TWO

Warm bath water stung the wild girl's wounds. Gentle hisses sounded from her, but she made no complaint when the lady servants began to whip the dirt away. This task was not a particularly pleasant job as it consisted of coaxing the grime out of her scalp and delicate skin, but it was a command from His Majesty that they didn't dare disobey.

Finally, the king was satisfied with the disgusted gasps from his court. As she stood, dirt outlined the lithe muscled in her legs. True to his statement, a smooth arrow penetrated her thigh. The wound was a festering red from both blood and incubating infection. Her skin seemed to be growing paler. The longer the thick silence wore on, the tenser it got, until finally, a woman in the front of the crowd fainted, landing unceremoniously on the hard floor. This seemed to snap everyone out of their trancelike state.

"Now then, someone clean this mess up! I want to see what this waif looks like without all this filth." Joffrey waltzed down to her and stared her in the eye. A bustle of handmaidens flocked towards her; just as they went to grab her, Joffrey grasped the arrow as though he were to pull it out. Everyone held their breath.

"I want my arrow back, you bitch."

No one saw the flash of a snarl pass over Lord Baelish's collected features. Not an eye caught the extra additional anger that filled the Hound's body for a moment,and no one cared to see the flinch from the traitor's daughter, Sansa. Whatever this being was, she was not something to be seen each passing day. She was strange, special even, and she did not deserve to be stepped on.

Brown sludge coated the rim of the tub once she was fully cleaned. Her skin was red from the washcloths being wiped across her skin so many times in one sitting. Once dried, she was draped in a simple dress; the top had two small straps of light sheer fabric, falling into two layers of cloth overlapping in the front, and meeting at her small waist. There were layered fabrics of sheer, lace and some with more weight, with lengths differing from the next, all consisting of shades of light tea stain. To finish her newly presentable look, was a light brown belt slipped around her middle, ensuring she was completely hidden from perverse eyes.

As she stood in front of the room's mirror, a gasp escaped her pale pink lips. She had never seen herself clean and groomed, to be what could pass as beautiful; she was truly quite frightened by her reflection. Her hair was cut shorter, barely two inches long, resting just above her large eyes. The dirt that had been scraped away produced pale skin with numerous scattered scars of different origins. The arrow wound had been cleaned and bound, and despite her will to decline help of walking, she needed it. The handmaiden on her left caught the strange brown markings along the girl's forearm. She reached out, curiosity getting the better of her nosy mind; the second maiden saw this in the mirror. As her friend's fingers mover closer, she felt a warmth coming from close by. Much like a dying fire in the winter, only this pulsed: like it was alive. Inches away now, were her fingers-

Just then, there was an abrupt rap on the small wooden door, silencing the girl's thoughts and the maid's movements. The heat disappeared.

"His Majesty the King commands your presence at once in the throne hall, girl." A voice ordered.

She did not look away from the door. Surly the king wouldn't want to flaunt her and shame her mind this night? After she had just been captured and disgraced already? Unless he wished to roast and serve her like a wild boar.

"Child, you must go. If you don't, the King will set his guards on you!" The lady on the right cried to her quietly; a shiver passed though the woman, but the girl caught onto what she did not say. The left maiden went to dispose of the rags; the other watched her leave. Then returned her tired gaze to the being before her with a sigh. But those mismatched eyes were already on her, she gasped. They narrowed, the poor maiden was petrified as it seemed all air was stolen from the room.

Then, just as soon as it happened, the exhausted beast returned. The girl limped to the door. The door's handle was stiff and unfamiliar under her hands; they had never truly known what it was like to dwell in a fully furnished home and subsequently the object in her palm was quite foreign. Outside in the hall, stood a scar-faced man standing at a height that dwarfed her. To almost anyone he would be a nightmare come to reality; the flesh on half his face was mauled and warped to pink scars and deformations, his murky brown hair tossed over on side of his head to cover a portion of his wound, and eyes that lusted for blood. However, despite this, looking up at him, she grinned slightly.

"What is your name, sur?"She asked quietly. The man flicked his brooding gaze down to her, "They call me Hound." He ground out after a moment.

"But w-what is your real name?" she pressed cautiously. He did not answer, choosing to lead her away to their destination. During their journey to the dining hall, her hand rested on Hound's arm for balance, much to his dismay.

Her eyes did not tear from his face, not once; it seemed his cindered flesh held no fear for her. As they descended through the unending halls, the grand oak doors loomed far too close and approached them far too quick for the girl's liking. Her steps became more unwilling, and slower, but the Hound simply dragged her forward.

At the doors, she stared dead ahead, like her gaze was trying to see through to the other side of the door. The small, bony arms around Hound's were stiff and unmoving; this girl was petrified. Or so it appeared.

She felt the air around her change, and a lock of unfamiliar dark hair tickled her shoulder.

"My name...is Sandor Clegane, girl. But it would do you good to forget it."

A fragile smile etched itself upon her face, she nodded.

Hound's large hand pushed the doors open, a very noticeable screech came from the aging wood. As the petite girl was guided in by Sandor, all was silent; not a human spoke, but every eye was trained on her. Feeling this, she shrank further to the knight next to her, but to no avail. The armour he wore had no give and so left her to only press against cold metal.

"Release her, Dog."

The command echoed through the room. Just as the king said, she was left to stand alone. Though the girl did not see it, Hound did so reluctantly.

"Now, I present to you my entire prize." Joffrey boasted, his arm sweeping over her form like it was a gold trophy. Her shoulders squeezed closer together in discomfort. "Now, tell me your name."

The porcelain girl made no move to obey.

She stood at the front of the crowd, standing a meter from the castle's lords and ladies. Now that she was closer, Lord Baelish could see her clearly from his standing place; she was a young girl with milky white skin, hair whiter than a Targaryen's and eyes sharp as a needle. With all grime wiped away, she was remarkably beautiful. Then, quicker than his own silver tongue, her eyes flicked to his gaze. In that one look, the lord could see a beg for help. There was determination and something he couldn't detect, too.

The little king bristled at her silence and was about to snap at her when a soft scrape of a shoe echoed through the hall.

A gentle arm rested lightly on her back guiding her closer to the Iron Throne. She looked up and saw a short plump man draped in yellow robes, a mock understanding mask of emotion on his rounded face.

"What is your name?" He asked her gently.

A crease formed in between her thick eyebrows, and a worried expression twisted her fine features. A few moments passed, until finally...

"Eirie..."

If he hadn't been listening, he wouldn't have heard her response.

"My name...is Eirie."

"Eirie, I am Lord Varys. May I tell His Grace your name?" No one in the court room could hear the conversation, and that was starting to fill Joffrey's pants with fire ants.

"Well? What's she saying?" The golden-head demanded childishly.

The girl nodded to Lord Varys, "She says her name is Eirie, your Majesty. Though I do not entirely believe she enjoys speaking." He added carefully.

To her right side, Lord Baelish let out a deep chuckle, to which he received a tiny smile from Eirie.

"Well? What else?! What can she do? I don't want a boring beast sitting in my castle!" The boy in the crown spat.

Varys' mouth pursed, he turned his head to the thin girl's delicate ear, "Do you have any...talents, dear Eirie?"

A look of utter terror froze Eirie's face, but quietly slipped away, another emotion flashed, but it was so quick that no one saw it.

"I-I can sing, Lord Varys."

"Your grace, she can-"

"Shut up. I want to hear her speak; your voice is getting on my nerves." King Joffrey said dismissively, waving Lord Varys off; leaving Eirie to stand alone once more. She watched him go.

"Your grace, I can sing."

A signature smirk oozed onto Joffrey's face, "And sing you shall."