Sandor's thoughts take a turn for more somber from here, in accordance with the events he is remembering.
Despite that, the music associated with this part of the climb (and the absolute winter landscape brightness you should imagine Sandor is facing in contrast to his thoughts), is the "Voice of the Living Light" a series of medieval compositions by Hildegard von Bingen
After youtube com you paste watch?v=Dehwp_dRlYQ
(or use the search function, it's easy enough to find it)
xxxxxx
"A flagon of sour red, dark as blood, all a man needs. Or a woman." Sandor Clegane the Hound, ASOIAF
Seven
Blinking at the merciless winter sun, high up on the Giant's Lance, the Hound searched for the way further up the mountain.
The Eyrie was a dwarf castle hung from the sky, six hundred feet above him. The whiteness of its distant walls merged with the clear blue sky and soft-looking crystalline clouds.
Sandor walked doggedly left and right; in vain. After a dozen fruitless rounds, he finally recognised the entrance to the chimney, which passed through the heart of the mountain, constructed by the lords of the Eyrie to complete the ascent to their castle on foot. The Hound remembered it from his visit with King Robert; it took the king's party an hour to arrive at the gates of the Arryns, measured from the last fortress below the Eyrie; Sky.
But the opening of the tunnel was now filled with rubble of ice and stone; work of a recent avalanche, rolling down from the summit of the bloody mountain.
He could dig through the debris, but it would take him too much time. And he could not tell from the outside how thick the barrier was. The Hound became very impatient. There had to be a shorter way. He had examined every slope leading up. Yet not one inspired the confidence to try and climb it. The giant shoulders of the mountain were too steep, even for a man determined as he was.
Every time he returned to the chimney and wondered if he should start digging. Every time he rejected it. There has to be a way, he persevered. There must be.
Sansa, I will see you tonight.
A large wicker basket for turnips lay broken outside the cluttered tunnel. The avalanche may have ruined the six winch chains, which served to move the wicker and the oaken baskets with supplies up and down. The largest one could hold three ordinary men. Maybe it could carry the Hound as well. But, ruined or not, the winches were in the cellars of the Eyrie. And even if they were down, he would not be able to make them work all by himself. He could not be both in the basket and out of it, turning the winch…
The chain, though…
The links seemed to be made of solid iron. One metal rope appeared to be untouched above his head, while some others hung loosely in the cold morning wind. The chains led up from the now useless chimney straight to the Eyrie. Following an entirely different path than the closed passage, they spanned the bright blue void and the white desolate vastness of the mountain.
Sandor climbed on a pile of rubble. He stood on his toes, and yanked the chain vigorously with his sword arm. He grasped it with both hands, ignoring the pain in his wounded shield arm. He hurled his long legs up and paddled in the air.
Good, he was pleased. The iron could carry his weight.
I must not be heavier than a basket full of pumpkins, he thought, remembering the huge orange balls he had seen laying in the autumn fields of the Vale, waiting to be collected before winter.
He rocked back and forth, hanging from the chain with his arms like a boy, gaining speed. When he was satisfied, he flung his long, muscled legs higher up and wrapped them around the metal rope in a powerful swing. He ended up clinging to it as an aurochs on a spit.
Splendid, he thought, very pleased. When he was after something, the dog took a good whiff and he always found the way.
Slowly, he started on the last part of his ascent. His mind was empty of thoughts, focused only on his labour. Soon, he hung above nothingness, continuously dragging himself forward. Very, very slowly, the hours crawled by. The excruciating effort would take most of the day. He hoped he would be in the Eyrie well before sunset as he slowly crawled up the chain. He was fortunate the wind was mild on a sunny winter day. The brown lock of hair tied around his arm shone with auburn glow in bright sunlight. Or maybe it was simply an illusion of his tired eyes, wishing to believe they would rest on Sansa once again.
Death lured him, taking the shape of a blue, inviting depth below. It would be painless. It would be swift. It would be peaceful. He might die from the speed of falling, before he ever reached the ground. But if he answered the call, he would never see her.
