Chapter 3

Sansa frowned at her needlework. The vicious wolf she had been embroidering somehow had a friendly tongue lolling out of his mouth and looked more like a dog. She tossed it aside and massaged her neck.

Except for the fact that Joffrey wasn't troubling her anymore, Sansa was finding married life not much different to unmarried life. She spent much of her days with Cercei's ladies. They would work on embroidering, knitting, or sewing while they gossiped about this handsome knight or that wealthy lord. She would rather they work in silence. What use handsome knights and wealthy lords when all they seemed to be interesting in nowadays was hunting for and trading wolf pelts?

Most of the time she pasted a false smile on her lips and let her thoughts wander. She took the time to think about her brothers, even Jon, and her mother. She wondered about Arya and if she was alive and safe. She thought about the warm stone walls of Winterfell, of how she couldn't wait to leave and what she wouldn't give to return there now.

She barely saw her husband. He spent his days trailing after the King and addressing his many whims. She saw him without fail during meals, but even then he would be standing guard behind the king. Sometimes he would watch her as she ate, which always made her nervous, causing her hands to shake and killing here appetite. She couldn't understand why. He was just the Hound, no more frightening nor uglier than before their marriage. Well, maybe slightly uglier because the three scratches on his face had yet to fade. But he wasn't half as cruel as he used to be towards her. Once he even asked her if she wanted to go riding with him. She had declined politely as she was an indifferent horsewoman. This had made him scowl.

"Scared of horses, are you?" he said. "Is there anything that doesn't frighten you?" He had stalked off at that, leaving her writhing in embarrassment as Cercei's ladies tittered.

It seemed to her the Hound was not as pleased with his bride as he ought to be. She may be the heir to Winterfell and an important hostage, but as far as the Hound was concerned she was just a "stupid little bird." He seemed to have little patience with her. Most telling of his dissatisfaction was that their wedding night was the first and last time he had shared her bed. She had a vague notion of where his rooms were located but couldn't be sure.

Why am I thinking about his rooms, she thought, frowning. She reached for the embroidery again. He can stay there and leave me in peace as far as I'm concerned. He snores like a bear anyway.

Sansa stared down at her needlework and wondered how best to go about fixing it.

"Oh that is very pretty," Lady Tanda said over her shoulder. "Very nice detail. Are you going to make two more dogs?"

Sansa was saved from making a disgraceful scene by the knock on the door. A boy walked in. He was around Arya's age, had gray eyes like Arya's, but his hair was a shocking orange. He was the Hound's elusive squire.

"What is is, Tommy," she finally asked him when he seemed lulled into silence by all the feminine beauty around him.

"My lady," he bowed low to Sansa, almost touching his nose to his knees. Tommy was very acrobatic and would sometimes tumble to amuse her. She was growing fond of him. "Lord Tyrion thought you might like to visit the training grounds today," he continued. "My lord the Hound is training."

Sansa stood up and stretched. Any change in her daily routine was a blessing. "Lead the way, Tommy."

"He'd already defeated eight men when I was there," Tommy was telling her proudly as they walked. "There is quite an audience gathered now, some even making wagers on how many more he will defeat."

Sansa frowned. "And why is he fighting all these men? I thought he was training."

"Training, fighting, it's all the same to the Hound. He likes to keep himself battle ready, he does."

As they drew near the training ground the sound of steel hitting steel became apparent. She reached out a hand to smooth her hair and looked to the side. A canopy was set up and she could make out two bright Lannister heads among several others. She felt her spirits plummet. Joffrey was there too.

Tyrion Lannister beckoned to her. "Ah, Lady Sansa, come have a seat. I though you might want to see this. You husband is proving himself the finest knight in Kings Landing yet again."

"He is no knight," she said automatically, her eyes on the two fighting men.

"True enough," Joffery sniggered. "And you are wrong, uncle. My dog is the best fighter in all seven kingdoms. I say he will defeat two dozen men today."

Tyrion tsked. "He is a man like any other," he said. "Look, even now he begins to weary. Two more and he will lay down his sword."

Sansa looked at the Hound. He was wearing full armor, including his dog's head helm. His sword landed blow after blow against his opponent, finally causing the poor man to drop to his knees in surrender. The Hound did not seem particularly wearied to her.

Sansa felt someone watching her and turned to meet Tyrion's mismatched eyes. "Is married life treating you well, Lady Sansa?" he asked.

He had spoken in a low voice, and Sansa found herself whispering back in kind. "Very well, thank you. I have no complaints."

Tyrion's eyes searched her face, causing her to fidget. "You really mean that, don't you? How curious. Especially after what the Hound did to you."

Sansa thought carefully about how to answer. There was still no way to clear the Hound's name while maintaining their lie. And she had learned to be suspicious of Lannisters. "He did as King Joffrey commanded," she finally said.

Tyrion laughed. "Of course, Joffrey's loyal dog. Here he comes now. Exactly thirteen opponents defeated, just like I said. Come on, Joffrey! Time to pay up."

