Chapter 8

The sun was high in the sky on the first day of the tournament being held in honor of the new Hand of the King. It looked to be a gorgeous day, if a bit warm, and Serra smiled at the smell of grass and horses. It had been so long since her nose had encountered anything but the stench of King's Landing that she found herself taking deep breaths so that she could remember the fresh air later.

She was on duty today, guarding the young prince and princess in the royal box with the rest of the family. As she climbed up to join the royal family she stopped to say good morning to her nieces, and a curt greeting to their ever present septa. Ned wasn't there yet, still working no doubt and missing the tournament held in his honor.

The melee was about to start, and everyone sat on the edges or their seats as the combatants took the field. Serra watched with keen eyes as the group of men filed onto the field, hacking and slashing at each other as the eager crowd looked on. In the middle of the fray, standing out with his impressive height and intimidating dog's head helm, was the Hound.

Sandor Clegane fought as though his life were at stake, giving no quarter and eliminating combatants at every turn. Serra watched with interest as he moved, his powerful arms delivering blow after blow. Were this a real fight, the ground would be littered with corpses at his feet. The only time she saw him falter was when Thoros of Myr approached him with his flaming sword. Even that was only a minor deterrent, and Clegane quickly gained his composure. With a cry of rage he knocked the sword from the red priest's hand and continued on without a second glance.

The Melee lasted most of the morning, but seemed over too quickly. When it was done, only the Hound remained, the crowd roaring in approval. Instead of raising his arm in victory as was his right, he walked quietly off the grounds and rejoined the royal family, taking his customary place behind Prince Joffrey.

Serra leaned over and whispered "You fought well." Clegane merely grunted in response, and Serra chose to take it as gratitude.

There was entertainment next, with fools in motley capering across the grounds to the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Afterward there was jousting, with minor lords and hedge knights having at each other, but the bulk of the jousting would take place on the morrow.

At the end of the day the crowd dispersed and the feast began. Serra sat between Sansa and Ned, Arya having left some time ago for a "dancing lesson." "What did you think of the melee?" Serra asked her niece."

"It was very exciting." Sansa answered, her face lit up. "I've never seen anything like it."

"You will see many more as my queen." Prince Joffrey said from Sansa's other side. "IF you like, I will hold a tournament in your honor as a wedding gift."

Sansa beamed. "Oh yes, I should like that very much, my prince." Serra rolled her eyes and took a long draw from her wine glass.

Turning to Ned she asked "And you, brother, how did you like the first day of your tournament?"

"I thought it was bloody expensive." Ned murmured. He was clearly serious but his words brought a chuckle from the king.

"Lighten up, Ned." The king told him. "This is meant to be fun."

Ned nodded. "Of course, Your Grace, I forget myself. The melee was quite entertaining."

"That it was." The king nodded his agreement. "My son's sworn shield proved himself once again. Well done, Clegane." The king raised his voice at the last, to better be heard by the man himself.

Serra smiled and raised her glass. "To the Hound!" she cried, and the assembled company raised their glasses to join her. "The Hound!" they said in unison. Serra couldn't help the smile that crossed her lips when Clegane glared at her unappreciatively across his flask. It was obvious the man was well into his cups, and she wondered why he so clearly preferred to be miserable.

The feast continued with several courses, each richer and more decadent than the last. Serra had never seen so much food in one place, and for a while her mood darkened as she thought about the cold north and the days without food she and her villagers had sometimes suffered when game was scarce.

She was brought out of her brooding when she heard the prince call "Dog, escort the Lady Sansa back to her rooms." Serra watched Sansa's face fall, clearly not ready to leave, especially with the Hound. Still, she dutifully stood and followed the big man from the feasting tent. Serra made a mental note to check on her niece when the feast was over. Then she turned her attention back to her brother and rejoined the conversation.

"Why didn't you join the melee yesterday?" Clegane was readying himself for the joust, struggling to put his armor on by himself, when the wild wolf joined him in his tent. The buggering woman entered without so much as a by your leave and began pulling on the straps and buckles as though he had asked for her help.

"What would have been the point?" she asked as she tugged his corget into place.

"Forty thousand gold dragons is the point." He answered gruffly.

"I have no need of money." She answered, and he sniffed. "Everyone needs money, even you highborn lot."

Serra shook her head, not taking the bait. "You need it more than I do, obviously. It would have been a shame to beat you and take that away." She smiled mischievously and Sandor found himself growing frustrated by her japing.

"Think you would have beaten me, eh Wild Wolf? I wager you'd be a better opponent than most, but you would fall like all the rest."

"Oh you think you're so tough." She laughed. "I've taken tougher than you, believe me." Sandor's mind went to dangerous places with that comment, but he kept them to himself. "Why are you here?" he chose to ask instead.

Serra pulled a ribbon from the sleeve of her armor. "I came to bring you this, "she answered him, brandishing the ribbon in front of him, "Though you don't deserve it after the way you scared poor Sansa last night."

Clegane turned serious. "Did she tell you what we talked about?" He asked her. Serra frowned. "No, only that you frightened her. You shouldn't be so gruff with her you know.

"Someone needs to be." He answered. "She has her head full of stories and songs, she has no idea how the world really works."

"That's true enough, but what makes you think it's your place to set her straight?"

Sandor grunted. "It may not be my place, but I'll not stand by and see her fooled by her own bloody notions if I can prevent it." He answered her. "Now what did you mean to do with that fucking ribbon?"

