Sandor
The damn party in the countryside of Venice had to be properly announced and introduced. With a ball in the city no less. Sandor Clegane fervently hoped that the renaissance palace Prince Doran Martell rented for the occasion was going to sink and that the wooden poles holding it on the surface were well and fully rotten.
He was not that lucky.
The old fashioned education his father had forced upon him long time ago, when they moved to England in his early childhood, made sure he could waltz at need. However, he had no wish whatsoever to exercise the somewhat rusty habit with Mrs Clegane that damn Varys had forced upon him. How old was she anyway? Twelve? Perhaps Joffrey could take over that part of the evening gallantry, he mused.
No, you moron, he rectified himself, then Prince Doran will see right through your cover, and Varys always does things for a reason.
Having to meet Prince Doran of all possible and impossible foreign leaders he had to become acquainted with in his career made his blood run cold. He'd thought he'd never have to meet the man. There would be only one worse thing, and that was too meet his younger brother, Oberyn, who was luckily abroad, looking for hidden treasures, people said, or rather, rare snakes, in the jungles of South America, if Varys had not been wrong. He rarely was. But with this job they were about to do, even Varys had seemed uncertain, shaken, Sandor found, at the very least. It didn't bode well.
And I'm supposed to figure it out with a female amateur and a complete moron as partners, he thought, waiting in the lobby of the small hotel for his wife to make an appearance.
At least she is punctual, he thought several seconds later, when it was his turn to fight against gaping in shock.
She wore a dark blue dress, lovely as the evening sky in summer, and a modest smile to match it. Her hair was up again. Only one disobedient willowy strand wandered idly over the broad silky scarf that covered her back. He wondered if she was aware of that imperfection and decided not to inform her.
All men will ask her for a dance, Sandor Clegane thought, no issue there...
She was something.
"You look marvellous, my dear," Joffrey was obviously the first one to spit out a pleasantry.
"Thank you," she answered and looked at Sandor Clegane's polished shoes, probably expecting a compliment when she could not bear the sight of him. Pissed because of that, he was still oddly glad that his shoes had been clean for the occasion.
"Let's go," he mumbled, pulling her by the arm. He even tried to be gentle, but apparently not hard enough. He must have jerked her so badly that she'd lost one of her shoes when she moved. They were too flat for his liking, he concluded, and they made her look even younger than she was. Joffrey returned for it and handed it back with a small gentlemanly bow.
"Thank you," she whispered, blushing in awe before her prince.
Then she glanced up at Sandor Clegane's ugly face. He could swear he'd seen a trace of untamed fury ravishing her perfect features before the expression of perfect stillness returned to them. I must be spoiling her evening, he thought, his own mood getting darker. So be it.
Joffrey had the grace to drive them to Prince Doran's rented palace in silence. At the pillar flanked entrance hall, smelling on sweat of too many guests who had already arrived, a thin obsequious man checked their invitations and asked them to wait for a while. Sansa excused herself immediately, to go to the lady's room. "Take your time, Madam," the man at the entrance said. "Prince Doran surely does the same when he's welcoming his guests."
Joffrey spoke then, and it would be best if he did not.
"Isn't it lovely?" little shit asked of Sandor Clegane.
"What?" he barked back, impatient about waiting. If he had to meet Doran Martell, he'd rather do it instantly than stand in the hall for ages.
"How she's afraid of us. She is in total awe of me. I've always wanted a girlfriend like that, old-fashioned, admiring a man as a proper woman should..." Joffrey's swampy eyes glittered ominously and Sandor Clegane was sick. He wondered what other treatment a real man should deal a woman in Joffrey's mind, and he had a pretty good idea of what it might include. It was unspoken public knowledge in the service that Staniss' older brother, Joffrey's father, a very rich man, occasionally hit his equally rich mother. It was one of the reasons why Stannis decided to take the boy away from his family. To become a man, Stannis pleaded with their superiors. They listened, and Joffrey stayed.
"You'll wait for us in the parking lot," he said, icily.
"What?" Joffrey stuttered, "Varys said-
"Fuck Varys," Sandor Clegane snarled. "You do as I say or I swear to you, I'll ship you back to uncle Stannis in a bag for diplomatic mail."
It worked. Or it would have worked.
Joffrey backed off, but when Sandor Clegane turned around, Sansa Stark was standing at the door of the lady's room, almost trembling on her feet.
