Sandor settled back in front of the fire, allowing the thick ale to warm him as he scanned the main room of the Wolf's Den Inn. Though Warrior was eager as ever, he had stopped when the howling snowstorm made the road impassible. The weather would undoubtedly make travelling back to Winterfell unsafe, so he set up Warrior for the night and made for the great room for the evening meal.
An old habit from his soldiering days, he knew his intense gaze weighed heavily upon the other customers; yet some of his old habits served him well even now, and keeping an eye on his surroundings had saved Sandor more than once over the years. From his vantage point, Sandor quietly observed the other customers and kept an eye on those coming and going.
"Welcome, milord. T'is frightful weather out. Hungry, are ye?" Ilysa asked as she placed another tankard in front of him, the young woman not waiting for an answer before setting about filling his bowl with rabbit stew.
"Aye, that I am." Sandor gestured to the pig roasting on the spit over the fire. "Smells good. When will it be ready?"
"Soon milord; within an hour hence. Care to wait?"
The crackling meat dripped its juices on the fire, filling the room with a most pleasant scent. "I think I will at that. You have ravens here?"
"Aye, one. Needs tell milady you're stuck here with us for the night?" Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.
Ignoring her remark, Sandor took out a small piece of parchment, scribbled on it, tied it securely and handed it to her. "No more questions. Just see this gets sent to Winterfell, understand?
"Very good milord." She anxiously motioned for her son to take it. "I trust the day has found our lady well?"
"Yes, very well." Irritably Sandor drummed his fingers on the table. The strain of the social expectations lordship placed upon him often drained the man. Several people smiled at him, requiring him to offer a short nod, but most left Sandor to his drink and for that he was grateful.
Sandor preferred the Wolf's Den to the only other inn in Wintertown for this very reason-sellswords and tradesmen, ex-soldiers, nobles and smallfolk alike mingled here, spending their off hours sharing stories of the war but also, they seemed to know when to leave a man alone.
"Can I get you anything else?" Ilysa leaned forward, giving Sandor a clear view of her cleavage. The serving wenches were pretty here, though none as pretty as Sansa. His bride, even at forty years of age, still turned heads when she entered a room, much to Sandor's delight. Sansa was beloved by the highborns and smallfolk alike but that did not prevent the women here from wanting his coin and they would always make sure he knew they were willing to service the husband of their liege lady should he feel so inclined.
"No, damn it. If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times; go find your coin elsewhere. Away with you now." Sandor leaned in close and snarled fiercely in her face, scaring the young woman so that she stumbled backward into the table behind him.
Smirking, Sandor snorted at her and went about his meal. Anyone who thinks he would forsake his wife for a quick fuck in town didn't know him very well. Though he had his share of women in his younger days, Sandor preferred having one woman all to himself, one who loved him in return. In his younger days Sandor would have told his older self to fuck off with that nonsense; but it wasn't until he had Sansa's love for his own that Sandor truly understood what had been missing from his life. No one understood better than Sandor how unworthy he was of Sansa, how fortunate he was to have her love; he'd not jeopardize that for a quick fuck with some tart looking for coin.
A blustery wind blew followed a group of young men into the room, bringing a litany of shouted curses and complaints from those already inside. Quickly the serving wenches surrounded the newcomers, eager to serve anything on the menu of the day, and, it appeared to Sandor, a few things that were not on it. One young man in the group, hardly near his eighteenth nameday and who could hardly contain his blushing, wore a gruesome scar that bisected his face in a most alarming manner.
The room had grown silent. When the young men finally glanced over at him, one and all leapt to their feet and began stumbling over their tongues in their haste.
"Seven blessing on ye, milord." The scarred boy spoke up first.
"May the old gods and the new keep ye and yourn safe."
"Many thanks," Sandor growled low, eying the men. "Go on about your business now and leave a man be."
Grinning, they went back to the women. Two of his companions quickly sat down and waved over one of the sporting women. She was pretty with thick dark curls and bright blue eyes; Sandor had noticed her himself when he walked in. The men began waving coin behind the scarred youth's back as they pointed toward him. Eagerly she then settled on his lap and began fawning over him.
Grunting, Sandor glanced between the young man and the wench a moment, suddenly recognizing the seemingly innocuous scene as very similar to a happening from his own past. It pained him instantly, this memory, and the resulting fury that came over him seemed to drive the air straight from his lungs. His appetite suddenly gone, Sandor wanted nothing more than to be back with his wife.
