Warning for mentions of violence/gore in the past.
Thank you very much to everyone who commented and/or left a kudos on THIS story, written in an emotional condition that some romantic poets of the 19th century would call world-pain or world-weariness.
Thank you for reading.
xxxxxx
"He's my mother's dog, in truth. She has set him to guard me, and so he does." - Joffrey Baratheon about Sandor Clegane, the Hound, ASOIAF
Three
A good dog should reap a reward and a rabid one should be put to death in hands of a prudent kennelmaster.
Word spread like deadly plague through the Lannister ranks as soon as the capital fell. Gregor raped and murdered Princess Elia Martell with hands stained by the morsels of the crushed skull of her son Aegon, a babe still abreast, whose head he had dashed against some wall. Elia's little girl, Rhaenys, was put to sword when she was found hiding under the bed.
A small mercy there.
Rhaenys had been just a notch too little to be raped, even by the likes of the Hound's sweet brother and his pets.
The sword was a clean death.
Yet rumour had it that the number of slashes laid on Rhaenys was much more than necessary. Ser Amory Lorch was told to have done for the little princess, but no one would convince Sandor Clegane that Gregor was not in command that day.
When the Hound was commanded to kill a child, he would not dash their skulls against a wall or cut them into pieces.
Dead was dead.
He would only cut the child in two.
And I still remember the butcher's boy, he thought. I have forgotten his name, or I've never known it, but I remember the ginger-haired boy running…
Not fast enough...
Sandor Clegane stopped thinking and looked ahead.
The road from the Bloody Gate descended sharply from the mountains to the valley floor. From there it ran straight and muddy from melting snow to the Gates of the Moon, passing through the narrow part of the Vale, away from the expanse of fertile lands and settlements farther to the east, encircled by the mountain range from all sides.
The Hound thought he would find the road empty. Much to the contrary, it was crowded with petty lords and hedge knights, dragging rusting swords and lances.
He could not cross soon enough. Impatience and anger were growing strong inside him, threatening to boil over.
What if she flies away? She has done it once, she could do it again.
But have you flown away in truth, little bird? Or have you been caught and caged once more, to recite the pretty words your septa taught you to someone else?
The Hound intended to find out. I'm not the Mad Dog of Saltpans, but I might be a mad dog after all. And she may be in the seven heavens for all I know. Not that I would ever go to such a place if it existed.
We will be apart in death, as we were in life...
If I don't find you first.
He abandoned the road and the travellers on it, not desiring to know who was organising the tourney and why. There was no other explanation as to why so many unemployed, hungry men-at-arms and lordlings would go anywhere in the devastating cold.
The land was unprotected inside the mountain walls of the Vale. The Stranger made an easy way through the empty orchards and fields from which the crops had been meticulously picked and taken in for winter; wheat, corn and barley. A few large pumpkins still lingered, as big as those of Highgarden. The people in here won't die of hunger. If I come down with her, we will find shelter somewhere.
Anywhere.
I will build one for you if I have to.
The Hound's memories returned in force with the bleakness of the dull plains he was crossing.
Elia was not some peasant girl or daughter of a landed knight in westerlands. And Gregor was not stupid, only evil. He wouldn't have done what he did without orders of someone with equal power... of Lord Tywin Lannister... who, to trust the hearsay, would have been content by the death of Rhaegar's children. He had presented them as a gift of fealty to the new king, Robert, covered in crimson Lannister cloaks.
Red and golden shrouds for the little dragons...
Sandor was convinced that the manner of the children's deaths as well as Elia's final lot in life was just another of those unfortunate accidents that could not be avoided when Gregor was in charge.
Lord Tywin was not blinded by love for Gregor like their father, not at all. For several days Sandor hoped fervently that he would be asked to put his brother to death as payment for his now obvious and well-known crimes.
Gregor would never walk to the block meekly, and Sandor was one of the few men who might be able to match him in strength, though he was still too young... He would need to select a company to ride against Gregor and his minions and clean the world of them... He hoped that the sheer force of his hatred would provide the bodily force he still lacked.
His hope had been entirely wasted.
Tywin Lannister was no kennelmaster. He was lord. High lords had needs that surpassed all reason. The rabid dog was kept alive and scratched between the ears. He could return to his lands, marry and remarry at will. He could amuse himself with his wives and servants until his lord had need of him, again.
And Lord Tywin finally found the use for the good dog, the one who only did what he was told, no more...
And no less…
The good dog's reward was an appointment to become a wet nurse to the lord's daughter, Cersei, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Very young Sandor drowned his sorrow in Dornish sour.
