Author's notes:
This chapter is a flashback to several months before the main events of this story. It will be the only one in this story, I promise.
Hope you enjoy.
Chapter 18: Remembering (Part 2 – The Past)
seven months earlier - the day before Tyrion's trial by combat
As Sansa assessed the situation, trying to see what she might be in for this time, for which reason she had been fetched by someone else than the Hound, her heart came to a standstill with sheer terror.
Joffrey stood at the window, facing her, while dwarfed to the appearance of being no more than a toddler by the man standing next to him.
Gregor Clegane.
She'd seen him once during the tourney in honour of her father, but never without his helmet and never close up.
Where his brother appeared tall and strong, the older Clegane appeared hulking and huge, his face looking as if roughly hewn from granite by a stonemason not too concerned with the quality of his work. His eyes, though grey like his brother's, were dull; the whites yellowed and bloodshot, too small in his brutish face, giving it even more of an inhuman quality.
"Please, Lady Sansa, say your greetings to Lord Clegane," Joffrey said, putting a curious emphasis on the title which Sansa didn't know Clegane merited, but knew better than to second guess.
"My greetings, my lord," she said dutifully, curtseying as she did. "I hope you will find your stay here pleasant."
"I am sure he will," Joffrey confirmed, grinning. "He is to be the champion of the Faith in the upcoming trial by combat my stupid uncle chose to prove he is innocent of trying to poison me and killing my grandfather instead."
Sansa concentrated on not moving a single muscle.
Apparently, this trial was to be just as unfair as the one Tyrion already had had to endure.
She barely knew Tyrion Lannister, only remembered him from the two times he had seemed concerned about her welfare and from the barely averted disaster of being named his bride.
Still, her heart had hurt for him at all the lies, all the malice being poured over him at his trial. She had silently applauded him when he made his speech about how the only sin he really was accused and guilty of was being born a dwarf.
There was a certain kinship between them, she had realized, because the only crime she had ever been accused of was being born a Stark. None of them could help what they were.
Looking at the older Clegane, there was no question how this second trial would turn out. Tyrion Lannister might as well put his head on the block right now and spare the life of the one who would be named his champion.
"To commend him for his exceptional duty for the king and kingdom," Joffrey droned on, sounding drunk on his own importance, "I gave Gregor Clegane a lordship and promised him a highborn wife."
Her body turned to ice when she realized where this was going.
No, it couldn't be. She had some worth still. They had intended her for the likes of Tyrion Lannister and Willas Tyrell, surely they would not suddenly throw her at a jumped-up knight, a kennelmaster's grandson.
Joffrey smiled. "The small council won't shut up about finding you a husband to produce that heir for Winterfell we apparently need so very desperately. I found one."
"No," she said through bloodless lips, not caring about the dangers of talking back to him. This couldn't happen. She would rather be dead than married to that man.
Clegane frowned, displeased, apparently.
"I didn't ask your opinion, Lady Sansa," Joffrey said, still smiling.
Desperation and the sense of being done for anyway made her open her mouth again.
"He's been married trice, none of his wives lived out a year of their marriage and none ever was pregnant," she said. "He is not able to give you what you want."
Clegane roared and took a step toward her, death glaring at her from his eyes and she knew at once what their colour reminded her of. It was the dull grey of a weathered tombstone. And this one had her name on it.
Joffrey held up a restraining hand and curiously, Clegane stopped his advance. Then Joffrey stepped towards her, drew back his hand and delivered a stinging slap to her face.
"Shut your mouth, bitch," Joffrey hissed. "You'll marry him and I'll be outside your door when he makes you his wife in truth, mark my words."
There was curious liberation in feeling as if you had nothing left to lose, Sansa found.
She smiled at Joffrey.
"He will not let you, you know," she said. "The Hound will not let you, he won't stand for this."