She must have heard me shouting, he thought, embarrassed in the face of her fear, the reaction Joffrey sought in women. Sandor Clegane got it so often and he never wanted it. His own fantasy was rather different, not that he would admit it to anyone. He dreamed of a gentle touch of a woman who would feel at ease around him. Who would be kind to him and hug him or let herself be hugged by him in her sleep.
Crestfallen, he just told her when they were finally invited to enter: "Come!"
He had to give her credit for the apparent calm she showed as they walked on together, when the shiver of her body he could feel from close by kept telling a very different story.
"Mr and Mrs Sandor Clegane!" they were announced in a shrill voice, making Sandor Clegane wonder if it was true they still had eunuchs in Dornistan.
And just like that, they stood in front of Prince Doran Martell. Sandor stretched out his right hand, but the soft looking man seated in a litter, roughly ten years his senior, would not take it.
That's it, Sandor remembered, he can't walk. Some sickness when he was a child in that desert land of theirs...
"Mr Clegane," the older man said affably, "what a surprise."
"I could have said the same when I received your kind invitation," Sandor muttered.
"Congratulations, Mr Clegane, Mrs Clegane," Prince Doran continued as his shrewd eyes roamed to Sansa. "Yet I cannot help but wonder... how come that a newly wed couple does not stay at the same hotel?"
Sandor Clegane thought that the ground was going to open under his feet. He knows we're not married, he knew for a certainty. There goes a job of a lifetime. Varys was going to go all crazy on him.
"Prince Doran," Sansa said sweetly, "please, do keep our little secret. You see.. We... We eloped. Or I did. My family doesn't take it kindly that I wish to marry a man who is ten years my senior. Please. Venice is so romantic, don't you think? Sandor here has been looking for a priest the entire day!"
The few freckles she had on a perfectly milk coloured face disappeared, drowned in the suddenly rosy coloration that invaded her skin from all sides. Sandor had to admit, it was the prettiest blush he had seen so far. How often can she do that? he thought, irritated.
At that, she stood on tiptoes. Never releasing one of his arms she'd been holding all the time since the entrance. Mute, she dealt him a soft kiss on his marred cheek.
Sandor Clegane found he didn't have to fake his own embarrassment. He gave her a bewildered look, unwillingly inhaling her perfume as the vague scent abandoned his face and floated back to hers. His voice shook and lacked depth when he spoke to Prince Doran again.
"There you have it," he stuttered.
It was maybe time to get religious, or it was sheer luck that the prince took his astonishment as a sign that they were telling the truth.
"Well, Mr Clegane," he said with mirth, "best find a priest before the feast in the countryside then. I would be sorry to miss your presence. Or to have trouble with the Italian justice if you choose to attend, unmarried..."
The threat was clear in Doran's voice, friendly until that moment. Sansa stared at him, not understanding.
"My only trouble with justice," Sandor Clegane snarled, "was a long time ago, and to your family's benefit. Best remember that."
"Oh, I shall, to be sure..." Prince Doran said. "How could I ever forget? I wonder if your charming fiancée is aware of that..."
"Sandor and I have no secrets from each other," Sansa singsonged smoothly, still hanging on his arm.
"No? Good," Prince Doran gave Sandor Clegane a killing look. Bang, it said, before the man spoke again. "Then you already know how your future husband killed his own brother. A most dreadful crime, I heard."
Sansa squeezed Sandor's arm so hard that he thought she was going to draw blood from his elbow. Yet she didn't flinch or made a face, of any kind.
"Most dreadful indeed," she parroted and stood her ground.
The lady of the couple behind them coughed nervously. The line of newly arrived guests turned too long to be kept in waiting, Sandor noticed, and so did the prince.
"Well then, my dear," he said to Sansa, "enjoy your evening. I am certain it will be most remarkable."
Soon they were walking from the ballroom to the somewhat smaller dining room. All seats were named and there were servants helping people to their places, but Sandor purposefully avoided them, and led Sansa to their table on his own.
Once they were there, he automatically pulled out a chair for Sansa to sit down. She looked at him as if it was the strangest thing he could've done. Cold bloody murderers cannot be gentlemen in her idea, Sandor Clegane realized with a pinch of sadness where his irritation had been.
"Thank you," she said as a living corpse, when she accepted the seat he had offered.
Sandor Clegane sank on a chair next to her and started looking for wine. It was going to be a long night.
xxxx
Author's note or rather a plea. A review? Anyone?