Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/895409.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Jaime_Lannister/Brienne_of_Tarth, Various
      Relationships, Crack_Pairings_-_Relationship
  Character:
      Sandor_Clegane, Sansa_Stark, Ned_Stark, Brynden_Tully, Edmure_Tully, Robb
      Stark, Lady_(ASoIaF), Catelyn_Stark, Arya_Stark, Tywin_Lannister, Tyrion
      Lannister, Original_Characters, undead_-_character, Syrio_Forel, Stranger
      (ASoIaF), Myrcella_Baratheon, Maester, Petyr_Baelish, Ironborn, Gendry
      Waters, Brienne_of_Tarth, Jaime_Lannister, Lollys_Stokeworth
  Additional Tags:
      Health_Issues, King's_Landing, Winterfell, Casterly_Rock, Riverrun,
      Clegane_Keep, AU, Humor
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Roots_of_Fate
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-23 Completed: 2014-08-06 Chapters: 37/37 Words: 191746
****** And suddenly, everything was different ******
by Maracuya
Summary
     What if the story had been different right from the beginning
     (butterfly effect)?
     *Revised version*
Notes
     Please note that I'm not a native speaker and that this was my first
     piece of fanfiction (though I have written other stuff before). It
     has been finished and grown into a major story. Most of it is
     unbeta'd, but lovely bgona helped me with a few parts. And I must
     thank Caroh99, who lured me into writing fanfiction and all those who
     supported me in the writing process.
     Please note that I haven't mentioned a few characters above for
     surprise effects.
     EDIT: I have worked on this fanfic again. While I surely haven't
     managed to correct every language mistake I have at least tried to
     work a bit on style, punctuation and layout to make the text more
     readable for you.
      
     Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF. I do not profit from this story, nor
     would I
     ever seek to do so. All credit for characters and setting to GRRM.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
 
 
The wonderful banner was designed by Ro_Nordmann. Thank you so much! Finally,
I've found out how to embed it. :-)
Seven buggering hells – why did they have to head north? Couldn't the little
fucker of a prince get a fiancé somewhere in the south? And couldn't King
Robert just send a raven and order his vassal Lord Eddard Stark to come to
Kings Landing to take up the job as his Hand? But no, no. The fornicating
drunkard of a king intended to pay his respects to the Stark family. Which
meant that the whole royal family with their entourage had to travel to
Winterfell. Fucking brilliant. Of course, as a soldier he was accustomed to the
hardships of traveling, but he preferred to travel with his comrades-in-arms –
not with all these arrogant fops, pretending to be shining knights in armor,
plus various overstrung ladies and their correspondingly nervous servants.
 
 
And there it was coming into view – a cold, big, bleak castle in a cold, blank,
bleak stretch of land. The inhabitants of this region would presumably share
these attributes. Why on earth the buoyant King Robert had befriended the
austere Warden of the North was a mystery to him, but ever since Robert's
Rebellion against the Mad King there had been mutual trust and a link between
the two of them, and, of course, everybody knew about the tragic episode with
Lyanna Stark. Still, that couldn't explain everything. But, being Sandor
Clegane, the infamous as well as loyal Lannister “Hound”, it was not his to
answer these questions. He had to follow and to obey.
When they entered the inner courtyard of the castle Sandor tapped Stranger's
shoulder in a gruff, but friendly way. His bold, bad-tempered destrier had been
a reliable companion all the way up to this castle, so Stranger had really
earned himself an extra portion of sweet hay.
While he was dismounting he heard the happy, bellowing voice of fat King
Robert. He was obviously greeting the Stark family, who had already been
waiting in the courtyard. Sandor allowed himself a short look at their hosts.
 
 
Right. There was Lord Stark, and no mistake, easy to discern. The typical face
of a Northman. The good-looking woman next to Eddard Stark held herself very
upright, a smile tucked to her face that didn't reach her eyes. Well, this had
to be the wife. Of Tully descent, he remembered. Next came a teenage lad, the
eldest son, and there were also two younger male pups. And finally two
daughters. One was a sweet, innocent-looking younger copy of her mother. At
that moment, the girl started to beam at Prince Joffrey – and the little shit
seemed willing to play the gallant part for once. Poor little thing, she would
be so disappointed when she found out to what a sadistic brat she would be
betrothed. Well, such was life – one letdown after the other. The last Stark
daughter looked more like her father – and more like a ferocious little boy at
that. There was also Theon Greyjoy to be recognized, an arrogant young man, if
anybody had asked Sandor for his opinion. Somewhere, there also had to be a
bastard son of Ned Stark, but he was kept hidden.
 
 
Well, Sandor's duty was more or less done for today. He had to see to his horse
and to check on the security in the wing of the castle where the guests should
be accommodated. Otherwise, he would sit at the lower end of the dinner table
and get himself decently pissed.
It turned out that Queen Cersei was as foul-tempered as King Robert was
overjoyed at the arrival in Winterfell, which didn't exactly surprise the
Hound. As a consequence, the queen sent him on various tedious errands, so that
Sandor's mood was even more morose than usual. He really would have liked to
grind somebody's kisser. The only good thing was that he didn't have to sleep
in the barracks; as a sworn shield he had been allocated a guest room. Sandor
wondered if he would be able to make good usage of the bed by hiring a nice
little whore to warm it. He had not had a woman for ages and he felt like
unloading his shot. Chances were poor, however, with so many better-looking
gentlemen who had come from the south to charm the wenches here. Couldn't be
helped. After all, he still had two big, strong hands.
In the large festive hall of Winterfell, Sandor received many shocked,
terrified and condescending looks and whispers behind upheld hands. The same
like always – and still he was enraged. Why couldn't these little fuckers just
ignore the horrible scars on the left side of his face? But no, they had to
stare at the leathery, puckered skin, the deep, ugly ridges, the little piece
of bone shining through the thin surface, his half-burned mouth, the hole where
his auricle should have been, the parts where there normally would have been
black hair, so that he needed to comb the remaining strands to this side.
Behind him, a woman retched. Grrrrrr. The corner of his mouth started to
twitch. Better he got some wine at once. Hopefully, they had sour Dornish one.
The sooner he got pissed, the better.
 
 
Three hours later, towards midnight, he stepped into the courtyard, swaying.
Somewhere, there was the nervous howl of a wolf. Suddenly, he heard a voice
from the shadows that he recognized well enough, even if he was as drunk as a
skunk. “Hound! I hope you had a nice evening at the Stark table. And I have
prepared a reward for you to make it even nicer, a sweet bone to relish.”
Laughter. “You see, I found you a willing slut from the kitchen. One of the
sort who likes to play little games. Pretending to be a noble, panicking maid,
who is devoured by a roughshod monster from beyond the Wall. They've got
strange tastes here, I tell you. Anyway, I promised the wench a good monster
and tied her hands and feet to the bedposts so as to prepare her for the scene
– she probably won't even need any payment, if you play your role well. Have
fun!”
With his slurred voice, Sandor managed to rasp a “thank you”, but the speaker
had already vanished. So, Sandor staggered to his room. It was dark. All the
better – he didn't like to watch a disgusted harlot while he was fucking her.
There was the slender outline of a body on the bed, hands and legs spread apart
and tied to the bedposts, just like he had been promised. The woman had even
been gagged to make the scene realistic. The wench was wiggling to and fro like
mad, and she uttered some whimpering sounds. Sandor had never been interested
in a mummer's show while having sex and his drunken state didn't allow any
creative remarks. So he rasped: “I didn't expect to have a whore tonight. How
come you wanted an ugly monster like me?” “Mmmmm...mmmmmm!” “Yeah, we can talk
it through later. First, let's see, if you are already wet for me.”
And without further ado he pushed up the hem of the skirt and ripped the
woman's smallclothes away. “Really well-prepared for your role, I see. Even
snatched a lady's silken pants away for the game, hope you didn't steal them.
And I can only warn you – don't even think of stealing my money, or I will bite
off your head. Understood?” Another frantic “mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm”. “Fine, then
let's start.”
Sandor raised his hand and pushed his long, calloused index finger into the
woman's cunt. After half a second, he noticed that the woman winced as if she
was feeling pain. Actually, she was completely dry and tight and... for a
moment, there had been some kind of resistance. In his befuddled state, Sandor
finally managed to become suspicious. A maid? Who was there in his bed!?
Outside, various wolves were now howling like mad.
The Hound jumped to his feet and fumbled around the wall where he suspected a
torch. Out he went to the torches in the corridor and came back with a bright
flame one instant later. He held it over the bed. And went white as milk,
whispering: “Oh FUCKfuckfuckfuckfuck... What the hell are YOU doing here?”
With shaking hands, Sandor cut the bonds loose that had tied the person on his
bed. Next, he tore the gag from the mouth. There was a bloodstain on the linen
and on the Hound's finger. The girl sat up, shrinking against the head of the
bed, crying. It was Lady Sansa, Lord Stark's eldest daughter.
All Sandor managed to stammer was: “I... I didn't know... I was told...” Then
he squatted on the floor and stared at the girl that had been meant to marry
Prince Joffrey. His grey eyes were big as saucers, and the shock sobered him up
considerably. He knew he had fucked up everything. He had disgraced Lady Sansa
and due to that, his life would end soon.
Suddenly, there were hasty steps in the corridor. “Where is she, Greywind? Show
me! Show me!” someone called. Then, there was a whining sound right outside,
and claws seemed to be scratching on the wood of the door. “Greywind! To me! At
my foot!” the voice called. And then the door crashed open, revealing Sansa and
Sandor on the one side and Robb Stark and a direwolf on the other. The wolf
snarled and bared his fangs. The young man took in the scene, paralyzed for a
heartbeat, realizing what must have happened and not wanting to know. He
whispered: “SANSA! What did he do to you? What did this monster do?” Then he
rushed to his sister's side, hugged her for a moment and rocked her like a
mother would rock her baby. The young lady still wasn't able to make a sound,
let alone utter a word.
Sandor didn't move. For once, there was still the direwolf in the doorframe,
and even if it had been different he would not have cared to run away. He could
only wait for the explosion to come. And then it happened. Robb Stark let go of
his sister, spun around and bellowed: “YOU MONSTER! I SWEAR TO YOU: YOUR HEAD
WILL BE PUT ON A SPEAR ABOVE WINTERFELL!” Next, a fist crushed into Sandor's
face and all the lights went out.
 
 
When Sandor regained his conscience his first though was: “Whoa, now that's
what I call a hangover.” He gave a little moan and held his head in his hands.
After a few moments, he noticed the dampness around him. He looked up and found
himself in a cell with a burning torch. And then it all came back to him, like
a flood, and he drowned in shame and guilt. “I've raped that girl. Taken her
maidenhood away. Now, I've really reached my brother's level.”
A little later, he heard steps outside. Heavy steps. A key screamed in a rusty
lock. Lord Eddard Stark came into the cell. His eyes were like stone... or no,
not quite so, because stone couldn't be sad, and a definite grave sadness clung
to the Warden of the North.
“Sandor Clegane?” he said with a flat voice. The Hound looked up at him from
his patch of stinking straw, then heaved himself up into a standing position.
From a physical point of view he was now taller than the lord, but this held no
truth. “What do you say?” Ned Stark inquired.
Sandor looked at the torch, because he didn't find it in him to make eye
contact, and rasped: “Will you cut off my head, or will you hang me before
beheading me?”
“First of all, I want to know what happened.”
Bile rose in Sandor's throat. Normally, he would have snarled an insulting
answer, but this was different, and he picked his words carefully: “I...
deflowered your daughter... with... my hand.” At that moment, he noticed that
somebody must have washed his finger while he had been passed out.
Lord Stark gritted his teeth. “On whose order did you do that? Or was it just
an ordinary rape for you?” Sandor froze and shook his head.
“I did not know what I was actually doing. I was deluded. The only thing I can
say is that seemingly somebody from the Lannister family was against the
marriage between your daughter and Prince Joffrey.”
“I had figured out as much. So... in which way were you deluded and by whom?”
Again, Sandor shook his head: “What does it matter? I can't undo what I've done
and if it had not been this particular person from the Lannister family, who
told me about... a whore in my bed... it would have been another Lannister in a
different situation, but with the same outcome. They all detest your family.”
The knuckles of Lord Stark's fists were white. In his flat voice that tried to
hold back a melee of emotions he said: “Sansa has told me that you mistook her
for somebody else. What would you have done, if you had known who she was?”
“I'm no fan of useless “what-ifs”. The only thing I can say is that, aye, I
have killed many people in my life, but no, I have never raped anyone – not
before your daughter, that is. But that does hardly matter, does it? And you
wouldn't believe me anyway.”
“Do you know the consequences for Sansa?”
“By now, the king will have forsaken the betrothal, if I'm not a complete oaf.
In the future? She might marry someone else, though not as highborn. Or if
there was no-one left with an acceptable reputation she might take the veil and
become a septa. About her... internal sufferings I cannot make a guess.”
“Do you know that King Robert has asked me to become his Hand?”
“I knew he wanted you for the task. But if you go to Kings Landing I give you
less than a year to survive.”
For the first time during their interrogation Lord Stark seemed to be genuinely
surprised: “Why do you think so?”
Sandor shrugged. “You're an honourable man, or so they say. This means that
your ways are limited to what you deem morally acceptable. And that again will
be a lethal disadvantage for you, because nobody cares about morals in Kings
Landing, your enemies first and last. Look at how they used me to disgrace your
daughter.”
“Then why do you pretend to be so honest?”
“People usually don't ask me questions like you do, so honesty isn't much of a
topic. They only listen to the song of my sword.”
 
 
Lord Stark remained silent for a moment. Then he sighed as if the whole world
had been placed on his shoulders.
“Well. Now, we have basically three choices of what to do with you. First: We
could execute you, as you have already guessed. My son Robb is a staunch
supporter of that alternative.”
Sandor kept his mouth shut. He had not even dreamed of the Starks discussing
options.
“Second: We send you to the Night's Watch where you would end your life in
service to the Realm.” This surprised Sandor. It was a punishment as well as a
kind of mercy. Not bad, if he was granted such a possibility.
“Third: You could take full charge of what has happened to my daughter. You
said yourself that she is – though highborn – not a decent match any longer.
Who would ask for her hand now? Ramsay Bolton perhaps. A widower. Do you know
that he starved his first wife and made her eat her own fingers? No? In this
case I wonder if it is not even better to give Sansa to you.”
Sandor gaped and probably took on an owlish look for the first time in his
life. Then he spluttered: “Have I understood you correctly? You are not really
considering to marry me to your daughter, are you? Me, the second son of a
minor house, and an abomination at that? And... she is still more than half a
child. I mean... she has not even had her moon blood, has she?”
At that, Lord Stark hissed: “You deflowered her before she could flower! And be
sure that I don't like the prospect of having you as my son-in-law. I wouldn't
ponder that matter at all, if this situation was only a tiny little different.
As you pointed out clearly enough, I will be surrounded by enemies in Kings
Landing. If anything should befall me I'll need good fortifications for my
family – and everybody knows that you are one of the fiercest and most capable
fighters in Westeros. And in case of a war you also know quite a bit about
tactics. Truth be told: if I had a free will I would want to execute you – the
question is if I can afford to cast a warrior like you aside. Of course, you
wouldn't be allowed to consummate the marriage as long as Sansa is a child.”
That shut Sandor up for a moment. Then, he ventured forth: “Shouldn't your
daughter have a say in this affair?”
Now, it was Eddard Stark's turn to look owlish: “She is just a girl and
extremely afflicted after what has happened to her. What's more, she doesn't
know anything about politics. How could I let her make a decision like that?”
“You could ask her. How could I possibly wed her, if she couldn't bear me to
live in her surroundings or to share a name with me?”
Lord Stark shot his prisoner a piercing glance and didn't say anything else.
Then he turned on his heels and left Sandor alone.
 
 
Sandor had basically felt miserable throughout his life, but now, it took on a
new quality. The idea of him, the despicable monster, being married to his
victim wasn't appealing at all. Lord Stark had to be daft to think about this
option.
Time oozed by. At some point, he was given drink and food, or the bucket with
his excrements was taken away. A stay in a cell was never a pleasant
experience, but in contrast to Kings Landing his living conditions were
luxurious. For example, there had been no torturing so far.
After two or three days, Sandor heard two people approaching his room. First,
the door creaked as usual, then it opened to reveal Lord Stark... and little
Lady Sansa. The Hound asked himself if he was hallucinating. But no. The girl
hesitated. Then, she stepped into the room, her eyes cast down. Her father
said: “I'm right in front of the door. If I hear so much as a whimper from her,
you're a dead man, Clegane.”
The cell door closed.
Sandor could feel a horrible thud-thud-thud in his chest and his blood was
whooshing in his ears. What the fuck was going on here?
“Ser Clegane?” the girl started with a papery voice. She was still very pale,
but then again, she seemed to have a cream-white skin anyway.
Sandor breathed in, because he had to bite back a snarl. With utmost self-
control he said calmly: “I'm no ser.”
This caused the young lady to look at him for the first time. He noticed she
had very blue eyes. So he used the moment to ask her: “Why are you here, Lady
Sansa?” He tried to be gentle, but he knew well enough that his voice always
sounded like steel on stone – if not worse.
The girl flinched, looked at her feet and then back up to him. After a while
she stepped a little closer. It was clear that she was afraid of him: of his
looks as well as of what he had done to her. Sandor felt like the worst of all
sinners in Westeros, and rightfully so, he told himself.
Then the girl peeped up: “Would you ever do anything like this again?”
Were the Starks all mental? Why for fuck's sake did they ask HIM of all
questions that had something to do with “what-ifs” and with trust?
Sandor could only answer: “I certainly don't intend to do so – but neither did
I some days past. If you want to be sure – execute me.”
The girl flinched again. She managed to say with some effort: “The family of
your liege lord betrayed you. King Robert and his family have already left and
wait for my father to travel after them. You're no part of their schemes any
longer.”
It was so strange. Why was this girl willing to face him at all? And if she
was, why didn't she yell out her frustrations or horrors? Why didn't she
reproach him with what he had done to her? There was no sense in her mild
behaviour, so the Hound didn't answer to what she had said. Slowly but surely
he was becoming quite sure that he would opt for the Night's Watch, if only he
were given the choice.
“Would you like to marry me?” Lady Sansa suddenly asked and Sandor shuddered
inwardly. She was like a little bird, parroting the phrases her father had told
her, or so he thought.
“Only if you can look me straight in the eyes without fear and if you can at
least give me the tiniest of kisses. Otherwise, there is no joint basis for us,
don't you think?”
He cursed himself to be the worst bad-ass in Westeros – but this would shut her
up, her and this idiocy. Strangely enough, the girl was still standing there
and looking in his direction. She took a step. And then another. Finally, she
was standing right in front of him. She wrinkled her nose, which was no wonder,
because he was smelly enough after some days in custody. Still, she didn't shy
away from him and looked up.
Well, Lady Sansa's scent was definitely very sweet in contrast to his, her
auburn hair fell down in soft, shining curls and her eyes were even bluer than
they had looked from afar. She was still extremely afraid, but at the same time
she dared to look him in his eyes, something that few people ever did or cared
to do. Next, the young lady steeled herself for his other request.
Sandor stood stock still. Fuck, you won't do it, will you!? He had demanded too
much of her, and he knew it well. Lady Sansa slowly rose on her toes, ever so
hesitant. Nobody had ever kissed Sandor, at least not as far as he could
remember, so he was spellbound and still couldn't believe the girl was about to
oblige. “Fuck me sideways, I'm breaking her further by making such an indecent
demand”, he told himself, but couldn't refrain from his words.
And then her lips made contact to his and his brain went blank. It was a very
short moment of unbelievably soft, warm sweetness. Nothing had prepared him for
this sensation. In an instant he was on his knees, his heart like a mad smith's
hammer in his chest.
Sansa was still looking at him and asked again, this time in nothing more than
a whisper: “Would you like to marry me?”
Sandor's tongue didn't want to cooperate properly, just as if he was drunk.
Then he rasped: “Yes, if you want to marry me. And if you can ever forgive me.”
All of a sudden, in spite of fearing him, Sansa looked positively relieved,
which was incredible, given the circumstances.
At least until she murmured: “Then I'm not a heap of... tainted shit. I can
have children. And I don't have to marry Ramsay Bolton.”
Sandor felt as if someone had walked over his grave.
 
 
Then, it all happened very quickly and quietly. Sandor was released from the
cell, given a proper bath and clean clothes as well as a cloak with his sigil,
and then he was led to Lord Stark's study. There, he was presented with a
contract. Right. No consummation of the marriage before Sansa's flowering and
no claims to Winterfell or the position as the Warden of the North. As if he
had ever had any intentions.
Having signed the paper they made for the Godswood. The wedding would be
performed according to the rites of the Old Gods. The Hound couldn't care less
since he kept no gods whatsoever, and the absence of a fussing septon was
perhaps a good thing.
Sansa was already waiting. She had donned a blue dress, which underlined her
delicate stature and the prettiness of her red hair. Her eyes were big and blue
again, her mouth set. Around her, there were only Lord Eddard Stark, exhibiting
an air of steely composure, her mother Catelyn, who was weeping angry and
desperate tears, Robb Stark, who was throwing daggers at him with his eyes, and
a young man with dark hair and and icy vibes emanating from him. Ah, so this
was Jon Snow, the bastard son. Under the Heart Tree, there were three
direwolves, including the one Sandor knew as Greywind. What a bad jape of a
wedding!
Sansa and Sandor knelt down and exchanged their vows without the embellishments
one might have expected at a normal wedding amongst nobles. Sansa's voice was
distant, but she didn't stop once. On the surface it looked as if she was
suffering less than her weeping mother. Sandor couldn't figure out his bride at
all while he was putting his cloak around her shoulders. She just seemed to be
parroting sentences like a little bird and mirroring the behaviour she was
expected to display by others. Probably because she simply wasn't the brightest
horse in the stable, who knew.
And then it was done. No false kiss, Sandor did not want to make this farce any
worse. The little party headed back for the castle. Nobody talked. There would
be no feast, of course. Just normal supper. In the hall Sandor asked: “Where
are we supposed to sit at the table now?” At first, he didn't get an answer,
but then Lord Stark pointed with his finger. Now, it became clear that Sandor
had married up while Sansa had married down, for they were positioned below the
seat where Rickon, the youngest Stark, was supposed to sit. Still, this was not
too bad, if you ignored the fact of being abhorred by the people around you.
Bride and bridegroom nibbled on their food without any enthusiasm, and so did
everybody else. Even wild little Rickon had adapted to the brooding atmosphere
and was pouting at everything. Talk only arose when Arya addressed Jon Snow,
seated next to a Black Crow named Benjen Stark, further down at the table.
The lively girl wanted to know: “So... when do you leave for the Wall?”
“In two days”, the bastard answered sullenly.
All of a sudden, Lady Catelyn commented, her face turned towards her husband:
“The Seven know, I could never accept HIM, but I would gladly keep him if THAT
abomination over there had not been given our sweet daughter. How could you,
Ned?”
The Lord of Winterfell froze, ground his teeth and answered between clenched
jaws: “I will not discuss it again, woman! The decision has been made, and it
will be accepted.”
That put an end to it though Lady Catelyn looked as if she had more to say.
Now, the mood was really at its low point, and then, Sansa voiced: “May I
retreat, please? I... I feel unwell.” Lord Stark rose and was at her side in an
instant. He put his hand on her forehead in an affectionate manner and said:
“Yes, of course you may, girl. Would you like to have Lady in your room
tonight? Since the king is gone we won't lock her up in the Godswood any
longer.”
On hearing that, Rickon demanded for Shaggydog, his own direwolf, Arya asked
for Nymeria and Bran, the second youngest son, for Summer.
Lady Catelyn threw her hands in the air, but Eddard Stark said: “Yes, you may.
If we had not locked them up, all of this wouldn't have happened.”
Sandor, being insecure about how to react, stood up and offered his arm: “Then
I will lead you to your room, milady, and on our way we will get your wolf.”
Lord Stark snorted angrily, but didn't interject.
Sansa clasped Sandor's arm gingerly and off they went. The Hound knew that they
would have adjacent, but separate rooms, which he clearly welcomed. Silently,
they went to the Godswood, opened the gates, and Sansa whistled. At once, a
huge yellow-furred flash flew at the girl, yipping happily. It was then that
Sandor heard Sansa laugh for the first time. What an incredibly sweet sound!
Well, most likely he himself would never be granted with it, but it was good to
know that there was at least a tiny measure of happiness left in her.
After some giddy moments between the girl and her pet animal, Sansa became
serious again and said to Lady: “Now look who has come to get to know you. This
is... my... husband. You see... my mate. We are... pack now.”
The wolf stopped short and cocked her head, visibly confused, as if she doubted
her mistress's piece of information and wanted to ask: “What, him?”
Grandson of a knighted kennelmaster that he was, Sandor went on one knee and
rasped soothingly: “Hello Lady! What a beautiful animal you are! All soft fur
and such a loyal friend. Did I hear your voice some nights ago? You wanted to
help Sansa and you couldn't, because you were locked up? I see. Oh, but I wish
you had been free – whatever it would have meant for me.”
The big animal crept closer and Sandor held out his hand. Either it would be
bitten or licked now, at least from what he knew about dogs. Lady sniffed at
his big hand. Then, she looked up at Sansa and whined a little, undecided. So
the girl repeated: “He is pack now. Like Maester Luwin. Or Nan. Just... erm...
a little closer. Mate.”
Lady sniffed again – and then she licked Sandor's hand, came closer and allowed
him to ruffle her fur a little bit. Sandor smiled involuntarily and did not
even remember when he had smiled last.
“Must have been quite a few months”, he thought to himself.
After that, they walked back to the castle and to their rooms and they were
both a little less tense than before. At their doors, he wished her a good
night in his gentlest rumbling tone and entered his own room. So, what now? He
ached for a decent flagon of Dornish red, but at the same time, he did not want
to drink himself into a stupor; he just had to keep in mind what his last booze
had led up to. So he threw himself on the bed and looked at the ceiling,
hopeless about his dire new way of life.
Somehow, Eddard Stark's words crept back to him: “You could take full charge of
what has happened to my daughter... I'll need good fortifications for my
family... you are one of the fiercest and most capable fighters in Westeros...
the question is if I can afford to cast a warrior like you aside.”
Sandor felt bitter. Yes. This is what he was. A sword. Just a fucking sword.
The Warrior come to life, if you believed some babbling superstitious fools.
But there was one thing he could and would do: He would take care of Sansa.
Sansa Clegane. It was the least he owed her. He could never hope to make her
happy, but he would cause her as little further pain as possible and keep her
safe. It took him some hours, but then, the Hound drifted off in an uneasy
sleep.
 
