, when she had started crying as soon as she had gotten him up the stairs and the man had ended up just leaving the money on the bedside table. She averted her eyes, hoping he wouldn't see her. Her auburn hair fell forward in ringlets to either side of her face as she bowed her head.
Only to feel rough fingers grasp her chin and force her face up. "You. Look at me." She swallowed and glanced up and yes, the scarring was as bad as she had thought. Worse, if anything. He was also even drunker than she had first thought, she realized, and wondered how he was standing. She tried not to show her fear, and did manage a weak smile, wondering if it looked as false as it felt. Most men who came into the Light Feather didn't want a frightened or unhappy girl, she had found; they wanted a girl who at least seemed pleased to be with them. Maybe he would let her go….
He didn't. He straightened and let go of her chin, but put a heavy hand on her shoulder as he turned toward Maila. "Her. I want her."
"She's yours, ser. Jeyne, take him upstairs," Maila said. He turned again, back toward the stairs, overbalanced, and almost fell; he reached out over Jeyne's head and braced himself unsteadily on a wall.
Jeyne turned as well and picked up a candle, but shot a look full of mute appeal at Maila. Maila caught her look and indicated Rajev, who nodded; Jeyne knew what Maila had meant. She would send Rajev up a few moments after they had gone and have him wait outside the door, in case. Knowing Rajev would be close by made her feel a little better, but her heart was still pounding as she started up the stairs.
He followed close behind, saying nothing, but she could feel him at her back, hear his clumsy tread, his unsteady breathing. She tried to think what Ellie had told her, what she knew from her own experience. Generally it seemed to her, men who visited the Light Feather alone tended to be men far from wife and family looking for a little companionship, or older men who had built up a relationship of sorts with one of the girls—such as Lanna's regular, Darrin, who had been seeing her for twelve years now. But occasionally you got the loners, or that was how she thought of them, men who were looking for something, anything, and weren't sure what it was; as Maila had said one day while chatting with her, "They don't know what they want, so they think they can find it in the bottom of a winecup, or the bed of a whore." She had shrugged. "Well, if that's what they think, they're welcome to it, and their coin is welcome here," she had added, and laughed, but it wasn't always a laughing matter. Such men could be dangerous, since they didn't know what they wanted and could become angry when they didn't get it.
Well, it seemed as if this man had already tried looking in a winecup, and had now come here for the rest of it. Rajev will be right outside, she reminded herself and was surprised at how little better that made her feel. Rajev would be outside, but she would be inside, and this man was bigger than Rajev.
She held the door and let him go in first, then closed it behind her and set the candle on a stand. Her hands were shaking, she realized, and drew a deep, steadying breath. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands and still clutching the wineskin; he did not look at her, in fact didn't even seem to know she was there. She tried to think of something to say, but came up with nothing.
She settled for approaching him instead. He didn't look up as she drew near him, nor even as she laid a hand on his shoulder. She reached with cold fingers to undo the sword-belt around his waist and he let her do that without paying her any heed; her hands were shaking and she nearly dropped it. But when she drew near him again, he stopped her and caught both her wrists in one hand, looking at her closely. Whatever he was looking for in her face, he didn't seem to find it; he pushed her away. "You're afraid of me."
The words were so slurred it took her a moment to understand what he had said. Then another one to figure out how to answer. "Would—would you like me to be afraid of you?" she asked, trying to smile again; this time it was steadier. That was a trick Lanna had taught her; if a man said something and you didn't know how to answer, ask what answer he would prefer. "It's their coin, after all," Lanna had said, and laughed.
So did he. "No. Yes. Doesn't matter." He laughed again, a drunken, rasping sound. "She was. She always was. So was everyone else."
"Sh—she?"
He didn't seem to hear her. He took a long swallow from the skin. Jeyne wondered how much he had had tonight. "No. Don't be afraid."
That was the hard answer, unfortunately. "As—as you wish." Her hands hovered around the laces of her bodice—hovered, but did not settle. "Shall—shall I—" She didn't finish.
He looked at her again, the light playing over his scarred face. "She was afraid of me," he repeated again, and gripped her by the arm. Jeyne tensed, wondering if she should call for Rajev. "She was right to be. I've killed lots of people, and she knew it. But I never hurt her. He wanted me to but I didn't. I never hurt her and I won't hurt you so don't be afraid," he growled, and yanked her closer. She tried to pull away but he didn't even seem to notice. "Look at me. Look at me."