And he needed to find Sansa more than he ever needed anything. Or he would continue burning on the inside, with pain much stronger than the one Gregor inflicted upon him in his childhood.
He never looked down again. He looked up, always up, and inside him…
All he had of Sansa were memories. Maybe it was everything he'd ever have of her.
But he would be brave this time, and he would ask for more. And he would listen to her voice then, as he had done before. One certainty provided consolation in his moments of doubt.
I can't possibly be uglier than the Imp.
By some curse, the buggering dwarf was so often in Sandor's way. Lady Stark should have killed him instead of letting him return to the capital.
The memory of the little gargoyle reminded the Hound of his second small treason of his liege, which happened on Joffrey's name day. Not that the boy king was any wiser for it, but so it was. The lickspittles and the vipers from the court organised a tourney of gnats in his honour, on a bright and windy morning. The lists were in the lower bailey of the Red Keep. The city had turned too dangerous to let the boy amuse himself anywhere outside the castle.
The Hound was bored, standing behind Joff in a simple brown tunic and studded jerkin. He didn't even bother to don his armour after the morning's efforts in training. Only the white cloak billowing from his broad back betrayed his new position of Kingsguard; a meaningless ornament he was now obliged to wear.
He saw the girl coming. "Lady Sansa," he announced her, with growing interest. She arrived holding Ser Arys' arm. She is not supposed to be here. It never boded well when Joffrey called for her.
Sansa was wearing a pretty gown of pale purple silk and a hair net with moonstones. The Hound remembered the wonderfully soft touch of her hair from the occasion he had to pull her out of bed. It was better than thinking of caressing her skin. From behind, he had an exquisite line of sight at her sweet profile and shoulders. He felt nauseous at all his thoughts. She was still a child and did nothing to deserve a dog drooling over her.
His guilty pleasure of looking ended sooner than he thought.
Joffrey took the hand of his betrothed and held it for very long. Sansa endured it demurely, sitting very still. A long sleeve of her dress moved slightly, revealing purple bruises under it. The Hound immediately felt sick in his guts. All joy was gone from him.
Sansa asked him if he would joust and he dismissed the stupid notion. There was no one taking part in the mockery of a tourney who would pose any challenge to the Hound. He realised he didn't fancy killing anyone that day unless ordered to do so. Except maybe Boros Blount, for beating Sansa. The dog's frame of mind was very odd. Normally, killing always held at least some appeal, just as Dornish sour. He needed to spend his days somehow.
The jousting started.
The stupid girl had to defend Ser Dontos, the drunken fool! Will you ever learn? the Hound seethed when Sansa spoke out of turn. Just let him die, why don't you? There is nothing you can do.
At the same time Sandor became afraid for Sansa, terribly so. She could lose her pretty head, she could be tortured, maimed… Joffrey tolerated no dissent. In that he was Tywin's grandson, fair and square, enriched with a touch of Cersei's cruelty.
Sansa realised her mistake too late, and tried to lie her way out of it.
"It brings bad luck to kill a man on your name day, Your Grace," she claimed… Only half of her heart was in her words, as well as an ounce of pure, undiluted fear.
Again, as on the kingsroad, Sandor spoke for her… Moreover, this time he lied for her, adding his impassive voice to the poor excuse for her actions she had so clumsily weaved. He hoped fervently Joff was too stupid to understand that his dog acted out of turn as well. Fortunately, the boy was as craven as he was cruel. He chose not to ignore two voices calling for bad luck on his pitiful name day.
But Sansa, Sansa went further than saving Dontos' worthless life only for a day… She found her courtesies and suggested the drunken knight should be the king's new fool in such a way that she fooled the king. The Hound's heart pounded in his chest at both her daring and her brightness.
She must be truly kind, he realised, she is not content only with staying alive. She will seek a small measure of justice for others, if she can. As she did for him, when he told her about Gregor…
It was more than most men and women at court ever did from his experience, even the less corrupted ones.