 
The next morning, Sandor awoke at an early hour, as he was wont to do from his
time as a soldier and a sworn shield. Next door, everything was still quiet. So
he had a piss in the privy, washed himself hastily with cold water from a bowl,
put on new clothes and went down.
Servants were already bustling around; after all, it was the day when Lord
Stark wanted to depart for Kings Landing, and a lot of things had to be packed.
In the hall, the Warden of the North was already breaking his fast.
Sandor bowed as was his duty to his superior and then spoke: “May I ask you a
favour, Lord Stark?”
The Master of Winterfell blinked and retorted: “WHAT?”
Sandor cleared his throat and said: “I still have got some private belongings
in Kings Landing. And a little money. It would be generous, if you could send
these things north.”
“Ah, yes”, Lord Eddard grumbled, “it shall be done.”
A pause.
“Clegane.”
“Yes?”
“When I'm gone you will take good care of her. Of her and the others, if
necessary. If you don't I will chase and rip you to pieces, even if it meant I
had to rise from an early grave, mark my words.”
“I have never made a vow before, lest to be known for an oathbreaker. I hate
vows. And yet, I made one when I married your daughter yesterday. I was already
deadly serious about it then. No need to remind me.”
“Good for you.”
 
 
No more words were exchanged while the two of them were eating. Afterwards,
Sandor headed for the armoury and prepared himself for some military practise
in the training yard. The place was empty, so he went for some straw-filled
dummies with his sword and hacked at them with the ordinary Hound's ferocity. A
few soldiers passed by, but they retreated to the practise hall rather than
joining him outside. They had obviously heard of his atrocities and didn't
accept him. Little fuckers, shitting themselves with fear. He could tear them
all to shreds in the blink of an eye. Even his lady wife had more courage than
them. At least, she dared to face him.
Sansa. Sandor stopped, panting. He was doing this for her and he would endure
all animosities for her. When he looked around, he saw Lady on the other side
of the fence that was encircling the training yard. She was sitting there
calmly, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.
“Oi! Who's there?” he lured her to him. “Come here, Lady, come! Tell me,
where's you mistress?”
The direwolf came closer, this time willingly, and let herself be patted by the
big man that seemingly was now connected to the family. She even made some
small happy yipping sounds when Sandor ruffled her fur like he had done the
evening before.
One moment later, this was accompanied by another wolfish noise. A big, much
darker animal appeared at the corner of the building with the armoury and
sprinted to his fellow.
“And who is this?” Sandor wanted to know. “What a big, strong animal you are!
When you're grown up you'll be a true master of the wild here.”
The male wolf approached Sandor without hesitation and pushed his snout right
into the Hound's private parts so that he landed on his bottom.
“Ouch! You're a really ferocious one. Please leave my balls intact, even if I
don't mean to use them for a while! I wonder who your master is. Rickon or
Arya?”
Sandor got his answer at once, for little Rickon came spinning around the
corner and crowed merrily: “Gotcha, Shaggy! Next time, you have to look for
me!”
Rickon arrived at the fence, stopped, looked at Sandor's mutilated face without
flinching, furrowed his brow and said: “I know you. You're that man, Clegane.
They call you “the Hound”. You hurt Sansa, and now you're married.”
Sandor was still slumped on the ground and grumbled: “Aye, that sums it up
quite nicely. You're a clever one.”
Rickon beamed at him, then scratched his head and inquired: “No, I'm not
clever. I don't understand. I mean – why do you hurt my sister, everybody is
soooo angry with you – and you and her get married? That's weird.”
Sandor sniggered darkly and answered: “And I still think you're clever. Do you
remember Prince Tommen, King Robert's youngest son? He's older than you and
wouldn't be intelligent enough to think about these things. And your question
really isn't stupid, you see. I'm a grown man and even I don't know the answer.
I didn't mean to hurt her and I think I married your sister so that she won't
be hurt again. I'm a good warrior and can protect her, you know.”
Now, Rickon looked positively mesmerized. “Oooooh, yes, I see. Can you show me
how to hold a sword? I want to become a warrior, too!”
Sandor chuckled again and rumbled: “Then go and get yourself a wooden sword.”
“Yeaaaah!” Rickon shouted, made three running strides, then came to an abrupt
halt and giggled: “Oh, and you're right. This Prince Tommen was really daft.
Always wanted to see if we had some kittens. How boring! Wolves are so much
better!”
He couldn't help it – Sandor had to bark with glee and thought: “Looks as if
you've made your first friend amongst the Starks.”
Two minutes later, Rickon was back, dragging a wooden sword after him that was
quite big and heavy for him, but that didn't seem to discourage him. The wolves
were watching intently.
Sandor used the moment and asked the little boy: “Have you already seen Sansa
today?”
“No.”
“Then... what do you think about her? Is she getting better after... having
been hurt?”
“Yeah, I think so. She was worse when Prince Joffrey said these nasty things to
her. She was weeping like mad. I'm happy that YOU married her and not him.
Yesterday, she was... don't know... calm. Not really happy, but okay.”
Sandor stiffened.
“Nasty things? What nasty things?”
“Don't know. Wasn't there when it happened. Ask her. There she's coming.”
The Hound spun on his heels to see his young bride from a distance, walking
right in their direction. At the same time he remembered the words she had said
during their meeting in the cell: “Then I'm not a heap of... tainted shit. I
can have children. And I don't have to marry Ramsay Bolton.” At least the first
sentence sounded just like stupid Joffrey when he was able to harry someone,
and probably he had also said something about the rest. Cursed little bugger.
If only he could he would strangle him slowly until he was turning blue and not
feel sorry in the least.
 
 
“RICKON!” Sansa shouted. “Rickon, the septa is looking for you, and Old Nan and
and mother, too. You must have a bath! Father is leaving today, and you must be
clean for the farewell.”
The little boy panicked and hid behind Sandor, but there was no escape, of
course. When Sansa arrived she only hesitated for a moment, blushed, then
grabbed around her husband and got hold of her brother.
The latter one wasn't amused and wailed: “No! No! No bath! I will eat my plate
today. You can lock me up in the study with Maester Luwin. But PLEASE no bath!”
At that point, Sandor interfered: “Rickon, listen. A good warrior isn't afraid
of anything. Not even of a bath. He can endure any hardship.”
The boy looked at him, tears and snot already streaming down his face, and
hiccuped: “Will you have a bath, too?”
“Why, yes, of course! I've been practising for a while and I'm sweaty and
smelly like the fur of a damp wolf. So I have to be very brave and face the
bathtub now.”
“Then I'll try to be brave, too. I only hope that Old Nan won't scrub my back
too heavily. Will Sansa scrub your back? She's gentler.”
Sandor had certainly never been a blushing one, but suddenly, he felt his neck
and good cheek take on another colour.
Sansa wasn't faring any better, so he intervened hastily: “No that's not
necessary. I'm a grown man and I've got longer arms, which is why I can use a
brush myself. See?” He held out his arms to demonstrate his point. Rickon took
a good look at him, furrowed his brow again and stated: “Yeah, you've got
longer arms – but you've got a longer back, too.”
This left Sandor dumbfounded.
“What a clever rascal”, he had to admit to himself. Suddenly, there was a
subdued giggle. Sansa had turned deep scarlet now, but even she couldn't deny
her little brother's presence of mind. So she stated: “That may be true, but
you're the one who will be putting up more resistance, so I'm taking YOU with
me now. And if you're a good boy during the bath... my lord husband will train
you again tomorrow.”
Sandor nodded gratefully, although he corrected vehemently: “I'm no lord!”, and
off they went, the wolves following them in their wake.
 
 
The farewell of Lord Eddard Stark turned out to be very emotional, of course.
Lots of hugging, kissing and good advice. Lady Catelyn looked especially
gloomy. These days weren't easy for her and probably she was also beset by some
dark premonitions. The girls were weeping, even feral Arya, while Rickon didn't
really understand what was going on, and the other boys – including Theon
Greyjoy – pretended to be stoic men. Robb and his father clapped each other on
the shoulder. The lad promised he would take good care of the castle. Jon
Snow's farewell had a double meaning since he was about to take his leave for
the Wall the following day and it was surprisingly intense. At least Sandor
thought so, because in the south bastards didn't receive much attention, let
alone fatherly love. Actually, the lad was treated more affectionately than he
himself had been by his own father.
Sandor was towering in the second row and didn't take an active role. The
Warden of the North had told him everything there was to know, and that was it.
Sansa was upset, but the Starks were consoling each other, which was good,
because he absolutely didn't have a clue about how to soothe a highborn girl
aged twelve, even if she had wanted any comfort from him.
After Lord Eddard's entourage had trotted out of the castle everyone's mood was
low. Since the Hound didn't want to attract any more attention than necessary
he harnessed and saddled Stranger and left for a tour around the castle. The
huge stable boy named Hodor, who even matched him in size, was mentally
retarded and could only say his name, but he was friendly enough and had taken
good care of his usually foul-tempered courser so that it turned out to be an
easy ride.
When Sandor came back some hours later he encountered a far less agreeable Robb
Stark.
The young wolf snarled: “Where have you been, Dog? Spying for the Lannisters?
Why don't you take that big, black horse of yours, leave for the Wall and get
yourself properly killed by a wildling so that Sansa can marry a fitting lord?”
Anger flared up in Sandor like a searing flame, but he controlled himself the
way he had done all those years in service as the Lannisters' sworn shield.
He answered: “I'm no spy, believe it or not, young wolf. And I'm here and I'll
stay here, because your father had different plans for me.”
“Do you take me for a simpleton?” Robb hissed and their conversation would have
inevitably turned even more spiteful, if Sansa had not shown up in that very
instant.
“Robb! Leave him be! You know what father told you”, she pleaded, and only then
the deputy lord seemed to relent.
So Sandor bowed to her stiffly and grumbled: “Thank you, milady. I'm back at my
room now, if anybody wants to know.”
And then he strutted away.
 
 
The following days continued to be complicated, even more so after Jon Snow's
departure. Not one single soldier wanted to train with the Hound. At least,
there were the Stark children and their wolves. Somehow, Sandor started to
really appreciate them.
Rickon came to the training yard whenever he could escape his septa or his
nursemaid. Soon, he was accompanied by Arya and her direwolf Nymeria. The girl
wasn't as forgiving as her little brother and often shot him dark glances, but
she also wanted to learn how to wield a sword, and that softened her up after a
while. The next ones to attend the fighting lessons were Bran and his pet
Summer. The boy had a good eye and he was lithe at the same time, so Sandor
decided that a bow and daggers or stilettos were the best weapons for him.
Lady was often present, too, though Sansa remained in the house.
Once, Arya confided in him: “She does all these lady things. Don't ask me why,
I simply can't stand stitching and sewing, but she's delighted about it.”
“Ah. Okay. Erm... I've got a question. Has she changed a lot after... we got to
know each other?” “After you disgraced her, you mean?”
Arya retorted bluntly and mercilessly.
“Well... yes.”
“She's not as air-headed as she used to be. For me, she's easier to handle now,
but somehow, she's... remote, too, if you get what I mean. She's not easy to
read any longer.”
Sandor understood exactly. He and Sansa didn't have much contact and talked
even less. Perhaps he should have done something about it, but he wouldn't have
known how.
 
 
After his talk with Arya Sandor noticed that he had changed, too. In Kings
Landing, he had been more ruthless. And ever since the catastrophe with Sansa
he had been incapable of drinking alcohol... and of having an erection. It was
so strange – he felt dead and guilty, but at the same time more alive than ever
before in his life. Normally, he would have never brooded on it, but during his
sober waking hours in bed he often thought that Sansa's chaste little kiss had
something to do with it, too. Well, it was all a horrible mess, that much was
clear.
 
 
The next conflict arose when Robb found out what the children were doing in the
training yard – and with whom. During supper he rose from the table and
snarled: “Clegane! You will keep your dirty hands off my brothers and sisters.
You won't teach them how to fight any longer, understood?” Before Sandor could
react, Arya cried: “But it's good if you know how to defend yourself. Please,
don't forbid it!”
Lady Catelyn tut-tutted: “No, Arya, Robb is right, especially with regard to
you. You are a girl and you have to become a lady – and not a brigand.”
Sansa had not participated in the discussion, but suddenly, she said: “Let her
be trained. If I had known how to defend myself I would not have been caught
that night. Perhaps I would have been less like a perfect lady, but I would not
have been disgraced.”
There was utter silence at the table. They didn't discuss the topic any
further, and when the children turned up at the training yard again the next
day, Robb accepted it grudgingly, but wordlessly.
 
 
Another week went by. Then, a raven arrived with a message.
“Dark wings, dark words”, it was said. And it turned out to be true. Lady
Catelyn learned that her father, Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, had fallen
seriously ill and that he wouldn't survive the next few months.
This gave Lady Catelyn ample reason to plan a trip to her old home in the
Riverlands. Without her lord husband she didn't feel well in Winterfell anyway.
When she announced her upcoming voyage Lady Sansa asked: “Could I come along
with you? I barely remember grandfather, and I would like to see him, too,
before he passes away.”
Arya, sensing an adventure, peeped in: “Oh yes, me too, me too! And Sandor
could protect us on our way. He knows the route.”
At first, Lady Catelyn was unwilling, but then she gave in and the Hound
thought: “She thinks that it's better, if I'm not in Winterfell any longer.
Very well, I certainly won't complain.”
He only felt sorry to leave the little boys behind. Especially for Rickon it
would be hard, but it couldn't be helped.
 
 
Only a few days later, another entourage made its way out of the castle gates.
Traveling was slow as usual, but it was a fine – though cold – day and Stranger
was eager to bridge a good distance. In the evening, camp was made. To his
utmost surprise Sandor found out that he was meant to share a tent with Sansa.
“After all, you're married and we simply don't have enough space to keep you
separate. But I warn you: Keep your dirty hands off her!” Lady Catelyn pointed
out with as much venom in her voice as she could muster.
After nightfall, he crept into their tent. Sansa was already there, waiting in
her nightshift – and seemingly afraid of what was to come.
So Sandor just took off his armour, threw himself on their cot, which was
markedly better than the usual soldiers' sleeping bags on the floor, and
rumbled: “Just go to sleep, little wife, I have no lecherous intentions. Good
night!”
He himself was sound asleep at once.
When he awoke the next morning, he had a warm and extremely comfortable
feeling. It was peaceful and sweet like nothing he had ever experienced. Only
then did he notice a body against his own. He opened his eyes and couldn't
believe what he saw: in her sleep Sansa had nestled herself flush against his
chest and had even thrown an arm around his waist. Her scent engulfed him and
her auburn locks were soft on his skin where his shirt opened at the neck.
Sandor's heart started to gallop. Fuck the Seven! What should he do without
waking and shocking her? She was clinging to him in such a way that he could
not simply disentangle himself.
At last, he gave up and whispered: “Sansa! Good morning, little wife. Wake up!”
She reacted, uttered a relaxed, humming “mmmmmmmmmm”, moved a little so that
her mouth and her breathing suddenly touched his skin where her hair had been
before – and slumbered happily on.
Sandor swallowed hard. His wife's closeness was simply too wonderful for him.
Of course, he didn't mean to sleep with her (and his cock was still mercifully
limp), but he a was like a starving man. Only that he wasn't in need of food,
but in need of tender touches.
“You must be having a damned good time down there, sweetheart”, he thought to
her.
Then, he tried again, this time a little louder: “Sansa! Come on, wake up!”
At last, he seemed to have some effect: The girl winced, suddenly opened her
eyes wide and sat bolt upright.
“What is it?” she breathed, afraid and confused as if she had made some mistake
without knowing what it was.
“Calm down, calm down, nothing's amiss, lass”, he grumbled irritatedly. Of
course, it wasn't to be expected that Sansa would stay relaxed around him once
she was awake, but it still irked and even hurt him more than he would ever
have admitted.
“Oh”, she puffed slightly and, on remembering her courtesies, she added as an
afterthought: “Good morning, my lord husband.”
For Sandor, this was the last straw.
He saw red and snarled: “I'm not a lord – how often do I have to tell you?”
Sansa ducked. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean to upset
you”, she wept.
Sandor, still cross with her, answered: “I know you didn't mean to. If you had
meant to I would have already dealt with you differently. Just remember I'm no
lord, will you?”
The girl sniffed and dried her tears. Outside the tent the camp slowly started
to bustle with life. There was the neighing of horses, footsteps and the clank
and rustle of metal and other materials.
The Hound donned his armour, which wasn't so easy, considering the manifold
buckles and clasps.
“Should... should I help you?” he heard Sansa from behind his back.
Knowing that he had already given her too bitter a taste of his hellish temper
for the day he responded: “If necessary I can manage without any help. Only if
you don't mind...?”
It took Sansa a moment to decide, but finally, she stepped up to him and
started to assist in fastening the armour. They were both treating each other
as carefully as a raw egg now. Sandor wondered if it would always be like that
between them.
***** Chapter 2 *****
The remainder of the trip to Riverrun was more or less uneventful. The girls'
direwolves were happily running along, sniffing here and there and sometimes
even catching a hare or a squirrel, and after some days, the horses grew
accustomed to the constant smell of the furred predators. The Hound often
volunteered for the vigil and slept in his saddle at daytime. A few times,
there even was an inn to stay in for the night and to get some good food.
When Sandor shared a tent with Sansa, he usually waited to enter until she was
sound asleep. Even so, it happened again and again that he found her curled up
against him when he awoke. They both explained it by her looking subconsciously
for a heat source. She would always be startled when he woke her, but the big
warrior suppressed his anger as best he could and only allowed himself some
discomfiting grunts.
 
 
Finally, they arrived at Riverrun. The drawbridge had been lowered and the
party was already awaited by the inhabitants. Amongst others, there were
Brynden Tully, the so-called and renowned “Blackfish”, and Edmure Tully, Lady
Catelyn's younger brother. The women were welcomed most cordially, and Arya and
the Blackfish seemingly took to each other at once. Small wonder, being both so
sly.
The infamous Hound, however, only received murderous stares from the others.
Well, what else should he have expected? At Lady Catelyn's request Sansa and
Sandor were given separate rooms again.
Later in the evening, there was an opulent welcome feast. After all the
traveling Sandor felt a hearty appetite and helped himself to several portions
of smoked trout, roast duck, braised meat, sausages, mashed yellow turnips,
peas, garlicky mushrooms and a tasty dish consisting of spelt, mixed with
poached eggs, various herbs and bacon. This had a positive effect on his mood,
and the fact that Sansa next to him did more than just nibble at her food
listlessly – in fact, she enjoyed the dessert most: lemoncakes – improved it
further. They even exchanged a bit of small-talk amongst each other. It was
almost possible to ignore the remaining hostility from the others.
 
After two or three hours, room was made for music and dancing by putting the
tables aside. Sandor backed off from habit.
Edmure Tully approached Sansa and asked her gently: “Sweet niece of mine, will
you grant me a dance?”
And suddenly, Sansa's eyes were sparkling in a way they had not done since the
reception of the royal family back in Winterfell. Sandor was happy to see her
so lively again, but also disappointed that he hadn't been able to elicit such
a heartwarming reaction from her.
Eagerly, the girl chirped: “Oh yes, uncle, I'd love to dance with you! This
will be great fun. You'll get the second dance, right after the first one with
my...” Suddenly she tripped over her tongue, blushed and whispered: “... my
husband.”
Sandor's eyes went big as saucers and he stared at her, thunderstruck. Never
before had he danced, nobody had ever even wanted to dance with him, him, the
ugly, big brute – and out of the blue came his strange little wife and assumed
as if it was the most natural thing in the world that he as her husband should
have the first dance!
Oh, he was by no means the only one who was gaping.
Edmure fucking Tully was clearly putting her down as mentally deranged, but
after a moment, he forced a smile and managed to say: “Right. I'm looking
forward to it.”
A heartbeat later, Sansa took Sandor's sleeve and drew him to where the first
dancers were already taking up position. The big warrior felt unbelievably
exposed and completely at a loss. At least, Lady Catelyn could see from her
daughter's behaviour and his own face that it wasn't him who had taken the
initiative.
“Sansa”, he whispered, “I'm like a block of wood. I... I will tread on your
pretty little feet!” But Sansa was so excited that she played the giddy goat
and giggled: “Then my feet will be grown up before the rest of my body!”
“How can she do this? Be like this?” Sandor asked himself, puzzled.
And then the music started. As a sworn shield, Sandor had always observed the
dances and knew the turns and movements theoretically, but in reality, it was
far more difficult than he thought. He stepped on Sansa's toes several times so
that she bit her lips and he got more and more jittery. The fact that some
people sneered at his poor efforts didn't improve the situation at all.
As soon as the music stopped, Sandor hastened back to the wall like a haunted
kudu.
Sansa followed him with flushed cheeks, but she wasn't deterred at all, for she
smiled encouragingly: “Well, after all, it was our very first dance and you're
so much taller; we simply have to align and to practise a little bit, then
it'll work just fine. Good. Uncle Edmure is waiting for me. See you later!”
And off she flew to her next dancing partner like a bird.
Practise dancing. Seven. Fucking. Hells.
 
 
Sandor felt himself so much out of place that he retreated further and further
into the shadows until he disappeared in an alcove. Only then could he relax a
little bit although he still didn't know what to think.
After a while, he suddenly discerned Lady Catelyn's voice somewhere near: “...
has he arrived safely in Kings Landing, thank the Seven. When did the raven
arrive?”
“Only this morning.” Ah. The Blackfish.
“I see. Let's prey that he won't come to harm. Ever since the king asked him to
become his Hand he has been well beside himself.”
“Does this also explain his folly in marrying your precious daughter off to
that rabid Lannister Dog?”
“Nothing could ever explain that, and although I love Ned with all my heart I
don't know how to forgive him this mad act. My sweet Sansa! Violated,
disgraced, shattered forever. And what does Ned do? Thinks like a cursed
wildling and leaves her to the one who took his daughter away. Have you seen
the two of them on the dance-floor?”
“How could I not, Cat? What a sorry sight. But please tell me... I mean... it
is absolutely unbelievable and outrageous... but the way she reacted – is she
growing fond of that damned Dog?”
“Not as long as I draw breath, I swear to you! Still, she is so strange
nowadays. I asked her about the... the rape... the wedding... about how she
feels. Mind you, all of her radiant dreams of a good match have been wrecked
and she has to cope with this monster every single day. Do you know what she
answered? “Old Nan said one should not cry over spilled milk and make the best
of it. So I will forgive him – and the more I get to know him the more I can
see the man beneath the Hound.” I say – can you believe this? She is so broken
that she has no strength left to hate her tormentor.”
“Poor soul. Such a great and gentle heart.”
“Yes. What a perfect lady she would have been.”
“Oh, she still is and she will be even more so. By the way, has she already
seen her grandfather? Have you visited your father?”
“Sansa, no. Me, yes. I went there directly after our arrival. It saddens my
heart to see him so. He was always such an upright, strong man.”
“You look like you could make good use of a glass of wine now.”
“Thank you, Brynden, you're so very attentive. Now, tomorrow...”
 
