Sandor

He could feel her eyes on him as he swung his sword, the power of his arm causing the blade to split the knight's shield in two. Wood splintered everywhere, coming up and clanking against his dog shaped helm. A cry erupted from the audience. Joffrey was laughing and clapping as he raised his sword again, pounding away at the knight before him. None of that mattered to him though. He did not even care when the knight cried out that he yielded. After all Joffrey had said that the only way a knight, or competitor in Sandor's case, could loose was to die or fall unconscious. His last three competitors had fallen down, feigning unconsciousness.

Every time one of his foes fell he would turn to bow to the king, and on his short walk over to his corner, where he had a stone to sharpen his blade (the King ordered live blades) and a flagon of wine (Sandor had dumped out all the water that had been given him and demanded wine in its place) he would look toward the Hand's seat. Since the ending of their engagement, Sansa had been seated with the imp at every gathering, celebration, or hearing. She would nod her head curtly, but never once did she smile. Still, the small, curt, polite nod felt to Sandor as if she were tying her favors around his arm for all to see. He wondered as he smacked the flat of his blade against the staggering knight's helm what she was thinking of him. Was she looking at him in awe, or disgust? Was he a bully or a hero? A disgusting bully no doubt, but it was easy to pretend he saw awe and respect in those blue eyes.

The knight finally seemed to understand he was beaten, that Sandor was merely smacking him around until he would fall unconscious, or feign it, and fell to the ground. It was clear to all but the king that he was faking. The way his arms landed as he fell, protecting his head from any other blows, made it clear he was aware of his surroundings. Still Sandor backed off, lowering his blade and backing away. He glanced to the king and waited to be declared the victor. For a moment he was afraid the king would realize the knights was faking and order his death, but he congratulated Sandor instead and sent him to his corner. The knight was lifted up by his squire and staggered off.

Sandor glanced toward his little bird again and she nodded. He looked away immediately and took a drink of wine. He spit onto the ground when it was announced he need only win one more fight and he would be the champion of the day. It was only because he had been specifically ordered by the king that he had agreed to be a part of the mini tournament. Why the king wanted to see his knights fight to the death in the middle of a war no one knew, but even the queen could not convince him otherwise. Sandor looked up to see who it was he needed to smack around to end this hellish day.

When he saw Ser Dontos being pushed into the center of the arena Sandor spit into the ground again and shook his head. Some in the crowed began to laugh, some gasped in horror and others tittered and made their bets about how long it would take for the vicious Hound to butcher the fat fool. The former knight looked like he was about to wet himself as he stared at Sandor.

Sandor glanced over the crowd in disgust, but he paused at his little bird. The distress on her face was obvious and he saw the imp place a hand on her wrist to calm her and remind her where she was. Sandor looked away, trying to shake off the little bit of anger he was feeling. She would no doubt blame him for everything he was about to do to the old fool. In her eyes he would be as guilty as the king who forced them to fight.

"I'd sooner fight a little girl!" Sandor found himself calling out. "This is no fight."

"No!" The king agreed. "But it's funny."

The king laughed and Sandor stood, running his tongue around his teeth, pausing to play with the lumpy skin on the inside of his left cheek. He left his helm on his seat. He would certainly not be needing it. Ser Dontos dropped the sword that was put in his hand and scrambled to pick it up. Sandor waited but the king screamed for him to begin. Still he waited and once the sword was firmly in the fool knight's hand he swatted at him. The sword went flying once again and the crowd laughed nervously.

"Pick it up," Sandor grunted pointing at the fallen blade with the point of his own sword. Dontos could only balk at him. "Pick it up!"

Sandor slid his boot underneath the hilt and flicked it toward him. Dontos picked it up in his sweaty hands. Sandor waited and the fool came toward him, swinging blindly. Sandor side stepped him, waited for him to pass by, and hit him square in the back with the butt of his sword. Dontos went sprawling out on the hard ground.

"Stay down," Sandor spoke for only Dontos to hear, but he scrambled to his feet. "Fool."

"I must fight," Dontos panted. "For my lady."

Sandor squinted.

"Fight! Fight! Kill him dog!" the king screamed from his raised seats. Sandor ignored him.

"Your lady?" he laughed and followed Dontos' eyes to Sansa. Sandor felt his anger flare. He lashed out, smacking Dontos on the side of his face with the flat of the blade. His soft skin split open from the force and he staggered back. The fool ran toward him yelling but once again Sandor stepped out of the way, swinging his blade down in the process and smacking the back of his meaty legs. It was a punishing blow, but would not cause any lasting damage. That his little bird would never forgive him for. She thought to protect the weak even when they were too foolish to protect themselves. Dontos fell to the ground, grabbing his calf and screaming.

"Stay down, fool," he told him again but he tried to climb to his feet again. Sandor shook his head and raised his boot. He pushed his boot down on his rump, sending the fool sprawling out on the dust once again. The more mean-spirited in the crowd laughed. "You only humiliate yourself further."