A true queen you will be one day, little bird, he mused back then, mocking the old-fashioned manner of speech from the songs in his head. But where will that leave me? In the shadow of your throne; a dog, forever watchful. He was suddenly glad for the white cloak they gave him; it meant he could stay with her, always. No one could object to the propriety of their relation. Maybe she would see him as a man when she was older… He wasn't that old yet… Maybe… The walls of the Red Keep had eyes and ears, but even those could be fooled… It had happened in the past… maybe more than once…
Shut it, dog, he scorned himself. You are most certainly not Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and she is not Naerys. She is just a little wolf forced into a bird's cage by the lions, and you are their loyal dog.
She will never trust you.
The mood of the occasion with Ser Dontos was lightened by Tommen's insistence he should ride against a straw man. Joff would not have it but Myrcella reminded her kingly brother that she and Tommen were children. Children should act like children. The Hound was pleased with the child's logic. The girl was right. "She has you there," he said. The boy king graciously allowed his brother to be a gnat.
Joff was pleased when his brother fell. And the Stark girl, Sansa, she did it again! As if once was not enough... She told Joff he should go to his brother and say how well he rode. The Hound's heart was pounding madly. He intervened, turning the boy king's attention away from his betrothed, pointing out that Tommen was attempting another pass… Distraction worked.
Sandor could almost, almost indulge in watching Sansa again, if the unexpected commotion did not cause his right arm to jump to his sword. He regretted not wearing his armour. His alarm proved to be unnecessary. The Imp arrived with a company of savages, sent by Tywin to act as Joffrey's Hand.
Whore killer, the Hound thought with distaste. Sandor had heard gossip that the little man was dead, and he mentioned it rudely, as was expected of him. Typically, those who deserved to die rarely obliged the world by doing so. The same could be said of the Hound and of his brother. It didn't matter. The way the dwarf dared speak to Joffrey, he would be dead soon.
The boy king left and his dog had to follow. Leaving, he glanced back at the girl. The Imp was… sweet-talking her. The Hound became rabid at the thought of it.
Stop it, he told himself, she is not yours to defend.
He tried to reason with himself in that fashion every day the girl was beaten. Yet every time his reason only made it more difficult for him not to defend her.
He wanted to defend her, always. And not only because she had kept his secret from everyone. Yet he never dared act on any of his intimate wishes; they were like a wooden knight he was bound to lose over and over again. His own cowardice in the matters close to his soul made him irascible.
Unable to break loose from the clutches of his anger, he visited the nearest wine sink as soon as he was out of duty.
The Hound drank steadily since he was twelve. All men drank, so why shouldn't he? Yet at times he recalled Gregor sucked up milk of the poppy to calm his headaches, often at the times when particularly cruel accidents occurred. The Hound adopted one precaution, not wishing to sow any accidents in his wake.
Whenever he drank a lot, he drank alone.
One night, he was drinking on the serpentine steps, in a doorway opening to them; a place where no one ever went, a place where he was safe from causing accidents.
In his haze, he smelled Sansa, before he saw her running down the steps like a frightened bird.
He couldn't let her fall. Well, maybe she wouldn't fall, but he couldn't risk it. Not on the battlements when he prevented her from killing both Joff and herself. Not now. Not ever.
He emerged from the shadows and caught her by the wrist. She was very fast; her breath hitched, fluttering. The Hound was so unsteady on his feet from drunkenness that they nearly rolled down the serpentine together. He asked her if she wanted to kill them both and answered his own question.
Of course she wanted it. She must have wanted it. It was what he would have wanted in her place; to kill them all. It was the sweetest and the most reasonable thought. He could easily understand it.
But where did she go? The thought of Sansa wandering alone in the castle at night angered him terribly. It was not safe, nor prudent.
She lied she went to the godswood to pray for her father and for the king. For Joff's death, more like than not. That truth didn't bother him. He found he cared little and less for his charge of late. He was happy it was he who found her and not anyone else.