 
The voices grew faint and finally died away. Sandor was still standing in the
alcove. Heartbroken. He had killed so many people ever since he had been
Sansa's age and had always successfully stifled any bad conscience – but it was
this singular calamity with Sansa that undid him. No, both of them. After all,
it was her who was the victim.
And his little, angelic wife? She was so noble, so full of magnanimity. He'd
cherish her henceforth, wait on her hand and foot and die while trying, if
necessary.
 
 
The next day revealed that the training situation was worse for the Hound than
it had been in Winterfell. Not only did no-one want to train with him – he was
forbidden to enter the training yard and Arya should be taught by the Blackfish
himself.
Sandor ground his teeth and then turned to the stables. He decided to ride out
with Stranger, even though it was still so early. Suddenly, Lady was at his
side and looked up at him.
“Wanna come along?” The direwolf yipped her approval. So they started.
The first light of day streamed through the trees. Man, horse and wolf were
happy enough and enjoyed their time while rushing over the sweet grass. After
an hour or so, Sandor arrived at the banks of a little river. It was a peaceful
place and Lady showed her inclination for swimming by jumping into the water
like a whirlwind.
Sandor barked with laughter, dismounted and shouted above the splashing sounds:
“Not a bad idea! Not a bad idea at all. Wait! I'm joining you.”
Without further ado he peeled off his mail shirt, the shirt underneath it, his
boots, his breeches and his smallclothes. Naked as his nameday he followed the
direwolf into the icy water. He howled and laughed at the same time and
spattered Lady like a rackety little boy. After a few minutes, the river became
rather freezing; the wolf scrambled back onto the bank and shook out its wet
fur. Sandor trailed after it and shook himself in quite the same way. When he
focused again, he suddenly noticed that the direwolf was staring at him.
“Lady, what is it?”
The animal made a tiny squeaking sound. Sandor was worried and wanted to
approach it, but the wolf backed away a little bit without ever taking its eyes
off him.
“Lady, damn, what's wrong with you? You look as if you'd never seen me before.”
The wolf put its tail between the legs, then turned around and ran away as if
haunted by the Others. Sandor was bewildered and looked about himself. Was
there a danger he hadn't noticed? Hmm. Stranger was absolutely relaxed. Still,
the Hound donned his clothes and armour quickly and returned to the castle.
When he returned he crossed Nymeria's and Arya's way. Both greeted him as
usual, and nothing seemed to be amiss.
“Have you already seen Sansa or Lady today?” Sandor inquired.
“Aye. Lady came back about fifteen minutes before you and Sansa has just
risen.”
“Are they okay?”
Arya gave her brother-in-law a startled look.
“I think so. What's up?”
“Don't know. Lady was accompanying me, but suddenly, she was afraid of me and
ran away.”
“WHAT? What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. I swear, for fuck's sake.”
“Well, then let's go and check on the two of them.”
They dashed in and went upstairs to Sansa's room. Sandor knocked wildly.
“Who's there?” Sansa peeped from inside.
“It's me and Arya. Is everything okay with you?”
“Yes, yes.”
“She sounds nervous”, Sandor murmured to Arya. “You're her sister. Go in and
have a second look.”
The younger Stark girl nodded fervently, opened the door and slipped in. Sandor
waited in the corridor with Nymeria. Suddenly, Lady turned the corner. When she
saw Sandor – she sauntered closer, her tongue lolling out. No trace of strange
behaviour. The Hound was nonplussed.
Then, the door cracked open again a little bit, both direwolves slipped in and
Arya peeked out.
“She's a little agitated. Has had a nightmare, as far as I've understood. Could
have something to do with your first encounter.”
Sandor shot Arya an abashed look and then looked down at his feet.
“Oh, then I'm sorry I have intruded upon her. Please... calm her down, if you
can.”
 
 
Sandor was devastated. He stumbled downstairs into the hall. When Lady Catelyn
saw him there and came into his direction he thought that his day couldn't
become any worse.
“Clegane. I have to talk to you”, she stated in her curt way.
“Milady.”
“Yesterday, there was a raven from my husband. From Kings Landing. He has
arrived and King Robert wanted a tournament held in his name. It has already
taken place. Do you know who won it?”
“How could I?”
“Don't be so sniffy. Well, I'll tell you. It was your brother, Ser Gregor.”
Sandor blinked.
“So?”
“This morning, there was another raven with more information. Ser Gregor was
dismounted by Ser Loras Tyrell during the jousting, but then, he decapitated
his horse with a single stroke of his sword, tore Ser Loras off his destrier
and did the same to him.”
Fuck. Sandor went pale.
“Now”, Lady Stark went on in a condescending tone, “it looks as if I have to
congratulate you.”
Congratulate? What on earth...? Whoa, this day was driving him mad.
“Well, Clegane, your brother was found the next morning. He was feathered with
the gibs of a crossbow. Someone clearly didn't like the slaughter of Ser Loras
– be it his lover Prince Renly or be it the Tyrells themselves. Whoever it was,
the outcome is most relevant for you since your brother had no official heir.
King Robert has already confirmed that you have inherited Clegane Keep with its
lands around it, the forty thousand Gold Dragons that your brother won in the
tournament – and the Lordship.”
 
 
It turned out to be the first day since he had got to know Sansa that the Hound
got himself drunk. There was simply no other way for him of how to cope with
the new situation, especially since he was denied the training yard. He helped
himself to no less than three flagons of wine, retired to his room, lolled on
the bed and gobbled the alcohol down until he had to puke.
At some point, there was a knock on the door, but it was not answered, because
Sandor was just kneeling on the floor, holding his face over the chamber pot
and retching. A second knock, this time more urgent. Fuck the Seven, he wanted
to stay alone and drown in his misery.
The door creaked and opened, and an instant later, his little wife was at his
side. “Oh, Heavens!” she breathed.
“Feels more like the Seven Hells, I swear”, Sandor croaked. And puked again
with heaving spasms. There was a little commotion from Sansa for she was
fussing about the room. Then she came back with a wet cloth, and after a
moment's hesitation she started to wipe his face gently. Unluckily, the effect
was almost nonexistent, because Sandor emptied his stomach a third time right
afterwards. So Sansa had to repeat the action.
“Holy Mother, how could anybody drink so much? What did you think?”
“Didn't think. Milady.”
“Yes, I can see as much. It was all too much for you, wasn't it? Well. I just
wanted to condole you with your loss.”
Sandor blinked. He was utterly bewildered. Then, he pressed out a sound that
was a mad, barking laughter that blended into another fit of retching.
Sansa didn't know what to make of it, not until the Hound had recovered a
little bit and he spat out: “The world is a better one without my monstrous
brother Gregor. I only feel sorry that I couldn't floor him myself.”
“What!?” Sansa sounded aghast.
“Don't be so damned honourable”, Sandor snarled. “Guess who gave me my charming
looks. Gregor held my face to a scorching grille over a crackling fire back in
Clegane Keep when he was ten and I was five until my skin and my features
melted away. And do you know why? Just because I was playing with his thrice-
damned wooden knight. And my parents pretended my bedding had caught fire
instead of penalizing my brother. One year later, my elder sister died under
mysterious circumstances, and I'm pretty sure that he had more than one finger
in it. My mother, who had always been depressive, broke down and committed
suicide. Found her dangling from a beam, I did. When I was twelve, my brother
and my father rode out hunting, and some hours later Gregor came back with my
father's body. A so-called “accident”. Now, Clegane Keep had a new master, not
older than you today, but my brother was already as tall as me now and a
killing machine, and he was still growing. They started to call him “the
Mountain that rides”. I ran away to the Lannisters at once and took up service
with them. I could live in Casterly Rock, later in Kings Landing, but I saw my
brother again since he was working for this family, too. He even became a
knight. A fucking knight! Nobody cared about him being a monster. They needed
an efficient manslayer, and this is exactly what they got. And oh, you wouldn't
believe how many people he killed, I'd never be able to match his numbers
though I'm good at this kind of job, too. And how many people Gregor tortured –
he liked to torture others –, he married twice and made his wives dwindle away
like shadows in the sun; apart from them, he raped women by the dozens. If he
had found you in this bedroom back in Winterfell he...”
Even in his pissed state Sandor suddenly noticed that he should not go down
that road and say any more word. Sansa's face had turned into a mask during his
account, he realized. No wonder at all. He had recounted his nightmarish vita
and, in addition to that, his befuddled appearance and his – most likely
bloodshot – eyes had to be a further deterrent.
Crestfallen, he mumbled: “My descent. My family. My character. My looks. You
were never meant for me. You are so high above me. So good and sweet. A real
highborn lady. And now even more so. Now, you may truly “my-lord” me.” The
Hound snorted. Hiccuped.
For a moment, Sansa stood stock still. Then, she knelt down next to him and
faced him directly. Her eyes were unreadable. There was a tiny little twitch
around the corner of her mouth that mirrored his own. She took in a deep breath
and suddenly brought up her hand to cup his burned cheek. Never before had she
touched him like that, and he inclined his head instinctively.
“My Lord Sandor”, she whispered, and now a sad smile was playing around her
lips. Had he misheard? She couldn't have possibly called him by his first name,
could she?
Sansa went on: “You're looking at me like you did down in that cell in
Winterfell. I wonder if anybody else would ever look at me like that. But then
again, you're really not like other men. Now, it has become even more evident
to me than it was already before. What could I say to such a story?”
 
 
The melodramatic atmosphere was broken abruptly by Sandor feeling very dizzy.
Oh, if only he had not drunk so much! He cursed himself.
Sansa noticed and helped him to lie down on the bed, which turned out to be a
bit of a task, and his size and weight weren't any help here. The ceiling was
spinning above.
“Please remind me to keep away from the Dornish red”, he moaned.
His wife berated him gently: “In Kings Landing they've got a Master of the
Coin, I've heard. Well, you look as if you had been appointed Master of the
Bottles.”
Quite fittingly, Sandor hiccuped again at that and panted: “Better that than
master of the Coin. Do you know who that is? A man called Petyr Baelish. Was
your mother's admirer before she was married, so he wasn't successful. When
this damned Petyr smiles at you, you feel the need to go wash yourself
immediately.”
Sansa shuddered demonstratively and replied: “Well, that explains everything.
Mother is a refined woman. Okay, I will take your chamber pot now and empty
it.”
Sandor nodded and opened a button at the neck's opening of his shirt, because
breathing had become rather troublesome. Strangely enough, Sansa suddenly
stopped dead in her tracks and gazed at him. She turned a rich scarlet, and
Sandor rasped irritatedly: “What, girl? You already know I've got a bit of a
pelt on my chest from our mornings in the tent. Have I suddenly grown green
hair?”
That comment made Sansa giggle and blush even more, she shook her head
nervously, but didn't give an explanation and hurried out with the chamber pot,
although she could have emptied it in the adjoining privy easily enough.
So, Sandor was left to himself lying flat on his mattress. Silent. The very
short moment of tipsy frolicking gone. It had not happened since his childhood,
but he had to succumb to his emotions: Tears were streaming down his cheeks
until he fell asleep from drunk exhaustion.
 
 
He awoke in the evening, suffering from the mother of all hangovers.
Sansa and Arya were both present; the latter one dashed a new, wet cloth and a
phial of herbal-scented mouthwater into his lap and griped unpityingly: “Whoa,
you're smelling like a bear pit after a show fight. If you don't want to give
my sister another trauma you should better clean up the human mess generally
known as Sandor Clegane. Are you sure you haven't pissed yourself?”
With a moan the Hound addressed Sansa: “Is it just my addled senses, or does my
wording rub off on a certain Stark girl?”
Sansa puffed and blew and flushed anew, but she also managed to giggle: “You're
not referring to me, good LORD, are you? I mean... since I'm a Clegane now. But
then again, if you're relating your glorious insight to this plague called Arya
I'd like to give you a decent warning: she's as irritable as your big, black
horse, so do tread very lightly here.”
Sandor barked his dark, rich laughter, but had to moan again immediately. After
some moments, he was able to gather his wits once more and rasped: “So what did
Stranger exactly do in the meantime? Sounds as if he had a more pleasing day
than me.”
Arya responded nonchalantly: “Oh, I don't know what that devil did EXACTLY do.
You see, the stable boy wasn't willing to show me his bum, but he has been
heard calculating how many sausages your dear Stranger might account for.”
More laughter, followed by moans.
“Arya, you're really a hell of a wolf-bitch.”
“Was that meant to be a compliment?”
“Girl, I'm famous for my fucking exuberant gallantry all over Westeros.”
Another salve of guffawing from the three of them ensued. Then, Arya took her
leave and Sansa went to the kitchen and got Sandor some good, strong broth and
a bit of soft bread. While the Hound was trying to get it down – though he was
still feeling rather sick – Sansa stated: “It's strange. Some weeks ago your
jests would have filled me with indignation and I would have flown out of the
room with billowing skirts and an angry frown on my face. Like a true lady. And
now I suddenly have to actually hold my waist, because I can't stop laughing.”
“You're more charming when you're laughing, I can tell you. Natural poise is
better than being bumptious.”
Sansa gave her husband a honeyed smile. “Be careful. You're becoming really
gallant now.”
“Fuck the Seven.”
 
 
Another night's sleep did a lot for the Hound to recover. In the morning, he
went down for a light breakfast and made for the stables afterwards. He
intended to repeat his ride to the little river. The clean water would bring
him back to his old self; what's more, the swimming would be another good
physical exercise. He wasn't admitted to the training yard, so he needed to
keep fit with other kinds of practising.
Stranger was in a nasty mood. This simpleminded stable boy Hodor back in
Winterfell had exercised a somewhat softening influence on the courser – here,
it seemed to be just the other way round. The Hound had to avoid the big
horse's bites several times until he could mount the beast.
Out they went and Sandor made Stranger gallop so as to let him cool off the bad
temper. Actually, it was good for both of them. Later, they sought out the
little river and Sandor found a passage with deeper water so that he could
crawl his way up and down until he was panting.
All in all, man and horse were in a far more affable mood when they returned to
Riverrun. There, he chanced upon Sansa, who told him that she had visited her
grandfather and that the stories about old Hoster Tully being fatally ill were
anything but exaggerations.
“He's passed out from the seed of the poppy most of the time, otherwise he
couldn't stand the pain”, Sansa explained and added: “Mother is so upset, but
she tries to be strong. Uncle Edmure is not much of a help to console her. He
appears to be overstrained. You know Arya; blunt as she is she says he is
amiable enough, but a friendly character doesn't necessarily make you a
leader.”
“Your little sister is sometimes wise beyond her years”, Sandor muttered; as a
man who was barely tolerated within the castle walls he didn't want to say it
too loudly. So he also changed the subject and said: “By the way, little wife,
do they have a decent library here that I may use?”
Sansa was astonished, but answered readily: “Oh yes, that's no problem.” She
smiled. “I have already been there and found a nice book with a collection of
songs from the Riverlands. What are you looking for?”
Sandor shrugged and said: “Well, I have just inherited a run-down keep and some
land – perhaps I find some good advice of what to do with it. As a boy I
learned my letters and my numbers, but I was never prepared for a lordship.”
This caused Sansa to look at him approvingly and she chirped: “Oh, that is a
good idea! I have been taught how to organize the day-to-day work in a castle,
but I know nothing about bookkeeping and farming and such. Let me show you the
way to the library!”
“Fine. Oh, and Sansa.”
“Yes?”
“When you're rummaging through your book and you come across some nice ribald
tavern songs – do tell me. Would be a good change after reading about tillage.”
Sansa gave him a mock-indignated grin. “Now, that comment simply had to come
from you. Perhaps, if you behave, I'll even oblige and inform you.”
“Since when do I look like Rickon so that you dare drone on like that?” Sandor
teased her. And then something happened he would have never believed Sansa
might do: she pushed him with her elbow in an equally playful way.
“She's started to feel at ease in my presence”, he marveled.
***** Chapter 3 *****
In the evening, there was another lush supper and also some music. To Sandor it
looked as if the people in the castle needed to be cheered up in the face of
their dying lord. He allowed himself to relax a bit and the little wife at his
side was charming and helped to uphold the conversation. So did Arya in her own
way: she prattled on about what the Blackfish had been teaching her. After a
while, the young ladies retired for the night.
The Hound felt the tiniest whiff of a late appetite, so he decided to stay some
more minutes and to help himself to another fillet of smoked trout. While he
was munching the fish away contentedly, suddenly, he felt a soft hand at the
small of his back. He twitched, looked around and discovered an offensively
smiling woman with fair hair and a tan. Her frilled bodice was laced in such a
way that her teats were pushed up; they partly swelled above the neck-line.
“What a tall and strong man you are. Is everything about you so... enlarged?”
she purred in a most alluring manner.
“That's none of your business, wench”, he shot back.
The woman pouted: “Oh, why so distressed and vexed? I could cheer you up in no
time.”
She licked her lips provokingly.
Sandor rose to his feet in one smooth motion and towered above the whore. The
Hound's old burning anger was seething in his eyes.
Between gritted teeth he growled: “Piss. Off.”
The woman's eyes widened noticeably. She was experienced enough to know that
she would get into real danger, if she didn't disappear from sight at once. In
an instant, she was gone.
So was Sandor's appetite. He decided to retire at once. In the corridor, he
crossed buggering Edmure Tully's way.
“Hound! Why are you alone?”
“Did you send me that whore?”
“Yes. She's got quite a reputation here. Rather expensive. Thought you might
like her. You're an active man. So better let out your energy with her. NOT
with Sansa. Understood!?”
And then they stood nose to nose – or rather chin to nose – and Sandor stared
Edmure down in such a way that he left no doubt he was about to forget himself.
“Do you always act before you think or do you leave out thinking completely?”
he snarled with his voice like steel on stone.
“How dare you?” Edmure hissed back.
“I dare, because I might very well catch some illness with that whore and pass
it on to Sansa when she is old enough to bear children. Do you want that to
happen? Do you?”
Edmure blinked with a sudden understanding in his eyes. Yet, the man didn't
want to eat dirt.
So he shot Sandor another dark glance and said: “If you do that I'll kill you.”
Then, he strutted away with a snort and a stiff back.
Sandor shouted after him: “Happy trying!”
 
Back in his room he thrashed his fists against the walls until he heard a
questioning whine from Lady in the corridor.
Sandor opened the door and grumbled: “Oi! Not in your mistress's room? Wanna
sleep here?”
Lady yipped and trotted in. Sandor breathed deeply to calm himself down and
then started to stroke the direwolf's fur.
“I know Sansa likes to brush you, but I've only got my fingers now. Just need a
comb for the few strands of my own hair, you see.”
The wolf obviously didn't mind and was panting contentedly and showed its
widest grin.
“You've grown quite a bit since our first meeting, do you know that? No pup any
longer, I'd say. Won't be long until you'll be in heat for the first time.”
Lady's head snapped around and gazed at Sandor with a little whine that sounded
like a question. Sandor smiled despite himself.
“One might get the impression you understand every single word. Looks as if you
were indeed more intelligent than Edmure fucking Tully. Sending me a whore for
dinner – unbelievable, isn't it? As if I could betray your mistress. Would have
beaten his brains out, if I had thought there were any. Well, let's sleep now.
I'm dead tired after that thrice-damned argument in the corridor.”
Sandor went over to a big wooden chest and put his clothes there after taking
them off. When he turned around and faced the bedstead – Lady was lying on the
mattress, right on her back and spread-eagled. He sighed with a half-smile, the
corner of his mouth twitching.
“Wolf, I don't know, if you are allowed to sleep in Sansa's bed, but I will
have none of it. That place is reserved for your mistress.”
And without further ado he shoved the confused wolf off to the carpet. When he
blew out the last candle there was a little whining in the dark.
Now, Sandor was really annoyed after all that had happened in the evening:
“What? Afraid of the dark? You're a DIREWOLF for fuck's sake! And if I hear
another sound you can go sleep next to Stranger in the stables.” Silence.
“Fine. There's a good wolf. Sweet dreams.”
And then the Hound dozed off himself.
 
 
In the morning, Sandor was woken by a long, wet tongue, lapping right across
his garbled face.
“What the f...” he swore, but then, Lady interrupted him with a bark.
Suddenly, it dawned on him: “Need a piss, don't you? Right, give me a second.”
He rose, opened the door, and the direwolf dashed out like the yellow-furred
flash she was at times.
In Sansa's room there were already noises to be heard. So he sauntered over in
his rumpled shirt and breeches and knocked. A moment later, his wife opened and
looked up and down his tousled body.
“Morning”, he yawned and: “Lady has just stormed off to take a piss, if you're
looking for her. Slept in my room tonight. Was a bit of a pain in the ass. How
did you manage to spoil her so? Wanted to sleep in my bed, the giant fuzzball,
will you believe that?”
Sansa flushed a deep scarlet and stammered: “Perhaps she wanted to be warm.”
“Fuck the Seven,” Sandor interrupted, “she's a furred beast from the north;
normally, she would survive any winter in the wild without a single fire,
especially now that she's almost grown. Oh, and by the way: If she starts to
behave strangely she's likely to be in heat for the first time. Shouldn't be
long from now. Hope they've got some nice, big dogs or wolves here around
Riverrun to pleasure her. Well, at least she won't mate with her brothers, now
that we have left Winterfell.”
Sansa panted.
“Holy Mother! Why do you always have to be so rude?”
The Hound sighed: “Seven hells, girl, that's not uncommon amongst animals. And
by the way – it sometimes even happens amongst humans. The Targaryan family did
that for ages to keep their blood pure. Guess why these inbred bastards sired
so many madmen. And now, I tell you a little secret from Kings Landing. Do you
remember lovely Queen Cersei? She looks like a goddess, but she has a foul-
tempered bitch's character. The king and her, they hate each other. So, how
come that they have three children that are as Lannisterlike as possible with
their fair hair and elegant shapes – and their dubious biases? Because the
lioness likes to purr into another lion's fur. And who is that, I ask you? The
dwarf brother, Tyrion? Well, capable of fucking as he certainly is according to
the leagues of whores he's had – she despises him. No. She beds her twin
brother Jaime, the infamous man who slayed mad King Aerys.”
Sansa pressed her hand on her mouth and her eyes were as wide open and blue as
ever.
“No!” she breathed. “That's impossible! Absolutely impossible! And King Robert
would never accept any... bastards!”
“Well”, Sandor grumbled, “the old bear must have put his paw – and something
else – into Cersei's honey pot a few times so that he can make himself believe
the three were his own spawn.”
Suddenly, Sansa tugged at Sandor's sleeve and pulled him into her room. She was
frantic.
“Tell me that's not true! Why did you never say a single word? If that's no lie
the king must be told! It must be made public! The queen must be punished!”
Sandor could only laugh bitterly: “Now, you're being naive. First of all, the
king has been fornicating all over Westeros and has sired dozens of bastards
himself – though not in an incestuous relationship, that's true. Second, he
doesn't want to know the truth, because then, years and years of a horrible
marriage would have been all for naught. And third, the one who told him would
rather have his head on a spike than be welcomed or even rewarded. Especially,
if the king learned it from an unimportant, widely abhorred Hound. So don't
even think of telling anybody from your family, your father least of all. He is
such a damned honourable man that he would react just like you and his life
would be forfeit the same instant he had finished reading your letter.”
Sansa looked at Sandor, aghast. Then, she turned around, sat down on the edge
of her bed and looked very small and lost. Sandor moved over to her, suddenly
very self-aware, sat down next to her and mumbled: “Let me guess – I'm being a
brute again, right?”
His little wife nodded vigorously, but she also said: “Still, I can't begrudge
you. Even with your coarse words it still makes sense somehow. I really don't
know much about the world's mechanisms I fear.”
Mollified and shamed at the same time Sandor pressed out: “How could you, after
all? You're only twelve. I sometimes forget it, because you're so mature for
your age. Most of the time you simply don't look as if I was more than twice as
old as you.”
A smile spread across Sansa's face and she expressed something that made
Sandor's heart hammer away again: “I would have never believed it at the
beginning, but these days I prefer being married to you over being married to
Prince Joffrey. Sure, you can be obnoxious at times, but you're nice more often
than not. When I saw Prince Joffrey for the first time I thought him so
wonderful. I believed he'd be my true love. But then, one of his toadies – I
think he was mute – captured me and put me into your room. Afterwards, the
prince called me a piece of tainted shit. Him of all! What a hypocrite!”
“It was buggering Joffrey, who actually deceived me and said he had ordered a
whore for me. Hearing such words from a youngster, I didn't suspect an intrigue
like that, especially since though he is mean he's an oafish coward, too. And
you said that the other man was mute? Then it must have been Ser Ilyn Payne,
because he can't speak. But he is ruthless enough for such a task. He's the
king's hangman, you know.”
Sansa shivered and Sandor felt the urgent need to torment the shitstain of a
prince and this stupid sod Payne with red-hot iron pokers.
“I... I have got another question. I have never understood. Back in that
room... why didn't you put on any light and cut me loose at once? Even in the
dark you could see that I was tied and gagged.”
Sandor couldn't believe it. “Fuck, you still haven't been told what goes really
on in marriage bed – even after what has happened to you?”
Sansa was positively alarmed: “You mean... what you did to me wasn't all?”
This made Sandor jump to his feet, his anger burning again. Then he forced
himself to calm down, because he didn't want to frighten his little wife any
more. Pacing up and down, running his hand through the dark hair on the good
side of his face and his mouth twitching he realized that he had to explain
things. “Better use some decent language now”, he reminded himself. Fuck, he
wasn't a man of words, but he did try his very best and talked about male and
female bodies, arousal, of what he had intended to do with his finger, the
breaking of a maid's hymen, the temporary pain and the act itself. He went on,
stating that there were different tastes once you got accustomed to it.
“You see, some people are very creative and want to play different roles. Also
submissive ones with ties. Joffrey said to me the whore in my room wanted... to
do it like this. And I didn't want any light, because I don't like to show my
face.”
Sansa was flabbergasted, her mouth agape.
After a while of silence, she whispered: “And what does Joffrey like?”
“I'm not quite sure, if he is still a maid in the physical sense, but you can
already see that he likes to pester and to hassle and to victimize other
people. And I'm quite sure he shat himself with glee over the fantasy of me
scaring you to the bone.”
Sansa's face was even paler than usual.
“And my parents were willing to wed me off to him? Without even TELLING me what
was awaiting me? I would have died in a few months, I'm sure!”
“Once the king asked your father about the betrothal there was simply no choice
left. If your father had said no, it would have undone your complete family,
because King Robert would have neither understood nor forgiven. And highborn
girls are usually kept unknowing. It helps prove the innocence in the wedding
night, which is of utmost importance for some reason, to other men at least.
Apart from that – could you really have been prepared for whippings and the
Seven know what else? And would you have believed your mother if she had told
you that the golden prince might cause you harm? People see what they want to
see – until it is too late, I have already told you.”
Sandor could see that his little wife was musing things over. And that she was
unhappy, in spite or because of the dawning understanding he started to detect.
After a while Sansa asked: “Have you known many... whores?”
Sandor thought that a wife aged twelve should not feel the need to ask him
anything like that, but there he had it.
“No. Not many. A few. Women don't like my face, not even harlots.”
“What about the one last night?”
Sandor froze.
“Seven Hells! How do you know about last night?”
Sansa had switched from pale to scarlet again.
Sandor swore once more: “Fuck, I hate castle gossip! Hope you also heard I
didn't lay a hand on her. If you'll excuse me now. I have to go for a piss and
a shit and I think I need to break my fast somewhere in peace. Have a “nice”
day.”
And with those words the Hound stormed out of the room.
 