Turning his face toward the fireplace, he instead settled into his ale for the duration, choosing to watch the flames lick at the cool air rather than watch the scarred lad any longer. Staring at the amber liquid glinting in the firelight, Sandor thought back to when he started using wine to settle his nerves and temper.
On his twelfth name day Sandor left home to squire for Ser Amory Lorch at the very end of Robert's Rebellion. Horrified by the slaughter and violence surrounding him, Sandor discovered that while he was clearly gifted when it came to fighting, he was unwilling to wallow in the bloodshed as Gregor did. Eventually, as the sack of King's Landing progressed, blessed numbness began washing over him during battle; unfortunately it did little to assuage the raw grief, the unrelenting hunger and cold and uncertainty of survival that plagued him.
As the years passed, Sandor faltered, not on the battlefield, but afterward. The young man was plagued by nightmares and general nervousness after each skirmish, and Ser Amory Lorch and Gregor took every opportunity to ridicule him for it.
Only Jaime Lannister never participated in the hazing, much to Sandor's confusion. The golden knight always maintained his cool, calm, easygoing manner. He envied Jaime's apparent ability to turn off his feelings, and Sandor grew determined to learn the secret to the golden lion's ease. One day after an especially bad battle and subsequent taunting, Jaime Lannister handed Sandor his flagon, telling him this was how Lord Tywin taught him to cope with difficulty in dealing with battle.
His actions and words silenced both of the cruel knights, for not even Gregor dared mock the son of Tywin Lannister for showing an act of kindness to a scarred squire, and thus, Sandor quickly learned to choke down his fear and rage with wine. The relief wine brought was always temporary, and quickly followed by the usual miseries of overindulgence.
After a while, Sandor tired of the same cycle repeating itself, and so, as soon as the army reached a semblance of a town, he decided to follow the lead of the other men and hurry to the nearest brothel in search of a woman, the young man eager to explore a new means of solace, one that would not leave him hurting the next morning-or so he thought.
To Sandor's great embarrassment, however, most of the young whores would not take him at any price; some would even cry at the sight of his scars, though they would always tell him it was because they were afraid of his size and brutal reputation. Though their responses enraged him, Sandor would not force them, and so he would always wind up leaving in an even fouler mood than when he arrived.
More than one man told him to just take what he wanted, that whores didn't require asking; but Sandor would not allow his desires to rule him, nor allow them to transform him into Gregor. The damnedest part of the whole situation was that inside the increasingly fierce Hound was a young man just out of boyhood who was not merely eager for sexual experience but for human contact outside of battle.
Though it shamed him, Sandor longed to be touched kindly, intimately, to feel the warmth of soft skin against his own, of feminine hands running along his battle scarred back. Sandor yearned to feel, not merely like a brutal weapon of the Lannisters or a scared young squire but like a manand according to the other soldiers, fucking a whore would accomplish just that. And so, he kept trying to find a woman who would take his coin and let him into her bed; unfortunately, not one of the women he approached would do so at any price.
Shamed by his weakness and failure, Sandor alternated between burying his feelings and drowning them with ever more copious amounts of wine. The other men continued to torment him, all excepting Jaime. The young man seemed to understand, or at least sympathize with Sandor's predicament, and would settle down each evening beside him with a flask of Dornish sour. The idea that he had the pity of a pretty boy like Jaime fueled Sandor's wrath all the more.
The two first fought alongside each other in the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood during which both young men began building their respective reputations. The golden lion fast became a favorite among the soldiers and officers, first by saving Lord Crakehall from Big Belly Ben and later engaging the psychotic Smiling Knight in heated combat.
Sandor, on the other hand, was styled ruthless and fearsome, a young man to be avoided and derided, and it was then he first was called the Hound. Egged on by Gregor, all the knights mocked and scorned him, and by the time Jaime was knighted on the battlefield by Ser Arthur Dayne, his hatred for the appointment itself and those who took the vows was cemented within him. From then on Sandor avoided Jaime at all costs and took out his anger on any opponent who crossed his path.
Upon their return to Casterly Rock a year later, Lord Tywin held an immense feast in Jaime's honor, and the amiable young knight made a special invitation to his former comrade in arms. Ser Amory Lorch insisted he attend, and since there was no way Sandor could refuse without causing insult to his liege lord, so he grudgingly put on his best tunic and breeches and made an appearance.
Determined to drink as much as he was physically able in the shortest amount of time possible, Sandor spent the night sulking in the corner with his wine while he enviously watched Jaime easily socialize with soldiers and lords alike, the young lion laughing as though he had not a care in the world. When Sandor caught his eye, Jaime raised his goblet to him.