Sansa was a good girl like Sandor was a good dog. She never forgot her courtesies like Sandor never forgot his orders. She did what she was told and she was rewarded with bruises… And with a good match, to the only man in the Seven Kingdoms uglier than the Hound.
Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, the little twisted monster!
The Hound swallowed hard to choke his rage at the hurting memories, and turned all his attention to the castle he and Stranger were approaching. He could not stand when Sansa was beaten yet he had let them beat her all the same. He told himself he would have killed the Imp in cold blood before the bedding, had he been there when they married her off.
The truth was, he might have just stood and watched.
The Gates of the Moon was a simple, stout keep at the foot of the mountain, now almost overshadowed by the number of tents rising like mushrooms after rain in front of its walls. It won't be a small tourney, Sandor thought and turned his horse away. He had no interest in it. If he still remembered it well, he didn't have to enter the castle to find his way up to the Eyrie.
But maybe…
On a second thought, he returned toward the tents, riding Stranger. It was time to part with his horse for the time being. And if he left him with someone, he might be able to find him again.
A particularly vain-looking young knight stood uselessly under the badly-mounted banner of a red castle on some ugly, dirty white field. Sandor didn't give a rat's arse whose sigil it was, though he should have remembered. It was one or another ancient house from the Vale. And if the ser was as bad with the lance as he was with unfurling his standard, he would not last in the tourney for long.
"Good ser," he rasped bowing his head. "I have a horse to trade."
The young man looked the Stranger in the eye. "He'd frighten my wife, I think," he said. "I love another, yet I should not like to scare my spouse. She is gentle and kind."
The Hound immediately thought about the once kind and gentle girl he was looking for and who was not his wife.
You asked me if it gave me joy to scare people.
You almost had me there.
It gave me joy to scare you…
How old are you now? Four and ten, if? So very young still...
Sandor Clegane had seen eight and twenty name days, soon to be nine and twenty.
The young knight spoke again. "It is quite a beast you have here… Why don't you ride it in a tourney yourself? Where are you going anyway? There is nowhere to go from here, except back…"
"The Seven wish me to ascend to the Eyrie, in sign of penitence for my sins," the Hound lied as a true knight would.
The boy believed him though, recognising his robes for what they were.
Robes of the Faith for a man who had none.
"My pardons, brother, you appear too dangerous to be a septon. The Seven are strong in the Vale. My ancestors have not honoured them, but I do. If it is as you say, I solemnly swear that I shall guard your horse for you until you return. I estimate it could take you seven days to climb up and down on foot in this time of the season and the tourney will last for eight…"
"Thank you, good ser," the Hound said with the measure of relief, wishing that the Stranger would not bite the boy's nose off in that time. He would look much less handsome noseless.
The Hound was almost as strong as before the fight with Gregor's men at the inn when he had found out Sansa was married to the Imp and nearly drank himself to a messy death by the sword in response to that joyful news. With some luck, he'd be down the mountain with Sansa in less than seven days, and perhaps before Stranger maimed his new keeper for good.
If only she would go with me this time.
If only she were here...
"The name's Mychel Redfort, brother, and if the gods are good I will name the girl I love the queen of love and beauty before you are back. She won't be able to resist me in my splendid new armour! My wife is at home and with child. She'll never know."
The gods are never good, Sandor wanted to rage at the cocky youth.
"Suit yourself," the Hound grumbled and limped away, with a sword and a bag of food over his shoulders. The Stranger whinnied behind. Farewell, boy. I will be back with my queen of love and beauty, or not at all.
Sandor Clegane walked around the castle in strides that would shame a giant until he found the beginning of the dark, dense forest of pine and spruce. It has to be somewhere here. Stairs carved in stone, in the shadowy body of the mountain...
As he searched for the way up, his mouth twitched from laughing at the young ser's belief in his good looks as a way forward in life. The stupid conviction reminded Sandor further of the rather unforgettable part of his youth spent guarding Cersei, who believed that the way to power lay between her legs.
Twelve years old Sandor became rapidly used to seeing women parading in all states of dress... And undress.
It was not only the queen who chose a different gown and a matching set of jewels every day to suit her daily purpose at court. There were also the ladies scurrying at her heels, eager to win her favour in order to secure one or another appointment for a husband, a son or any other man in their family. A wild bunch of ladies followed the queen wherever she went, clinking in armours of hairnets, laces and gems. There were all sorts of women, of higher or lower birth and stature, of all ages from very young to very old, and of all colours of skin and hair, some beautiful and the others ugly. Young Sandor soon learned to recognise the one thing they all had in common; they were as adorned as they were false.