 
Later on, he called himself a bastard. How could he tell his wife about these
things and then run off and leave her alone to process the information? He had
fucked it up as usual.
But then, after supper, Arya whispered to him: “At last, now I understand what
those dogs and horses were doing back home in Winterfell. And Cory the basket
weaver and Dila the cook-maid in the stable.”
That made Sandor roar with laughter and relieved him at the same time, for he
could now see that Sansa was not alone with her new knowledge.
 
 
After a few days, they learned down in the hall that there were more bad news
from Kings Landing. Lord Eddard reported via raven that Prince Renly had
committed suicide.
Under his breath Sandor murmured into Sansa's ear: “Now, we have got two
choices. Either he was heartbroken after Ser Loras's death and he really killed
himself, or he died under false pretences. In the capital you never know. But
one thing is clear: The Tyrells had thought they'd have two feet in the door in
Kings Landing – and now they have none. Lady Margaery Tyrell was Renly's
fiancé, you see.”
Sansa frowned and whispered back: “But why should the prince be so heartbroken
about losing one of his knights, even if it might have been a good friend?”
A dark sigh. “Milady, they were more than just friends. Remember the bit about
having different tastes in bed?”
Sansa was puzzled. “But they were both men. How could they...?”
She flushed.
“Believe me, they could. But I don't think I should relate the details to you
just now. Edmure is throwing daggers at me with his eyes again, because he
thinks I'm about to gulp you down in one piece.”
 
 
The next two weeks were rather uneventful. Hoster Tully was worse every day,
that much was clear. Arya had many training lessons with Ser Brynden and Sandor
had to give it to the Blackfish that he knew how to deal with the little
hellion. He himself rode out in the mornings as usual and went swimming. More
and more often he also hacked at some saplings because he simply needed to
practise the movements with the sword, even if the tree couldn't fight back.
His relationship to Sansa had changed a little bit. He wouldn't have been able
to pinpoint it, but somehow there really seemed to be a bit of a joint basis
now. “Just as if we were becoming some sorts of friends”, he came to
understand. But how could a young lady like her and a man like him be friends?
In the evenings, they sometimes met in one of their rooms and talked about bits
and pieces with Lady at their feet.
Once, they accidentally fell asleep on Sandor's bed. It was all harmless
enough, but when Sansa emerged from his room the next morning there was a big
hullabaloo, and Lady Catelyn berated him like a clarion about the compliance of
the marriage contract and the consummation of the marriage.
Sandor saw red and hollered: “Damn me, I haven't fucked her, neither last night
nor on our way in the tent nor in Winterfell after our marriage. Didn't even
fondle her. There's absolutely nothing to complain about.”
“Oh yes, there is”, Lady Stark snapped. “Your very existence.”
Sandor hissed, barely suppressing a “thank you, the same to you”. He knew that
such a comment would only have backfired, and his situation was already dire
enough.
He continued to be impotent, too. A few times he tried to stroke himself half-
heartedly, but he could not even muster enough energy and need to intensify his
attempts. It was strange, but he kept telling himself that it was probably for
the best.
 
 
Then, two things happened. First, a chest arrived from Kings Landing. It
contained Sandor's belongings as well as Gregor's winnings from the tournament
and the Hound was very content that Lord Stark had kept his promise. Second,
there was a raven from the north with sad tidings: Benjen Stark, the Black Crow
that he had come to know and who he learned to have been the Lord Commander of
the Night's Watch, had gone missing behind the Wall.
Sansa was naturally upset on hearing this.
She also told her husband about an incident shortly before the arrival of King
Robert in Winterfell: “There was a deserter from the Night's Watch. When they
caught him he was more than half mad and even relieved to be executed. Father
took Bran along with him to witness his first beheading. Later, they told us
that the man had been gabbling about horrors on the other side of the Wall.
Undead people with unearthly blue eyes, lusting for the death of the living. At
that time, we discarded it as rubbish. But somehow I've come to think of it a
little differently.”
Sandor contemplated this and said: “Most things like these ARE simply rubbish
and you know that I'm neither a pious nor a superstitious man – but once in a
while there is also a grain of truth in such stories. Kingdoms have fallen
because people couldn't acknowledge that the unbelievable was happening. So at
least one should not forget this occurrence completely.”
Suddenly, Sansa flashed him a meaningful smile and stated: “It's good that I
can talk to you about these things.”
There was something in her voice that indicated that there was more to it, but
Sandor didn't want to press the matter, because he didn't feel comfortable
about it.
So, he switched the topic and began: “Sansa, we also have to talk about
something else. Right now, you're safe enough here in Riverrun. I mean to leave
you for a short while and to travel to Clegane Keep to set some things right.”
“What!?” Sansa shot back at him. “You want to leave me alone? But I want to get
to know your home, too!”
Sandor's heart hopped more than a little on hearing that, but he rasped: “No,
the keep isn't a good place for you. It is a gloomy place full of the ghosts of
dead people. Gregor has terrorized the people there and scared them out of
their wits. They also know me as the fierce, irascible person that I am. Which
means that they won't welcome their new master warmly. It wouldn't be safe for
you. Apart from that, Summer is coming to an end. Whatever there is left for
harvesting and pickling and conserving and repairing has to be done right now.”
“But I could help you! If I was at your side the people there might accept you
more easily.”
“That's sweet of you, but no. If you were two years older... maybe... maybe...
But you are still too young. The residents will only see the child in you and
think that another abominable Clegane has got another helpless victim to
tantalize. No. Oh, and the keep is too close to the Lannisters' homestead for
my taste. I don't want you to get into contact with them again. I'll need to go
to Lannisport and see if I find somebody, who is educated – and willing and
loyal – enough to work as my castellan when I leave again. No easy task. Not at
all. No, you will stay here and support and console your mother when your
grandfather dies. And it'll only be for a few weeks.”
Sansa actually hung her head. Sandor couldn't believe his eyes. She should be
rejoicing that she'd be free of her scarred, monstrous husband for a while!
“Must simply have experienced too many partings of late, that's why”, he
thought to himself.
 
 
The Tully spawn proved to be very distrustful when Sandor told them about his
plans. They clearly believed he wanted to contact the Lannisters – but at the
same time, they were only too happy to get rid of him, so they didn't deny him
his wish.
As a consequence, two days later he saddled Stranger, fastened his meager
belongings, too, and tugged his money under his cloak. It was a neutral cloak
with no emblem on it – his face was symbolic enough and he did not want to
herald his identity any more than necessary.
His courser was anticipating the voyage, swished his tail like mad and could
barely stand still. When the Hound was checking on the reigns and the stirrups
for a last time he suddenly heard a noise behind him. He turned around and
envisaged Sansa with Lady at her side. She stepped up to him.
“About to leave?” she asked.
“As you can see.”
Sansa bit her lip.
After a moment, she went on: “I've got something for you.”
She fumbled in a pocket and brought out a piece of cloth. Sandor grabbed and
unfolded it – and found out that it was a handkerchief with some embroidery.
“Look, I have stitched a dog on one corner and a wolf on the other. Do... do
you like it?”
Sandor was moved beyond words and he rumbled: “I've never had a single token
before, let alone one like this – and it is magnificent. Thank you so much.”
The Hound didn't know how to show his gratefulness. Hesitantly, he lifted his
hand and stroked her cheek with his thumb – all the while fearing she might
pull away from him. But she didn't... and even smiled sadly. She seemed to mull
something over.
“I... have something else for you. Would you bow and close your eyes, please?”
Curious, the Hound obeyed and waited for what was to come. Did she have some
sort of embroidered beret? Hopefully not, because he certainly didn't want to
look like a thrice-damned fop. Well, what else could she...
Sansa moved towards him. Suddenly, her arms sneaked around his neck, clasped
him, pulled him closer – and then she gave him a little kiss right on his
partly burned mouth. Since he had not been prepared for this it resembled a
little bump, but FUCK was it sweet! Sandor was surprised beyond words, couldn't
believe what had just happened. His heart was racing. They were in the yard!
They were to be seen by everyone!
He opened his eyes and saw that Sansa's face was a deep purple now.
“I thought”, she stammered, “that a wife should kiss her husband goodbye.”
With quite a husky voice, Sandor retorted: “That's true. It's just... bugger me
– why don't you hate me?”
“Can the answer wait until you come back?”
“I'm not known to be a patient man.”
“Good. Then it will speed you up.”
Sandor took his wife's chin with a big, calloused hand and lifted it. She
looked right up at him and into his eyes.
“I think I will need answers for more than one question, little wife. Until
then – take care.”
She nodded seriously, and he let go of her, mounted Stranger nodded at her
himself and sped out of the castle.
 
 
The Hound and his horse were loping down the Riverroad. After two or three
hours of relatively fair weather it started to cloud over. This wasn't too bad,
because a broiling sun on metal armoury could create the impression of being
cooked alive all too easily.
Still, Sandor didn't feel comfortable. Too many opposing emotions were jarring
inside of him. First, there was a strange relief of feeling free after weeks of
confinement. Second, there was the even stranger mix of joy and confusion about
Sansa's surprising kiss and embrace. And third, well... to be honest, he was
afraid of going home – there was no denying it.
He had not set foot into Clegane Keep after the age of twelve, but he
remembered the haunting horrors of the past as if it had only been the year
before. Facing the turmoil of battle was easy in contrast to that, he thought.
Sandor cursed himself an idiot for being so squishy about this. Suddenly, he
remembered a sentence some Braavosi, some Forel, had once said at court back in
Kings Landing, before the Hound's life had changed: “Fear cuts deeper than
swords.” He had to give it to the foreign little bugger – the sentence held
more than a little truth.
On the sixth afternoon of his trip he came into a little village. In a side
street, he found a shabby-looking inn; a big, tarnished sign of a beer mug was
hanging above the warped entrance. It reeked of a knaves' den. Quite literally,
for the stench emanating from the building was not really inviting. It smelled
of something like burned cabbage. All the better for the Hound. What he was
craving for was a decent jug of cheap alcohol and an equally reviving tavern
brawl. At least reviving for him, that was.
So he stepped in. Several coarse-looking people were squatted around a table at
the hearth while two or three had occupied a niche at the half-blinded window.
Behind the counter was an old, hoary crone with a huge belly and according
teats the size of udders. In fact, it was laughable how a large-size torso like
this could be carried by such stubby sticks called “legs”.
The woman looked at him with watery eyes and burred: “We've got no food today,
ser. Only drink. Want to have wine or beer? Got a nice, strong ale.”
“I'm no ser”, the Hound snarled back. “And do I look like I wanted something to
eat? Dornish sour, if you have any – or whatever kind of piss-poor wine you can
offer.”
The old hag didn't seem to be very impressed, because she just banged a bottle
and a tankard in front of him and rasped: “Looks as if you know how to open it,
I guess. So help yourself.”
In the meantime, the ragtag in the room had pricked their ears and shot the
sturdy, tall stranger in his armoury furtive glances. They were clearly
figuring out how many of them they would need to reach his pouch with the
money.
Sandor sat back with a gruff air, uncorked the flagon and set to drink after
having flung some old, grubby coppers right at the innkeeper’s face. In the
grimy guest room, there was not enough room to swing a cat by the tail, let
alone wield a sword properly, but having learned to defend himself he trusted
his fists as well as the dagger up his sleeve, the throwing knife in his belt
and the various chair legs around him, which would make fine clubs.
It all started when outside Stranger, who had only been leashed loosely,
suddenly neighed like the hellion he was and seemingly caused a pandemonium
amongst those who had intended to steal him.
“Har, I'm laughing my arse of, who is so dopey to lay a hand on this black
beast? Well, since the thief's brain clearly didn't function it might well be
splattered against the outer wall now, judging by the tumultuous sounds.”
And then the Hound's own head switched from thinking to survival instincts.
In a swirl of motions he ducked under the knife that had been aimed at the back
where the shoulder blades met, crashed his two giant fists into two approaching
equally greedy and dirty-looking male mugs, felled another one by sticking out
his foot and flooring him, then, his dagger sprang to his hand, pinned the hand
of the next cutpurse, who had tried to get at his money, and left him yelling;
after that, he hurled his throwing knife at the alleged gang leader's throat
(one of the porky sort). A red flower started to bloom at once. This done, the
Hound saw with a swift, but thorough check that there was no-one dangerous
left.
He shot the hag, who was now covering and wailing behind the counter, a burning
glance and hollered: “Right, you thrice-damned rotten cunt of a bitch – since
you didn't feel the need to warn me about the FRIENDLY fellows in here you
should not wait for any fucking compensation. Now, I'm taking your wine with me
outside, and I'll check on my horse. And if anybody has so much as bedraggled
his reins you can forget the rest of your furnishings, because I'll be back and
hack everything to pieces with my deadly sword!”
Another deep growl, then the Hound grabbed the flagon, pulled the dagger out of
the cutpurse's twitching hand – the buggering knave had seemingly passed out
from pain – and marched outside. There, the commotion had already been cleared
up. Stranger's ears were still flat against his head, but he seemed to show a
fierce grin. No less then three ragged, unconscious rogues were sprawled on the
ground.
“Good boy!” Sandor applauded him, and the big courser was mightily proud of
having fulfilled his job well enough for his master. The Hound mounted, bottle
still in hand, and pressed on. He wouldn't stay in the village, of course, not
after having blacked out the buggering local “elite”. While he was trotting
away from the hamlet he found himself in a very queer mood.
He had welcomed the fight, wanted to let off steam, to find his old self. And
he had been truly successful. But at the same time it felt like a pair of old
boots that had been his favourite one and that he had put on after wearing new
shoes for a while; and all of a sudden, he noticed that the boots felt somehow
familiar, but also extremely worn out.
Sansa would have fainted on seeing the first knife – he was convinced of that.
Apart from never having entered the flaming dive in the first place, of course.
His little wife. The child woman, who had kissed him goodbye and who was
expecting him back, for fuck's sake. He didn't feel sorry for finishing off the
lousy petty criminals in the inn, but at the same time he felt bad, because
Sansa would have been truly horrified of his deeds. And the motivations that
had driven him into the ramshackle establishment on purpose. Life had become so
much more complicated than he would have ever thought; no bloody fight with
some damned loitering scoundrels could change that. And still, Clegane Keep was
looming beyond the horizon.
So when Sandor arrived in another village after nightfall, he took chambers in
a normal guest house. The gutless owner recognized him as the gruesome Hound
and went white as milk, but didn't deny him his room. Seemingly he was
approaching his native domain, now that he was also recognized by the smallfolk
so easily – and feared accordingly.
 
 
Four days later, after swift and long riding, he arrived at the keep. Even in
his memory it had not been an impressive castle, but now, it was nothing more
than a lightly fortified manor. After his leave, Gregor had obviously added
some repugnant gargoyles on the roof. Even the Targaryen dragons didn't look so
abominable. Apart from them the outline of the buildings was still the same,
however. Though the details were far less than promising. Flakes of faded
plaster were coming off the walls. Grass and weeds were growing wildly, in some
places there were heaps of dust and rubbish. The doors' hinges all seemed to be
rusty and out of use, the roof of the stable had sagged. Not a single human
soul was to be seen. Just two forlorn hens and an old, blind dog showed that
the place was not completely forsaken.
Sandor dismounted, strode to the old water pump in the yard and worked the
handle to refresh himself. The mechanism squeaked and the water coming out of
the tip was brown. Fuck the Seven. The Hound swore under his breath. Before his
death Gregor had let the keep go to seed. Now, it was in dire need of being
repaired. It would take him a while to set things right – and he had not even
seen the meadows and the peasants' huts. From his ride he had only got the
impression that most fields seemed to lie fallow. Shame on Gregor again, but
Sandor had expected as much.
Suddenly, he heard the flap of a backdoor and somebody with a quavering voice
inquired: “Who's there?” Then, there were some slow, staggering steps to be
heard.
The Hound was listening attentively and tried to place the voice. He knew he
had heard it before, but after so many years he couldn't quite remember. Then,
it dawned on him.
“Tombry?” he called. Germaine Tombry had been his grandfather's steward, some
twenty years or more past.
“Who's calling my name?” the dithering voice wanted to know, coming closer at a
slow, hesitant pace. Small wonder the old man didn't recognize his new master;
when Sandor had left he had still sounded like a child (although he had never
had a high voice – not even anywhere near).
“Tombry, won't you know your lord?”
An old, bent man who had just turned the corner of the main house stopped
short, fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground like some kind
of slave from the Free Cities.
“Oh, my lord, I didn't expect you back! I was told you were dead! And I didn't
hear your entourage. Oh, I'm inconsolable, but nothing has been prepared to
receive my lord properly”, the man wailed.
Sandor was taken aback and rather dismayed about the extremely subservient
manner of the old steward. He had expected an intimidated, probably even
stupefied household, but this was even worse. So he hastened to the kneeling
man.
“Well. It may be easier to kill a mountain than a hound after all. Now rise,
Tombry. You weren't bowing to me when I was a boy with a recently burned face,
because my alleged BEDDING had caught fire.”
It was impossible to keep the bitterness out of the statement. So many memories
were now even more vivid in his head than they had been all those years anyway.
Nobody had believed the damned story of his mishap, but nobody had asked any
questions either.
“SANDOR Clegane?”
Tombry was obviously taken by surprise. Hadn't the gaffer seen the scorched
tell-tale ruin that was his face? But just one moment later, when the old man
was standing again, Sandor could see that the old dog in the yard wasn't the
only fellow who was blind. Where the steward's eyes had been only scorched
holes were left. It didn't take the Hound more than a moment to classify this
as his brother's doing. “May he burn in the Seven Hells!” he thought to himself
with contempt. “And when I die and have to burn for my own killings I'll be his
very personal eighth hell!”
A little gentler, Sandor answered: “Yes, it's me. I have inherited the keep and
the land and the lordship. So I have come to see to my new obligations. And I'm
alone, nobody has accompanied me. It's no problem, if nothing has been
prepared; I don't need any special treatment. It would only be nice to have a
mattress in the evening that hasn't been pissed on in fear.”
“Oh, my lord! Oh, my lord! Yes, of course! My old Ayella is still here with me,
she'll see to it I assure you! And she'll cook you something nice as well.”
Tombry's head was bobbing like mad.
“Who else is still here?” Sandor asked.
“There is Glendor. You won't know him, he came here when you were already gone.
Did a bit of carpenter's work first, then worked as a gardener and a smith – a
little bit of everything. Until he lost his left arm, that is. The others
are... gone.”
“And only left the old and the crippled behind. I see.”
“Please”, Tombry panicked, “please don't throw us out! Maybe we're not as...
efficient as in the past, but we'll make ourselves useful, I swear!”
Sandor took a deep breath. “No pity”, he told himself, “he wouldn't like it.
Give him something to soothe his pride.”
So he said aloud: “If you're willing to serve me faithfully and do your very
best you may stay. It's not as if I had many other people to choose from.”
“Oh, my lord is wise and gentle! Thank you so much! Thank you so very much!”
Damn him, the man was going on his nerves, but then again... who wouldn't after
having been dealt with by Gregor? He only had to look at his own blasted self:
the warrior's qualities aside he wasn't of much use most of the time either.
“Right, right, Tombry. Now let me go to the graveyard and you drum up your wife
and this man Glendor.”
Next, Sandor walked stiffly to the familiy's overgrown graves. There they were:
his grandfather and his long dead wife, his father, his mother and his sister.
Gregor had been laid to rest in Kings Landing, which was certainly the best, if
you didn't opt for his cadaver rotting in a ditch and being nibbled at by rats.
After having paid his respects to the dead Sandor went back to the main house.
Tombry was already standing in the entrance hall with his wife Ayella, a plump,
friendly elderly lady with veined red cheeks. Next to them stood Glendor, a man
that might have seen his fortieth nameday; he was balding and squat, and his
left arm was missing, just like Sandor had already learned. He looked timid and
anxious. Another one who had been maimed by his thrice-damned brother.
The Hound turned to Glendor and said: “Good man, I want to have a look around
the building and the premises. Come along with me and show me which things have
to be cleaned and repaired first. Stranger has only been tethered so far – he
needs a box and food, but the stable doesn't look safe, so we must find another
solution. Tomorrow, I want to meet the peasants. At least those who are left.”
Glendor bowed and obliged while Tombry was staggering to the kitchen and Ayella
went to prepare a room for the new lord. Probably his old room. Better not the
one that had belonged to his sire – and where he had found his mother dangling
from the ceiling. It all felt so strange.
 