Sandor let go of Sansa's hand and staggered on his feet. He could see all of her now, through the wine vapours clouding his brains. She had grown taller. Her face was no longer childlike, and her teats were ripe for touching.
Did she meet with a lover in the godswood? He rejected the stupid thought.
She was too well guarded and too innocent for that. He had to stop himself from looking. This close, it was dangerous. He opted for spitting shit through his burnt mouth, told her how she looked, mocked her love of true knights and songs. On a whim, he asked her to sing him a song. She was horrified. And ignorant. She would never give him what he wanted. She wouldn't know how.
Finally, he told her what any man wanted, what he wanted… Wine, dark as blood. Or a woman… Best if she knew. The sooner she stopped being the stupid little bird with those looks, the better.
The Hound wanted and needed a woman, not a pretty child as she was, teats or not. A woman who would see him and take him as he was; his body and his scars, his brooding and his jests, his strength and his anger. All of him. Not only his coin or his cock, as he was accustomed to. It was an empty desire, which came to him in the last years, and he knew it. What he wanted was unattainable.
As soon as his head cleared a bit, he stood as straight as possible and did his duty. He escorted her back to her rooms in Maegor's Holdfast. Together they crossed the drawbridge and fooled Blount that nothing was amiss with the king's betrothed. Not that it was difficult to trick the old toad.
On the steps leading up to her chamber, she surprised him by her curiosity about him. She always did. She asked why he let the others call him a dog. And he spilled out the story of his sigil like a green boy. He was still proud of it, despite everything Gregor had done. Dogs were simple and honest, people were not. Dogs were loyal. They would die for their master, and never lie to him. The girl could not even look at him, and much less tell him the truth. He forced her to look at his face, painfully pinching her jaw.
Angrily, he complained about not getting his song. He was not her betrothed, nor would he ever be her husband. It was not to be his by rights. But the urge to ask for it was stronger than him. He made her a singular promise; one day he would have a song from her, whether she willed it or not… He was terrified by the stubborn strength of his own sudden desire to act on his words...
I may not be that different from Gregor, after all.
Maybe Joff will not be what she wants in bed. Maybe she will want someone else when she is older.
She lied pitifully, saying she would sing for him gladly. By the innocent look on her face, she had no knowledge of what she was saying.
Sansa had to lie better or she would die. Not at his hand, but at someone else's. He snorted and told her as much. In court, they were all better liars than her.
Even he, with his obsessive love for honesty, was an accomplished liar at need. He never had the courage to tell her what he truly wanted.
But now I will.
For a while, Joffrey somehow managed to recall he should not order his dog to hit the girl. He wanted her alive. How else could he make her suffer almost every day? The Hound's sworn brothers did the king's bidding, proudly wearing their white cloaks.
Arys Oakheart was gallant and mildly embarrassed about hitting Sansa, yet he struck her every time, just a little bit less hard than the others. She bruised from it all the same. Blount was the worst, dedicated and cruel. Preston Greenfield behaved as if he were ordered to spank a lackwit child. Mandon Moore and Trant remained cold throughout the ordeal; Sansa could be a sack of grain for all they cared. The Hound just stood by and watched, day after day. He was becoming poisoned by it to his core.
I am the worst of all, he realised after a while. I could kill them all and I do nothing.
He began drinking heavily, more than ever before. There were days when he could barely stand on duty; he would see Sansa to the beating or back to her room at need.
He never offered his arm and she never took it; he was not handsome as Ser Arys. He just hanged there, next to her, a mute escort, or as mute as he could force himself to be. Her presence frequently made him more talkative than usual. Sometimes he warned her to hurry. And she always walked on his good side, so that the bad side of his face was away from her…
Her choice hurt him.
What do you expect, dog? he'd scorn himself. That she kisses your ruined cheek for not beating her?
And when Joffrey finally forgot himself and ordered his dog to hit his betrothed, it was Ser Dontos and the Imp who saved the day, not the cruel Hound everyone was so afraid of.