She darted a glance at his face, then lowered her eyes, unable to bear it.
"Look at me!" he repeated again, shaking her. "Can't you—" He stopped; he let her go then and hung his head, staring down at the floor. Something seemed to go out of him; those broad shoulders slumped.
Jeyne realized she felt sorry for him, even through her fear. She found courage somewhere, reached out and touched his shoulder again. "Ser, would you like me to—"
"Not ser." His hands clenched. "She wouldn't look at me either. She never would."
"I'm sorry," Jeyne said quietly. She had no idea what he was talking about, but it seemed to be the right thing to say. He didn't answer, just looked down at his hands again.
Jeyne timidly sat beside him, drawing her legs up under her. He paid her no heed, in fact he seemed again to have forgotten she was there. She felt like she should be doing something, but couldn't think of what.
For a time they sat there in silence. There was no sound in the room but his heavy, uneven breathing. The candlelight cast wild, flickering shadows over them, strange distorted shapes that danced on the walls and floor. Jeyne wondered what Rajev was thinking outside. What she should do. This man didn't seem to be interested in her, and she felt apprehensive about approaching him. Finally she gathered up her courage and spoke.
"What would you like me to do?" she asked quietly.
When he spoke, it was not an answer. In fact, she didn't think he had even heard her. "I should have carried her off with me." It took Jeyne a moment to make sense out of the words, they were so slurred. "Should have. Why didn't I?"
She didn't think he expected an answer. Instead, she repeated her question, even more softly than before, but somehow this time it got through to him. He turned and looked at her, blinking in confusion, as if he were trying to remember who she was or where he was. When he turned, he brought the burned side of his face full into her vision. She forced herself not to drop her eyes. At last his gaze cleared. "Sing."
"Sing?"
"Sing. Sing," he slurred impatiently, he gestured and dropped the skin. He tried to grab for it, but missed; Jeyne ducked down and got it, setting it down beside her on the bed. "Can you sing?" he asked again. "What—what songs do you know?"
"Yes, I can sing," she said. It was hardly the strangest request she had ever heard; many men who came into the Light Feather wanted the girls to sing or chat either beforehand or after, and in fact one of Ellie's regulars came, more nights than not, to do nothing but listen to Ellie tell stories. "I can sing 'When Willum's Wife Was Wet,' and 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair,' and 'Tully's Trout' and—"
"No." He shook his head. "Not one of those. Songs about—about the Mother, like. You know any—any of those? Like, the Mother's hymn…."
"Yes. I know that one. My mama used to sing it to me when I was little."
"Yes. Sing that. And…" He stopped—seemed almost to hesitate for a second; he glanced at her sidelong. "And—and—touch—"
Touch him. Jeyne swallowed, suddenly nervous all over again. But it was his coin, as Lanna had said, and it was her job. She reached for him with cold hands, only to have him roughly push her away. "No," he said harshly. "Not—" He fumbled at her wrists, took one of her hands, and raised it clumsily to the good side of his face. "Like that. Sing."
"All right," Jeyne said. She opened her hand to cup his cheek. He seemed to like that; he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. Jeyne sang:
Gentle Mother, font of mercy
Save our sons from war we pray
Stay the swords and stay the arrows
Let them know a better day
Gentle Mother, strength of women
Help our daughters through the fray
Soothe the wrath and tame the fury
Teach us all a kinder way
By the end, she was no longer afraid. She sat, waiting for him to speak again, watching their shadows dance on the walls. He raised his hand to cover hers and without opening his eyes slurred, "Again."
So she sang it for him again, and once more after that; three times in all while he sat listening, his eyes closed, holding her hand against his face. After she fell silent the third time, she thought he might tell her to sing it yet again, but he didn't; he only sat, so still and quiet that she wondered if maybe he had dozed off. Perhaps he had, but at length he opened his eyes, straightened slightly, and looked around. Jeyne guessed what he was looking for and handed him the skin of wine, which he took with a slightly puzzled expression, as if he wondered where it had come from. He raised it to his mouth and drained it dry, then tossed it aside. It hit the floor with a thud. "I'm going to sleep," he announced, and looked at her questioningly.