It did not escape his notice that Jaime's beautiful twin Cersei stood in the shadows and glowered at her brother while all the serving women and highborn ladies vied for the young lion's attention. Disgusted, it was then Sandor realized the rumors floating around were true, and was near ready to gather as many wineskins as he could carry and take his leave.
An exceptionally pretty girl with rich chestnut colored hair sidled up beside him, looked him straight in the face and smiled. "Leaving so soon?" She laughed, pointing to his haul of Dornish sour. "I was hoping we could get to know one another other better. I'm Willow and you might be-?"
Looking back, Sandor realizes he should have known then something was amiss-her opportune timing, the way she didn't even flinch as she looked at him, her forwardness that was so uncharacteristic of her highborn status-but gods help him, there was a part of him longed to believe that the striking young maid's interest in him was sincere. After a little more wine and a little more persuasion on Willow's part, Sandor decided he would stay and visit, the man fully intending to leave just as soon as it was polite to do so.
Something in her manner appealed to him, however, and so he continued listening attentively as Willow prattled on about an assortment of mundane things. She laughed easily at his attempts at humor, touched his arm with a twinkle in her eye as he spoke, and before Sandor realized it, the feast was over.
"Will you take me riding tomorrow, Sandor? We do not have a carriage in town and the weather is quite fine." Willow batted her deep blue eyes at him while toying with the neck of his tunic. The feel of her soft fingers brushing against his skin had him as hard as stone in moments.
She was the first woman who ever took an interest in him and though a part of him whispered that it was false, Sandor could not help himself but go along with it. "Sure, I'll get one for us," he heard himself stutter out. Though he was a bit nervous, Sandor was utterly captivated by her and could not let the opportunity to have her all to himself pass him by.
"I look forward to it, Sandor. I'll look for you on the morrow at noon." Willow purred, the girl seemingly oblivious to his eagerness. Then she did something wholly unexpected: suddenly she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Willow's breath was warm and her lips soft against his skin and Sandor eagerly, if not clumsily, pressed his mouth to hers in return. Laughingly she left him, only to haunt his dreams the rest of the night.
After their ride the following day, they walked hand in hand through the tall wildflowers beside the river as though they were lovers, and Sandor marveled that he found a beautiful woman that would allow him such intimacy. Later, Willow kissed him, his first real kiss. Sandor marveled that she neither cringed nor shied away from his burned appearance, even when she looked at him up close.
He bumped noses with her in his eagerness. "I've never kissed anyone-" Sandor stammered by way of explanation.
"It was lovely, Sandor. You are, too." She smiled at him so genuinely that Sandor's heart threatened to beat out of his chest with happiness. To his delight, Willow then let him touch, kiss and taste every part of her that he desired as they lay together among the wildflowers. In turn, the girl touched and kissed every part of him in ways Sandor hadn't even imagined in his most heated wine dreams. As the sun moved low over the rosy horizon, Willow then gently pulled him down on top of her and insisted Sandor take her under the open sky.
"Please, Sandor, make me yours," she whispered into his ear, the feel of her breath sending chills up his spine.
It was clumsy, awkward and about the closest thing to happiness Sandor experienced since his sister and mother died. He was an eager student, for Willow gently guided his movements, taught him to slow down and where to touch her so she would find her pleasure as well. When she reached down and took his manhood in her hands, Sandor lost control and spilled his seed on her hands.
Utterly mortified, Sandor was convinced he had committed some unforgivable wrongdoing, but Willow only smiled at him and continued caressing his penis and testicles gently, her movements making him hard once more. "There now, this will give us more time to learn each other."
Looking back, he should have known something was amiss, but Willow made him feel so good, so satisfied and yet so aroused that Sandor could not be made to care about his nagging doubt if his life depended upon it.
After he left her with her family that evening, Sandor could hardly wipe the stupid grin off his face. When he returned to the barracks, however, the men teased him mercilessly, much to his confusion. How did they know where he had been? Just as Sandor was about to come to blows with one man until Ser Barristan approached him.
"Did you have a pleasant afternoon, Clegane?"
"Aye, I suppose, my lord." Sandor struggled to maintain his usual scowl.
"Let's take a walk, shall we?" Ser Barristan lightly rested his hand on Sandor's shoulder.
Once out of the earshot of the others, the knight guardedly related that Willow was no ordinary girl; in truth, she was a high paid whore whom Lord Tywin hired as a reward for his service.
"Jaime fucking Lannister!" Sandor shouted at the top of his voice before overturning a work bench in the livery. Ser Barristan claimed Jaime knew nothing about it, and continued insisting on it for many years after, though Sandor never believed him.