 
Luckily, it turned out that Stranger could be put into an empty barn where
there was even a trough for the fodder and the water. The stable needed to be
repaired, of course, but as long as his courser was the only horse he was in no
hurry. That aside, there was also a fenced in meadow close by where horses
could graze.
In the main building, the kitchen and the occupied servants' quarters were
probably the only clean rooms. Everywhere else there were dust and cobwebs;
most pieces of cloth and the tapestries had gone mouldy. The spot where Sandor
had been scorched was left out on purpose during their tour. In some places,
splinters testified Gregor's past fits of rage. Sandor's brother had obviously
used his father's old rooms, and there the atmosphere was most spooky. On the
bed, there were still stains of blood and semen, and only the Seven knew what
else. Sandor certainly wasn't keen to find out any more about the origins and
nature of those blotches. The bedposts bore the marks of iron fetters.
On a chest, there were a rod and a whip with nine knotted thongs. Inside the
chest they found an ultralarge, spiky wooden phallus with more red-brown
blotches on it. Glendor retched at the sight and even Sandor, who was battle-
hardened and had seen all kinds of atrocities – for example severed heads and
limbs, entrails, rotting flesh –, felt nauseated. Sometimes you didn't have to
see the actual damage done to kindle your imagination, however involuntarily.
“Whenever there is a spare moment – tear the bed out and burn it alongside with
my brother's... toys”, he ordered. “I'll help you.”
“What a bonfire that will be.”
“Aye. And Glendor, next to my old room was my sister's room. If we can connect
the chambers and put a big door into the wall between them, they could
constitute the new lord's quarters. I don't want to bed my lady wife in this
monstrosity of a torture chamber.”
The servant shot him an astonished glance. Clearly he had not taken him for a
married man; and come to think of it – when would Sansa ever be here at all? In
this secluded, wretched place? And would he ever bed her, here or anywhere
else? Still, he had to provide for all contingencies.
When they left the main house again they checked the abandoned smithy and the
room for the laundry, the smokehouse, the tiny Sept, the private kennel, the
kitchen garden and some beehives. Only the two latter ones were still in use
and the honey from this region was not bad. Perhaps he could bring some glasses
along as a treat for Sansa.
Apart from that it was at least clear that the storage rooms for the food were
filled adequately, given the fact that only few mouths had to be fed. There was
even said to be enough wine for a squadron of thirsty soldiers. Well, Gregor
had been at least as prone to sour Dornish red as him.
Sandor and Glendor (why for fuck's sake did this man have a name that sounded
similar to “Gregor” AND “Sandor”!?) returned to the kitchen where Tombry was
stirring a stew. The scent was delicious. When he heard his master enter he
bowed at once.
“My lord, your old room has been prepared. Would you like to eat there?”
“I'd rather stay here in the kitchen with you. Tell me about the years past and
the present situation while we're eating.”
At first, the two servants present could only gape open-mouthed: such a thing
was simply unheard-of, but then, they obeyed to their strange lord's bidding. A
little later, it was the lively Ayella who told him that, aye, many peasants
had disappeared, but that there were also some dozens left who had hold out.
“Right, we need everyone to prepare ourselves. My wife would say: “Winter is
coming.””
Ayella dared to ask who his wife was since she had never heard any tidings of
his wedding. So Sandor related that he was married to a Stark, but he omitted
all the details.
Changing the subject he also asked: “By the way, Glendor, do you have a second
name or a nickname that you'd like to be called?”
“Erm.” The carpenter was embarrassed and blushed. “My brothers used to call me
“Falcon”, because I have got very good eyes and I can spot any mistake or wrong
angle while working.”
“That's a good nickname. “Falcon” then. Would you mind, if I used the term as
well?”
“WHAT?” Glendor spluttered, then caught himself, bowed deep and breathed: “I
would be deeply honoured, my lord.”
The Hound smiled slily. “Well, then that's settled. Falcon. A new animal
amongst the dogs, lions, wolves, stags and dragons. An elegant and proud
animal. Good choice. Would make a nice emblem.”
 
 
Later, Sandor went to bed – and surprisingly, no gruesome nightmares haunted
his dreams. There were only two Tully blue eyes, some soft, red locks, two
warm, smiling lips, a hand in his lank, black hair – and a sweet voice that
said: “Don't be worried, you'll manage. We just have to practice and to align.
Listen to the music and find the rhythm and the pattern. And when you can dance
I'll sing you a song.”
 
 
The next day, they made for the peasants. It was a sorry sight to see so many
fields lie fallow, but there were some orchards with nice apple and pear and
plum and quince and walnut trees, brambles, elderberry and even hedges of spiky
sallow thorn. Rosehips were glowing in a sweet, juicy red. The plants had not
been tended to so that some of them were not as productive as they could have
been; still, the gain would be marvelous.
Glendor – or rather Falcon – and Sandor arrived at the first huts. Every second
one was empty. The remaining people – old men and women, some sickly grown-ups
and some half-neglected children – were dirty, haggard in spite of the abundant
fruit around them, and had either empty or panic-stricken eyes. Sandor pondered
about what to do with them.
So he barked: “Everybody come together, I don't want to discuss things with
each family individually.”
They were like a herd of bleating lambs waiting for the slaughter, and it irked
him mightily.
When they were all listening, he boomed: “Right. Now listen to me: The summer
is coming to an end. We have to harvest, to preserve the food and to build up
stocks for the upcoming winter. For the keep and for yourselves. So we need
people to reap the fields, to pick the fruit and to butcher some animals. I
wonder if the woods and lakes have been plundered by poachers or if enough is
left. There are also some reparations to be done in the keep. Choose ten people
– be it man or woman or child – who are fit enough to help me and brave enough
to answer my questions. They will be rewarded duly. You have ten minutes to
choose.”
Having said that Sandor retreated with Falcon. The carpenter murmured: “Either
they'll give you their eldest and weakest or they will pick straws and send you
the unlucky ones, my lord.”
“I know”, Sandor sighed. His flaming dung heap of a brother had terrorized the
peasants in a way like a giant from beyond the Wall would crack lice.
After ten minutes four men, four women and two children approached their lord
with hanging shoulders. He flung a silver Stag at each of them.
“Okay”, the Hound bellowed, “the rest can go back to work.”
“And you”, he said to the ten, “come with me to the keep's kitchen and get
something to eat. I can't stand to discuss matters with starving sticks.”
 
 
The peasants almost pissed themselves when they entered the mansion. Falcon
told Sandor that they didn't expect to come back alive. Nobody had ever done so
under Gregor. Shit. And yet, that bit of information hardly came as a surprise.
It turned out that the people could barely eat the warm, soft bread that Ayella
had just baked for the same reason: they thought it was their last meal.
Then, they trotted to the entrance hall where a big table and four long benches
had been put up. Sandor asked for the peasants' names and tried to memorize
them. Afterwards, he set to work. It took the poor sodding farmers half an hour
until they understood that they were in no mortal danger and that their lord
was even willing to pardon the starving poachers amongst them – if they were
willing to focus now and to be loyal and to do their best.
Since only little cattle was left they set a hunting and fishing quota, and
Sandor ordered that this kind of meat was just meant for conservation for the
long, cold winter nights – not for eating right away. The weakest were chosen
to be fruit pickers; Sandor believed that they would nibble on an apple here
and there while working and would thus build up new strength. The renovation of
the keep was postponed until right after the harvest.
After hours of discussions and a healthy lunch for all of them the Hound
dismissed the peasants. Strangely enough, the four women lingered in the hall
with frightened, questioning looks in their eyes. Did they want to know
something about the use or freedom of their children?
“What is it?” Sandor rumbled.
All four flinched and one, a broad, fair-haired wench of probably twenty
namedays, peeped up: “Which one of us should please the new lord now?”
Sandor froze.
“PLEASE?” he snarled, and the women ducked.
Sandor saw red, it was all too much – too much responsibility, too much misery.
So he crashed his right fist against a wall and yelled: “Go back home to your
husbands or lovers or sweethearts and fuck THEM as long and often and hard as
you can so that we'll have enough peasants in a few years again. I don't care
about filling farmer's cunts myself. Understood?”
The women fled the hall like startled hens, and the Hound was left behind,
breathing heavily. No peasant would believe now that he had a gentle nature.
Well. As long as they were productive and loyal he didn't care. At least that
was what he told himself. It was the lie that he knew best from ever since his
face had been shoved into the brazier and he had started to gross his
surroundings with his molten features: he didn't care.
And only searing anger and Dornish red had been left to douse all underlying
feelings. Until he had found a Stark girl in his bed and his life had turned
upside down.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
In the end it took Sandor nine days until his new system had really started to
work. By then, each farmer knew his new duties and was working busily. Even
bent, blind, old Tombry was bustling around and made himself useful wherever he
could.
So it was high time now to find a new castellan in Lannisport. In the morning,
Stranger was saddled and harnessed and in the evening, horse and master passed
the town's entrance gates just before they were closed. From his years with the
Lannisters (before he had come to Kings Landing) the Hound knew Lannisport
inside out and rode to an inn called “The Golden Candelabra”. He knew that good
food and drink and clean beds were offered there at acceptable prices. His face
was almost hidden under a hood since he intended not to draw too much unwanted
attention to himself right away. Of course, the innkeeper recognized him at
once and was shocked; but mercifully, he didn't fuss around too much.
Sandor sat down in a dark corner with a tankard of ale and a fine big slice of
roasted goat, accompanied with mashed turnips and a brown sauce. While he was
relishing the delicious meal he pricked up his ears – or at least his one good
ear and the scorched earhole – and listened to the chatting people around him.
The atmosphere was tense and nervous. Soon enough he found out why.
In Kings Landing old honourable Barristan Selmy, the Commander of the
Kingsguard, had noticed some fishy behaviour between Jaime and his sister
Cersei and fetched King Robert. Together, they had entered the queen's
quarters... and caught the twins right in the act. Literally. Ser Barristan had
drawn his sword and hacked off the Kingslayer's right hand before the latter
one could grab his own weapon. Cersei had exploded and produced a knife from
seemingly out of nowhere to stick it into her lord husband – and she had
succeeded. Then, Barristan had finished her off by beheading the traitorous
slut. Still, it had been too late for the king, because the wound proved to be
deadly. Robert had only been able to dictate his last will to his Hand, Eddard
Stark.
According to what the people were saying the king had wanted his obviously
illegitimate children to be split up. Joffrey was sent to the Wall to serve as
a Black Crow, Tommen should become a priest on the Quiet Isle and Myrcella was
allowed to return to Casterly Rock. And Jaime? King Robert wanted to punish him
with something worse than death. He was humiliated publicly, stripped of his
position as a Kingsguard member and even of his knighthood, and having lost his
right hand he could not even gain a living as a sellsword henceforth. Next, he
was ordered to marry within the day and was banned to Casterly Rock alongside
with his daughter.
As a compensation for the high treason the Lannisters had to pay an enormous
sum – exactly what the Crown had owed them. Suddenly, the Lions weren't so very
rich any longer.
The people said about Lord Tywin: “He only shat cat's gold and he sired cat's
shit.”
What a blow to the old, proud tomcat. And the Lannister Imp, Tyrion? He had
always wanted to see the Free Cities anyway and left the continent to check if
the rumors about a Targaryen Dothraki queen far beyond the sea were right.
After the king's demise, Lord Eddard had wanted to declare Stannis, Robert's
younger brother, king – but this had been fruitless, because it turned out that
Stannis had caught Grayscales from his daughter Shireen and would die within
the next two years.
Sandor couldn't believe what he was hearing.
“Whoa, sounds like a curse; they're dying like the flies around me!” he
thought. And he eavesdropped eagerly, because he wanted to know who had been
chosen to govern the Seven Kingdoms now. It turned out that the Martells, the
Tyrells and the Starks had formed some sort of triumvirate: every year one
patriarch would be the ruler, and the other ones would be his Hands, just to
switch positions after twelve moonturns. Marriage plans had been made as well:
Robb should wed Margaery of house Tyrell while Quentin Martell was betrothed
to... Arya Stark.
Well, this would certainly be “fun” in the future, Sandor could foresee as
much. He shook his head in disbelief. As if the fucking Tyrells and the damned
Martells would reign in harmony side by side! And honourable Lord Eddard had
been flaming stupid enough to play along their tune. Better hurry up, find a
castellan for Clegane Keep and return to Sansa. Before the inevitable
catastrophe hit the Starks.
“These are disturbing times, aren't they, young Clegane?” a small voice called
to him.
Sandor turned around and his eyes grew wide with astonishment.
“Lilyrose!” he breathed. Next to him, a heavy-set women in her mid-thirties sat
down. Her hair was already more white than blonde, and there were deep lines
around her eyes and mouth.
“So you've come back”, she smiled.
“Aye. But just for a short while. Got to do some business here. And you? How
are you?”
Lilyrose had been Sandor's first whore when he had been a teenage lad. The only
whore who had accepted him around Lannisport and Casterly Rock. She had worked
as a washerwoman at that time, because even then she had not been pretty enough
to attract enough suitors for a regular harlot's income. So, she had not
rejected Sandor, young and inexperienced and angry as he had been.
“Have to eke out a living as you might expect. M'lord. Heard about your new
position. And them Starks.”
The Hound ran a hand through his hair. “Well-informed, I see.”
“Aye.”
Lilyrose gazed at him.
“Young Clegane... would you help me? I... I've got a son. He's five. Can't feed
him as I'd like to do. Or look after him. Too much labour and those men
around... No good for a child. Could you... take him with you? To the keep, I
mean. Give him a job and a place to sleep and some food?”
Sandor was deeply moved. He could see a mother's pain in her eyes for not being
able to care for her son properly. He also had to think of Rickon without the
presence of his mother in Winterfell.
“Five is simply too young, Lily. I'd take him when he's seven, and even that
would be hard for him. Come to the keep in two years and leave him there then.”
The whore looked desperate. So Sandor reached into his pouch and gave her five
Gold Dragons. A small fortune for someone like her. It would buy her food for
months, combined with her normal earnings.
She looked at him, her eyes big as saucers.
“Thank you”, she whispered.
Then she hesitated.
After a moment, she went on: “I once had another child. A girl. Aralene. Even
when she was born she was bigger than others. Had dark hair and grey eyes.
Clever girl, sweet and lively. And when she had a rare tantrum she'd snarl like
a dog.”
The blood started whooshing in Sandor's ears and his heart was tripping and
staggering all of a sudden.
“She... she's dead?” he managed to rasp.
“A fever. She was three then.”
Sandor could barely breathe. “I didn't know.”
“Course not. Had been drinking Moon Tea when you left for Kings Landing. Didn't
work. Didn't know, if you'd... appreciate either. And how should I've let you
know anyway? Can't write, can't afford no raven. Wasn't even absolutely sure
she... was yours. You never know for sure with my... profession.”
Sandor couldn't help himself – he took her hand, and fortunately, she didn't
pull away.
“Can... can you show me where she's buried?”
“Aye. Of course, I can. Come.”
So they went out into the dark, to the graveyard next to the local Sept.
Lilyrose's eyes were brimming with tears when she said: “Didn't have no money
for an individual grave. So she's down there with some others. Keep saying to
myself that it's not bad, 'cause she won't be lonely, you know.”
Sandor's knees grew weak. He had had a daughter. A sweet daughter. And he had
not cared for her. And she had died without getting to know her father.
“Here.” He gave Lilyrose ten more Gold Dragons. What a small compensation it
was. And being poor she didn't refuse what was offered to her.
She whispered again: “Thank you.” And: “It wasn't your fault. You didn't know.
Don't feel guilty. And... if I can do anything for you?”
Sandor cleared his throat. “I'm a married man now, you know.”
The whore smiled sadly. “You'll have other children then. And you'll be good to
your wife, I know. Even as a disappointed teenager you were never really
brutal. Unlike so many others. Just... clueless.”
That made Sandor think.
“I'm still clueless in a way. I still don't know how to please a woman.
Especially not a delicate young lady like my wife. I hurt her with my finger”,
he admitted on impulse.
“Do you have a room in the Candelabra? I could show you how to please a woman
with your fingers”, Lilyrose offered. “Just hands, nothing else.”
After the news of the last hour Sandor felt so very, very agitated that he
couldn't think clearly.
“I don't know. Maybe”, he murmured.
And then, Edmure Tully's voice came back to him: “You're an active man. So
better let out your energy with her. NOT with Sansa. Understood!?”
Lilyrose took his hand and led him back to the inn. When they were in his room
she said: “I can't give you a fraction of what she'll be able to give you. And
vice versa.”
They sat down on the bed, she between his legs, with the back towards his
chest; then she spread her own legs and hooked her thighs above his. Next, she
pulled up her skirt – she was wearing no smallclothes.
And then, she took his giant, calloused hands and showed him what to do. It was
different from what he had known with her. Less noisy, but more candid. Her
climax was like a small wonder.
A few moments later, when she had recovered a little bit, she turned around to
him and said: “I haven't felt anything the like for months. Let me return the
favour.”
He didn't think his body would react, but she knew her job and coaxed him back
into life.
Later, she said: “If you are true to your word... I'll come to the keep in two
years. With my son.”
Sandor nodded. “I won't withdraw the offer. But right now I'd like to be
alone.”
Lilyrose smiled sadly again, rearranged her clothes and left after pressing his
hand thankfully for a moment. Some minutes afterwards, Sandor went down to the
guest room, only to return with three flagons of Dornish red. He pondered how
much more he had just fucked up his life before he passed out from drinking.
 
 
When he awoke the next day his head was dizzy and he felt miserable for various
reasons – his actual hangover not being the worst by far. Since it was already
afternoon there was not much time left to look for a castellan. Besides, he
could not concentrate. In the end, he gave up and went to the graveyard again.
Never in his life had he offered many prayers, had not kept any gods, and now
he was at a loss and didn't know what to say or do. He just slumped down next
to the common grave and allowed his brain to go blank. The next four days
turned out to pass in very much the same way.
Only then did he feel the strength to gather his wits and to do what he had
come for. He had known beforehand that his task would be a difficult one – in
reality, it was not even one tittle easier. There were a maximum of just six or
seven capable people around to start with; and as soon as they saw his face or
heard the name “Clegane” they turned tail and ran. Cursed gutless buggers.
After eight days, he was about to give up. He had even been on the lookout
around the docks to see if there was a stranger from somewhere else that might
fit into his scheme. No chance. Probably, he had to return to the Tullys or
even to Winterfell to find someone there. Fuck the Seven. The only smiling
applicant would likely be that damned stable boy Hodor, without even thinking
of godawful qualifications.
The Hound snorted into his ale and looked around himself in the guest room as
if this might offer him any solution to his problem. The nice piece of steamed
hare with dumplings on the plate were turning cold right in front of him. He
sighed. Some musician was starting to play a lute. The twerp even began to sing
about “The Bear and the Maiden Fair”. From afar the Hound saw Lilyrose with
another gentleman. She looked up at him shortly, caught his stare, flashed him
a timid smile and then resumed bantering with her possible suitor.
Sandor felt like shit. Not that this was a novel emotion, but somehow he
thought he had reached a new low point. And totally deserved it. He sank down
over his tankard even deeper, brooding. At the other end of the room he heard
the flap of the entrance door without actually noticing it. Neither did he
realize that around him people were relapsing into silence – just to start
murmuring and grumbling and whispering a moment later. This meant something,
because as a sworn shield he had been on guard so regularly that attention had
become his second nature. Only when a tall man cast himself onto a chair next
to him did he start to focus.
“Well Dog, how lovely to see your charming face again. And it looks as if
you're in an especially bright and sociable mood tonight.”
It was his internal strain that kept Sandor from gaping at the other man open-
mouthed.
“Why... Kingslayer!?”
“Still the most intelligent horse in the stable, I see. Well, you always had a
knack for stating the obvious.”
“To be sure: it wasn't me who stated who you were fucking all those years”, the
Hound shot back irritatedly.
Jaime Lannister twitched and distorted his face.
“Dog, you still know how to hit your target. Now there. I just heard you were
in town and since I've been recovering I thought I might have a first short
trip from the Rock to Lannisport. Thought we might chat a little bit. From one
non-Ser to another. Or from one married man to another. Isn't that an honour
you should appreciate?”
Sandor snorted: “Barristan shouldn't just have taken your paw, but also your
tongue. You're still so very cocky that I can get sick of it twice as fast as
from the ale.”
Jaime held up his stump and looked at it.
“Ah... better not. One should keep as many instruments to pleasure a woman as
possible, wouldn't you agree?”
“You're not telling me you're bedding your new wife?”
“You mean you can't believe that I can fuck another woman beside... HER?”
There was a sigh.
“Erm, what should I say now – I have just started to recover. But at least we
have started sparring as well, so to speak.”
“Who is she?”
“You haven't heard? A big, ugly wench. Brienne of Tarth she's named. Used to be
in love with Renly and when he killed himself she was absolutely heartbroken.
So was I after... HER death. Always thought we'd pass away the same instant.
But no. Then, I was forced to marry somebody and... Brienne and me, we were
both at least feeling the same misery, so she didn't refuse me. I think she did
not even care about what was happening to her. We were both so deep in the
shadows. We are. But at least we have started to distract each other. Brienne
wants to train me to fight with my left hand.”
“SHE? TRAIN YOU?”
“Yeah... you see, she is not just nearly as tall as you, she's got almost your
stature as well, and she's a hell of a fighter in the pit. Really, she is. Even
the other men are impressed against their wills. It's only that she doesn't
know when to stop fighting. So right now I've only just begun... to show her
her scabbard and how to sheathe a sword.”
The Kingslayer uttered a meaningful cough.
Sandor wasn't overly interested in the sexual connotations, but he inquired:
“She is taller and broader than you?”
“Aye, this is what I said, didn't I? And she was nicknamed “the Beauty” by
others exactly for NOT being one.”
“Fuck me sideways, I've got a female alter ego.”
“Hey, but be sure about one thing: I never intended to bed YOU.”
“Better for you, or you would have lost your cock and your entrails before your
hand.”
“Well, you shouldn't talk to Brienne for a while, come to think of it. You
might give her some ideas.”
Against his will Sandor broke out into a fit of barking laughter.
Jaime smirked: “Then there's at least one of us who can still be entertained
these days. Now. Let's switch the subject. Why are you here in Lannisport and
where's your little Wolf?”
That dried up Sandor's temporary grin.
“We'll NOT confer about my wife after what the Lannister side has triggered
off, Kinglayer. Understood!?” he snarled.
Jaime held up his stump and his good hand in an appeasing manner.
“Right. I see your point. My tongue was faster than my brain again – as usual.
Didn't mean it like that. Just tell me about your dealings here.”
Sandor let out a rumbling sound and answered after a moment: “Had to have a
look at Clegane Keep. Thrice-damned Gregor let it go into seed. Too few people
left there. Amongst others I need a new castellan, and I meant to seek after
one here, but there's no-one who'd be willing and able to do the job. Which
means I'll have to leave and look elsewhere.”
The Hound shrugged.
The Kingslayer looked at him intently. “Yeah. Gregor knew how to... impress his
surroundings. Hmmm... a castellan, you're saying?”
“Aye. Got an idea?”
“Depends. Do you remember Aengus Cronhold?”
“Hang in there. Mhhhhm... yes, I do. Fought alongside with him in a few nasty
skirmishes some eight or nine years ago, I think. Good man, as far as I can
recall. Not as daft as most.”
“Exactly. The only problem is – three years ago, he had a horrible accident.
Wasn't even in a fight. Lost both legs. He's living with his brother's family
now, he and his wife and his son. He'd like to work, though, but father never
wanted another cripple around him; thought that Tyrion was one cripple too much
already. And now my sire has to endure me. AWGH. But back to the topic. Aengus
is well-educated and can do the bookkeeping; he is also friendly, but at the
same time straight and consistent. Go, ask him, I'm sure he'll be happy to be
able to earn a living once more.”
Sandor mulled the information over and nodded finally.
“Sounds like a really good piece of advice. Thank you. I will go ask Aengus
tomorrow. Now something else. You just mentioned your father. I guess he's not
particularly merry these days.”
“I actually want to talk as much about him as you do about your wife.”
“Ouch. Then what about Myrcella?”
The Kingslayer sighed deeply.
“Not much better. She's depressive – and she hates me. Small wonder after
everything that has happened. And they all treat her disgustedly. She was a
princess, and now, she is seen as dirty.”
This reminded Sandor so very much of Sansa's situation after she had been put
into his bed, only that this here was worse for Myrcella, if that was possible.
There was not even a makeshift marriage to bolster the catastrophe, and her
downfall had nothing to do with being disgraced accidentally – her flaw was
right in her blood. Her descent. The words “heap of tainted shit” crossed his
mind unbidden. Poor thing.
Without thinking the Hound heard himself say: “If she ever wants to get away
from the nasty looks and snide remarks she's always welcome at Clegane Keep.
It's just a humble place and in dire need of reparations, but the surviving
people there have witnessed Gregor's twisted deeds – after that, they wouldn't
give Myrcella any disapproving looks and wouldn't care about what others
consider to be abnormal.”
Jaime looked at him with amazement and sudden gratitude.
“Father wouldn't let her leave the Rock – but as soon as he's gone to win his
blasted old influence back I'll tell her about your offer. Is there anybody
else you need for the keep – that you could make good use of? Any vacant job?”
“Well, at the moment we don't have a beemaster and only a one-armed smith and
carpenter.”
The Kingslayer snorted and looked at his stump: “Okay, no work for me in that
case. But as it is – I might help you out with a smith. You see... some days
ago, there was this Black Crow with his trek, who took... Joffrey with him. To
the Wall. Amongst the other candidates there was a young, strong man, a smith's
apprentice I gather. Quite sullen, but not in a vicious way. He had been sent
along with that Black Crow, Yoren, from Kings Landing, but he didn't really
want to go to the north, so he stayed here instead. Has been working at the
docks since then, I believe. But it would be better, if he didn't linger.
Erm... he looks like a young combination of our late King Robert and Renly.”
“His bastard? Robert's, I mean – since Renly is out of the question.”
“I'd bet on it.”
“There's nothing but surprises these days, I must say.”
Jaime sighed: “And costly at that. One might even pay with a hand.”
They fell into silence and bent over their tankards. Sandor decided to have a
few bites of his plate, and the Kingslayer ordered one as well. The Hound
wasn't sure at all, if he was feeling comfortable around the one-pawed golden
Lion, but he was immensely relieved that there were better staff prospects for
his keep now; and after all, they had been comrades-in-arms for many years and
knew each other well enough, so – whatever their flaws – there was some strange
mutual respect left. Besides, it was clear that Jaime Lannister had not played
a part in the intrigue directed against Sansa – simply because he had never
been cunning enough for plotting.
So the evening elapsed; they retreated to small-talk and chatted about old
times, carefully avoiding all present problems. In the end, Jaime slapped
Sandor on the back with his good hand and murmured something about a “nocturnal
invasion of a well-fortified motte”. Sandor rolled his eyes and grunted
something unintelligible. Still, in the strangest possible way he was content
that the two of them were able to part in such a relaxed state of mind.
Afterwards, he went upstairs, laid down on his bed and promised himself he'd
send a raven to Sansa with the newest tidings – at least the more harmless ones
– as soon as he'd picked up Aengus Cronhold and the sodding bastard of the dead
king.
 