A flicker of dread went up in Joffrey's eyes and she had counted on that. She knew not exactly why, but she knew that ever since the battle, people were even more terrified of the Hound than they had been before and no one more so than Joffrey.
"That stupid whelp?" Clegane hollered. "I'll kill him, if that's what it takes."
Sansa's spark of bravery turned to ashes as she saw the change in Joffrey at Clegane's words. His eyes brightened with cruel intent and the smile that curled his mouth gave her that familiar feeling of being strangled to death by a fist around her lungs.
"You might," Joffrey drawled, not taking his eyes off her. "And quite honourably, too."
She shook her head, desperation muting her. Her skin and fingers turned cold, as if all her blood was seeping out of her, vanishing into the cracks between the flagstones, leaving her a cold and empty shell.
"A very excellent idea, Clegane," Joffrey said, his smile growing wider with ever second. "People won't call foul on this trial if you had a worthy opponent. And who but your brother could be more worthy?"
Gregor looked vaguely concerned.
"The whelp won't want to fight for the Imp."
"He will not have a choice," Joffrey said imperiously. "He will do as his king commands him to, just as you do."
The big man gave a slow nod.
Meanwhile, Sansa had found her voice again, shaking and small as it was and wet with tears besides.
"Please, Joffrey, don't do this," she begged, sobbing. At this point, it didn't matter if she gave him her tears and her pleas. They weren't for herself. "Please don't."
Joffrey observed her with cold eyes.
"So concerned about my dog?"
Another inexcusable mistake, she realized with a sickening jolt. Another nail she herself was about to hammer into Sandor Clegane's coffin.
"No," she lied. "I just could not live with myself knowing I brought this upon him."
"You brought nothing upon him, you stupid cow," Joffrey sneered. "It was my idea, and a brilliant one at that. We'll have us a true dog-fight tomorrow."
She sank to her knees, folding her hands in front of her.
"Please," she sobbed. "I'll do everything, I'll marry Lord Clegane, if that's what you wish… just, please don't!"
The door to the room flew open at the last of her tremulous, high pitched cries, revealing the object of the discussion.
"What is going on here?" the Hound demanded and then clenched his jaw when beholding his brother. "What did you do to her?"
"Nothing… yet," Gregor said, a grin spreading over his face.
Joffrey cleared his throat, bringing both men's attention to him.
"To make my uncle's trial a fair one," Joffrey said, wasting no time in bringing his plan to fruition, "I decided to have you, Sandor Clegane, champion my uncle in the fight against Lord Clegane."
Sansa could only barely see what was going on through the haze of her tears, could only discern the two tall men facing off, both as still as statues.
"As you wish, your Grace," the Hound said, his voice flat.
Then, as if not just having heard his own death sentence, he turned to her.
"If that's all, your Grace," he said, offering her a hand up from her kneeling position, "I'll escort the Lady back to her chambers."
Joffrey, slightly baffled and visibly disappointed, nodded.
…
The heels of her shoes sounded loudly through the naked corridors of the keep as she walked back to her chambers with the Hound next to her, the only other sound her occasional sniffles and quiet sobs.
She couldn't judge his mood. He radiated black anger in a way that told her she'd be well advised not to talk to him, but there was a certain energy to his steps, a coiled readiness as if he was already mentally preparing for his upcoming battle.
The door to her chamber was already in sight, when behind them a deep voice boomed.
"Little brother," the man behind them said.
The Hound spun around in a fluid movement, while Sansa barely dared to turn at all.
A wolfish grin on his face, Gregor Clegane came towards them. It appeared almost as if the ground was shaking with every step he took.
"What a pretty little thing," the Mountain drawled and reached a huge paw towards her face. "This future wife of mine."
Quick as a striking snake, the Hound grabbed his brother's thick wrist before his hand could reach her.
"Touch her and I won't wait until tomorrow to kill you."
The Mountain bellowed a loud laugh.
"Kill me? You?"
