Standard disclaimer: None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine but instead are the property of George R. R. Martin. No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.
Author's note: This is the last of three fanfics involving the character of the Hound that I intended to write originally; the first two are "Tally Sticks," showing Arya telling Sandor about her kills, and "Sing," inspired by a line from the Flogging Molly song "Death Valley Queen." There will be a short little epilogue fic to follow, entitled "Maybe," but after that I figure anything else I write will be superseded when the next book comes out.
The genesis of this fic can be found in the last scene in Storm of Swords between Sandor and Arya, where he begs her to kill him and she refuses. I was curious as to what he was thinking there, and curious as well as to why it seemed to be only then that he remembered that Sansa had not sung for him voluntarily (you'll notice that when he mentions the song to Arya before this, it seems to be a positive memory for him). While I thought I had succeeded in figuring out Sandor's emotional state at the time, I was still unclear as to what had sparked his re-evaluation of Sansa's song. I suspected it must lie in the dreams he had had (Martin tells us that after Arya gave him the water, he "slid into a noisy, fevered sleep") and decided to write this to explore what those dreams might be. Of my three and a half Martin fics, this is the one I am least happy with; it has gone through more revisions than my other ones and I still don't think it's exactly the way I wanted it. Also some of it seems redundant with "Tally Sticks." However, I can't think of anything else to do with it, so I decided to post it. Enjoy.
The pain gnawed at Sandor as he rode, biting into thigh and neck and head like knives, sinking deeper with every step his horse took. He was alternately shivering and sweating, struggling to keep his balance. The last few miles had passed in a long blur of misery. He had been trying to concentrate on the song the little bird had given him, to hold the pain and sickness at bay, and maybe it was helping a little, but not much. It had been so long ago that it was growing hard for him to remember what it had really sounded like. Did she really sing for me? She had to, I couldn't have imagined that…such a pretty little song she had given him…He wished she were here now to sing for him again, that might have helped a little more.
The little she-wolf rode beside him, watching him closely; every now and then she would look behind them. Checking for pursuit. He was glad she was doing it; he had all he could do to sit his horse. If there is pursuit… The thought came but did not stay. If there was, he'd think of something. He'd have to. He wouldn't let himself fall back into Gregor's clutches, no matter what he had to do. And there's the little she-wolf to think of too….although he might get more than he bargained for, with her. The thought might have made him laugh, if he hadn't been so weak. Is there GOLD in the village?
He wondered dimly what that squire's name had been, the one that she had killed. Along with the Tickler. If she hadn't been there…. He had barely been able to hold his own against Polliver and the Tickler together—no, admit it, he had been losing. Losing. If he hadn't gotten lucky, kicking that bench the way he had….and if she hadn't kept the squire busy and out of the fight… Because I was drunk. Drunk as a dog, damn me. What had possessed him to start drinking then? He knew better than that. Or he should.
He cursed under his breath. The surroundings were fading in and out around him. He could barely sit his horse. Got to stop, he thought, and pulled Stranger to a halt. It wasn't an especially good place for it—there were only a few light trees to screen them from the river—but he didn't think he could make it any farther.
The she-wolf pulled her horse to a halt beside him, turned and looked at him. "I need to rest," he said, the words not seeming to come from him. She said nothing, but merely watched him, face like stone, set in the same unreadable look she always wore—had worn since he had captured her. No comfort there. When he swung down from Stranger, his legs folded underneath him and dumped him to the ground. He lay there for a moment, trying to summon the strength to move. Maybe I'll just lie here for a while, he thought, and might have done it except that the she-wolf dismounted beside him. He heard her feet hitting the dirt, opened his eyes and saw her standing over him, looking down at him. She never said a word, but he was sure he saw contempt in that small face. That stung, and he pushed himself shakily to his hands and knees. It didn't take him long to realize that standing was out of the question, so underneath her gaze he crawled to the nearest tree and collapsed against it, panting from even that small effort. He cursed weakly, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rough bark. Wine. Need wine. He thought he had never needed anything in his life as much he needed a cup of wine, right then, just one bloody cup. One cup, to take the edge off the pain, dull his thoughts a little, help him rest….
She was watching him, he could feel her. He opened his eyes and yes, there she was, standing where she had stood, looking at him with that same lack of expression. She had looked much the same way when she had given mercy to the squire, with the blade she had taken off Polliver. That blade…she had taken it like she knew what it was. It looked natural in her hand, seemed to belong there. It made her dangerous, that blade, that look. And what she had done to the Tickler… Weak and feverish as he was, he realized that he was almost afraid of her.