 
The next morning, Sandor started into full action. First, he went to the docks,
because they were already bustling with activity. The ships wanted to leave
with the flood, the seagulls were screeching and the air smelled of salt and
fish and seaweed. The Hound wandered around, looked here and there – and after
an hour or so, he was successful at last. There was this tall lad with a morose
expression on his face and dark hair framing it – a sinister copy of his sire.
He actually looked so much like a Baratheon that it was a surprise that nobody
around them seemed to take notice.
“Oi! Young man! Over to me for a moment!” he called.
The chap looked up, confused; he tensed, but still started walking towards the
Hound and bowed when he arrived.
“M'lord?”
“I've been told that you know a bit about forging. As it happens I'm looking
for a smith or a smith's apprentice. Would you like to work for me?”
The man blinked and looked rather suspicious.
“Where would I have to work?”
“Clegane Keep – a day's ride from here. It was Jaime Lannister, who recommended
you to me, do you know? And what's your name, by the way?”
“Gendry Waters, m'lord. And I was... recommended? I'm just an apprentice and I
only arrived a few days ago.”
“Well, Gendry, you have impressed the golden Lion nevertheless. And I have a
smith back at the keep who can train you in theory – but he has only one arm
and therefore cannot work. You'll be accommodated and paid in the customary
way. What do you say?”
The young smith was very quiet for a moment. Then he answered: “Deal, m'lord.”
And Sandor thought to himself: “Not someone of many words. All the better.”
 
 
His meeting with Aengus Cronhold proved to be even more positive. When he
arrived at the house where the man was living, he found out that Jaime had
already announced him and his plans. The Cronholds were overjoyed; they had
been in a tight situation after the accident that had cost Aengus his legs
below his knees. The brother had tried to help them and the wife had earned
some money by selling pies in the streets, but they had just managed to keep up
basic living conditions. So the offer for a job as a castellan was like a
godsend for them.
In the afternoon, Sandor went to a public rookery and asked if there was a
raven bound for Riverrun. He was lucky. So he went to the adjacent scriptorium,
took quill, ink and a slip of parchment (the feather looked and felt too small
in his giant hand as usual) and started to write:
“Dear Lady Wife,
I have started to put things right around Clegane Keep, but it will still take
some time until it is as good as new. Now, I am in Lannisport and I have found
a promising castellan and a smith as well. I have also heard of King Robert's
demise and your father's new position. Hopefully, you and your mother and
sister are doing fine in Riverrun. Kind Regards, your husband Sandor Clegane.”
The Hound frowned. Bah. The style was horrible – and fuck the Seven, how should
he address Sansa correctly? Should he write that he wanted to return as soon as
possible? Or even that he missed her? Damn, he had never written a lady a
letter, and he tried to figure out whether he was worse at writing or at
dancing. Most likely flaming hopeless in both cases.
He put sand onto the paper, folded and sealed it with wax and gave it to the
man who was preparing the raven. When the black bird took off into the air he
followed it with his eyes until it had become a tiny little spot. Then, he
payed the owner of the rookery, went back to the inn and enjoyed a hearty
supper. Afterwards, he went to his daughter's grave for a last time and stayed
until midnight. When he took his leave, he put a little wooden dog he had
carved from a piece of wood the days before on the tombstone and the dry,
rustling leaves of a beech in the graveyard were sighing alongside with him.
 
 
Early in the morning he was woken by the first rays of sunrise. It looked as if
they would have got fine traveling conditions today. So Sandor went down for
his breakfast. The innkeeper served him goat's milk, bread – warm from the oven
–, crispy bacon, beans and an egg as well as a big chunk of ripe cheese and a
bowl of honey-sweetened porridge with some fruit on top of it. What a feast!
Since they would be on their way all day and also the day after, because only
he himself had a horse, the Hound didn't hesitate and had his fill at the
breakfast table.
Then, he stepped out, looked at the other houses in the street, whose shutters
were still all closed, and and went to prepare Stranger. The courser had not
had enough exercise in the days past, so he was in an especially evil mood, and
he kept kicking and biting.
About twenty minutes later, taciturn Gendry turned up with a bundle hanging
over his shoulder. Another ten minutes afterwards, a donkey with a little cart
appeared at the end of the street. Aengus was sitting on the coach box in a
special, stabilizing seat, and behind him were the family's belongings. His
wife and son were walking next to the vehicle.
They greeted each other and didn't lose any more time. When the gates of
Lannisport were opened they marched out. Stranger stayed huffy all day, because
he would have preferred a faster pace. So would have Sandor, but with the
pedestrians they could only move forward in a slow trot. At night, they made
camp in the open. The weather was still good enough, though a little cold, but
it could have been worse. Aengus and him were holding vigil and talked about
their joint combats for the Lannisters.
 
 
The next evening, they arrived at Clegane Keep. Tombry and Falcon welcomed them
and Ayella could be heard rummaging in the kitchen. Gendry and the Cronholds
were shown their new quarters, and Sandor took care of his horse and the
donkey. After supper, he retreated to his room at once, because he was weary
enough.
Drawing of Falcon and (book!) Gendry: "At the smithy"
 
During the following week the Hound and Aengus checked the old books, which had
not been kept properly, and tried to match the figures there with what they
came across in reality. All in all, the situation was not rosy, as one might
have expected, but with a few efforts it would be possible to prepare the keep
for the winter. The winnings from the tournament that Sandor had inherited from
Gregor were a major help here. Aengus foresaw that after the winter the land
and the people would flourish again.
In the meantime, Gendry and Falcon had put big wheels under a chair so that the
new castellan could move or be moved around the estate more easily. So Sandor
was mightily contented with the process. He decided to stay one more week and
to watch over the manifold activities – just to be sure. Then, he would return
to Riverrun. To Sansa. Hmmm. He wasn't outright jubilant, even less after his
sleazy intercourse with Lilyrose, but when he thought of his little wife he...
couldn't help but look forward to seeing her again. That much he had to admit.
 
 
Then, the time had come and he decided to return to Riverrun. Ayella provided
him with all the food and drink he needed and also found him a glass of the
honey Sandor had meant to present to Sansa. This wasn't the only thing he had
tucked away for her: In his sister's room he had found a necklace with an
emerald pendant in the shape of a dog. When Sandor had left the keep as a boy
he had despised his emblem so much that he had not wanted to take his dead
sister's jewelery with him; now, he was able to look at it again and also
thought that the necklace would look nice on his wife.
The household staff came together in the yard to bid their lord farewell. And
at that point, something struck the Hound as odd: He saw no terror in anyone's
face, not even in the one of little Costian, Aengus's son.”I've got a home”, he
suddenly realized. “For the very first time in my life.” But then again...
shouldn't home be where his wife was? Sandor sighed and directed his courser
towards the Gold Road. Stupid, complicated life.
Chapter End Notes
     Drawing of Falcon and (book!) Gendry: "At the smithy" -> http://
     ic.pics.livejournal.com/maracuyakongeen/55197458/37842/37842_900.jpg
***** Chapter 5 *****
His trip back to the Riverlands was considerably slower than it had been weeks
ago in the other direction. This was due to the fact that the weather had
turned absolutely foul, with flogging torrents of rain and howling squalls.
This slowed Stranger's trot, of course – even more so, because they had to keep
an eye on the soft, muddy ground so as not to slip; plus the Hound was forced
to stay in an inn every night. This time, however, he carefully avoided the
drinking hole where he had floored the rabble with their knives.
“Just what we've needed, the first crappy signs of autumn”, he thought to
himself and made a grumbling sound.
Stranger was flaming ructious and made traveling even more of an ordeal. So
when Sandor finally saw the walls of Riverrun he was in a mood as foul as the
weather; he couldn't even feel happy about reaching his destiny.
With a doleful expression he crossed the draw-bridge. Apart from two ho-hum
sentries above the gate there was nobody to be seen. No little wife waiting in
the court or on the steps of the main building. Well, what had he expected?
The Hound led his horse to the stable, unsaddled and unharnessed Stranger,
groomed and fed it – fuck the Seven, where was the stable boy? – and then
retreated to his own chamber, still dripping. In the corridors there were only
very few servants to be seen, and they all bore an extremely serious look.
Suddenly, Sandor was worried. Was his little wife alright? He didn't stop at
his own room and went straight to the adjacent one occupied by Sansa. He
knocked. No human voice answered him, but there was a whine from Lady. Sandor
pushed the door open. The direwolf rushed towards him, tail wagging madly,
tongue lolling out and her uttering happy, excited whimpers. In no time did the
Hound feel two big paws on his chest, and Lady's snout was almost level with
his own burnt face.
Sandor ruffled the wolf's fur in an affectionate manner and rumbled: “Now,
there's a friend! So you remember me? Yes? Fuck the Seven, you've grown! Two
more months, and you can look down on me. Oi! Awgh! Stop it!”
Lady had licked him straight across the face and she was whimpering on and on.
“Furred oversized beast, what did I do to you to deserve such an exuberant
display of joy!?”
Sandor went over to a basin and washed his face. Well, at least Sansa couldn't
be in mortal danger right now, judging by the direwolf's behaviour. It would
only be a matter of time until he found out what was going on in this damned
castle.
The Hound went over to his own room and slumped the bags with his belongings on
the ground. Lady was following after him – and suddenly, Nymeria appeared in
the door as well. She yipped happily, too, and greeted him in an almost equally
friendly way.
“Oh, hello! Do we have a four-pawed family meeting? Now, my lady wolves: where
are your mistresses?”
Of course, there was no answer, but Sandor felt much better knowing the big,
furred animals around.
After some playful moments, he left his room again, and approached one of the
few servants. In one of his typical snarls he demanded to know where his wife
was. “In the Sept, for the death watch, m'lord”, the man reeled off fearfully
with his head drawn in.
“Whose death watch, for fuck's sake? I've just returned from a voyage and don't
know a thing!” the Hound raged.
The servant looked now as if he would shit himself any moment.
“Lord Tully died yesterday, m'lord.”
“Ah”, Sandor rumbled, “I see. Why didn't you say so at once!?”
He turned on his heels and made for the damned Sept. The last place he wished
to enter, but he wanted to let his wife know he had returned. So he strutted on
and reached the sacred chapel, little as he liked it. There, under the seven-
pointed star, was a block with the form of a withered, old man clad in a
doublet with the Tully trout stitched on it; apparently, it was the deceased.
About him, there was the mourning flock.
Sandor glanced around – and there she was. A lithe, young female figure with
auburn hair – and the dark-haired hellion of a sister right beside her. Poor
Arya had even been forced to wear a dress – and a mourning veil like her
sister. The corner of Sandor's mouth started to twitch.
After a moment, he moved quietly onwards, stepped behind Sansa and nudged her
shoulder. She turned around and her blue eyes grew wide.
“Sandor!” she whispered.
This single word – just his first name, no family name, no title – was enough
to make him feel lightheaded and to accelerate his heartbeat. Now, the others
started to notice who had arrived. Grief-stricken as they were, Lady Catelyn
and Edmure fucking Tully still managed to shoot him dark glances so that he
knew he wasn't welcome. As a consequence, he turned around and left the Sept
again. Behind him, he heard light steps. No sooner had he left the building
than a small, warm hand took his big, calloused one. He turned around in
surprise to face Sansa – but then, she was already on her toes, her arms around
his neck, her hands in his lank hair and her face against his collarbone.
“You're back!” she breathed.
Sandor had never understood how overwrought ladies were able to faint on a
regular basis – but in two shakes of a duck's tail, he started to get the basic
concept: his knees suddenly felt like jelly, the rib cage as if it wanted to
give in to his hammering heart and it was difficult to draw breath. The welcome
of the wolves had already been warm... but THIS was better than anything he had
ever experienced.
How was this possible? Why did she greet him like this? Then it dawned on him:
She had just lost her grandfather, and she needed someone to console her. He
himself had been a factor in her life for some weeks, and after parting from
several people – her brothers, her father, and now her grandfather in a
different way – she was relieved to get someone back. Even if it was someone
like the big, ugly dog of an unforeseen husband.
“Yes, I'm back”, he rumbled gently, and then, the truth struck him: “Fuck - - -
I'm falling for her!” He brought up his hand spontaneously and stroked her
hair. She snuggled even closer. A wonder, if he had ever experienced one. The
Hound's next thoughts were: “Oho, what's this? She's grown a little – like her
wolf. And what's that? Is she getting some teats?”
His hand landed under her chin and lifted it so that she looked into his eyes.
He was lost. There was a sheer overwhelming urge and it was impossible to
suppress it: he closed his lids, dipped his head and put his mouth on hers.
“She'll pull away. Any moment. She'll be terrified”, he was sure.
But nothing like that happened. Even her hands stayed in his hair. And then,
another marvel happened: she started slowly to respond.
Sandor's brain went blank. It was a moment of such utter bliss that he felt as
if he was blasted to particles. He had never thought that he would ever feel
anything like this. His lips raked over hers again... he couldn't let go. There
was a tiny whimper in her throat. After another moment, he moved back slowly
and opened his eyes again. So did Sansa.
They were looking at each other. Confused. Disoriented. Deeply moved. What the
fuck should they do now?
Since there had always been a very direct connection between Sandor's head and
his actions he rasped: “What the fuck do we do now?”
That broke the spell.
Sansa turned back into the girl that she still was and giggled: “You should see
your face now! As if the High Septon had been dancing a Tarantella in front of
you with a basket of sausages on his head.”
Now, Sandor had to bark with laughter, because he certainly didn't know the
blasted High Sparrow to wear any meat on his head that wasn't his own.
“PSSSST!” his wife admonished him, fighting back her own sounds of levity.
“They'll hear your laughter in the Sept! That's not proper with dead
grandfather inside. Really it isn't. Please! Let's go elsewhere! I didn't know
you were coming. You must tell me about your trip, about everything! Oh, I'm
curious!”
Sansa was so excited, she took the Hound's hand and dragged him with her
towards her room as if he was the most harmless man in Westeros. The wolves had
left in the meantime, sniffing their way around the castle on some animal
errand.
Sandor asked Sansa to wait for a moment and went over to his own room. When he
came back, his hands were behind his back, and his mouth twitched from his
broadest doggish grin. Sansa understood at once and chirped: “Oh! What do you
have there? Oh please! Show me!”
Then Sandor held up his first hand, gave her his glass of honey and explained
that it was from his own bees. His wife's eyes sparkled, and she hugged him.
Not being able to hold back, Sandor brought up the second hand, revealed the
little necklace with the emerald pendant and related its origin. Sansa was so
very astonished, it was simply the sweetest possible sight. And then, she
whispered “thank you”, and kissed him again.
Sandor was beside himself; fuck, it was as if he was entering the Seven
Heavens. He took the little piece of jewelery and put it around her slender
neck – and kept kissing her all the while. There was a faint rumbling in his
chest, and Sansa met him with a petite noise in her own throat. After some
long, elysian moments, he carefully ended the kiss. They were both panting.
The Hound wanted more. So much more! This glory should never end. But... he
himself was already off balance, and he had to be careful not to overextend his
delicate wife. Fuck the Seven, he wasn't much of a lover, and he was very much
afraid of losing control. With his power and size the damned risk of hurting
Sansa was considerable, and he head already infringed upon her well-being once.
He wasn't allowed to forget that.
So he fought his needs and started to tell her about the situation in Clegane
Keep – and only mentioned his stay in Lannisport in passing, reducing it to the
results of employing the Cronholds and the smith Gendry. Sansa was all rapt
attention. His story of him being attacked by cutpurses in the shabby inn and
of him and Stranger cutting the criminals down made her hands fly to her mouth
in shock.
“Well”, the Hound thought to himself, “at least now she remembers I'm not a
harmless pet.”
Next, Sandor inquired what had happened in Riverrun in his absence.
“Now, let's see where to start”, Sansa mused. “Right. You've seen that
grandfather is dead. Over the past days, it had become clear that his life was
coming to an end. Tomorrow, they'll put him into a boat, send him downriver and
kindle the barge with a burning arrow. That's that – what else? Oh yes! You
won't believe it! Nymeria and Lady have been in heat for the first time.”
Sansa blushed scarlet. Then, she went on: “I think, they will have both pups in
a few weeks. Erm. And then there are the two new betrothals. I don't know much
about Robb's reactions; he's sensible enough, I think. But you should have seen
Arya when she heard she had a fiancé. She went completely berserk and even hid
herself outside for a night, so that there was a major search mission. When
they found her and a snarling Nymeria, mother separated her and Arya for three
days and punished Arya by locking her in.
Ever since people are pressing her hard and try to form her into a lady at
last. You see, I have never understood Arya's wildness, but I can see that she
is suffering. Being a lady is so very much against her nature, I fear it will
make her unhappy. Nobody understands a bolshy woman, but that's simply the way
she is. You can't make an apple out of a lemon. And lemons may be sour, but
they make the tastiest cakes.”
“You're wise beyond your age, Sansa.”
“No, I'm not. I've just noticed that many of Old Nan's sayings hold a deeper
truth. That's why I keep retelling them to myself.”
Sandor remembered what he had heard from Lady Catelyn's mouth during the
welcome feast in Riverrun and how she had said that Old Nan had also influenced
Sansa with regard to his little wife's disgrace. Which left him deeply grateful
for the aged woman.
His memory also caused him to ask: “Tell me something more. Before I left I
wanted to know why you don't hate me. Will you tell me now?”
Sansa sat down on the edge of her bed and patted the place next to her. Sandor
sat down hesitantly.
Only then did his wife answer: “At the very beginning, I actually DID hate you.
I was so much afraid and so disappointed and full of rancour after the... time
in your room. Then, Joffrey gave me a kick and ended the betrothal. Mother was
wailing and kept telling me my future was shattered, which made me even more
unhappy. Father said I might have to give up having children and become a
septa, which would make me feel blank, but this wasn't really possible anyway,
because I am from such an old and noble family that it is my duty to multiply.
So I should rather marry someone inadequate. He gave me some names, all of them
horrible to my ears. I was really thinking about suicide. And then, father
talked to you – and you begged him to ask me about my opinion. Nobody had cared
to ask me anything, the others just expressed their bleak expectations.
Somehow, I got curious and was willing to see you again. Down in the cell, you
were suddenly on your knees, and you had this look in your eyes – I can't
explain. Then, I couldn't hate you anymore.”
Before his marriage Sandor had always been a hard and rash man, someone who
only ever showed rage, contempt and hatred – but suddenly it became indeed
difficult for him not to cry. He croaked in a low voice: “And now, you can even
stand a kiss from me.”
Sansa's mood changed from pensive to playful again; she blushed and grinned:
“Oh, that's easy – I mean... easier than dealing with you when you are drunk
and puking. After all, you've got...”
Sansa stopped, and now even her neck glowed in a deep scarlet.
“I've got what?”
“You've got”, she stammered,”... you've got an interesting mouth.”
“WHAT!?!?”
His little wife suddenly couldn't look Sandor in the face and chirped hastily
on: “Yes, really, I mean the burned corner is so different from the normal one,
a bit more leathery, but... good, I swear... and the twitch is somehow...
dinky.”
The Hound started from the bed and stood there, gazing and with an open mouth.
He had misheard or misunderstood, hadn't he!?
“I'm one of the most terrifying men in Westeros, I have killed and maimed
dozens and dozens of people during my battles for the Lannisters, I'm taller
than almost all other men and massive like a rock, my head is half scorched to
a flaming skull, my voice is either a bark or a roar or a mix of both – and you
call me DINKY? Are you blind or mental or both? Probably both, must have
something to to with your Stark blood.”
“Actually, your voice is between a rumble and a drone right now. But really, I
don't understand. Why can't you see that there might also be something positive
about you?”
It was all too much for Sandor; he freaked out and rasped: “Don't turn me into
a good man! That would be nothing but a downright lie. I'm the infamous Hound,
and a dog like me may die for you, but never lie to you. I'm not a good man.
I'm NOT! Got it? I'll tell you what – I didn't know it, but I had a bastard
with a whore in Lannisport. The child died in its infancy, and it never knew
its father. I found out when I went there. The harlot and I – our paths crossed
again in Lannisport. You've got an idea what that means, don't you, even if
you're still more than half a naive child and half a maid!”
Sandor stopped and panted heavily. It was as if a red blind was taken from his
eyes. Shit. Oh shit! What had he just said? What a blasted fool he was! They
had been kissing, they had been joyful, Sansa had even made a compliment – and
he had had nothing better to do than to blow up his delicate relationship to
her and eventually their marriage.
He could see her shocked face, her dawning understanding against her will, the
hurt expression in her eyes.
“No, please no!” a faint voice pleaded inside his head, but no word came out.
It was too late, the damage done.
“See”, he murmured miserably. “I'm a stupid, vicious bugger who doesn't even
spare you this. You should give me the kick I deserve. For biting a gentle
hand. Better I get lost at once.”
The Hound turned on his heels and left Sansa's room. When he dashed the door
shut he heard a painful, long sob inside, not unlike the howling of an injured
wolf. Sandor felt as if all the blood was squeezed from his heart and the heart
itself was ripped out of his chest.
He had always been full of self-loathing, but now it was so bad that he didn't
know what to do with himself. Not at all. So he marched down the stairs, down,
down, into the rain-soaked yard, but he didn't stop; he teetered out of
Riverrun, didn't care about the downpour from above and walked on and on. His
armour would be rusty within the day, but he couldn't care less. After two
miles or so, there was an old willow in his way; he slumped down on the sodden
ground and leaned against the trunk. His thoughts and emotions were a swirling
mass, a blur that took no form. It didn't matter.
An hour later, Sandor's teeth began to rattle. Then, he forced himself to
return to the castle and to retreat to his bed. The next day, he was burning
with a fever.
 