They stared at each other for long moments which Sansa used to grab one of the torches that flickered on the wall. When the Mountain turned to her again, clearly about to ignore his brother's warning, she thrust the torch in his face, making him jump back a bit.
"You better listen to your brother," she hissed with way more bravery than she felt.
Gregor grinned impudently, but lifted his hands in mock surrender.
"I'll get you soon enough, vixen," he sneered. "I'll celebrate my victory with my cock in your cunt and my brother's corpse next to me."
With that he turned and strode away.
She put the torch back in its fixture with trembling hands before she even noticed that the Hound had gone eerily quiet. Her insides were heaving, her throat closed tight at the gruesome picture Gregor had painted for her. She would not be part of it, she decided right then. He would not get her alive.
"I'll kill him," the Hound pressed through gritted teeth. "Tomorrow he'll finally die."
Her hands started shaking anew when the guilt about what she had wrought hit her again.
"I am sorry he commanded you to fight him," she whispered, almost choking on the half-truth. I am sorry I did this; sorry I was so stupid.
"I am glad he did," he said, resuming to walk her the few steps left to her chamber. "Hadn't dared to hope to get a chance like this."
She couldn't reply to this, barely listened over the buzzing in her ears, couldn't think past anything other than the thought that it was her who'd brought this down on him, who had given Joffrey the idea of pitting brother against brother, of ridding himself of the man he feared.
Violent shivers chased down her body as her thoughts ran in circles. She'd brought it on him. He would fight his brother tomorrow and she would lose the one man in all the world who protected her, the one thing that stood between her and Joffrey's cruel madness. The only human being to whom she mattered.
The only ally she had.
He was about to close the door, leaving her alone, when she managed to break free of her stupor.
"Wait," she called and ran towards the door, panicked all of the sudden that this was the last time she'd ever see him and she wouldn't even have bidden him a proper farewell. Wouldn't have wished him luck.
A frown on his face, he stood in the doorway, waiting as she had bid him.
Frantically, she looked around herself, searching for something, anything she could gift him with. Despite knowing he scorned the trappings of knighthood, the tokens from ladies, the frilly laces wound around a sword, she nonetheless wanted to give him something that would remind him that at least one person cared whether or not he came out of that fight alive.
Her gaze fell on a torn dress from a couple of weeks ago. Parts of it were still smeared with blood, but Sansa had thought to salvage some of the fabric for a new dress. With shaking fingers, she ripped through what had already been ripped before and finally held a strip of lace in her fingers, unfortunately one with a few drops of her blood still on it.
"Take this," she said while shoving the piece of fabric into his hand. "Wear it tomorrow as a token of my… regard. Please."
He looked down to where the strip of cloth lay curled in his big palm, then carefully closed his fingers around it.
Encouraged that he would accept her gift without disdain, she stepped toward him and lightly put a hand on his arm.
"Please come back alive," she said while tears seared her throat and threatened to spill from her eyes. She fought against them with the last of her waning strength. He needed her to show him she trusted in his ability to win this fight, not cry tears over him as if he was already dead.
"Kill him," she said with a steady voice and then took the fist in which he held her token, his sword-hand, into both her hands and pressed a fervent kiss on his knuckles. "Please kill him."
His throat moved when he swallowed and he nodded mutely.
She let go of his hand, but instead of just turning away to go, he gingerly ran the same knuckles she had just kissed over her cheek in a short, fleeting caress.
"Aye," he said.
…
She had barely slept the night before the fight, spending hours on end on her knees praying to every god she knew, despite the fact that they never seemed to listen to her, never helped her with anything she asked of them. But she did not know what else to do and just sitting there waiting for the hours to crawl by was its own torment.
Despite her show of bravery in front of the Hound the evening before, despite her resolve not to endure the fate awaiting her after his death, she was sick with fear, frozen with unimaginable terror. She was torn between wanting to hide in a dark corner until everything was over, and appearing as one of the first spectators to not miss how this battle would turn out that decided not just Tyrion's, but her own fate.