Afraid of a ten-year-old girl. You really have turned craven, dog.
"I'd skin you alive for a cup of wine, girl," he heard himself say.
She looked at him for a moment longer, then without a word turned and went to his saddle. She got his helm down and vanished among the trees. Maybe she'll find some and bring it back, some nice sour red, he thought, nothing to stop him from hoping. Thoughts of Sansa returned again to his mind, preying restlessly on his fevered imagination. The little bird, seven hells, the little bird…That filthy dwarf must have taken her away from Joff. That's the only thing that makes sense. He cursed weakly again. Joff would never have given up his plaything otherwise, any more than Gregor would have…. That twisted gargoyle saw how pretty she was and wanted her for himself. Why didn't I take her with me? Why didn't I think what could happen—No wonder she found the courage to kill Joff and run. No wonder. Everyone knew how twisted and unnatural the Imp's tastes were, everyone--what he had done to his first wife was an open secret, and now he had the little bird too… He tried to think of her song, but he kept seeing the mocking face of the Imp instead, leering at her cruelly, hurting her, doing unspeakable, filthy things to her, forcing her to do things that even whores wouldn't do….Stop it. Stop it, he thought weakly, but the images came anyway.
It wasn't wine the she-wolf returned with, but water. Silently, she held his dogs-head helm out to him. When he tried to take it from her, he was almost too weak to hold it; his hands shook uncontrollably and water splashed out, soaking him. Without a word, she took it in her own hands, steadying it, and turned it so he could drink. His throat was dry and raw and it hurt to swallow. Grains of dirt gritted between his teeth. That had to be contempt he saw in her eyes, he thought feverishly, how could it be anything else? He pushed the helm aside after a few gulps.
"No more. Tastes of mud." His voice seemed to come from miles away. She set the helm on the ground beside him. Turned her back on him and went to tend to the horses. As she unsaddled them he closed his eyes again and tried to sleep. He thought he could still feel her eyes on him, always watching.
His dreams, when they came, were confused, disjointed, and very bad. Gregor had gotten him again somehow, except it wasn't just Gregor. Joffrey and the Imp were there too, but they were both as big as Gregor was, even the Imp, and they had him helpless. They were holding him down and hurting him, and laughing, only sometimes it was him they were hurting and sometimes it was the little bird. He watched when they were hurting her, doing things to her, just as he had before; he was desperate to do something, anything, but he wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard and he couldn't move. Then it was him they were hurting, and Sansa who was standing by and watching. He was begging her for help, but she only watched, her face set like stone and her eyes veiled. "Why should I help you?" she asked him. "You didn't help me. You let them hit me and hurt me, and never lifted a finger to stop them." He tried to explain that he couldn't help her because he wasn't Arya, which even in his dream he knew made no sense, but then that little she-wolf herself was there. Only she wasn't little anymore, she stood as tall as the rest of them and looked down on him coolly. "Like this," she said to her sister; she drew the blade she had taken off Polliver, turned, and stabbed the Tickler again and again until her hands were red and bloody. "Yes," said Sansa. "Like that." She took a step forward, and another one, and suddenly she had grown to the size of the others. She threw a spell at Joff, then stood watching as he fell to the ground, clawing at his throat, his face turning black. The Imp died then too, and the two sisters turned to look down at him, where Gregor still held him.
"Please," he begged. "Help me. Please."
"What should we do?" asked Arya.
"He said it himself," Sansa replied. "The gods made the weak for the strong to play with."
Arya nodded. "If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can."
"He stood there and let them beat me bloody."
"He killed my butcher's boy Michael."
"He left me behind for the Imp."
"He didn't save our mother."
They looked at each other and nodded. "He doesn't deserve our help," they said together, and turned, and walked away.
They were leaving him. Leaving him in Gregor's hands. He shouted after Sansa desperately, "You gave me a song!"
Sansa stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. "I never gave you anything." She and Arya disappeared, leaving him behind in Gregor's hands. Gregor was hurting him again, his leg, his neck, his head…
With a start, he lurched up from the nightmare into a shallow half-wakefulness; he felt the leaves he was lying on, the rough bark of the tree at his back, heard—but distantly—the music of the Trident. The rest had brought no lessening of pain; his wounds bit at him again as he came to. His head was splitting and he felt weak as a child, but his mind was clear.