The miserable dog only managed to rasp, "Enough!" at the time Meryn and Boros had already made a bloody mess of her. Sansa would have ugly welts on the back of her thighs for weeks. On another occasion, the simple exclamation he dared utter could have cost him his head. But on that day, Joff was so engrossed in punishing Sansa for her brother's victories that he completely ignored his dog's bout of illicit insolence.
Joff commanded Meryn and Boros to make the girl naked…
Suddenly, Sansa's breasts were in plain sight. Sandor's burned jaw dropped open to the point it hurt. The perfection was beyond him. His astonishment was short lasting. The castle full of men was staring at Sansa's body. He lowered his eyes in shame. Thoughts of murder invaded his mind. It was what the dog knew best. He found himself a step behind Joff, with hand on the pommel of his greatsword.
The Imp waddled in. The dwarf's voice had always been bigger than his body. On that day it cracked like a whip. "What's the meaning of this?"
His uncle's verbal lashing of Joffrey stopped Sandor from committing regicide and two simple murders in a row. Instead, he ended up tossing his white cloak to Sansa with huge, unsteady hands, when the savage punishment ended. Sandor was only able to look at her again when she clutched the prickly white wool tightly to her chest. His cloak… hid her completely from the avid eyes of other men... His cloak... fitted her.
He only regretted it was white, and not having three black dogs on the field of yellow grass embroidered on it.
Since that day, the Hound avoided guarding the king. With time, Cersei's new dogs, the Kettleblacks, fought for the dubious honour, and the old dog was glad to cede that bone to them. It earned him the gossip of women at the washing wells how he was not as fierce any more and how the Kettleblacks were younger and stronger. He gave a rat's arse about the rumours. He was young enough and he was still the strongest one. But he would not risk losing his head over Joffrey. Dead, he could not kill Gregor. Dead, he could not… do this other thing he began to ponder, without admitting it, not even to himself.
Some time after Sandor's encounter with Sansa on the serpentine steps, it became exceedingly difficult not to imagine how bedding her would be like.
After the Hand's tourney, he could easily stop his mind from wandering that way. Sober, he saw clearly she was a courteous child, playing at being a great lady; a very young girl-child who still needed time to grow.
Yet all her dresses tightened and stretched on her chest since her father was killed, every day more so. The sight made the Hound sick at heart, in ways he had never thought possible.
He was by far not the only man who noticed the change. Men of all ages and sizes shamelessly leered at her, the daughter of the traitor. They would have never dared do the same when her father was alive.
They will yet make a woman out of you at twelve as they have made a man out of me, Sandor brooded over a flagon of wine.
He knew from experience that the change was painful. He knew it was both true and false. To act like a man and to have a body of one did not yet make him a man. That reassurance came later, slowly, with every new day, every woman and every kill. At the age of four and ten, maybe five and ten, the Hound considered himself a man grown for all purposes. Nonetheless, some men remained green boys for much longer. Most were squires at twelve, not men-at-arms as he had become.
Sandor couldn't tell precisely how it went with women. Maybe they grew with every child they carried as men grew with every life they took.
Be as it may, Sandor was painfully aware Sansa was not yet there. He knew very well how young she was, yet he could not stop looking at her, and his desire was never far from the surface.
Amidst his new, unexpected troubles, the city was boiling.
Everyone watched each other, fearing treason.
The four pretenders to the Iron Thrones probably had spies; Cersei had her own, and the little birds reporting to either Varys or Littlefinger followed everyone.
From his long years at court, the Hound knew he was being observed by countless eyes.
So he strived doggedly to always act as was expected of him. The more his dog's mind wandered freely and harboured forbidden desires, the more he excelled in appearing as cruel and careless as ever.
He guarded the king when necessary, he drank, he gambled and he whored, all in regular intervals, so that the spies could inform their masters he was a harmless cur. And maybe he was. Maybe that was all he ever was. Maybe that was all he was ever going to be.
Maybe not, Sansa. Maybe I could be more to you now. If you would listen. You are not so small now that you would not be able to hear me.
