The singer took a sip of wine and asked if anyone had any requests. Jeyne's hand shot into the air. Sansa made a more elegant indication and the singer, knowing who she was, naturally invited her to select his next song. It was all Sandor could do not to choke. The silver-tongued balladeer oozed over to where Sansa was sitting, made a big show of escorting her to the area that was serving as a stage, and seated her where he could best defile her with his smarmy serenade.

Sansa glowed. It felt like all the world was in love with her. Sandor saw that she was wearing a new dress. She hadn't had a white dress before (he could practically hear Lady Catelyn insisting white was an impractical color for a young girl) and she looked beautiful and pure and perfect in it. For a moment, he was stunned. Then his mind lurched into motion again. He would say something about her dress! Surely, she would appreciate that he noticed and, if the mood was right, he might even comment on how it looked on her and see if she responded to the flirtatious undercurrent. Before he got too taken with his idea, there was an insufferable flourish, and the musicians struck up "Lady Sansa's favorite song!"

"For fuck's sake," Sandor muttered as he rolled his eyes. She'd never said it was her favorite.

He hadn't forgotten his promise to bring Sansa something from King's Landing, per se, but Sandor was as distracted as any other young man in a big city would be. He'd been there before, but briefly, and that had been during a time of conflict. Now, he had time to see everything the capital had to offer. The Street of Steel alone occupied him for several days as he wandered in and out of the shops whenever he was off-duty. Sandor bought himself a fancy knife and various pieces of armor. He'd quietly ducked into another shop and saw a boy polishing a helm that looked like the head of a bull. It caught his attention like nothing else for sale had. He watched the boy for a long moment.

"Did you make that?" Sandor asked.

The apprentice, for he was clearly not the master smith, whipped around and shoved the helm behind his back. He leveled a hostile look at Sandor. "Are you picking up an order?"

"I asked you if you made that helm. The one you're holding behind your back. Let's see it." Sandor walked toward him. He knew his size intimidated people and he let it. The boy's strong arms reflected his trade, but Sandor doubted he used the swords and such that he made all that often and, as a result, was absolutely no threat.

The smith brought out the helm, sulking like it might be taken from him. "Yes, I made it. For me."

Sandor gestured for him to hand it over. The work was fine. The helm radiated strength. Sandor liked it, though he had no need to radiate strength. He had something more like terror in mind.

"Could you make one that looks like a dog?"

The boy slowly tilted his head side to side as if sifting the idea through his brain. He grabbed a bit of parchment and sketched a helm. It looked like a hunting dog, alert, ready.

"Make it snarl."

A few more adjustments and they'd agreed on a design. Sandor could see the boy was eager to make the helm and lowballed him on the price. The boy stammered that he'd have to get his master, Tobho Mott, to agree to that but Sandor simply leaned across the counter and said, "You only have to if he knows about it. The price we agreed on more than covers the materials. I'll give you an extra silver stag if you give my helm the same attention you gave yours."

That was clearly to the boy's liking and he agreed. After a pause, he asked, "Why a dog?" as though a bull made much more sense.

"To represent my house," Sandor answered in a surly tone. He didn't want to explain himself to this nosey apprentice, oblivious to the fact that he'd been nosey first.

"Which house is that?"

"House Clegane."

The smith's blue eyes widened. "Your Ser Gregor's brother."

"Aye, so make it quickly." What his relationship with his brother had to do with speed, Sandor didn't know, but it seemed to spur the smith on, and he had his helm within a few weeks. He paid for it without comment but hurried back to the Tower of the Hand and found a mirror and spent most of the evening transforming himself into a metal-headed hound. He practiced putting it on with one hand while keeping his hair out of his eyes and taking it off with a menacing flourish.

He liked his helm so much, he found a tailor and asked if the man could make him a tunic with a dog's head on the front. He wanted word to get around that, though he might be in town as a Stark man, his brother was not the only Clegane in Westeros. The tailor had made the dog's head out of leather and the effect was lamer than a three-legged horse. Sandor was displeased and the man knew it. He kicked himself for not asking for three dogs like those on his family sigil. Maybe then the damn tunic would have been worth wearing. As he eyed the garment with contempt, Sandor thought, Sansa would have made this look good. She was, after all, the best seamstress he knew. An idea struck him. He would get her sewing supplies. The good kind. Stuff not available in the north, if he could figure out what that was. She liked to sew, and those kinds of things would fit easily in his bag. He was relieved he remembered to get her something, not that she would have said anything if he didn't, but he had offered, and he wanted to keep his word.