 
Maester Vyman arrived, examined him and announced that he had caught a
pneumonia. Right. “Fantastic”. That explained the piping sounds from his lungs.
The Hound could imagine very well that the Tullys and Starks were now hoping
for his early demise so that Sansa would be rid of him and free.
His wife was often at his side, watching him glide into sleep or awaken with
fits of coughing. She'd either put a cold, wet piece of cloth on his forehead,
feed him broth or an infusion or even make a calf packing. All the while, Sansa
was very serious, her face a mask and even in his dazed condition Sandor
thought that it was more than a little wonder that she was there at all.
At one point, he took her hand for a moment and thanked her huskily for her
efforts. The young woman – for she really started to look like a woman now –
didn't pull her hand away and let it stay in his big one... but she neither
smiled, answered nor caressed him back. Uh-oh, that didn't look good. She was
helping him, because it was her duty. Nothing more.
Apart from her only Arya and Maester Vyman looked at him from time to time.
Sometimes, the wolves tried to enter, too, but they weren't allowed in.
Days oozed by. Then, Sandor's temperature dropped a bit, and his mind become a
little clearer. In the evening, he suddenly noticed Sansa slip under the
blanked and lie next to him. He was very surprised. She wanted to sleep here?
In his bed?
“You don't smell so ill any longer”, was the only cryptic explanation that she
gave. There wasn't much warmth in her eyes or her voice – but her lovely body
alongside his own was the sweetest possible dream. He could barely sleep that
night although he was still more than ill enough to do so, because he simply
didn't want to miss a moment with her. During the hour of the wolf he felt her
fumbling for him, and a moment later, she was nestling up against him and
uttered a contented sigh in her sleep.
Sandor couldn't help himself: the way she responded instinctively to him caused
him to sneak an arm around her waist. He heard a little, happy “mmmmm”, and
then, she snuggled even closer.
“Fuck, she's really getting some female curves. Must have had her thirteenth
nameday while I was passed out from the fever. Which means it can't have been a
happy day for her”, he thought and cursed himself.
An instant later, the Hound noticed that his wife was still wearing the
necklace with the Clegane pendant. So she still considered herself to belong to
him in a way, whatever this was worth for. Ever so gently Sandor lifted her
chin and touched her lips with his. Somehow she noticed what he was doing, but
didn't stop him. Quite the contrary. In her doze, she kissed him back.
“I shouldn't be doing this, damn me, we haven't sorted things out”, he berated
himself – however, it proved impossible to stop.
The utmost thing he managed to do was not to open her mouth with his tongue.
But he nibbled a little on her upper lip and elicited another humming sound
from her. Sandor decided that if there were any Seven Heavens at all they had
to be where Sansa was. After some minutes of drowsy caresses they both glided
back into an exhausted, but relaxed snooze.
 
 
The next morning, he awoke – and Sansa was gone. Fuck, they had not talked, and
that she had been able to leave the bed without him noticing bespoke his still
weakened condition. With some effort, he stood up and headed for the privy. Was
he still feverish, or was it really quite chilly? He wasn't sure. When he came
back into his room, he started to wash himself. He had “smelled ill” Sansa had
said – well, now that he was getting better he actually intended to be
presentable again – or at least as presentable as it was possible in his case.
Oh shit, and Stranger needed his exercise! After days in the stable he'd be in
a really crappy mood.
Sandor was still standing with a bare chest in front of the washing basin when
he heard the door to his room open. His wife was entering with a tray of light
food. She avoided to look into his direction. Whether this was from her feeling
shy or still angry about him he could not tell.
So he offered her what he could: “Good morning.”
Sansa shot him a short glance and averted her eyes again. When she talked her
voice was guarded: “Good morning. You're looking healthier. I've brought you
something to eat.”
“Thank you. Have you already eaten?”
Sansa nodded.
“Then... would you mind sitting down with me while I'm breaking my fast?”
“As you wish.”
She lowered herself onto a chair next to the bed.
Sandor donned a shirt, came over and ate in silence. He didn't know what to
say. There were no suiting words.
So he said the only thing that was left in their case: “I'd like to apologize.
I know that that's not enough... but I flaming don't know what else to offer.”
His little wife looked at him, this time straight in the eyes. Even so he did
not know what was going on behind her porcelain-white brow. Although he could
detect a commotion there.
In the end, she sighed and looked out of the window. When she spoke up again
she said something that was seemingly out of context.
“There has been a raven from Jon. From the Wall. He has ended his training and
sworn his oath. So he's a real Black Crow now. And very proud. Though he's
disappointed, because they made him a steward and he would have liked to become
a ranger. But he'll do a good job I'm sure.”
“It's nice to hear that.” What else should the Hound say?
Sansa sighed again.
“Jon is a good boy. No. A good man now. Although he is a bastard. It's strange.
Father is such an honourable man – but he had a child with another woman.
Mother forgave him. Still, it was so very difficult for her. I think I
understand her now a little better.”
Sandor felt miserable again, groped for her hand and pulled her closer to where
he was sitting on his bed with the food tray on his knees. Now, she was
standing in front of him, a little taller in comparison to his sitting figure,
so he looked up at her. Then, he put the tray on the ground and kissed her
hand. Carefully, so very carefully, although this had not been a part of his
nature when he had served under the Lannisters. Sansa brought slowly up her
hands and cupped his cheeks, the good and the bad one alike. Sandor burrowed
his face in her bosom, and one of her hands started to stroke his lank hair.
“I want to serve you better in the future”, he whispered in his hoarse voice.
Sansa didn't comment on that statement, but she nudged him back onto his
mattress and said gently: “You're still weak. Lay down, get some sleep and
recover. Then, we may talk about your intentions.”
Sandor did as he was bidden, but asked her at the same time: “Come to me.
Just... for a moment.”
After a short moment, Sansa obliged, slid under the blankets, put her arms
around his waist and cuddled up to him. Now, it was him who sighed, but this
time from relief. It was obvious that he needed her more than he would have
ever thought. Bearing this in mind, he drifted off into sleep again.
 
 
One day later, Sandor had recovered even more. At long last, the direwolves
were allowed to enter his room again, and they did so with utmost pleasure,
yipping like mad. Both started to look a little rounder at their bellies, so
Sansa seemed to be right about them being pregnant. Arya came in, too, and
started telling him about what was going on in the castle.
“You should have been down at the river when they sent grandfather away in the
barge! Uncle Edmure tried to kindle it, but all his burning arrows went astray,
because he couldn't see clearly with his weeping eyes. So somebody else had to
take over.”
Aye, that sounded exactly like the new Lord Tully.
“Yes, and what else? Since you used to work for the Lannisters you might be
interested to know that Lord Tywin is back in King's Landing. People say he's
looking for a wife, because he thinks he still needs some... decent offspring.
They're making bets on Lady Lollys Stokeworth to become the bride. And Lord
Tywin isn't the only one with “romantic pangs”. Lord Petyr Baelish has courted
our widowed aunt Lysa from the Vale, and now, she has accepted his hand. Mother
says aunt Lysa is turning crackpot.”
Sandor harrumphed and rumbled: “Fuck the Seven! Well, I've never been so much
in line with your mother, I guess. Related by marriage to some flaming Lord
Baelish? My wife is my chirping little bird already, I don't need someone
additional with the emblem of a mocking bird. Bah. I tell you, it makes my
scarred flesh creep! And the old, buggering Lion is giving his grizzled mane
another shake? Who would have thought that!? By the way, what's happening to
you now with regard to your own fiancé?”
Arya balled her hands into fists.
“I will not marry that damned Quentyn Martell!” she hissed. “I'm not going to
Dorne! I'm from the north! A wolf! Not some damned southern lady!”
Sansa sighed on hearing that: “That's the moment when I keep telling myself
that I can be happy that I don't have to endure an endless betrothal, and to be
married to someone who likes animals with four paws better than snakes, and
whose origin isn't too far away from the north so that I may visit Winterfell
at times.”
Suddenly, Arya looked at the Hound's little wife intently in a very strange
way, which caused him to say: “Dearest sod of a sister-in-law, whatever you're
hatching now, don't do anything stupid!”
 
 
When Sandor was fit enough to go downstairs the following day, his walk took
him to Stranger first. And it was high time! He could hear his stallion rage in
the box, kicking, snorting and biting the air all the while. So the Hound
clapped him on his behind and rasped: “Okay, boy, you can either behave now so
that I can let you out for a short ride – or you go on grumbling and ravaging,
and you can rot in that box!”
After some more minutes the courser had calmed down enough, and finally, he was
ready to be saddled and ridden. “I was always so very much like him”, Sandor
mused, “and surely I still am more than a little. But I wonder if he'd calm
down a bit if he got a nice mare for covering.”
 
Three days later, all Seven Hells broke loose – and, strangely enough, it had
nothing to do with him.
***** Chapter 6 *****
At least not directly. Sandor and Sansa were just in their room. Ever since his
recovery Sansa had persisted on sharing the bed with him, not caring about her
mother's comments; probably she wanted to make sure that no whore seduced him
again. There still was some sort of rift between them. Despite this, however,
they were just busy with one of their sweet and more and more intensive kisses
– when suddenly outside a real pandemonium started. People were running around,
talking wildly, and down the corridor, Brynden's, Edmures and – above all –
Lady Catelyn's shrill voices could be discerned.
“That's where Arya's room is! Seven help me, has something happened to her?”
Sansa breathed.
The two of them dashed out of their room, Sandor lagging behind a bit, because
he had to fasten his swordbelt while moving down the corridor. An instant
later, it became obvious though that his fighting skills were not required.
“How could you do that to us?” Lady Catelyn was just spitting at a gloomy-
looking Arya.
“What has happened?” Sansa cut in.
Her mother's head snapped around and she hissed: “You want to know what
happened? Shall I tell you? It looks as if you inspired your little sister. She
thought that if she isn't considered a maid any longer she doesn't have to
marry Quentyn Martell!”
“WHAT!?” Sandor and Sansa gasped in unison.
“Exactly so. She went to the rookery and sent a raven with a letter to the
Martells, stating that she wasn't a maid any longer, that she wasn't an
adequate match – and that she'd rather die than being sold off like a horse to
the south anyway.”
Sansa screeched in shock and went to her knees, while Sandor gulped, because he
immediately understood the political implications. A second later, he scooped
his wife into his arms and supported her.
“How could you tell the Martell's such a story?” the Blackfish fumed and threw
daggers at Arya with his eyes.
The younger Stark daughter pouted angrily and hissed back: “What do you mean?
“Story”? It's the truth!”
That revelation extracted another five “WHATs” from five throats and caused
more shocked looks. Edmure was the first to find his voice again, and he
hollered: “Who did that to you? I'll have his head on a spike! And before, I'll
call the Boltons to flay him!”
“I'd like to keep my skin on my body, if you don't mind, thank you. I did it
myself. I've seen how it works with horses and other animals, and I've learned
that it can be done with a finger – only I wanted to be sure, and I took oil
and a tapering candle. Wasn't so very difficult and did not even hurt. Probably
wasn't even a maid before for some reason, I don't know.”
Lady Catelyn looked as if she was about to faint, and she was sobbing on
Brynden Tully's shoulder. Sansa was shivering in Sandor's arms, and the Hound
could only think: “Fuck me sideways, I knew she was up to something, but I
would have never thought...!”
 
 
The next few days were horrible. Ravens were sent back and forth from and to
Kings Landing. Apparently, Eddard Stark did everything possible to appease the
Martells, but to no avail. The betrothal to Quentyn Martell was called off, and
the atmosphere in the triumvirate had deteriorated noticeably. Sandor thought
to himself that that would have happened anyway, marriages notwithstanding, so
it was really the best thing that Arya would not be wedded to the Dornish in
the first place – but he knew better than to voice his opinion. Either nobody
would have heeded it – or, if so, he would have been called “muckraker”.
Anyway, the situation was now really tight. In one of his letters Lord Stark
even raged in what was a very unusual outburst from him that he should probably
give Arya's hand to old, lecherous Lord Walder Frey. When they heard that they
all felt as if someone had walked over their graves.
 
 
Not even 48 hours later, there was another surprising development. It was early
morning. The Hound stirred in bed. He had had a dream of one of his battles in
the past and seen himself hacking off limbs, chopping off heads and impaling
horrified soldiers with his sword. And there had been the smell of blood, so
much blood.
Sandor opened his eyes. Sansa was still sleeping, curled into a ball. He
sniffed. Strange. The faint stench of blood was still there. It was one of the
odours he knew best. Alarmed, he raised himself in bed into a sitting position
and grabbed for dagger and sword.
His wife awoke and asked: “What is it?”
The next moment, she broke into a small moan, and her hands flew to her waist.
Sandor's eyes grew wide. There was a red stain on his shirt and blood all about
her!
Frantic, he bent forward and took her hands away.
“Sansa! What's wrong? Tell me, where does that blood come from?”
His little wife moaned again and uttered: “My tummy. It feels as if it was
raw.”
She hesitated, understanding flashing in her eyes: “I think I've got my moon
blood.”
“Oh.”
Sandor knew that these things existed, but he had never known a woman well
enough to be able to tell her what to do now.
So he said: “Wait a moment, I'll just put on a clean tunic, and then I'll go
and fetch your mother.”
Sansa nodded in agreement, winced and turned into a ball again.
Lady Catelyn had rings under her eyes when he found her talking to her brother
in the big hall. Her already pale face became even more sallow when he told her
that Sansa needed her help and why. She went upstairs at once.
Edmure looked at Sandor and spat: “You're happy now, aren't you?”
The Hound was stunned.
“Why, for fuck's sake? Do you think I relish in her pain?”
“Well, with you one never knows. And apart from that – she's flowered. You can
have her now and nobody can rightfully prevent you from doing so.”
The Hound's heart started to hammer – he hadn't seen it from that angle yet. On
his face, however, there wasn't so much as a twitch of his mouth to be seen.
“Right. As soon as she stops bleeding I'll just go and fuck her bloody again”,
he snarled.
He had meant it ironic, but gormless Edmure seemed to be deaf on that ear – or
perhaps it had come out differently, and he had sounded too convincing.
The young Lord Tully froze and hissed: “Monster! You deserve to burn in all
Seven Hells.”
“Tell me something new.”
“I'll send you there myself, rest assured.”
Sandor yawned. “If you intend to be successful you might want to practice with
your bow to make sure you really hit the target. You know, I'm tall, but not as
big as a barge, and I move faster.”
With these words the Hound turned on his heels and went for a ride with
Stranger. In his back he heard Edmure hiss and spit and grind his teeth. Floppy
dimwit of a riverlord.
 
 
 
When he finally returned after a long ride and a training unit at the
riverside, Sandor went to his wife right away. Sansa was feeling better after
having drunk herbal tea that Maester Vyman had prescribed. She was still a
little pale, but more relaxed. So he sat down on the edge of the bed and
stroked her soft, auburn locks.
“How are you?” he rumbled deep in his chest.
“Oh, don't be worried. It's only a matter of four or five days. Then I'll be as
good as new – and until then I just have to stay warm; that's good for my
tummy.”
Suddenly, Sansa wrinkled her nose.
“Phew! You've been training. Was it a mock tussle with Lady and Nymeria? You're
smelly like a damp wolf's fur!”
Sandor laughed: “There were no wolves involved, I can assure you, but it's no
surprise that a dog should smell similar to his wild relatives, I guess. Right,
I'll be down in the bathhouse in a moment. Although now that I'm a flaming
lord, I might probably order a bathtub up here in our room. Just to please my
lady wife with the sight of her man.”
Sansa choked and turned scarlet again while the Hound was booming with
laughter.
A moment later, however, his little wife took his hand and said with her eyes
still averted: “Erm... Sandor...”
His heart was hopping when he heard her call him by his first name. “Yes?”
“I... I have to tell you something.” Her voice was very small and embarrassed.
The Hound was wondering what was coming now and waited.
“It's... I know what you look like. I mean... under your clothes.”
Now she was as red as a cooked lobster.
“Do you?” Sandor was surprised, but not alarmed.
Actually, he was even rather amused, and his heart was still beating too fast.
Fuck the Seven, he was more like a green boy now than he had been at the age of
fourteen.
“So you used a good moment when I was passed out from my booze or my fever and
EXAMINED the ugly brute known as your husband? I hope, my large body was to
your liking.”
Sansa shook her head, deeply ashamed. “No! No, I... I didn't do that. It was...
down on the bank of the river.”
Sandor furrowed his brow.
“The river? But you were never there with me! Did you track me secretly one
day?”
“No!” Sansa peeped again. Now, Sandor was puzzled.
“I fear I can't understand you then.”
His wife seemed to steel herself for something.
“I have got a... special skill. Please, don't scorn me! Sometimes, I... can see
through Lady's eyes when I'm asleep. And you... you were there, swimming with
Lady, in the early morning. When you left the river again... I... saw you.”
Well, now Sandor was positively gobsmacked and couldn't believe his ears.
“You... what!?”
“In the north, they've got a name for someone like me. Skinchanger. That's what
I am. And... all the other Stark children, too, as far as I know. At least Jon,
Robb, Arya and myself.”
“Wait, wait, wait. I fear that's a little fast for my addled brain. You mean...
you mean you can see with your wolf's eyes?”
“Yes.” Sansa's voice was barely audible now, and she looked as if she was about
to melt into a puddle from shame.
Sandor ran his hand through his lank hair. Finally, he had the answer to some
questions that had been on his mind for a while.
“When I left the river that day Lady freaked out all of a sudden. I...
remember. So that was... you?”
Sansa gave a tiny nod and still couldn't look at him. “I had never seen... a
naked man. Just Bran and Rickon as babies. So this was... different.”
The Hound couldn't stop himself and gave a short, barking laugh. “Aye, that's
true, that's quite a BIT of a difference.”
He turned serious again. Breathed deeply. He still recalled his drunk state
when he had been slumped on the bed with the button at the neck of his shirt
open and Sansa suddenly getting agitated. Now, he knew why – she had seen him
naked for the first time in the morning, and she had still been... impressed.
And then... oh fuck!
“Sansa – was that you, too, when Lady wanted to sleep in my bed?”
His little wife couldn't answer, and that was telling enough. Drat, clueless as
he had been, he had made her sleep on the floor! Sandor brought his hand to his
face.
“Right”, he mumbled. “Right. I... I feel I have to think a little bit on that.
I'm taking fresh clothes now and I'll have a bath. In the bathhouse. Without a
wolf this time.”
“Please”, Sansa whimpered and shot him a beseeching glance, “please don't
condemn me for what I am! For what we are. And... the others mustn't know. The
Tullys... and the other lords.”
“I see. I... see. But... just give me a bit of time now. That's quite a chunk
to digest. ” He let a finger ghost over her cream-white cheek, stood up,
grabbed some clean clothes from his trunk and left.
 
 
The Hound was just down the corridor when another idea struck him hard.
He spun around and hastened back to their room in big strides, crashed the door
open so that his little wife winced, and he demanded to know: “Did you see what
was happening to Lady when she was in heat? When she was... mating!?!?”
Sansa's eyes grew wide and she answered hastily: “No! Not really!”
“What do you mean – NOT REALLY!?!?” Sandor bellowed.
“I wasn't asleep when... it happened. And I also think that there was some kind
of... blockade as well. So I didn't see. I only felt her nervousness for a few
days and then... at some point... great joy. But I don't know what was going
on. This... happy feeling... will it be the same with us?”
The Hound closed his eyes. He was panting and the blood was whooshing in his
ears.
“With us? Bugger me, what do I know? Truly, I'm not sure about anything any
longer these days.”
“It's just”, Sansa stammered, “I want you to know that I'm willing to do my
duty when the time of my moon blood is gone.”
The Hound uttered something like a snarl and a mad bark of laughter. “Chirp,
chirp! Are you singing your stupid lady's courtesies again? I tell you – you
don't have a FUCKING clue about what it means to be “willing”. And duty? Piss
on that! I don't want to have a woman who's just sprawled on the mattress, with
her legs apart and her eyes towards the ceiling, seeing and feeling nothing. A
woman who ENDURES my presence. Bah. My arse! I don't give a damn about such a
kind of wife whore, because that's what it is. Do you know what I want? I want
you to desire me! Even though I know that I'm one of the least covetable men in
Westeros. Bad joke, isn't it? Still. Do you know what I want? I want you to be
wanton, to be sopping wet for me, to be so much in need that you're singing a
different song than your thrice-damned courtesies. THAT'S what I want. Duty –
sheesh, they've fed you on crappy ideas.”
With those words he turned again and left for the bathhouse a second time. Only
when he was sinking into the hot water did he calm down enough to notice that
he had been too rough with her again. The Others take him, his choleric nature
was really a problem for their relationship.
And it really was. When Sandor returned he found his room empty – and Sansa's
adjacent room barred.
He knocked and called: “Sansa!”
From the inside he heard Lady snarl. Whoops. This didn't sound good. Still, he
repeated his knock and his call.
And then his wife answered him from inside: “I don't want to talk and to see
you. And since you don't want and don't understand my courtesies I'll try to
make it clear for you and use your own wording. Now, what would you say? Go,
bugger yourself with a hot poker!”
Sandor backed off in shock. He felt as if someone had slapped him. Very hard.
For a moment, he just stood there in front of her door like a statue,
transfixed. No words would come to his mouth. He had overdone it. Fuck. He
started to have a lump in his throat and knots in his stomach. Next, there was
a nauseous feeling. He rushed into his room and found his chamber pot just in
time before he was literally as sick as a dog.
 
 
After a horrible night he went down and waited for Sansa in the big hall to
break her fast. There was neither a trace of her nor of the other female Starks
and their wolves. Arya was locked up in her room. Nymeria had been cast out of
the building so that she had to stay in the yard or beyond in the stables.
Where Lady Catelyn was the Hound could not tell. He waited for a while, forced
down a few bites and watched some lowly knights, who were sitting by the
fireplace and having a flaming good time.
So Sandor got up soon enough and went upstairs again. He knocked on Sansa's
door. No reaction. He knocked again. Nothing. Worried, he opened. There was
nobody there. So his wife had sought shelter elsewhere.
Deeply distressed, he went back to his room, unable to find the energy to start
his usual training. At lunchtime there was still no sign of Sansa. Sandor went
down again. There he ran into the Blackfish.
“Ser Brynden, have you seen my wife today? She is not in her room”, Sandor
asked with as much politeness as he could muster.
“She's with her mother. Has been all day. Doing some kind of embroidery”, the
Blackfish answered curtly.
“Ah. Right. Thanks.” Perhaps Sansa really needed some peaceful rest with her
mother. After all, Lady Catelyn herself had not had an easy time of late
either. The Hound tried to pull himself together and walked over to Stranger.
The courser was eager to see him. So the stallion was taken out for a ride and
groomed in an especially thorough way afterwards. Then, Sandor busied himself
with taking care of the tack. Next, he went to his room and did the same to his
mail shirt and his scabbard; finally, he honed his dagger and his sword. Still
no sign of Sansa. Now, he was really almost jumping out of his skin. He longed
for a decent skin of wine, but he knew that another stupor wouldn't do him any
good.
When the sun started to set he had had enough and went to Lady Catelyn's
quarters. He knocked and was admitted into the solar. Finally, he could see
Sansa, who was sitting demurely next to her mother.
“Good evening, ladies”, he greeted them as friendly as he could.
“Good evening, Lord Clegane”, Lady Stark answered in an official tone. Sansa
gave a short nod with her head; her face was a mask.
“I haven't seen you all day, Sansa, so I wanted to make sure you're fine”, the
Hound tried to explain his presence.
“She's as fine as she can be in her... current state – and after having been
offended by her own husband”, Lady Catelyn cut in.
“This is why I'm here. I'd like to talk to Sansa to apologize and to sort
things out”, Sandor stated.
That was the moment when his wife murmured with empty eyes: “Your intentions
have been noted, but I don't feel like talking at the moment. I simply don't
have the strength. Please wait until my... female afflictions are gone.”
Sandor hung his head and felt as if he had been kicked. The only thing he could
do was to comply. Bugger it!
“I see. Then I will retreat and leave you to yourselves. Good night.” His voice
was even hoarser than usual.
 
 
The following night was just as terrible as the previous one. It was a mystery
to him – just how was it possible to get accustomed to a warm body at your side
so easily?
In the morning, things turned from bad to worse. There was another raven from
Kings Landing. The message included Lord Eddard's order that said Lady Catelyn,
Arya and Sandor should come to the capital at once – while Sansa was to remain
in Riverrun.
“WHAT THE FUCK!?” Sandor boomed on hearing the news. “I'll not leave my wife
right again after having been away for weeks. He can't make me do that!”
Edmure Tully grinned rather self-contentedly. “Ah, if you want to ignore a
direct order from the First Hand of Three that's high treason. Sweet! I'll go
hone my sword so that I may strike off your head neatly. Although it could
prove to be quite a bit of a task with your strong neck. Might have to strike
twice. Or even thrice.”
Seven shitstained hells! The Hound snarled and spat out some of his worst swear
words. At the same time, he knew he didn't stand a chance. The others were just
waiting to dispose themselves of him in the most convenient way. He didn't
intend to oblige and to let them take his head.
“Bugger it! You did that because you wanted me to stay away from Sansa”, he
rasped. Lord Tully only gave him a saccharine smile. Sandor cursed again.
Dire as it might be he'd have to travel to Kings Landing and do his duty – but
when he was there he'd do everything to come back as soon as possible. Or he'd
send for Sansa, if necessary – although that was the worse option, because the
capital was a flaming nest of vipers. Even more so with the damned Martells
that were residing there. It was just... he simply couldn't be without his
little wife any more. Shit, he was getting so soft-hearted that he could as
well forget about his balls and call himself a castrate, like sodding Varys,
the Master of the Whispers in Kings Landing.
 