There were even some hens who tried to seduce the young Hound, thinking he would reveal the queen's secrets to them. As if a mere dog had been told any of them. And even if he were, he'd not tell those women. The good dog knew whose hand was feeding him and it was not theirs. The Lannisters could and would grant him one day the only boon he'd ever wanted for all his services, of the killer and the wet nurse both.
To be called upon to kill his brother...
So the Hound guarded Cersei. He stood aloof as a sworn shield should, slowly learning what a proper place for a dog was for each courtly occasion. But he couldn't close his ears... Nor his eyes.
He had seen bruises King Robert inflicted on his wife from time to time and didn't know what he thought about them as the queen was slowly swelling with child.
By the time he was thirteen, almost fourteen, Sandor Clegane fancied himself knowing everything there was to know about women.
And he had despised them all just as much as he despised the world. Stupid hens, the biggest lot of them, to expect any sort of mercy from the queen! To believe in her smiles and promises! Or to believe Cersei had any real influence over the king's decisions! King Robert hated his wife and Cersei hated everyone except herself, and maybe, later on, her children.
(Young Sandor Clegane had known the manly urges of his own body by the age of fourteen, by the year when a little girl, Sansa, must have been born in Winterfell, far up north. He had felt the ache of wanting in his loins and in his soul, mingled with shame of desiring one or another young and pretty highborn lady who would never see him as anything more than a fearsome guard with a monstrous face.)
I have to be stronger, he told himself. I have to ignore them all.
What did you make of it, little bird, the marriage bed? Who did you allow in it after the Imp? If you had a say about it, that is... Was it any good?
Was it like a song…
The one you never gave me?
The Hound was regarded as one of the strongest men and best fighters in the Seven Kingdoms. When he started winning in tourneys and melées, he might have been able to get in his bed almost any woman he wanted, if only his face had been whole. Most women of any birth were stupid enough to sigh and faint in presence of the tourney champions if they were just a bit handsome. From there, the way into their smallclothes was short.
But his face was a shapeless ruin, and his last name caused fear and loathing.
The way Sandor was, ugly and landless, and born a Clegane, his prospects with women were limited. He could marry a fifth daughter of an impoverished house, service the few daring ladies or wenches who approached him out of curiosity if the monster's cock was as big as the rest of him, or use his hard-earned coin to pay a whore of his choosing.
The dog wasn't picky so he took what satisfaction he could, some for free and some for coin, as it came his way.
Yet, sometimes, at endless feasts and boring ceremonies, he would stare at the most beautiful and truly refined among the highborn ladies waiting on Cersei, those he could not possibly hope to have. He sometimes wondered how it would be if one of those women would look at him and see through, all the way to the man behind his scars, and to want him for what he was, not as a means to an end of either killing for them or betraying his masters.
As almost anyone in the court, he became practised in masking his stares, yet he always knew when he indulged in them, and his weakness made him angry.
So he took care of his urges the best he could, and kept on living for killing his brother. But he did not marry and he only took coin, armour and horses as winnings in tournaments, not the sweet-smelling falseness of any lady's favour.
Extremely rarely, on some royal function he would spot a couple who seemed at ease together, not putting up a mummers' show for each other, making conversation or sharing a goblet of wine. When their bodies touched, the lovers would glow faintly, with unmistakable carnal knowledge and simmering desire.
This must be what they call love then, Sandor Clegane would think, or as close to it as the world can get. He would never know it from personal experience just like he would never be Lord of Casterly Rock.
No woman would ever want him for himself.
When Joffrey Baratheon was born, King Robert went hunting. Ser Jaime stayed with Queen Cersei when she was in childbed, with the maids and the maesters, until the child was born. Her sworn shield stood guard in front of the closed door. And Sandor Clegane understood the best kept secret of the lions. Lord Tywin was either unaware of it or he chose to skilfully deceive himself about the kind of love that united his golden children. The Hound was angry with himself for not understanding it sooner, mentally joining the occasions of being sent to the training yard or simply away before the end of his shift, whenever Ser Jaime called on his sister.
I am a dog, but I'm not dumb, he thought and practised sniffing out lies in the court with the same zeal he applied to training.
From that time on, he kept the twins' secret from everyone, even from those others in Lannister household who must have known or suspected the same. One wrong word could cost him his head and he very much intended to keep it on his shoulders. He was not yet done living. How else was he going to kill his brother?
Years went by, and the queen's dog witnessed Cersei growing into a bitter woman, the queen of harpies, or perhaps of whores. If the Kingslayer believed she loved him, he was sorely mistaken. And If a handsome man like him could not have love, how could the ugly dog hope to have it?
When Cersei finally set her dog to guard her firstborn son, Joffrey, the Hound had at least been freed from the henhouse, and back to the company of men.