"I am not a craven," Dontos yelled as he scrambling to his feet.

"Go on dog, kill him! Are you watching Sansa! Watch my dog kill your fool!" the king shouted. Sandor glanced toward Sansa and could see tears in her eyes. Surely she could see what little choice her shining knight was leaving him?

"Come at me again, fool, and I will slice your fat belly open and spill your guts all over the floor," he warned but the fool would not relent. He would rather die than look like a fool in front of 'his lady'. Perhaps if he had this determination when he still a squire he would still be a knight. The fool's words heated Sandor's hatred but still he did not kill him. Instead he raised his sword, leaving his body dangerously exposed, and brought his pommel down hard on the top of Dontos' head. The sound made a sickening crack as Sandor's fist landed on his bare skull. Dontos hit the ground with a loud thud, but Sandor could see his chest rising and falling.

"You should have killed him dog!" Joffrey called in disappointment.

"Dog's only scratch at flees, your grace," he called and Joffrey seemed to find that amusing. The fat fool was dragged away and Sandor went back to his flagon of wine only to find it empty. He threw it at the face of the boy squiring for him and barked that it be refilled. The king was already taking his leave and spectators were filing out. There would be no celebratory drink for him, now warm slaps on the shoulders or shaking of hands. No one wanted to go near the Hound. He was no knight and therefore earned little respect from King Joffrey's court. It soured his mood and he sucked down another flagon of wine until he was in a warm, comfortable stupor.

The small training field used for the championship was empty by now, except for the boy ordered to squire for him. He stood anxiously by, waiting. When Sandor stood he stumbled backward and fell over onto his bottom. He looked up fearfully and scrambled away, but Sandor only shook his head and sneered.

"And you want to be a knight," he spat and left the field. He walked through the streets, seas of people parting for him as he did. No one was fool enough to challenge the dog, even after he had slaughtered dozens of them during the riots. He found himself walking in to one of the cheaper brothels in flea bottom. None of the better brothels would serve him no matter how much coin he could offer them.

The 'madam' of the brothel was actually a man, an old sailor, who would collect orphans and runaways from the street, and offer them bed and food if they worked for him. He greeted Sandor warmly, even as the giant man swayed on his feet and reached out to steady himself with a chair. He silently mused he had drank the last flagon far too fast.

"I bet a man like you wants a young girl, hmm? Hattie! Come here!"

Sandor shook his head as he saw the blurry face and dark hair come toward him.

"I want a red head," Sandor said and shoved the girl away. "A red head and wine."

He moved to one of the empty rooms and peeled off his armor, laying his sword up against the wall. The girl seemed to float in bringing a flagon of wine toward him. He took it from her but did not drink it. Instead he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Seated his head came up to her chest and he pressed his cheek to her swollen breasts.

"Oh, little bird," he breathed and took a strand of long red hair between his fingers. He felt her hands go into his hair, but she gasped and the hands disappeared when they touched his scars. Still, he was too drunk to care. His little bird touched his shoulders instead, where his tunic still lay. He looked up toward her but her face swam before his eyes. His palms touched the side of her face and pulled her closer, seeking the softness of her lips. She tried to pull away but he was too strong. His lips pressed to hers in a heavenly embrace but he cried out when he felt her bite down on his lip. As she reeled away from him she slapped him on the face hard.

"He said I didn't need to kiss you," she said and Sandor felt rage enflame in his chest. He wanted to strike her, to punish her for her words, but he could not hurt his little bird. Not when she had no one else to show her kindness. He grabbed her and tossed her on the bed, pressing her down on her stomach. She offered no more resistance now that she did not have to look at him. He slid inside of her, groaning deeply as he did, wishing he could press his lips to hers, feel her gentle fingers on his face. Would he ever know what it was like to have his face caressed by a loving hand? It seemed unlikely, but the little amount of joy he felt at imagining it, imagining the hand belonged to his bird, was a slight relief. When he was spent he lay down next to her, stroking her back gently.

"Sansa," he breathed, rubbing little circles on her bare skin with his finger tips.

"That's a gold dragon," the girl said rolling away. Sandor felt any drunken joy remaining in his body drain from his body. "On account of your face."

Sandor nodded and reached into his breeches. He tossed a coin at her and she pulled her robe over her shoulders. She left him to put his armor back on. He left the brothel, the standard feeling of dejection, desolation and melancholy settling itself back over him as the haze of wine fled. He spotted his little bird, the real little bird, as he reentered the castle grounds. She was on her way to the godswood and even as she looked over her shoulder she did not see him. He wanted to follow her, to scare Ser Dontos away from her once and for all, but he stopped himself. That would only end badly. He find even end up murdering the fool. Instead he returned to his rooms, fell down on the bed, and imagined his little bird lying down beside him.

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A/N: Nervous about this one! I get anxious going into Sandor's head because he is such a great character and I don't want to screw it up. Let me know what you think please!

I also fixed the eye color mistake in the last chapter. I always mess up eye color, so I will try to be more careful next time.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and favorited!

Happy reading!