***

Sweat ran down his face as he swung his great sword into the scabbard at his back. He took his helm off and moved the damp hair out of his eyes. Tommy was nowhere to be seen, nothing new, but Sandor did notice the little bird sitting with a group of men under a canopy. He scowled, making his way over to her.

"What is everyone doing here," he asked no one in particular, though his eyes were on her. She was a vision in yellow silk, in one of the dozen or so dresses he had commissioned for her. The only instruction he had been specific about was a modest neckline. The way the little bird had been flashing her teats around in her older gowns was indecent.

"Oh nothing really," the Imp replied. "Just enjoying the fine weather. Hound, you must congratulate me. My good nephew has decided to gift me his new destier."

"Why?" Sandor asked, taking the empty seat next to the little bird. A valid question since Joffrey was positively seething.

"No reason, I am sure. Other than that I am his uncle and he loves me." The Imp grinned at Sandor as if they were sharing a wonderful joke together. Sandor just raised his eyebrow.

"You fought very well, Hound," the Imp continued. "My nephew thinks you the greatest warrior in all his kingdoms."

He snorted. "My brother could defeat me."

"No," he heard her chirp. He had forgotten for a moment she was sitting there, beside him. He shouldn't have though. The air always smelled sweeter when she was around. "I saw you fight him at the tourney. I am sure you could best him."

"What do you know about fighting, little bird?" He wanted to say more but he was distracted by her trying to lift his left hand up. He let her take it, and she wrapped a beautifully embroidered handkerchief around the shallow cut on his palm. She tied the ends together and smiled, as if satisfied with her handiwork. She brought her eyes to his face, looking for approval.

His heart thudded, and he was sure every man under the canopy could hear it. A furtive glance told him they were all staring at him, their conversations wavering. He ripped his hand from her grasp. "Why would you waste something so beautiful on me?" he asked, his voice harsh.

Ah, he thought, watching her mouth. So quickly pretty smiles turn into pretty pouts.

He deliberately turned his attention to Joffrey. And just in time.

"Ser Jeremy writes that his woods are overrun with wolves and trouts," some knight was saying to the King. "He can offer us no help."

At this Joffrey's head swiveled slowly to the only wolf present, and his brilliant green eyes narrowed.

Sandor stood, dragging Sansa up with him. "You will have to excuse me, my lords. The blood lust is still on me and I will go enjoy my wife for a while."

The laughter of the men and the look of dismay on his little bird's face pleased Joffrey, and he grinned. "You do that, Dog. Don't be too long though. We have matters of state to discuss."

She was practically running to keep up with his pace and he slowed down. "You fought very well, my... husband."

My husband. He laughed. The little bird was always at a loss when figuring out how to address him.

"But not gallantly?" he mocked, looking down at her.

She seemed to think about it for a moment. "No, not gallantly. There is nothing gallant about war and violence. I understand that now."

"Good," he simply said. He was content to walk the rest of the way to her rooms in silence, watching her. Her gleaming auburn hair was no longer styled as the ladies of the South wore it, but was allowed to fall to her waist in loose waves. It suited her, made her look almost wild.

But the little bird had something to say. "My... husband. I have been thinking about the offer you made me. About going riding. I rarely get to spent time with you and I would like to. So whenever you have the time..." She trailed off.

For some reason this little speech and her tremulous smile irritated him. "I didn't ask you to go riding to spend time with you. I thought you might enjoy some time outdoors. I don't know how you women stay cooped inside doing needlework all day. And enough with the 'my husband's. There is no one here to hear you."

She was silent until they they stood outside her door. She turned to look up at him then. "But you are my husband," she stated.

He snorted. "Did you truly believe that, little bird? We both know this marriage is a farce. And as soon as your situation is settled this farce can be annulled. I have no intention of catering to the whims of a fine lady for the rest of my days." She looked wounded. So wounded that the beast inside him wanted to wound her some more. He reached out to touch the little sleeve of her pretty yellow dress. "A fine lady's cunt is just as tight as a whore's. And whores are cheaper."

She was quiet for a while, her face pale. "I am sorry... Hound. I did not know that was your intention. Thank you for walking me to my rooms."

He grabbed her arm before she could disappear behind the door. "You need to stay away from Joffrey," he rasped. "I keep him as busy as I can and he cares little enough about you to forget when you aren't around. Sometimes he leaves the punishment up to me." He let go of her arm, looking at the marks he left on her pale flesh. "But if you are around and I am not... Fuck, even if I am around, I might not be able to save you again."

She had a strange look on her face now. As if her stomach was troubling her. A small hand haltingly reached for his face, for the left side. Her thumb brushed against his cheek, as if trying to rub away the scratch marks she had left there. But the scratch marks remained, as did the burns causing his mouth to twitch, and she gave up too soon and turned away.

He stood for a long while staring at her door.