In the end, Joffrey made this decision for her, as always.
Ser Meryn turned up at her door with the order to escort her to the spectacle.
The outer ward had been chosen for the combat. It looked as if a thousand had already assembled to watch. They lined the castle walkways and elbowed one another on the steps of the keeps and towers.
A platform had been erected next to the Tower of the Hand where Joffrey sat between his wife and mother. Unobtrusively, Sansa chose a spot at the outer edge of the platform that still afforded a good view. She could even see where Tyrion Lannister stood amidst guards to watch the fight that would decide if he lived to see another day.
The Mountain stood on one end of the yard, making Kevan Lannister next to him look like a boy. He wore a long yellow surcoat bearing the three black dogs of Clegane over a heavy plate, dull grey steel dented and charred in countless battles.
A flat-topped greathelm was bolted to his gorget with breaths around his mouth and nose and a narrow slit for vision. The crest atop it was a steel fist.
His greatsword was planted before him, six feet of scarred metal.
How could any man, no matter how strong or brave, how skilled or determined, fight that… kill that?
The thought made her turn her head, looking for the one who had been chosen to try to achieve that inconceivable feat.
She grasped the wooden railing for support, suddenly feeling faint.
The Hound stood on the opposite end of the yard.
Sansa had expected him to wear his splendid Kingsguard armour, but he wore the dented, plain dark plate in which she'd first seen him all those years ago when he'd ridden into Winterfell.
On his head, his frightful snarling Hound's helmet completed the ensemble. He wore no surcoat and no other adornment that signified his house or allegiance. Only the bloody strip of cloth she had given him yesterday in her desperate haste was wound around his sword arm.
Her vision blurred and she hastily swiped at the tears that ran down her cheeks, lest anyone would see her cry.
After the High Septon had said his prayer that the Father Above might help them in their judgement; Ser Osmund Kettleblack brought the Mountain's shield, the Clegane dogs painted over with the seven-pointed star.
The Hound was armed with a light one-handed sword, its glinting edges looking wickedly sharp, but in comparison to the mighty weapon his brother wielded, it looked no more dangerous than an eating knife. On his shield arm, he carried a convex disk of polished steel that sparkled silvery in the emerging sun. Where his brother's shield was of massive oak rimmed in black iron, the silver disk seemed as much a toy as the Hound's sword did.
He must know what he's doing, Sansa thought, suddenly seeing hope where people around them apparently thought it a given that the Mountain would win. Last minute bets were made hastily, the rates for the Hound's victory going down with every passing second.
When the two men advanced on each other, both in no apparent haste, Sandor hit his own shield with the pommel of his sword. A nasty metallic sound rang over the yard.
CLANG!
The Mountain's approach faltered for a second but then he regained his steps, lifting his sword.
His younger brother hit his shield again before ducking under the swing of the Mountain's greatsword.
CLANG!
"Stop that, idiot," the older Clegane bellowed.
CLANG!
The Mountain made a convulsive move as if the sound had physically hit him.
Sansa remembered the tales she heard about his headaches, how he had once killed a man just for snoring too loudly.
CLANG!
This time, the sound was answered with a terrifying roar from the Mountain's throat just before he charged his brother again, sword wildly swinging.
The Hound sidestepped the attack easily, spinning and facing him again, but not attacking.
"He's doing what I would have," she heard Oberyn Martell's melodious Dornish accent. "Baiting him, tiring him out. He might win yet."
Her heart missed a beat at hearing this, the words a ray of hope. A part of her mind wondered about the Martell's choice of words, though. What he would have done? Had he considered fighting himself?
During her musings her eyes had never left the riveting scene before her, even though it was a repetition of things she'd seen. Mighty charges deflected and nimbly sidestepped, the never ceasing clanging of the Hound's shield.