Serra laughed. "I meant to tie it around your fucking sword." She answered with a lopsided grin. "Sansa assures me it's what us "highborn lot" do for our champions."

"I'm no one's bloody champion, Wild Wolf." Sandor told her. "Keep your fripperies."

Serra tied the ribbon to his sword, ignoring his protests. "Today you're my champion, Sandor Clegane. Win this tournament for me."

Sandor growled in frustration. "Fine, but you'll not share my winnings." He watched her out of the corner of his eye, and held back a grin when she looked suitably scandalized. What was it about this woman that made him such a fool? He watched with interest as she finished tying on the ribbon, even blushing a bit when she looked back up him, but she didn't answer his taunt so he nodded solemnly. "Fine, then, Wild Wolf. I'll win for you."

Serra smiled brightly. "Good. I hear your brother is jousting today as well, why was he not in the melee?"

"You stay away from my brother!" Sandor bellowed, and was ashamed at his own reaction. Serra merely cocked her head and looked at him, through him, with those deep grey eyes that confused him so.

"Sandor…" she started, then closed her mouth as though she thought better of it. When she spoke again her voice was soft and hesitant. "Your brother did that to your face, didn't he?"

Sandor was accosted by a mix of emotions so rich he had trouble focusing on just one. He meant to respond with anger, but was chagrined to find it was the fear that won out. How did she know about his brother? Had the little bird peeped? Probably not, she had been well afraid of him last night. No doubt Serra had merely guessed. She was too smart for her own good sometimes. He was also shocked to realize that this was the first time she had acknowledged his scars in any way. "How do you know that?" he finally asked her.

Serra sighed. "I heard the story about your bedsheets, but that doesn't make any sense. I've seen enough burnt men to know you were held down to the flame. I've also heard about your brother's cruelty. It was easy enough to put the two together."

Sandor shook his head "Leave it to you to piece that together, Wild Wolf." He told her. "I meant what I said, though, my brother is a dangerous man. He wasn't in the melee because he's not allowed to be. He can't stop himself from killing his opponents. He's a monster, and a killing machine, and you'd better stay away from him."

"You know I can take care of myself." She told him and he frowned.

"Dammit woman, can't you just listen for once?" He blurted.

Serra held up her hands in defeat. "Fine, fine, I'll keep away from him." She told him, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Did he really kill his three wives?"

"Aye," Sandor admitted, returning to the task of fixing his armor on. "The first one was a hedge knight's daughter. She died in childbed, along with the child. He dumped their bodies in front of the girl's father and demanded he give him his second daughter in her place. That one he beat to death. The third wife was the daughter of a blacksmith. No one knows what happened to her."

Serra gasped, her hand going to her mouth. "That's awful!" she said. "Why does he get away with such things?"

Sandor scoffed. "Because Lord Tywin holds his strings. As long as he belongs to the Lannisters no one can touch him."

Serra's lips tightened into a thin line, and her eyes took on a faraway look. "He'll get his someday." She said absently.

Sandor lifted his dog's head helm and placed it on his head, lifting the visor. "Aye" he agreed, "And if the gods exist it will be me who gives it to him." Outside the trumpets blared, signaling the start of the tournament.

Sandor moved to leave the tent but the wild wolf caught his arm. "What now?" he growled, and she smiled at him. Standing on her tip toes she placed a soft kiss to the unburnt side of his cheek. "That's for luck." She told him and made her way out of the tent, leaving him to stand there with his hand on his cheek and a stunned look on his face.

It all happened so fast. One minute the Knight of Flowers was jousting with the Mountain, the next the Mountain had killed his horse and was trying to do the same to the Tyrell boy. The crown gasped in horror, and Serra found herself with her hand on the hilt of her sword, ready to put a stop to it. Before she could react Sandor brushed past her, his sword drawn. "Leave him alone!" he cried as he stepped in front of his brother, deflecting a blow that would have killed Loras Tyrell.

The Mountain didn't miss a beat, swinging his sword at his brother in what was meant to be a killing blow. Serra watched on in horror as the two brothers fought, equally matched. She debated jumping in to help, but knew Sandor would never forgive her for that. She was almost willing to take that chance if it meant keeping him alive.

He had returned to his place behind the prince after he was unseated, not meeting her eyes as though he was ashamed he had not won as he said he would. Serra wasn't upset, he had put up a good fight, but she let him brood. She had been gratified to see the ribbon was still secured to his sword.

Now she looked on in fear as the same sword met his brother's swing for swing, blow for blow. Finally the king shouted for them to stop and Clegane immediately took a knee, his head bowed to his king. The Mountain's final swing buzzed right over his bent head. It could easily have been a killing blow.

The Mountain, robbed of his chance to kill his younger brother, stomped angrily off the field. Sandor rose to his feet and stood dazed as young Tyrell lifted his arm in victory. Serra smiled. He had won anyway. Sandor was still in shock when the Knight of Flowers handed him a crown made of white and yellow lilies. He leaned over and whispered in Sandor's ear, and Sandor nodded dumbly.

He took the crown and climbed back up to the royal box, dropping the ring of flowers unceremoniously onto Serra's head. He leaned in close so only she could hear. His burnt cheek twitched as he whispered "I won for you after all, Wild Wolf." Serra found herself blushing, and as she looked out over the crowd she realized they were all cheering and smiling. Serra had no idea what the crown meant. She would have to ask Sansa, who was smiling more than anyone.

Next to Sansa sat her father, who was not smiling at all. In fact, he was scowling in displeasure. Serra sighed, and wondered when the lecture would begin.