The gods made the weak for the strong to play with. And he was the weak, yes, that was right. He'd always known it. Just been able to hide it, that was all. All the killing he'd done, the she-wolf's butcher's boy, the man whose arm he'd cut off—it was all lies, to hide the truth. They called him the Hound, they had said he was savage, vicious, and fearless, but that was wrong; it always had been wrong. A real hound would have killed Gregor by now. A real hound wouldn't have let them beat her. A real hound wouldn't have run and left her behind for that filthy dwarf—Hound? He made a choked sound that was almost a laugh. You were no Hound. You were never anything more than a whipped, beaten cur and you know it.
Turned craven? You were always craven, dog. And he was. Too craven to fight Gregor or to go against the Lannisters or stand up to Joff, afraid of anyone bigger or stronger than he was. It was just that there were so few of them that nobody noticed. Even the little bloody she-wolf. Even afraid of her. And fire. Oh gods, afraid of fire. Lying there, sick, weak and feverish, he admitted it. It was true, he knew. And now—thanks to that filthy bloody twisted gargoyle—now he'd finally been found out. Now everybody else knows too.
The thought cut him like a blade and he groaned, half aware of it. It hurt more than the wounds he half-remembered sustaining, making him writhe inwardly. Never mind, he told himself desperately. Doesn't matter. Don't think about it. Think about something else. The little bird's song, yes, that was it. Such a pretty little song….Did she know I was craven? Would she have sung for me if she did? The Imp, did he tell her? The Imp, seven hells, the Imp—had that dwarf made her sing for him? Did he make her look at him while she did? Had he made her-- No, don't think about it. Just the song. Just the song….
He reached for the sweet song she had given him, trying to call it to mind, but when he tried he couldn't find it. Instead—
Her voice came back to him, from the dream, her voice and that hard, cold look. "I never gave you anything."
The thought jolted him, brought him to wakefulness, though he didn't open his eyes. Never gave him anything? That's not right, he told himself. She did.
Didn't she?
She had. No, she had. She had sung for him, he couldn't have made that up, she had given him—
"I never gave you anything. You don't deserve my help."
No, he thought again. Some nameless dread was creeping over him. That's not true. If he hadn't deserved her help, why had she sung for him in the first place?
Why had she sung for him in the first place?
The chill he felt had nothing to do with fever. There was something he wasn't seeing, he felt it lurking in the back of his mind, something he didn't remember, or didn't want to remember—
No, think. Think, damn you. You know she sang for you, the night you fled, you wanted to take her from the city and she—had what?
His mind went back to that hellish night, the Imp, the fighting, the fires, the terror he had felt. He had gotten so drunk, but it hadn't helped the fear. Nothing helped the fear. It was as if Gregor was outside the city gates, coming to get him. He had gone to her room, he remembered, retracing his steps carefully. He had gone to her room to take her away, just like he had thought of doing so many times before, since that awful day. She wasn't there. He had lain down on her bed to wait for her, he remembered. He might have slept a little. When he woke, she was there. He had grabbed her and told her to be quiet. She had asked him what he was doing there. He had told her he was leaving and had come for the song. She had said—
Her voice was suddenly there, in his ears, just as if he were hearing it again.
"I can't sing for you now. Let me go, you're scaring me."
"Everything scares you. Look at me. Look at me."
She had looked at him. He could tell she was forcing herself to, but she had. When he had spoken again, he had scarcely known what he was going to say; suddenly he had been as frightened as if he were facing the fires again. Gods, he had been crazy drunk that night—Finally he had remembered the day the mob had her….
"I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me. No one would ever hurt you again, or I'd kill them."
And she had closed her eyes.
Even remembering it made him angry all over again. There he was, offering to take her away, offering to protect her—from the fires, from Joffrey, from everybody—trying to make up for all the times he had stood by and watched them beat her, and she still wouldn't look at him. He had been so furious that even all that wouldn't make her look at him that he had—had—
And then he remembered what he had forgotten.
I'll have that song. Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.
His anger vanished underneath a cold wave, as the last shreds of sleep vanished from his mind. He couldn't breathe for a moment. The ground seemed to be shifting under him, and he would have given anything in the world to deny it but it was true. That's why it was a song for mercy, he realized. That's why it wasn't Florian and Jonquil. He had hurt her too, he had hurt his pretty little bird, just like Joff, just like the Imp, just like all the rest of them. You told her you would keep her safe and then—
He groaned, unaware of it, caught in his thoughts. This time it was not the Imp he was seeing, but himself, pushing her down, drawing his dagger on her, threatening her-- The bloody she-wolf had been right, he hadn't realized it, but she had been. Right all along. Her and everyone else. Damn you, dog. Damn you. Damn you. You can kill that butcher's boy Michael, you can hold a dagger to the little bird's throat and force her to sing, but you can't fight Gregor, can't face the damned fires, can't protect her from Joffrey or even that filthy Imp— Strength and steel rule the world? As long as you have a sword in your hand you don't need to fear? Then why in seven burning hells are you so gutless craven?