"Where do the queen's seamstresses get their supplies?"

The tailor blinked at him for a second, his mouth hanging open. "If you're dissatisfied, ser, I'd be more than happy to make alterations. At no charge, of course."

"I'm no ser."

The man blanched, his eye falling on the direwolf pin at Sandor's throat. "Of course not. You're northern. I apologize."

As Sandor opened his mouth to refute that point, the tailor stuttered that he'd fetch his wife, as she might know.

The woman wasn't certain which exact shop Queen Cersei's seamstresses frequented but knew where the most expensive ones were and gave Sandor directions.

"Though we'd be happy to provide you what you need," she offered, not intimidated like her husband.

"What I need is a gift for my sister." Close enough. It wasn't their business.

"Oh, there's a Clegane sister, as well?" asked the woman, surprised.

Sandor felt his face fall into what he knew was a very dark look. He hadn't been recognized in the market before and it caught him off guard. It also irritated him because it was as though his real sister had never existed. He slapped some coins down on the work bench. "For your information, lady, and not the damn tunic." He stalked out of the shop in a huff. The tunic was good for nothing except wearing to bed. When he was alone.

When he wasn't in the market, Sandor enjoyed frequenting the taverns, winesinks, and gaming halls. He didn't enjoy the Imp's company, but the man knew where the action was, and Sandor went whenever a group of them were going out. The best part of King's Landing, though, was the training yard. Finally, he had some competition. Ser Jaime Lannister himself eventually challenged Sandor. Sandor lost but it was a close thing. It was a thrill to try himself against the best knights in the seven kingdoms. Slicked with sweat, his tunic stuck to his torso, his hair plastered to his temples and neck, his muscles taut and sore and working with violent efficiency, Sandor was almost what he'd wanted to be when he was a little boy.

Except he was hideously scarred and never allowed to forget it. The worst part of King's Landing was the people. His face had drawn some notice when he'd first arrived at Winterfell, but the northerners had followed Lord Stark's lead and concerned themselves with Sandor's work ethic and trustworthiness rather than the fact that he was missing an ear and had a partially visible jawbone. Sandor assumed that they assumed he'd been injured during Robert's Rebellion. Whatever they thought, if they thought he would heal, they were wrong. Sandor never forgot his scars, but he didn't dwell on them. In King's Landing, however, the polite people grimaced and turned away. The rest stared and commented amongst themselves. A few (usually drunken) men dared ask what happened. It fueled his rage toward his brother. Fleeing his family's home as a boy was hard enough; having his brother's cruel dominance all over his face was a constant burden. Worse, people seemed to think the two Cleganes were cut from the same cloth. People weren't afraid of Sandor because of his skill with a sword; they were afraid of him because his brother was an erratic murderer and rapist and they assumed Sandor was a similar threat. This appalled him at first; how could people think such awful things without a shred of evidence in support? Shouldn't his scars have marked him as a victim, or at least one who'd suffered something awful? Still, Sandor said nothing. What was there to gain by it? Pity? Pity wasn't going to right the wrongs he and his sister had suffered. The reaction to his face stirred up Sandor's memories, and the fear, shame, and betrayal ate at him like acid. It wasn't right and, even with his size and strength, he couldn't combat it. Instead, he drank and fought and, when he could endure the worried looks, fucked in an effort to bury the anger deep down inside himself but it continued to seep and spew out.

The small folk and their alleged betters were one thing; the knights themselves were a different sort of disappointment. Where was the honor? The purpose? The decency? Most of the knights were no better than common louts with some extra coin in their pockets. Sandor was disgusted with them. Ser Barristan Selmy was all right but how did men like Meryn Trant become part of the Kingsguard? Contact with them embittered Sandor further. He didn't spend much time coddling memories of his younger self, but he thought himself a fool for ever aspiring to be a knight. There was nothing to aspire to. If you had even half control of your sword, you were good enough.

And then there was the court, which was the most toxic atmosphere Sandor had ever encountered. If he'd thought the battlefield was sickening, it was nothing to the lies and double-dealing that took place seemingly every second within the Red Keep. It was a good thing Sandor was used to keeping to the background. Otherwise, his eyes might have bulged out in incredulity at the horse shit that was allowed to pass for the business of the realm. Sandor saw immediately that Robert was an indifferent king and Lord Stark was out of his depth. Had he been asked his opinion, he would have told his lord to save them all some pain and just return home. But Eddard Stark was nothing if not a man of his word and so his efforts ground on and on and on.