"You do that," Jeyne said, nodding. At her smile, he did just that; he lay down on his side, closed his eyes, and was asleep within minutes.
With a strange tenderness, Jeyne unfolded the quilt at the foot of the bed and spread it up over him, then looked down at him for a while. He was lying on his right side, so that the scars were hidden; he looked, in sleep, somehow vulnerable and innocent, almost like a tired, badly-used child. It was strange the way sleep did that to men, Jeyne had found in her scant year at the brothel; the most bloodthirsty cutthroat, the most brutal sellsword, the most savage, vicious outlaw, in sleep they all looked the same way he did now. It was as if only in sleep could their true faces emerge, or perhaps the faces of the children they had once been. And me? Jeyne wondered now, looking down at him. What do I look like when I sleep? What does a whore look like? She dismissed the thought with an effort. It still hurt, to think of herself as a whore, though less now than it had a year ago.
She wondered who the "she" was he had been talking about. It wouldn't have been the first time she had taken the place of someone else, someone unattainable. Her fifth man—boy, really—had wanted to call her Rala during, Rala being the name of the prettiest girl from his home village, and she had agreed. He had called her Rala, and been so gentle, so tender that she could only think this Rala was a fool for not taking him. With a sigh, she brushed the man's face once more, rose from the bed, and went softly to the door of the room.
Rajev was waiting outside when she opened it. "You're all right?" he asked her quietly, seeing her lay a finger to her lips.
"Yes. He didn't—we didn't do anything, he just went to sleep."
"You think he's really King Joffrey's dog?" Rajev asked curiously.
She shrugged. "I don't know. He didn't say much. Is Maila—I mean, is she going to let him sleep here?"
Rajev shrugged. "He paid with a gold dragon. I'd say let him sleep wherever he wants. To be honest, I wouldn't want to try throwing him out either, long as he's not causing any trouble. Even if he's not King Joffrey's dog, he's awfully tough-looking, and if he is, well then…." The former sellsword shrugged. "I know my limits."
Jeyne nodded. "Should I come downstairs again? I mean, since he's asleep and all."
"Do you think you can?"
She looked back over her shoulder. "I don't know. I feel like I probably could, and I do think he'll be out for the rest of the night, but I mean, he did pay a lot of money, and if he wakes up and I'm not there…."
Rajev nodded and looked thoughtful. "Well, it's your call. He paid enough so that Maila shouldn't care too much if you didn't," he offered.
Jeyne looked over her shoulder again. She frowned. Maybe not, but she also thought Maila might not like it if she had known Jeyne could come down and didn't. And the idea of staying up there all night, sitting in that small room with nothing to do but watch the man sleep, was not appealing. "I'll come down for a little while, I guess. I'll just run back up to check on him now and then, and if he looks like he's waking up, I'll stay up here and see to him."
Rajev nodded. "Sounds good."
"Yes. That's what I'll do. Hold a moment." She closed the door gently, then hurried back to the side of the bed. She gathered his sword belt and coin pouch up from where she had laid them and slid them under the bed for safekeeping, then picked up the candle again. After giving the man a final pat on the shoulder, she opened the door again and stepped out of the room, leaving him behind her in the quiet darkness.
*
Sandor awoke alone, in the cold gray light of an indifferent dawn.
Disorientation jolted him as he opened his eyes, and he knotted his fists in the coverlet, trying to figure out where he was. Is this White Sword Tower, or Casterly Rock, or am I…no, he couldn't be back there again. After a moment the shock subsided and he looked around the small, poorly furnished room.
He sat up. Clutched his head and cursed through his teeth at the throbbing. It felt like someone was driving nails into his skull. Probably Gregor, he thought dizzily. Seven hells, what had he done last night? He couldn't remember any of it.
His stomach gave a lurch and he barely made it across the room to the chamber pot in time. Afterwards he braced himself against the wall and wiped his mouth with one hand, waiting to see if he would be sick again. His hands were trembling. While he waited, bits and pieces started to surface in his mind. The tavern….yes, that was right. He had been in a tavern. Was he still there? Or had he left? He thought he had left, but why?