Everything he had ever been was a lie. Even the sweet little song was a lie. The sweetest memory he had, even better than the day he got his first sword, and it was a lie. She never would have sung for you, dog, how'd you think she ever would have? He was a complete and utter fraud, all the way through, he saw it now. One of the weak, he had always been one of the weak, and the gods made the weak for the strong to play with….
And even as he thought that, dried leaves crunched, and he opened his eyes to see the she-wolf, sword out, drawing nearer and nearer to him, her face set like stone. He accepted it. It was just. She had cause, and she was stronger than he was. How that could be, he didn't know, but his fevered mind saw that it was true. And besides, he was ready. What did he have left? It was a fitting end, and he would rather she did it than Gregor's men catch him again. Let her do it, he thought, stop it hurting, put him out of his misery, like a sick dog. In the end, it's much the same.
"You remember where the heart is?"
She stopped, obviously surprised. For the first time, he thought he saw fear in her eyes. "I—I was only—"
Not her too. "Don't lie. I hate liars. I hate gutless frauds even worse." He almost laughed at that, but she wouldn't have understood. "Go on, do it."
She did nothing, only looked down at him where he lay. The fear had gone from her eyes, her expression was stony again. What's she waiting for? Why won't she-- He couldn't tell what she was thinking. Go on, girl, do it now. Now.
"I killed your butcher's boy." It hurt to talk, and he felt disconnected from what he was saying. Was she even hearing him? "I cut him near in half and laughed about it after." Nothing, not even a flicker. He thought of Sansa and his control broke; he heard himself sobbing, a harsh, ugly sound. "And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her." His eyes clung to hers, searching her face desperately for something, he didn't know what. Her expression never changed, but he thought he saw contempt in those eyes again. Contempt. He didn't even blame her. He continued, babbling; he couldn't seem to stop himself. "I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf." She did not move. Her small face was set stern as a judge, measuring him and finding him wanting. That dwarf, that dwarf and the pretty bird, seven hells-- "Do you mean to make me beg, bitch? Do it! The gift of mercy—avenge your little Michael—"
She sheathed her sword in one smooth motion. "Mycah." She drew herself up, looked down on him, and delivered her verdict, her voice flat, unemotional "You don't deserve the gift of mercy." Without a second glance, she turned her back on him and went to the horses.
She means to leave me, he realized. He was too weak to stop her, and it was fair, in any case. He watched her now, but she had finished with him; she never once glanced in his direction. For one fevered instant, he thought she meant to take Stranger, and was prepared to accept that too—it was her right—but she went to her horse instead. Craven, he remembered dizzily, and for a moment felt like laughing. Does she know that we have the wrong horses? As she mounted, preparing to ride off and leave him behind, he shot his last arrow: "A real wolf would finish a wounded animal," he said.
But one last time she proved stronger than him; she only turned and looked back at him, her face closed. "You shouldn't have hit me with an axe," she replied. "You should have saved my mother." She turned Craven's head east and rode off, never looking behind her.
He lay there where she had left him, alone, waiting to die a dog's death of lingering exposure under that tree—maybe sooner, if Gregor's men caught up with him. A dog's death. He did laugh then, at the thought. He started to reach for the song to comfort himself with, but then stopped, remembering. No. Can't do that. You don't deserve that song. He had even lost the song. The she-wolf had abandoned him, and so he had nothing left.
Everything. He had lost everything.
And it was right that he had. Hadn't he said it to the little bird himself, that the weak existed for….? And he was one of the weak. How could I ever have forgotten that? I only ever looked strong. He heard himself laughing feverishly at the thought, laughing or perhaps sobbing. It had been a lie, just like everything else in his life. Just like everything else. She was strong, the she-wolf, stronger than him. And now, Sansa—her as well. She killed Joffrey, and the Imp…. He should have done that, he saw now, but he hadn't. He hadn't done anything. He couldn't do anything.
Nothing left for him to do but die. He closed his eyes, and waited.