But while the Mountain might be a dim man, he was a seasoned fighter as well. After a round of unsuccessful tries, he changed his strategy, moved around his brother in ever tightening circles, apparently trying to draw him into the reach of his gigantic sword.
The Hound didn't fall for the trick, but the gap between them had closed notably.
CLANG!
Without his usual roar, the Mountain charged again, then stopped just as the Hound was about to spin out of his swords reach again, changed his direction of attack quicker than Sansa would have thought possible for a colossus like him and when his sword came down in a mighty arc, his younger brother was right in its path.
He made an attempt to get back, but didn't spin fast enough.
The tip of the Mountain's sword ripped through armour and cloth, spraying blood as it came away from the Hound's shield arm.
Sansa had her hands over her mouth, holding in a scream of horror.
"Now stop making music and fight!" the older Clegane hollered.
CLANG!
They circled again and once again the Mountain attacked and tried the feint that had worked so well before. It seemed to work again.
Time froze just as the blood in Sansa's veins as the greatsword came down again, threatening to cut the Hound in half, when he lifted his shield just in time to avert the brunt of the blow.
Only he seemed to have anticipated the move this time and quickly spun out of the swords main trajectory so that the big sword didn't quite hit the shield straight-on, but was instead deflected sideways off it with a screeching sound so loud even the audience flinched and grimaced.
What this kind of racket must be doing to a man as reputedly sensitive to sound as the Mountain could only be guessed.
He froze for a moment and grabbed for his head while his brother waited at the ready.
Then Clegane charged heedlessly, his bumbling advance suddenly seeming no threat anymore.
Sansa was reminded of something she had once heard about a region in Dorne, where they had a curious public entertainment where a slight man with a thin sword baited a bull with a red flag, sticking him with lances and swords until the beast bled to death.
Maybe the Hound had heard of it, too.
While it had felt to Sansa to be a cruel death to inflict on a hapless beast, it seemed so much more fitting for Gregor Clegane.
CLANG!
Baited into a useless charge once again, Gregor Clegane ran at his brother, but this time Sandor didn't seem inclined to avoid the attack.
Instead, he ran toward him and it seemed as if the two tall men would collide in a spray of blood, when at the very last moment, the Hound turned and threw himself to his knees. The momentum of his run made him skid on his knees for a few yards, sliding beneath his brother's sword and around his legs, flicking his sword so quickly, the audience could only see a glint of sharp edges.
The Mountain stood and roared.
Then, while the Hound quickly sprang to his feet, his brother sank to his knees, still bellowing like a wounded beast.
"Cut his hamstrings, the smart bugger," Martell commented to his paramour. "Wouldn't have thought a bull like him could be so quick."
The crowd, meanwhile, had gone frantic when they, too, realized what the untrained eye hadn't been quick enough to see. Sympathies changed in a matter of heartbeats and it was Sandor's name that was suddenly chanted from a thousand throats.
CLANG!
The Hound circled the kneeling form of his brother, weary of the long reach of the deadly weapon the Mountain still held in his hand.
One handed, the Mountain fumbled with his helm, then, with another of his inhuman roars, ripped it off his head.
"Come at me, coward!" he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth as he did.
CLANG!
This time, Sansa realized, the sound was an answer to an insult.
Then, calmly, the Hound walked straight into the reach of his brother's sword.
Predictably, Gregor swung it, probably expecting his brother to parry it with his own weapon or shield, neither of which the Hound did. He ducked, then jumped and aimed a vicious kick at his brother's fist.
Unprepared for this, the Mountain lost hold of his sword and the heavy weapon clanged to the ground, only to be kicked again, out of the kneeling man's reach.
With measured steps, Sandor Clegane walked to where his brother's sword had come to rest, placed his own sword and shield next to it on the ground and took off his helmet.
His hair, Sansa could see, was matted with sweat, the lines of his face taut.
He placed the helm on top of his shield and finally took his brothers sword, then walked back just as unhurriedly.
