Sandor was furious. Tyrion's idiotic idea had nearly cost two women their lives. They were whores, yes, but they were outcasts like him, and he hated to see unnecessary cruelty. When it was warranted, he reveled in it. But he couldn't imagine forcing two women to do such horrible things.
He'd felt sick when he saw them emerge from Joffrey's rooms. If he'd had any idea what was going on inside … well, there was no point in even thinking of that. What would he have done? Charged through the door to stop the king? Not if he valued his life. And some days, he did.
Sandor wasn't used to valuing his life. And he knew why things had changed. It was Sansa. His little bird. If he was gone – if something happened to him – what would become of her? He asked that question often, and hated himself all the more for it. What business was it of his if a noble girl with her nose in the air was finally cured of her childish fantasies about princes and knights?
But then he thought of Joffrey, ordering her beaten and stripped in court. He thought of how small and vulnerable she looked in nothing but his cloak. His blood boiled at the idea that he was the only one who would help her. What a mockery of chivalry. The Hound was the only one left to save the maiden. He let out a cold, short laugh. Life was full of little ironies.
There was a knock on the door of his room.
"Enter," Sandor called.
Tyrion walked through the door.
"Out," Sandor commanded, barely turning around.
"You are not the one to give orders," Tyrion replied coolly.
"I could still be the one to kill you."
"Watch your threats, dog."
Sandor turned around, "What the hell have you done?" he growled.
Tyrion sighed, "I can only assuming you're referring to my little plan. Well, obviously it did not go as expected. But we are now even more aware of Joffrey's nature, and that knowledge can only be good."
"Do you know what he'll do to her?" Sandor could feel his voice growing louder, but he couldn't seem to quiet it, "Have you even thought of it?"
"Thought of what he'll do to Sansa? Yes. It won't be pretty, but it won't be as bad as that. He has to save some sort of face."
Sandor grunted.
"Look, I don't relish this conversation any more than you do," the imp said, "I only came to say that you must keep an eye on the Stark girl. I will do my best to protect her but I am not always …" he motioned down at himself, "Intimidating."
"Why does it matter to you?"
Tyrion shrugged, "Think what you will of me, dog, but I am not a cruel man. I do not wish pain on others who have not caused me pain. Sansa is a sweet, kind girl. It is only a matter of time before this place destroys that. But until then…" his voice grew tired, "Let us just see if we can't make this easier for her. You and I are the only ones who seem to give a damn."
After he'd gone, Sandor pounded a fist hard into the stone wall. What the fuck did Tyrion think he had been trying to do? Keep her safe, keep her protected, keep her free from pain. It was like trying to hold water in his hands. He wished Sansa Stark had never come to King's Landing. Working at Cersei's command – that was easy. Her decisions were resolute. She was a hard woman, and the only protection she needed was the willingness of one man to kill another to keep her safe.
Sansa was so much more complicated. It seemed that physical protection was one of the only things Sandor couldn't provide her. Because how could he protect her from the King? Even his words in court had seemed useless until Tyrion entered the room and commanded the knights to stop.
Protecting her required something else entirely, and Sandor did not know if he possessed it. A girl such as that needed kindness and trust in a place like this. Sandor offered neither of those things. He was not kind. He was not trustworthy. If given the chance, he knew what he wanted to do to her. He'd been thinking about it ever since she answered the door with her hair still wet from the bath. Every moment required an excess of self-control. And self-control was not Sandor's strong suite. He'd never needed it before.
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There were whispers in the halls. Sansa could only imagine what they were about, but the ladies were looking at her with a vague sort of pity, and the men wouldn't meet her eyes. Not that she ever attempted to meet eyes with anyone. She was terrified of what their behavior might mean. What did they know that she didn't? If there was one thing Sansa had learned in King's Landing, it was that knowledge was more valuable than all else. Knowledge meant having time to react. Time to plan. That was how Sansa handled every encounter with Joffrey. She almost always knew that it was coming, and she gave herself time to prepare. She prayed to the Gods, she made sure that Shae did her hair in a way that would please him – anything and everything that might make the experience a little bit better. She had learned, especially after the scene in court, that at least he would never seriously harm her face. That was good, she supposed. A woman with a ruined face was ruined entirely. And even if he was the one to destroy it, Joffrey would still blame her if someday she was no longer pretty. He would throw her away, and life as ruined woman might even be worse than life as a queen. The rest of her body, though, was fair game. Sansa did not want to cry when he hit her. She did not want to beg him to stop, because Starks did not beg. She did not want to show weakness, because she wanted to make her father proud. Even if he was gone.
But she did cry, and she did beg. Because Joffrey liked it when she did that. He liked to be feared and adored and in control. And Sansa gave him what he wanted, and continued to survive. She wasn't sure why her survival was so important, but there was something inside of her that urged her to keep going. Thoughts of her family, and Arya running free in the woods. Sansa didn't know if she would ever see them again, but she liked to imagine that she might. And she promised herself that she would keep fighting until every last bit of hope was gone.