They had known him, he remembered slowly. He had thought not at first, but then as the night went on he had realized it—the way they were almost looking at him, the way some of the younger ones, squires, would smile and then whisper to each other in low voices, behind their hands. No one had said anything but he knew what they were thinking, he could feel it, and as the night went on the smiles got bolder, the voices louder. Daring him to notice. He might have been drunk, but not so drunk he could not see; finally he had paid the innkeep, taken a skin of wine, and staggered out into the night to go….where?
Brothel, he thought. Scraps of memory surfaced, a warm, brightly lit front room, pretty girls, he had almost thought one of them was—but he must have dreamed that. But that must be where he was now, he thought, looking around the room in the chill glare of morning. His stomach heaved and he bent over the chamber pot again, but there was nothing left to bring up. He leaned against the wall for a long moment afterward, resting his head against his arm with his eyes closed, breathing hard.
At last he straightened up, mindful of the pain in his head. The door's hinges squeaked when he opened it and the sound made him clench his teeth. He stumbled out of the room and clutched the handrail of the stairs for balance, and it wasn't until he had descended to the ground floor that he realized he was missing something. Couldn't think what it was.
An older woman approached as he stepped gingerly off the bottom step. Probably the mistress. Behind her, lounging against the wall, was a one-eyed man, watching him carefully. Shorter than me, but looks tough—tougher than he felt at the moment, anyway. The woman addressed him, meeting his eyes briefly then glancing away just like they all did.
"Good morning, ser—"
"Don't call me ser."
"Apologies. How should I call you?"
Dog, he thought but did not say. On the off chance they didn't know who he was, why give them any help figuring it out? "Not ser."
"As you wish. Would you care to break your fast?"
His stomach lurched again at the thought of food and he swallowed hard. "No. No food." He looked around the front room, squinting as the bright light hurt his eyes. A few of the girls were up, lounging around or chatting with each other. None of them looked familiar. Last night, he seemed to recall, all the girls had seemed pretty enough. Not now though. In the harsh morning light, the room was ugly and so were the girls. And so are you, dog.
Did the little bird sing for me last night? Or was that just something I dreamed? It must have been a dream, she was in King's Landing, not here.He looked back at the mistress. He thought he remembered giving her a gold coin last night and debated trying to argue change out of her. Decided against it. He might be able to intimidate it out of her, but not argue, not this morning, and he wasn't even sure he was up to intimidation at the moment. He didn't need it, so let her keep it. He still had most of the gold from the tournament, hidden in the woods before he came into town so that no one could steal it while he was drinking, he had just brought in a few—
With a shock, he suddenly realized what it was that he was missing. "Where's my stuff?" he demanded, his hand going to air where his sword hilt should be.
She blinked at him. "Beg pardon?"
"My stuff. My stuff," he insisted. "Sword. Coin. Where is it?"
"I'm afraid I don't—"
"Where is it?" he demanded with such force that the sellsword behind her stepped away from the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment while a blinding spike of pain shot through his head. "I had it when I came in so where—"
"Excuse me, is this it?"
He turned at the gentle touch on his arm. A young girl was standing behind him, couldn't be more than sixteen at most, but she looked more like thirteen or fourteen. Her hair—the little bird's hair was just that color. Just that. He stared at her. Was she the one who—? She smiled at him hesitantly and darted a glance at his face. Only then did he notice that in her hands she held his sword belt and coin pouch.
He took them from her with a grunt. Fumbled with the pouch to check inside. "It's all there," she said timidly. "You can count it if you want. I put it under the bed for safekeeping." He felt the weight of the bag, shrugged, and gave it up. The state he was in, he doubted he could count his fingers, let alone coin.
He tried to fasten the sword belt around his waist, but his hands were trembling too much and didn't seem to be working right. The girl watched as he tried unsuccessfully, then offered, "Here. Let me." He stood still as she did so, watching her. Not once did she look at his face, he saw with something too dull to be anger. But when she was done, she beckoned him to bend down to her. He did, and she went up on tiptoe, and whispered in his ear—left side, of course, he thought sourly—"I hope you find her again someday. Whoever she is." Something light brushed his cheek—a kiss, he realized. No sooner did he realize that than she scurried away, keeping her eyes down. He stared after her for a long moment, frowning. It must have been her. What did I say?
He looked around the brothel again. The mistress was talking to the sellsword, but both of them were keeping an eye on him. The girls were all occupied. None of them were looking at his face. Time to go. He turned, and pushed through the door into the cold, harsh glare of the morning outside.