The crowd demanded blood now, their frantic shouts of "kill him, kill him" drowning Joffrey's enraged screeches, the "stop it, stop him", he tried to get across, when even his guards only had eyes for the drama unfolding before them.
Gregor Clegane kneeled in the dirt like a condemned man facing his executioner, black blood oozing thickly into the dirt under his legs, his eyes squinting against the sun's glare.
"Do it, whelp!"
The Hound stood in front of him like the very picture of the Stranger, dark and scarred; righteous and merciless, a frightful weapon in his hand that spelled a man's death.
He raised the huge sword to his side, having no more trouble with its weight than the Mountain.
"On it... brother," he said simply.
He swung the sword in a wide arc just when Gregor looked as if he was about to speak once more. A gaping hole, spurting blood, appeared where the Mountain's throat had been before.
Sansa almost fainted at the sight, but forced herself to stay upright.
Time itself seemed to hold its breath as Gregor's body sank slowly to the side, so slow that Sansa would never forget even the slightest detail of this moment.
The Hound stood still as if made of stone as the great body crashed to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. His brother's sword slipped out of Sandor's fingers, clattering as it fell.
...
Right after, all the seven hells broke loose at once.
Onlookers bustled to get back to their various tasks, a few lucky ones loudly tried to collect the winnings of their bets and yelling mothers attempted to herd their children back from the spectacle without them getting trampled.
There was a commotion around where Tyrion stood and demanded to be freed; Joffrey was screeching about how this wasn't supposed to have happened and Oberyn Martell raced towards the fallen giant to claim his body to bring it back with him to Dorne.
The Hound stood forgotten at the side, ashen-faced and empty-handed, looking worn and defeated.
Without thinking, Sansa jumped off the platform and ran to him, dodging the throng of people pressing back towards the yard's entrance, driven by a madness she would later come to regret, but against which she was helpless at that very moment. She had no thought for what she would say to him, what she would do and that lack of foresight only caught up with her when she stood right in front of him.
"Come to congratulate me on my victory?" he asked. There was no anger in the way he spoke to her, just a sense of immeasurable tiredness. His eyes, though, were for once unguarded and something sparked and burned there as he saw her. Not anger, something more volatile, more urgent and much more dangerous.
"I came to thank you," she stammered, barely able to speak at all.
Her face felt sudden frozen when she heard herself say those words. Her stomach turned and a fist as hard and steely as the one on Gregor Clegane's helmet seemed to be around her throat.
She thanked him for saving her life, that was what she had done. She hadn't congratulated him on his success, not commended his bravery. Not applauded the sheer feat of besting the most terrifying, most feared monster Westeros had ever seen; not even expressed her gladness at seeing him still alive.
No, she had only had thoughts for her own skin, for her own worries and her own life, when it was her who was at fault for bringing him into this fight in the first place. She had turned into a monster herself.
Almost as an afterthought, she noticed that he was bleeding profoundly from a gash in his left upper arm, but he did not even look at it, just stared at her.
"I am sorry," she stammered as she noticed, taking a step toward him instead of away as she should, despite the fire in his eyes. "I am so sorry."
He closed the distance between them and roughly grabbed her arm, gauntlets painfully digging into her flesh, pulling her even closer.
"What by the bloody Stranger are you chirping about, daft little bird?" he growled at her and still she wasn't afraid, not of him, maybe for him, but more than everything she was scared of herself, of what she had become, of the enormity of what reared its head inside her, trying to claw its way out.
"I wanted you to win," she whispered as an explanation that she knew would make no sense to him. It barely made sense to her. She drowned in what she was feeling and his nearness made it so much worse. "I so badly wanted you to win."
His eyes searched her face, wide and glowing, penetrating deeply into her soul and she let him look. There was nothing she wanted to hide from him, nothing he might not already know.