Humiliated and enraged, Sandor did not wait for Ser Barristan to excuse him, and stormed off in search of Jaime while openly vowing he would never trust the word of any knight ever again. When he finally found him with his father in the armory, Sandor blackened his eye.
Looking back, Sandor is certain Lord Tywin would have had him killed on the spot if not for the pleading of his son, the golden knight who inexplicably seemed to understand his anger. That did not prevent Lord Tywin from giving Sandor forty lashings in front of the men, administered by his favorite pet Gregor, of course. Stubbornly Sandor took his punishment without so much as crying out, much to the amazement of the men. After he healed, he sought Willow out-for an explanation or an apology, he did not know-but soon learned that Tywin had given her to Gregor, and that his brother had killed her as soon as he discovered she had serviced his little brother as well.
Many years later in a tavern after yet another battle, with his tongue was loosened by copious amounts of wine, Sandor finally found the nerve to ask Jaime why he did it. The only response he got from the newly appointed captain of the Kingsguard was a curt reply.
"The whole bloody mess reminded me of my brother." Jaime could not even bring himself to look at Sandor as he spoke, and for once, Sandor did not press him further.
Over the years, Jaime's words caused Sandor a great deal of wonder, until Sansa related the story of her first husband's wife, Tysha. The memory of her words sent an involuntary shiver through the man. "Another ale, Ilysa."
"Yes milord."
The door blew open, and even in the dim light, Sandor recognized the imposing form of his oldest son, the young man swathed in the black clothing of the Night's Watch. The boy was the spitting image of him, or what he would have looked like if not for Gregor. "Come on over here, lad. Care to share supper with me?"
"Aye, many thanks Father." Edric grinned while glancing around at the serving wenches.
"Who do we have here?" Ilysa asked, eying Edric up and down as she spoke.
"My son. Bring another ale, will you?"
Edric grinned broadly at the sound of his father's snarling. "Father, I didn't expect to see the family in here, that's for sure. Is Mother here too?"
"No, she's at home. You're a long way from Castle Black. Come here for the sport, did you? Don't lie to your father now," Sandor growled low, a mischievous smile curling onto his mouth as he spoke. "You know how I hate liars."
"Father, you know better than that. I would never lie to you; you'd sniff it out far too easily, not to mention that I'd never recover from the licking I'd get, you best believe," Edric laughed as he blew onto his palms and rubbed his hands together by turns.
Sandor chuckled once more; Sansa would have scolded him had she heard him speak to their son in such a way but he could not resist teasing the lad. Edric had the look of his father but his mannerisms were all Sansa. It was no thanks to him that their children all had fine manners; Sansa had ignored his grumbling and taken great pains with each of them. Now that they were grown, Sandor secretly was very proud.
"You didn't answer me. Did you come all this way to consort with a lewd woman?" When his son colored deeply, Sandor barked out another harsh laugh. "Don't worry, those bloody vows you took don't mean shit to me. I won't tell your mother."
"No, Father." Edric answered in such a way that Sandor knew the joke was wearing thin on his son's mood. "I just stopped in to get out of the blizzard. Uncle Jon sent me home with a message for Mother and Uncle Rickon. It must be very serious, for Uncle Jon said she must have it immediately." Edric pulled a roll from his pack. "Here, see for yourself."
Sandor doubted that, for there was always some such information that required her attention, and over the years he learned to ignore most of them. After scanning its contents warily, Sandor placed it in his pocket. "It'll keep for your mother, son; don't fret. We'll give it to her together."
Edric nodded eagerly and smiled once more.
Turning toward Ilysa, he called out, "Bring another plate for my boy, will you?"
"Yes, milord." Turning to Edric, she whispered, "Is there anything else I can get you?"
Glancing at his father, the young man firmly answered, "No."
Edric's answer pleased Sandor greatly, for he did not want his children to suffer the lessons he and Sansa learned the hard way. She had taught them that love and marriage were to come before a bedding, and while Sandor did not agree with her moral code on the matter, he did hope each of their offspring would seek out companionship for love, not to soothe a broken heart, as he had.
"So what were you thinking of, staring so somberly at the fire?" Edric needled him in return.
"See that boy over there with the sporting woman on his lap? The one with the scars?"
"Aye," Edric nodded somewhat confusedly. "What of it?"
"He reminds me of myself at that age." Sandor's words sat thick, immovable in his throat; but for the good of his son, he forced himself to speak. "Sit back, boy, I have a story to tell you; mayhap you'll learn from it and spare yourself some heartache."