In his mind, all he thought of was high treason.
He dreamed of writing a note to the girl to meet him at the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast at night and follow him out of the capital. He would take her home.
But what would he have taken from her in return? He couldn't answer himself honestly and he didn't trust himself with her.
The uncertainty always stayed his hand when he wanted to reach out to her. As well as the suspicion she might laugh in his face, refuse with fear, or worse, tell everything to her beloved Joffrey; if the dog scared her witless, and if she still thought him a bigger monster than her beloved king.
The dog never fancied seeing his had on a spike. No one but him was strong enough to kill his brother.
But as the time went by, and the city succumbed to fear, hunger and siege, Sandor found he thought less of Gregor, and more of Sansa.
Now, since he had learned of Gregor's death, all he thought about with yearning was Sansa.
He shamelessly longed for her as new blisters formed themselves on his calloused fingers from gripping the chain. He was still hanging on it as an animal ready to roast. The exertion of climbing was so hard on him that he never felt the cold, nor the wind, cutting mercilessly through the exposed skin on both sides of his monstrous face. His feet, wrapped in rags of prickly black wool, just like his gloved hands, were strangely comfortable and warm. He realised he was more dexterous and safer clambering up the chain without boots, which would only hamper him and slow down his progression. A greatsword on his back would have made the climb impossible…
Did the old man know what I was going to do? The odd idea that he had received a strange sort of help on his way up appeared unreal. He had never been helped in anything.
The white walls of the falcon's nest loomed closer and taller, and he had lost sight of the crumbling fortress below.
Seven white towers for a white-skinned lady who once believed in gods, both old and new. Do you still believe in them? You should well know by now that there are none.
Three hundred feet to go.
He should not look at the blue depth below, seducing him with the easy way out.
His way had never been easy. It would not become so now.
He remembered the first time he had that bloody dream of her in the riverlands. It was only a few days after he fled the capital and abandoned Sansa to her fate, much before he was captured and delivered to Beric Dondarrion.
In his dream, he was with Sansa in her bed. He had a gash on his forehead and he reeked of blood. He drew her in a close embrace and when she closed her eyes, he was not enraged. He bent his head and kissed her deeply. It felt right. The dream always stopped there. He would wake, disturbed and wanting. He wished his dream to go on, to see what she did, what he did, what they did. It never happened.
Months later, in the Quiet Isle, he started suffering from that other dream of her… where he would have his song… Both dreams haunted him, poisoning and nourishing his being, until he decided he should just look for her in the only place in Westeros she could have possibly flown to.
The Eyrie.
He emptied his mind of everything and focused only on his oversized body, moving up the chain. He feared becoming numb from exhaustion before the end.
No, he denied the possibility. I am going to reach it if it's the last thing I do.
Since the night on the serpentine, he avoided drinking there, fearful of what he might tell her or do to her if he stumbled upon her dead drunk. It was not as if most men were capable of much in that condition, but he wouldn't take the risk. He wasn't like most men.
Yet he frequently prowled the castle in the hour of the ghosts when he was still reasonably sober, skirting the places where he hoped he might run into her, alongside the way leading from Maegor's Holdfast to the godswood. Yet he never chanced to come upon her again, during her own wanderings. Sandor had no doubt Sansa sneaked around the castle at occasions. Who could blame her? The dog was used to kennels, but it was not in the bird's nature to be caged. And the wolves loved the fresh smelling forests, not the dwellings of stone filled with stale air.
Finally, one night the city burned in preparations for battle. Catapults were made, weapons and shields were hammered. The Imp burned the houses of the poor under the walls of King's Landing to make room for the defence. Stannis burned the kingswood, as did the Imp's savages, sent forth as undisciplined vanguard to bloody Stannis' troupes...