"Run," he said then, with his face so close she only saw his eyes. She did not run. She couldn't have, not with his fist still tight around her arm, with her feet frozen to the ground and her gaze locked to his.
"You should know better than to come to a man whose blood is up from victory," he growled. "I'm this close to throw you down and fuck you right here with a thousand people looking on." He shook her, glaring, snarling, trying to scare her. "How'd that be for getting crowned the queen of love and beauty, huh?"
She laughed at his attempt at scaring her. After what she had been through just now, she felt like nothing could scare her anymore. The only thing his words woke in her was a painful, mad longing, the insanity in her head howling with delight.
Do it, she wanted to say. Do it, she nearly screamed, because you are the only man alive who'd do it because he wants me and not what I stand for. Do it, right here in the dirt, because we'll not get a better chance than this. Do it, because I would be your queen of love and beauty anytime if you want me to.
He swayed towards her, his face even closer than before, his hand closing even more painfully around her arm.
Do it, she thought and closed her eyes, smiling.
Another set of gauntleted fists closes around her arms then, yanking her backwards, her sleeve ripping where Sandor had his fist still around her arm.
"Are you insane?" a male voice hollered and made her open her eyes.
Boros Blount stood behind her, glaring at Sandor who took a step back, letting go of her arm. For a moment, he looked dazed, disoriented. Quickly though, he got a grip and glared back.
"Took you long enough, you bloody imbecile," he said. "Can you not even keep a little girl in your line of sight? I almost made her give me a nice little favour for my victory."
"A favour that would've cost you your head, stupid dog," Blount snorted.
"Would it?" Sandor asked and lifted his hand, pointedly looking at where it was still stained red from Gregor's blood.
Behind her, Blount shifted uneasily.
He's afraid of him, Sansa realized. Where before they had been afraid of the Butcher of the Blackwater, they were now facing the man who had bested the Mountain that rides, had slain his own kin without batting an eye. Not knowing what lay beneath the surface, everyone must now believe him the most ruthless, heartless and dangerous of men.
"And I believe for you it's Lord Clegane now, Ser Meryn," Sandor said, grinning in that terrifying way he had. Then he jerked his head and turned his back to them.
"Get her out of my sight and back into her cage."
When she noticed how Blount only barely kept himself from bowing to Sandor's command as if he was his superior, when he marched her quickly across the yard to do what he had been bid, Sansa could not help herself. She started laughing. A hiccupping, sobbing sort of laughter that had tears stream down her face, but one she wouldn't have known how to stop.
Blount threw her on her bed, when they reached her chamber and locked her in.
She stayed there for days, not eating, not letting maids near her, just crying and laughing and sometimes passing out into an uneasy sleep where monsters lurked and everyone she loved died around her; over and over again.
In her dreams, instead of Gregor's, there were Sandor's eyes staring dull and lifeless into the sun while his life's blood seeped into the dirt from an opened throat.
...
At one point, she was dragged in front of Joffrey, who looked disgusted and displeased and ordered her first taken care of and then beaten.
The sting of the willow switch across her naked thighs did not bring her back at once, but after another few of them, when the stinging turned to pain, she stopped weeping or laughing or whatever it had been she'd done. Madness receded and left the field to something much stronger. To something that tasted like steel and freshly fallen snow. Something that encased her in impenetrable ice, protecting her.
Pain went to the periphery of her awareness, and her eyes dried, her back straightened.
Nothing had changed and nothing ever would. She was amongst foes and to feel would be her undoing. She was a Stark. Her core was ice and her skin was steel. She could not bend and not break. Pain had no power over her and neither had insanity.
Those last days should be forgotten, never thought about again. Her weakness had almost cost her life and the Hound's right with it and she owed him more than that.
When the Hound stepped into the room just as she thought about him, she held his gaze, silently commanding him to let her punishment run its course. Joffrey would tire of it eventually.
Sandor Clegane could not be seen as her ally. He could not even be her ally.
Her allies always died.
...
tbc