It can't get worse, he had thought back then.
He couldn't be more wrong.
It could always get worse.
Years of guarding Cersei and later on her son had passed before he understood the reason for his appointment as the wet nurse. He took it upon himself when he obeyed his masters' orders to a word, no more, no less. He sealed it every day in the Red Keep by showing he could be as ferocious and as ruthless as Gregor at need, yet keep himself in check even if Cersei or her ladies walked around half-naked. There were no accidents when Sandor was on duty.
Tywin wanted to keep Gregor to do his bidding in Gregor's way, but never risk that the mongrel bites his lordly person or his golden twins. If Sandor killed Gregor without Tywin's order, the Hound would doubtlessly be put down like a rabid dog.
Lannisters had a peculiar way of paying their debts. The Hound immediately lost all respect for Lord Tywin. What's a dog to do with lions?
Fortunately, Gregor still spent enough time with the Lannisters as their bannerman, and Sandor knew Gregor better than anyone alive. Sooner or later his temper was going to betray him, and he was going to slight Tywin, somehow. Now, a slight to the family was something Tywin would never forgive as the Reynes of Castamere had learned to their sorrow. And when that happened, Sandor would be there, big enough and strong enough to kill his brother and live on to laugh over his dead body. He just needed to be patient a little bit longer…
Yet now, now… Now he only hoped he would live long enough to climb to the Eyrie and see if Sansa was there. He should very much like to see her again.
Against his will, the would-be knights on the road, and the tents and the banners made him remember the permitted joys of his past life as a dog for hire. Unconsciously, he patted the pommel of his sword. His truest companion… Truest… apart from the Stranger.
Every choice takes us a little closer to our death, the only thing in life which is the same for all.
In war, at least, you could kill people and take joy in it freely.
During king's peace, you could only kill those people your masters wanted dead and they were too few for the Hound to quench his ever present anger. The rest you could only beat bloody in the training yard, or in tourneys and melees, if you wanted to keep your head on your too-broad shoulders. Most unfortunately, King Robert had given his kingdoms many years of peace.
The only wondrous exception was Balon Greyjoy's pitiful Rebellion, six years after Robert was crowned king. The Hound was allowed to ride in the king's retinue and take part in the storming of Pyke. He was seven and ten. He had never killed so many men, women and children in such a short time before or after, nor felt such profound joy in doing so. The ironborn were resisting, all of them. The Hound's joy doubled and tripled. He had never felt stronger. It was glorious and over far too soon for his liking. He had never felt more alive… No! He knew his own thought for a lie as soon as it formed itself, and he could not stand lies...
I'll never lie to you, Sansa… I felt more alive in that buggering riot in King's Landing. I cut off a man's arm, I gutted another and I laughed… I sat astride your chestnut courser in front of you and carried you back to your cage.
Both of your arms were tight around my chest and I fancied myself your dog.
Another lie, just there.
The dog fancied himself your man.
The future tourney grounds were left purposefully behind by the lonely brother of the Faith, who was in reality one of the most distinguished killers in the Seven Kingdoms, now somewhat older. A mule path finally opened before him when he succeeded in skirting the castle walls fully through the thickness of the wood. The climb appeared broad and modest at first, but the Hound knew that it would get steeper and narrower.
The mountain was not called the Giant's Lance for nothing. One of the highest mountains in the Seven Kingdoms, and the largest one in the Vale of Arryn, it dwarfed the other peaks; a jagged giant among lesser men.
When he stepped on the stony foot of the mountain and finally started his ascent to the Eyrie after long weeks of travel from the Quiet Isle, his feverish thoughts and conflicted musings about the true nature of his errand deluded every effort not to give into them.
And that without wine to make me fart through my big mouth.
Sansa, what will you say to me? What did they do to you while I was gone? Will I scare you again? Will I breach your wall of courtesy if I storm it by being hateful, like before? Or have you raised it high as the walls of Winterfell? Have you made it impregnable as the buggering Eyrie is supposed to be?
Have you become awful...
As the world...?
One thing I will see soon enough, and that is just how impregnable this place is, won't I?
Sansa!
Sansa, Sansa, Sansa… He rasped quietly to himself with every step as he began his march upward, of sorts.
He had called her child, girl, almost a woman, a proper lady, even the Lady Sansa when he had to announce flatly her arrival to Joffrey's court.
I wish I had called you by your name.
When I still could.
And if I ever see you again, don't thank me. It only makes me bloody angry when you attempt to do that.
There is no and there has never been any need to thank me. The dog would have chased after rats anyway. What else is a dog to do?
Don't thank me, Sansa.
Don't ever thank me for being the same as everyone else.