The Hound withdrew to drink on the roof that night, away from all the burning. He was not yet dead drunk when he had heard her; the rustle of her gown, the flutter of her hurried steps, soft and quiet in her slippers. She came so close to the edge and stared at the city, admiring its war-provoked splendour. In a blink of an eye she bent over, wailed, and clutched her belly. She could have fallen…
He was with her faster than ever, caught her arm and steadied her. She grabbed a merlon for support and cried for him to let her go. He realised he wouldn't let her go. He was afraid she'd fly… Maybe she came here to kill herself. Maybe she would end up crippled as her brother… He asked her if the latter was what she wanted.
She was struggling in his grasp, stating firmly she was not going to fall and it was he who scared her. She glanced away from him in his grip, strongly so.
He became angry and let her go.
Why do I care? I should let her break her neck next time.
In a rasp, dripping contempt, he reminded her she was glad of the sight of his face when the mob had her. It had been only a few days before. Myrcella departed to Dorne and the populace rioted, provoked by Joffrey's stupidity. The king's party had to return to the castle fast. Sansa was a bad rider and she lagged behind.
The Hound left the king to his own devices and those of his sworn brothers. He even left Stranger to fend for himself. Truth be told, his bad-tempered horse had a better chance of staying alive than any knight or nobleman among the bloodthirsty multitude.
Sandor returned for Sansa, swift as a summer storm. He let the commoners gut Ser Aron Santagar and quarter the High Septon in peace, never sparing them a second look.
But the Hound ensured that the men who were pulling Sansa down from her horse regretted the day they were born. He laughed victoriously when he mounted in front of her, and he was… transformed, as they rode back to the Red Keep. He was a different man for a short while, and Sansa clung to him as though he were the last man alive in the world.
But in the dark of the night on the castle's roof he was again only a monster she could not look upon.
Except that, once more, he judged her wrongly. Sansa chose that very moment to surprise him again.
She made herself look, really look at his face. He wondered where she had found the courage. She looked at every ridge and crevice and in the end she stared straight into his sullen grey eyes. He hoped, he hoped… He couldn't tell for what.
Her voice betrayed her, ruining the magic of the moment, trembling as always. She stuttered, saying she should have thanked him and how he was brave….
He snarled back at her. Bravery was not necessary to chase away the rats. She pouted at him as a highborn brat and asked him if he liked to scare people, never lowering her eyes from his…
He enjoyed to kill people. Death was the same for everyone, for the high lords and the burned monsters.
He reminded her how her father died, doing the little dance with his feet. And it was what the buggering lord deserved, for daring send his men, the king's men, after Gregor! Only the Hound had the right to kill Gregor. No one else. His entire life was determined by his brother. No one would ever see Sandor as more than his scars. No man, and certainly no woman…
He told Sansa killing was the only thing that mattered, the sweetest thing there was.
She just had to keep asking him questions, annoying questions. Why was he hateful? He wasn't, the world was. The knights were killers with pretty names, that was all. He was just being honest about what he was.
She was still too stupid to grasp it so he applied himself to make her understand. He drew his sword and pressed the edge against her neck, just under the ear, and told her very clearly who he was. A butcher. And as long as he had a sword in his hands, he had no one to fear. Not even Gregor. He could kill her as well, a girl of twelve, if his masters asked it of him. Could he? The question did not bear answering… His steel glinted ominously against her pale skin. He steadied his arm. He probably could, but would he?
He finally removed the blade when she asked him if he feared the men across the river.
"All this burning," he rasped quietly and sheathed his sword. Sometimes he wondered how the battle would go. Many years had passed since the scaling of Pyke. And the lands were so salty and damp on the Iron Islands that the siege engines had not been burning properly. But now… "Only cowards fight with fire," he said with finality.
She judged Stannis was no coward. He could agree to that, but he was not Robert either. She asked what he would do when Stannis crossed. He would fight and kill he supposed. Maybe he would die. It was a possibility in any battle.
She asked if he wasn't afraid gods would sent him to some hell for all the evil he had done.