She was returning to her rooms after supper when she heard two women talking around the corner. She recognized one of the voices as belonging to Shae.
"-within an inch of their lives," she was saying to one of the other maids, "He did not even use them for their intended purpose."
"Well you know what they say – a child of incest, no wonder he is sick in the head."
"Marielle, do not say such things. Even only to me."
"Well, it's true. You know it as well as I … what do you think these means for your lady?"
Sansa heard sadness in Shae's voice, "Nothing good. If this is how he treats his whores, I can only imagine what her fate will be."
"But he needs her for children."
"And not much else."
There were no pieces left for Sansa to put together. She understood what had happened. Holding her composure, she hurried out to the gardens. It was dangerous to be outside alone, but she didn't care. By the sounds of it, she could be in no worse danger outside than she would be inside. Perhaps it was even safer.
The breeze that blew in from the ocean never ceased, and it chilled the evening air. Sansa walked slowly, trying to process this latest event. So, Joffrey had beaten whores. That did not sound unlike him. It worried her, though, that he had apparently done nothing else. What sort of man was it, she reasoned, that would rather beat a woman than fuck her? No, she thought to herself, not fuck. Such language was not appropriate for a lady, even if she only thought it. She ought to think 'make love'. That was how it would happen in stories. Sansa gave a humorless laugh, thinking of her own stupidity at believing that such stories could be real. That love could be real. It was a fantasy, especially in a place like this.
She did not want to think of Joffrey. She wanted to turn her mind to other things, as she so often tried to do when she was not in his presence. But try as she might, her thoughts would not stray away from him. The permanence of her situation weighed down on her like a ship made of iron. It pushed against her chest until breathing became impossible. Sansa willed herself to calm down, to consider everything one moment at a time. That was the only way to get by. If she started to think like this – to imagine a life lived this way, with a man who delighted in hurting her, spending all of her days with him trapped in this place and never able to go home –
Sinking to the ground against an old tree, Sansa let a sob escape her. How could she go on like this? How could she maintain hope? Every day was hell on earth.
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A strange noise had come from the tree by the wall. Sandor could swear it sounded like an injured animal. He was coming home from the pub, and all he wanted was his bed. But on the chance of danger, he drew his sword and moved forward.
"Make your presence known," he called into the darkness.
"It's me."
The voice was small, and sounded strange, as if it were being choked. Sandor hated the fact that 'me' did not even have to state her name. He knew her voice.
He sheathed his sword and approached the tree cautiously. Sansa sat huddled on the ground, shaking.
"You should not be out here unaccompanied."
"Did you know?"
Sansa looked up at him, the moonlight playing in her eyes. They shone with tears, and Sandor understood what she was asking about.
"Yes, little bird. I knew."
"Everyone seems to know. They're all talking about it."
"Well, you know people in this place. They will cling to any gossip they can find."
"What am I going to do?" Sansa whispered the words so quietly that Sandor could barely hear her.
He did not know what to say. What could he tell a woman doomed to marry a man like that? He sat down next to her.
"Keep going," he replied simply, "There is nothing else to do but that."
"Sometimes," Sansa said slowly, "I feel that you are the only one who understands."
"Don't talk like that. Do not compare yourself to the likes of me."
"You feel it too, don't you? We understand each other."
Sandor couldn't stand this. Sansa could not think this way – could not possibly believe that they were somehow connected. It was disgusting. She should not even consider it. Before he could stop himself, he turned and pushed her against the tree.
"Do not believe for a moment that we understand each other," he said roughly, staring into her terrified eyes, "I am the last person you will understand. The last person you can trust. Do you know what I could do to you right now? No one knows where you are, little bird. This could end badly for you. I do not stand on honor."
Every word tasted bitter on his tongue. He did not want to frighten Sansa. He did not want her to believe that he would hurt her – but she had to believe it. The only thing worse than her fearing him would be her caring for him. Sandor did not think he could live with himself if she came to trust him and he failed her. For surely he would fail. That was all he could do.
"Do it," Sansa whispered.
"What?"
"Do it," her voice dragged him away from his thoughts, "Do you think you could do worse to me that has already been done? Than will be done? You tell me you are a brute. That I do not understand you. Prove it, then. Prove that I am wrong to think that you will not let harm come to me."
There was fear in her voice, but also strength. Sandor hated her for that. Because as she spoke those words, he realized that she already knew what he was just now coming to know himself. He could not live if he hurt her. He could never hurt her, or stand by while someone else caused her pain. Not if he could help it. For the same reason he had dropped his gaze when he'd seen her in his cloak. She did not need any more men to fear.
Slowly, he released her.
"You make a mistake to trust me," he said, "But you are right, little bird. I will not let harm come to you while it is in my power to prevent it."
A ghost of a smile crossed her face, and Sandor felt as if he would do anything just to see it again. How rarely Sansa smiled, he realized. How shameful that it could affect him so much.
"Thank you," she said, and reached up tentatively, laying a delicate hand on his face.
And then she was gone.
Sandor sat under the tree until the early morning, wondering how long he could protect a bird trapped in a cage of spikes.