The appeal of everything he liked about the capital wore off fast. Sandor was angrier and more disillusioned and frustrated than he'd been since his childhood. And there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't leave, so he drank and, when he wasn't drinking, he was short tempered. Let them be intimidated. Let them know what fear is, he thought. They already thought him a monster. It wasn't his job to prove them wrong.

And then Gregor came to King's Landing. A tourney was held in Lord Stark's honor and Sandor was hoping to meet his brother in the lists so he could gauge what it would take to defeat him. Instead, Sandor found himself rushing to defend Loras Tyrell after the boy was stupid enough to try to cheat Gregor out of a victory by riding a mare in heat. Sandor's heart was fairly vibrating when his brother attacked him. Gregor was huge. He fought with a ferocity Sandor couldn't quite match. He thought about saying their sister's name to see Gregor's reaction, but this wasn't that fight. When he killed Gregor for that offense, Sandor wanted his brother to know why.

So Sandor stayed silent and parried blow after blow. It was almost as though Gregor wasn't fighting him but was in a true blind rage. The attack wasn't personal, it was proprietary. Sandor was simply there. The Tyrell idiot had displeased Gregor and the price for displeasing Gregor was usually death. Sandor's anger at Gregor had always been personal but, he eventually realized, Gregor's attacks on him and others were not. Gregor asserted himself out of self-interest. He simply didn't recognize anyone else as having a right to their own wants and feelings if they ran contrary to Gregor's.

Over time, Sandor realized that his primary grievance was with his father. Gregor was damaged but their father should still not have covered up for him. That betrayal was what really stung. It was one thing to be hurt, it was another to have that pain dismissed. What good did it do him? Sandor thought. Gregor killed him just the same. Sandor came to know that he could kill Gregor, he could wound him, maim him, curse him, and kill him, but he could never make Gregor feel remorse. He could never make Gregor feel sorry for what he had done, for the damage he'd caused, for the pain he'd inflicted. He could never make him care. And that's what mattered to Sandor – to have the injustice of his sister's death and the pain he had caused Sandor acknowledged and rectified. And it fueled his anger even more. As far as Sandor was concerned, Gregor owed him a debt of pain and Sandor wanted to make him to pay it – physically if not emotionally.

Not that Sandor pondered this while his brother's sword cut a path toward him again and again. Gregor had taken three good swipes at Sandor's head but was prevented from striking a killing blow because the king commanded that they stop. Sandor had. Gregor barely reined himself in and slaughtered his horse instead. Possibly Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister were the only men alive who could insist that Gregor control himself, and probably only then because they let him act as he pleased in every other circumstance.

And this was the way of the realm. Everyone knew the sort of man Gregor Clegane was and yet he was a knight. No one had any idea the sort of man Sandor Clegane was and yet he was regarded with fear and suspicion. It disgusted him. Everything disgusted him. Sandor drew more into himself and only kept company with the other Stark retainers. He drank heavily and nursed his bitter thoughts while Lord Eddard wasted his time trying to bring honor to the debauched.

***

Finally, after two years of blundering, Sandor and the others all but had to drag Lord Stark out of there and free him from the machinations of Lord Baelish. Those who'd survived pounded their way back to Winterfell and Sandor took in the keep's granite walls with a profound sense of relief. He saw Stranger attended to and lugged his bags to his room. The household staff was in an uproar and he knew hot water would be a long time coming so he grabbed a change of clothes and headed for one of the hot springs in the woods. He stripped down without preamble and waded into the warm water. After washing himself, Sandor just laid his head back on his clothes and let the warmth seep into his bones. Except he wasn't relaxed. Before he was even fully aware of it, he was crying. The tension and disappointment of the recent years burst out of him and his shoulders shook as he sobbed silently. Spent, he dragged himself back to the castle and fell into bed without even a sip of wine.

That night had been the last peaceful one Sandor had known. He drained his flagon and wondered how much longer this gods-awful performance could go on. At least Sansa was away from that oily singer and back in her seat. And at least he had something of a plan. He'd say something about her dress. Maybe, "That's a nice dress," or, "I noticed you're wearing a new dress tonight." His mind was starting to feel sluggish from the wine, but he felt reasonably sure that Sansa wouldn't object to a comment on what she was wearing. Of course, given how things had gone between them lately, that was anyone's guess.