"What evil?" he protested. He hadn't done any more evil in his life than any other sworn sword of any great house of Westeros. He merely did what he was told, as everyone else he knew. And had he been cruel on purpose, and caused accidents like Gregor, it wouldn't have mattered at all. There were no gods, just like there were no true knights. The strong ruled the world…
He explained to her all that. She accused him of being awful and insisted that the true knights protected the weak.
Her chirping annoyed him. It made him think too much, more than he ever wanted or needed to think in his simple life of a soldier. Thinking was unpleasant. He told her to fly away and she did…
He missed her as soon as she left. He realised he would have loved for her to stay longer, to call him names, to call him awful, hateful, anything she wanted. And look at him… always…
Straight in the eyes, as she did that night.
He hadn't desired her at any point of their conversation. Yet his spirit was full of her, more than it had ever been of any other woman.
The next day he learned why she was bending in pain when he had caught her. No news remained a secret in court for long, and the Hound could sniff out most of them if he so wished.
Sansa had flowered…
Another pretty word for a horrible truth.
Sansa was a now a woman in the eyes of everyone, fit to be wedded and bedded, and left at the mercy of her lord husband. They would break her, make her bleed more.
The Hound's guts constricted. He had never made any woman bleed that way. He wished she hadn't had her blood, he wished she had remained a child. It would be safer. Yet he was sickly proud and happy, knowing she must have flowered in his arms.
After so many occasions of holding her by chance, he sometimes believed she belonged there. He had no doubt Sansa never shared that understanding, but for him it was a truth he could not deny. Maybe he could make her see it one day.
One day soon.
His arms were now almost completely numbed from climbing. He didn't feel his fingers, or his toes. Relief spread over him. A glance forward between his legs revealed that the high white walls of the Eyrie were in sight. The last twenty yards of slithering up the chain were the greatest exertion of the body he had done in his lifetime. He would not fall now. The square opening in the walls where the large basket normally passed was too small for him in upright position. He had to squeeze himself through very carefully, limb by limb, forcing his muscles to obey him. Inside, he had to clamber only a bit more.
As soon as there were only six feet of space between him and the floor of the cellar where the winch chain ended, he let himself fall down like a ripe fruit. He would be bruised. His muscles were stiff. He couldn't stand up or straighten his arms and legs. He stretched them slowly. Everything hurt from the unnatural position he spent half of the day in.
Next to him, there were several frozen oxen carcasses, seemingly dead for a while. Those animals hadn't turned the winch for days, weeks, maybe… It was hard to tell. He refused to think on that now.
He crawled towards the window of the cellar, facing the inner bailey. The day still lasted and the bright sun shone over the Eyrie. There were no guards to be seen. There wasn't anyone.
She has to be here. She must.
He just needed a place to regain his strength, a place away from the cold, bright day in the mountains, and then he was going to find her. Part of the cellar floor was wooden and almost warm in comparison to the icy air on the outside, though the place was never heated, that much was certain. His breath came out as crystal from his burned mouth.
Sansa, let me just close my eyes for a moment and then I will find you. He had some time until sunset. He decided not to think how they were going to descend from the Eyrie if she chose to go with him this time. I've found one way, there must be others.
His eyelids dropped of their own accord, heavy from unwanted sleep and extreme drowsiness.
In his dream, he wasn't climbing to the Eyrie. He climbed to Sansa's bed and rasped, "I'll have a song from you."
The song was what he wanted. Not a wail of pain.
She was in her bed this time, too far from him to give her that kiss. She let him under the covers, soft and sweet smelling. The feathers creaked gently under their joined weight.
"I'll sing it for you gladly," she replied courteously. Her words rang melodious and deeper than he ever remembered her speaking. Her voice was not tremulous… and he felt terribly warm from it. She must have known what she meant this time.
How do you find your pleasure? He thought instantly and shied from asking her out loud, afraid his pretty dream would end as it always did, if he said too much with his big, wicked mouth.
Sandor was half awake and half dreaming from sheer exhaustion.
Awake or asleep, he did not know whether he was at all able to get what he wished for.
But he would be a seven times cursed fool if he didn't try.
xxxxx
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