 
With things having developed into this direction he needed to talk to Sansa
even more. He'd have to leave the next day with Lady Stark and Arya, so it was
of utmost importance to reconcile. However, the Hound had to learn that his
little wife had no intentions of flying into his embrace when she heard in her
room that he had to leave. She did look at him then, but her face revealed no
deeper feelings.
Her only answer was: “I see.”
The way she had turned into little more than a lifeless doll after their row
was so very distressing. Oh, how he needed to tear down her walls and to feel
welcome again in her presence! Suddenly, he couldn't hold back, stepped up to
her, pulled her to his chest and kissed her heatedly. There was no helping it,
he was hungry and desperate. There was simply no chance of stopping the kiss.
Sansa was shocked and stiffened in his arms.
“No! Please! Don't reject me!” a voice gasped in Sandor's mind, but he had no
breath left to say those words aloud.
Apart from that he had always been a man of action rather than of words anyway,
so he simply tried to show her what he was feeling. It took him full two to
three minutes – but at last, she started to soften and to react to his kiss.
Then, her mouth opened a little, and automatically, Sandor's tongue set to
work. He didn't know much about kissing, only what he had experienced with
Sansa so far, and he was actually surprised that he had this kind of impulse in
him.
On feeling the tip of his tongue stroking across her lips and the corners of
her mouth, his wife froze a little again– only to arch against him an instant
later. He could hear a stifled gasp... and the next moment, she began to
imitate his behaviour!
He moaned deeply when she started to explore the good and the burned side of
his mouth. Oh! Sweet fuck!
Their kissing became even more heated now. It was almost as if a dam had broken
after the frosty unsociability in the wake of their argument. Sandor knew
deeply within that a lot more had to be done to improve their relationship
again... but right now it wasn't the time to dwell upon that. Still holding her
close they staggered to the bed, sank on the mattress and kissed and kissed and
kissed so long until the lips of both mouths were swollen and almost sore.
One floor deeper down his body, the Hound's cock had started to twitch. Well,
Sansa still had her moon blood, which meant that the consummation of their
marriage was out of the question. On the one hand, it was irksome, but on the
other hand, it was also a relief: her body would have more time to ripen, he
didn't have to worry about his abilities as a lover... and he wouldn't know
what he was actually lacking during his time to and in Kings Landing.
At some point, Sansa panted: “Oh heavens, why does everything have to be so
difficult with you? Difficult and... intense.”
“It's the dreadful way I am, there's no sugarcoating my character. I have a
natural skill to fuck up everything as you will have noticed. Still, I prefer
things to be difficult between us to them being non-existent. And if I hadn't
been so stupid in the first place we wouldn't be married now. I would still be
a flaming sworn shield for the Lannisters – and you'd be betrothed to the
bastard Joffrey.”
Sansa shuddered. “I can't even think of simply touching him now.” With these
words she cupped Sandor's burned cheek demonstratively, which caused his view
and thoughts to gyrate.
Then his little wife went on: “Serve my father well in Kings Landing. Please.”
It was a petition – coming from a woman he had failed more than once, and he
heard a corresponding overtone in her voice. It rang of the knowledge that he
was susceptible to losing control, and he wanted to slap himself. What could he
say to that?
“I'll do my very best. If only I could be sure that it will be enough. There
are my own flaming deficiencies – I am only really good at fighting and
swearing. And drinking. Never thought that anything else could be expected from
me. Your father and you – you were the first ones who demanded more. Who saw
more than a disgusting turd in me... though I don't know why. And your father
is in constant danger down there in Kings Landing, you see. I can fight any
sword in Westeros and win – but I can't fight treachery and schemes and
stealthy daggers in the night that are not directed at me but at him. Still...
I'll do what I can. I promise. Dogs are loyal, you know.”
Sansa ran her nose up and down the bridge of his own one without saying a word,
but she obviously accepted his words with her display of affection. She showed
him such tender little touches that he had never suspected before – what had he
done to deserve her goodness?
But... actually... it was more than goodness. The warmth Sandor noted in her
eyes now after having talked – it would have made him reel if they had not been
lying on the bed already.
“As if she was getting... fond of me.”
It was a realisation he had problems to believe, because the concept was so
infinitely absurd, but there was no denying. He stroked her silken auburn
locks. Only moments later, he felt her hand in his own, far less spectacular
hair, and there was real, absolute peace in his heart for the first time in his
life.
 
 
It was late afternoon when they finally disentangled. The Hound's things had to
be packed. What a bloody depressing task! In the evening, he and Sansa went
down to the hall where there was a big farewell feast. Lady Catelyn was smiling
openly – a rare sight. Obviously, she was looking forward to seeing her husband
again. Arya had been allowed downstairs, but she was grim and taciturn in her
seat, and the other people ignored her after what she had done to allegedly
mortify herself. And even more so her family.
Sandor felt a pang of pity and tried to talk to her. So did Sansa. Yet, it was
a strained situation with the youngest Stark girl being shunned by the others.
Arya retired directly to her room after the meal. Sandor and Sansa followed
soon after.
During their last hours together they embraced and curled into each other. They
could barely sleep – nor did they want to. Sansa would be able to rest when he
had left, and he could sleep in the saddle. Around the Hour of the Wolf they
started kissing again.
And then it was morning. Slowly but surely the castle woke and started to
bustle with the activities relating to seeing Lady Stark, Arya, the Hound and
their security patrol off. So Sandor and Sansa were forced to rise as well and
to prepare for their farewell. Since they both knew that passionate hugging and
soppy kissing were neither adequate nor welcome in the yard, they tried to make
up for that before leaving their room. Lady was already waiting in front of the
door with a little fresh blood on the muzzle.
“Look, she's already broken her fast”, Sandor tried to cheer up his little
wife.
Sansa smiled, but it looked forced. Finally, everything was ready, the armour
fastened, the saddlebags in hand, the bedroll folded up to be placed on
Stranger's back as well.
Down in the court people and horses were coming together. Only the Hound had to
get his stallion himself, because no stable-boy was willing to touch the
animal.
After another thirty minutes it was time for the final greetings. Sansa was
crying when her mother hugged her, and even more so when she embraced gloomy
Arya and pregnant Nymeria. Perhaps, Sansa was not as composed as a true lady
should be, but Sandor gave a damn about aloof behaviour, so he liked her
sincerity. Then, his little wife stepped up to him. He took her hand and placed
a little kiss on it. They didn't talk. There was no need. Suddenly, Sansa rose
on her toes and placed a tiny kiss... on his mouth. Right in front of the
others. Those were goggling. Sandor couldn't help himself but feel a bit of a
triumph over Edmure Tully, who was just as unbelieving as the others. And he
took pride in his little wife for being so outspoken and for making a point
about their relationship. He ran his thumb over her cheek and smiled like a
fool.
But in the end, he had to turn around and mount Stranger. His feet were like
lead. His head and his heart as well. Sansa was weeping again. With a lot of
waving and looking back the squadron left Riverrun. Sandor felt incomplete
immediately and was surprised about how much a wound could hurt that was only
in his soul.
***** Chapter 7 *****
The first two days of travelling down the Kings Road were uneventful. Lady
Catelyn and the soldiers from Riverrun didn't talk to Sandor, if it could be
avoided. The Seven fuck them all! Arya didn't reject him, but was monosyllabic.
His only agreeable company were Nymeria – and Stranger. The courser was in high
spirits about being on the road again and pranced along as if he wanted to
impress a mare. When they made camp in the evenings, the Hound volunteered for
the vigil. Somehow, sleeping in the saddle had turned out to be easier than
sleeping in his tent. His tent reminded him of Sansa.
During his dark waking hours he saw Nymeria slip off into the woods and return
with bloody fangs later. The question occurred to him whether Arya could see
her direwolf's hunt. But most of the time he was thinking of Sansa – and the
fact of her being a skinchanger wasn't the most pressing aspect there, baffling
as her skill was.
Sandor asked himself what he saw in her – she was so very young, barely a
woman, and so very different from him. If he was honest, they were worlds
apart. Were it the differences that he found attractive? If so, it was just one
facet. His little wife was adorable in every possible way – and also the way
she was opening up to him like a winter rose under the sun.
What did she feel for him? How deep was her affection? Well, she had admitted
herself that he was impressive in a way, and he had been the first man who had
been allowed to come closer – however grudgingly in respect of her family.
Probably this was the reason why she had... adapted to him.
The Hound remembered that youngsters often changed their fondness for somebody.
Sansa had already done so with regard to Joffrey. Would it be the same with
him? Sandor told himself he had to trust his little wife, but at the same time
he knew that hearts could have their own ways that defied all rational thoughts
and honourable intentions. Well, there was no use fretting about this
possibility; he didn't want to cross the bridges before he came to them.
 
 
On the third day of their trip, something changed. At first, Sandor didn't know
what it was, but then he noticed that Nymeria was nervous. What was wrong with
the direwolf? Her time for giving birth wasn't anywhere near. Was she about to
have a miscarriage? Or was it something else?
Carefully, the Hound steered his horse towards Arya.
“Sweetest sod of a sister-in-law, what's up with your giant pet?”
“So you've spotted that she's alarmed?”
“Aye, of course. Did you discover anything disquieting when your were... with
her last night? Or is she about to lose her pup?”
“She's strong and healthy. No. But last night...” Arya was uncomfortable of
talking about her mysterious skill, even more so since the two of them had
never mentioned it before.
“Erm... what should I say? She thinks that there were... other human smells, a
mile or so away from our camp. She didn't try to find out where they came from,
because she was tired after the hunt. The rest is instinct.”
“A direwolf's instinct is better than the premonitions of ten capable fighters.
If Nymeria senses some danger, we must be careful.”
And off he went to the patrol's captain.
“Ser Trosten, we better watch out. There might be some kind of menace. I feel
it in my bones.”
The Captain looked at him and clearly wanted to call him a godawful dog, who
should better piss off to his kennel; yet, Sandor had a new social position,
which made this kind of reaction impossible.
“Lord Clegane, I don't know what you're talking about. There hasn't been so
much as a single clue that we could be in danger.”
“Oh, there has. And it's a pity, if you haven't noticed. But I can tell you as
much: I wouldn't have survived so many battles and skirmishes and ambushes, if
my instincts had not been extraordinary.”
“Pah. You're not the only one who has experienced and outlived his share of
fights – and I tell you that we're safe right now.”
The Hound snarled and moved over to Lady Catelyn.
“My lady?”
“Lord Clegane?”
“I just wanted to inform you that I've warned your oafish Captain Trosten of a
potential imminent menace, but he has chosen to ignore my words.”
Lady Stark furrowed her brow – in a very similar way to little Rickon,
actually. Then, she said: “You may have a less then respectable character, but
I have to give it to you that your combat experience is awe-inspiring. So even
if there is no cognizable problem I'll keep my eyes open – and so will you.”
Sandor bowed his head. It was the utmost they could do without openly
humiliating the captain.
 
 
For two more hours all went well – apart from the fact that Nymeria was getting
more and more agitated; her ears were moving into all directions, her head was
tilting here and there, the fur on the nape of her neck was bristling. It all
showed Arya and Sandor that something was amiss. And this dimwit Trosten did
not even send a scout into the woods surrounding them! The youngest Stark girl
was riding next to the Hound again and told him under her breath: “I don't like
this at all. At least I've got Needle.”
She patted a tapering little sword she was wearing and added: “A farewell
present from Jon. Do you know what he said to me? 'Stick your enemies with the
pointy end.'”
“Good piece of advice. But hush now! I want to listen for strange noises.”
Arya looked at Sandor without saying anything else and nodded vigorously.
Suddenly, there was a hiss; the Hound grabbed the girl at once and weighed her
down while bowing himself. Five metres away, a squat, hairy soldier named
Barney sank down on his own horse, an arrow protruding from his neck.
“AMBUSH! SHIELD THE LADIES! FIND THE BLOODY ARCHER!” Sandor bellowed without
waiting for Captain Trosten's command.
The next soldier fell, and the Hound galloped into the direction where the
arrow had come from. He could tell from the arrows' frequency that it was only
one archer. Stranger was like a black blizzard.
There! He could see a ragged, bony lad in a tree with long, filthy hair,
perhaps fifteen years of age. There was no open combat possible here, so he
produced his throwing knife and hurled it towards the attacker. The youngster
fell off his branch without making a noise.
The same moment, there erupted the distinct noise of fighting behind him.
Highwaymen! And seemingly a whole bunch of them! Not so well-equipped, but what
they lagged in armour they made up for with fierceness. Not good. Not at all!
Sandor drew his big sword and sped back to Lady Catelyn and Arya. The latter
one was holding Needle in her hand and had indeed managed to wound a bulky man,
while Nymeria was all claws and teeth and had ripped out the throat of another
criminal. It turned out that it was the sight of the huge beast that started to
discourage the remaining highwaymen.
Sensing his opportunity, the Hound rode down a lean, vicious-looking man with
several missing teeth, who had been bucked off his own miserable mare; next,
the Hound caromed into a shaggy mule, raised his sword and chopped off the
attacker's head in one swift movement. Bouncebouncebounce... the head with its
twisted face rolled across the earth, and the twitching, bloodied torso with
its gaping wound at the neck glided off the mare and also hit the ground,
spattering red drops and other particles around it. The Hound speared the
severed head with his sword, held it high into the air and barked his mad,
reverberating battle laughter. He had always found that this kind of guffawing
served two good purposes: it was relieving and an absolutely effective
deterrent for others – so he had formed a habit of unleashing his voice in the
most terrible fighting situations.
And there he was right again: The last surviving rogues were so appalled at the
sight of him that they turned tail and fled. The remaining soldiers followed
them and mowed them down one by one. Afterwards, they started to loot the
highwaymen. Not that there was much to find, but Sandor got his throwing knife
back, and at least they could take the sparse armour, the mule and five mares.
On their own side, four soldiers were dead and seven were injured; dopey
Captain Trosten was amongst them. Lady Catelyn was still suffering from a
shock, but otherwise, she was unharmed. Arya had a scratch on her forehead, but
the blood on her clothes was not her own one. She was upset, too, but really
strove to appear calm and composed. Brave little girl!
Sandor dismounted like the other soldiers and helped the females off their
horses. Then, their own dead were buried – and the others left for the wild
animals. Digging the graves for their men and preparing some stretchers for the
wounded took time enough.
After that, Lady Stark had recovered enough to announce: “Lord Sandor, I thank
you for your warning, your quick-wittedness and your prompt help. I wish you to
be the captain of this squadron for as long as Ser Trosten is not able to do
his duty.”
Sandor tilted his head and accepted his new task without a word.
 
 
Two weeks later, they arrived in Kings Landing.
“The town still stinks twice as much as a raggle-taggle whore in ramshackle
Flea Bottom”, the Hound thought to himself and sneered.
“What is it?” Arya peeped up at his side.
“I was just thinking that Nymeria's damp fur is a sweet perfume in comparison
to the city's stench.”
“Aye, that's true. That big building over there – is that Baelor's Sept?”
“Correct. The flaming High Sparrow's nest. And look up there, on the hill: the
Red Keep.”
“Ah. Okay. Well... any castle fades beside Winterfell. Don't know. Doesn't look
like a keep – rather like a fat, overbred pug sitting on his broad arse.”
One horse back, Lady Stark gasped in shock on hearing her daughter's rude talk.
Sandor just laughed and rumbled: “You seem to prefer a hound to a pug.”
And the bolshy girl bantered with him: “I wouldn't like to breed with either.
But with regard to a nice play fight or a hunt...”
“ARYA!” Lady Stark cut in. “How dare you behave like a brigand! You are one of
the most high-born ladies in Westeros. Ned must really put you on a short
leash. Haven't you already bungled enough?”
At once, the girl's features darkened.
“Father betrothed me to somebody without asking me – and now it's my fault!?”
she shot back.
And then it happened. Lady Stark cuffed Arya's ears – and both had tears in
their eyes afterwards, because they felt hurt. Fuck the Seven, this was an
entering into the Red Keep Sandor would have gladly abstained from.
Lord Eddard Stark, presently the First Hand of Three, was already standing in
the main courtyard. He looked extremely happy, but as soon as he saw the upset
faces, he grew serious at once.
Sandor was happy that he'd be retiring in a moment, and that as a son-in-law he
wouldn't have to witness the full extent of the family drama.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed how Lord Stark embraced his wife and how
they exchanged some murmured words. Then, the First Hand of Three hugged his
daughter, too, but he was obviously more than a little reserved. So was Arya.
Afterwards, it was Sandor's turn. To the Hound's utmost surprise, Lord Stark
held out his hand respectfully to greet him. Sandor shook it awkwardly.
“Clegane. I've just learned how you saved my wife and my daughter. I'm very
grateful for that. You may retire in a moment. A new room more befitting of a
lord – and the son-in-law of the First Hand of Three – has been allocated to
you; it's more spacious and brighter than your former one. And closer to the
Starks' quarters. Please meet me for a private talk during the welcome feast in
the throne room.”
Sandor gave an affirmative nod and bowed. Then he led Stranger to the stables
and took care of him as he was wont to do. Then he went to his new room,
slumped his belongings onto the floor, and made for the bathhouse. He knew he
had to be as presentable as possible for the feast.
 
 
The food was delicious, yet Sandor only ate little although he had been
travelling for so long. He simply didn't feel very hungry. It had been the same
ever since they had left Riverrun. He knew he was becoming gaunt, but since he
was ugly anyway, he didn't care in the least.
Arya's eating manners were similar to his own ones. Nymeria had been locked up
in the Godswood. The capital and the keep were certainly no places for a
direwolf.
After the various courses, the long tables were put aside and the people
started to dance. Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn started and whirled happily
across the room, cheered on by the others. Even though past the prime of life
they were a formidable and attractive couple.
Sandor had to think of his own poor attempt at dancing with Sansa, and he felt
envious. The two of them would never look so harmonious and fluent as Sansa's
parents, but for some strange reason the Hound wished himself on the dance-
floor – if only it meant that his little wife was at his side.
When the dance had ceased the Starks retreated to a corner of the hall with
smiles and a heated glow on their faces. It occurred to Sandor that he had
never seen either of them in such a carefree mood. They really seemed to love
each other. The place where Sandor's heart was throbbed with his own need for
love, and he felt lonely like he had never before.
Suddenly, he spotted a sight he had never expected to see: there was the old
Lion, Tywin Lannister, so very upright and serious and majestic and he was
dancing with a rejoicing Lady Lollys Stokeworth!
“Fuck me sideways, he can dance!?” Sandor thought. In fact, the ageing
patriarch could and did. “Pah, if he can do that, I can do it, too!”
And without further ado, he approached Arya, bowed low and asked: “Would you
grant me the next dance?”
The girl looked at him and was clearly surprised.
“You want to dance? With ME?” Sandor felt his own courage dwindle again, so he
mumbled stubbornly: “If you don't mind.”
Arya's eyes were big now – and then, she started to beam. “YES! OH YES! The
only ones I have ever danced with are Jon and Robb and Theon.”
So the two of them headed for the dance-floor when the music stopped. If it had
already been strange to dance with Sansa, because Sandor was such a tall man it
was even more absurd with little Arya. No flaming wonder they were provoking
more than a few giggles and sneers. The girl looked up at him defiantly,
however, and this encouraged Sandor. The music started, and off they went. The
Hound was still like a block of wood, but without Sansa he didn't feel as if he
had to live up to her expectations, and after a while it was getting a little
easier.
When the music stopped Sandor felt self-confident enough. With some
companionable chatting they moved to the side again. Suddenly, a short,
foreign-looking man was standing in front of them with a smile on his face.
“A man would like to ask a girl to dance with him. Is the girl willing to do
so?”
Arya was surprised again, and Sandor cut in: “Forel! Still here in Kings
Landing? Good to see you again. Arya, you must really dance with him. His name
is Syrio Forel, and he's the First Sword of Braavos, a downright fantastic
fighter.”
At once, the girl was thrilled and asked: “Is that so? Fine!” Then she
addressed the Braavosi: “Of course I will dance with you!”
The foreigner flashed her a friendly smile that looked somehow...
multidimensional. He took the girl's hand, and they returned to the other
dancers. Sandor stood there for a moment and watched them contentedly. It was
good that Arya wasn't shunned by everybody.
 
 
“You're different from the man I got to know in Winterfell”, a voice said
behind the Hound. Sandor turned around and said: “Lord Stark? What do you
mean?”
“You would have rather killed the fiddlers than to set one single foot on the
dance-floor.”
“If I had to choose... that would still be my preference – but I thought I
should better not trigger off a pandemonium under your northern nose.”
Eddard Stark laughed dryly: “You've even developed some kind of humour – crude
as it may be. When I met you in Winterfell there was not even a trace of it. –
Well, be that as it may. We have to talk in private. Would you follow me to a
quiet corner for a moment, please?”
Sandor shrugged. “Aye, of course.”
They retreated to the Council Room of the Three Hands.
“Right. Take a seat, please”, Lord Stark began.
The Hound was gobsmacked. Fuck the Seven, he was asked to SIT? Phew, his new
position as a lord really brought on some changes.
The First Hand of Three continued when they had arranged themselves: “Good. Now
I'd like to ask you, if you've got a basic idea why you're here.”
Sandor grunted.
“You wanted to separate me from Sansa.”
Lord Eddard frowned. “Don't mistake me for Edmure Tully, please.”
“Oh, you don't look very much alike, and from the way you talk you're even more
different; there's no danger there. You both tend to make off-key decisions,
true, but you're not so rash.”
“Still not mincing your words, I see. And actually, this is why I really need
you. There are few outspoken people here.”
“Few outspoken people? That's the flaming understatement of the century.”
“Then I gather you understand why I need you here – while I can't allow Sansa
to come to the capital. I don't want her to be in danger, but I need you as a
private advisor and most likely even a bodyguard. There have been a number
of... strange demises in court of late. You know what and whom I mean. And
things have not become any better. You see, I had no possibility to send a
raven while you were on your way to Kings Landing, so I have to tell you now
that Varys, our Master of the Whispers, has had a most unfortunate “accident”
on a staircase, which led to a broken neck.”
Seven Hells, that were really spectacular tidings! The Hound whistled under his
breath.
“Well”, Lord Stark went on, “that's not all. I had to replace Varys. The
Tyrells and the Martells pressed me to pick somebody from their midst. Since
I'm not off my head I had to find an interim solution myself, and I chose the
only one present, who is fit for the task: Lord Petyr Baelish.”
Sandor uttered a deep, frustrated moan, and his mouth started to twitch.
“SHIT! My brother Gregor would have been more reliable than him, I tell you.”
The First Hand of Three sighed.
“Aye. I know. But there was nobody else. At least no-one I knew of. And since I
believe that you're at least more honest and loyal than him and you know the
ways of the Red Keep I need you here for advice.”
The Hound bethought himself for a moment. Then he rasped: “Okay. You said it is
known that it is an interim solution?”
“Aye.”
“But Littlefucker Baelish will assume it'll turn into a permanent one, because
there's no-one around who's a blasted mastermind like him when it comes to the
thrice-damned Game of Thrones.”
“I fear so.”
“Ah, but there IS someone who can match him. Though you won't like the idea any
better at first sight.”
“Who is it?”
“Tyrion Lannister.”
“WHAT?” Lord Stark shouted.
“Calm down. Tyrion had nothing to do with the Lannister scheme in Winterfell
that ended in Sansa's marriage, I swear. Lannister he is, aye, and ambiguous in
many ways – but from him you will not have to fear a dagger in your back all
the time. And short of body he may be, but he is so bright that in comparison
I'm a small hearth fire against the sun. I'm just wondering if Lord Tywin will
shit himself with glee to get a foot back into the Game, or if he'll roar from
frustration, because it is the infamous crippled son of all who's rising
again.”
Lord Stark was breathing heavily and needed a minute or two to gather his wits.
Then he rumbled: “Right. Let's imagine for a moment I followed your advice.
Then, we'd have a tiny little problem: the Imp is in Essos at the moment.”
“Send somebody after him. Should be a matter of weeks.”
The First Hand of Three cocked his head and growled: “You're demanding quite a
bit. I need a night's sleep to reach a decision here.”
“Don't be such a sissy, it's not a demand. It's my very personal, humble point
of view, simple as that.”
“Which doesn't make much of a difference. Now, let's leave that matter aside
for a moment and change the topic. I've heard the strangest gossip about Sansa
and you.”
“Gossip telling you what?”
Lord Stark frowned again.
“Contradictory bits and pieces. About intense conflicts, but also open displays
of affection.”
Sandor shrugged and rasped: “It's all true.”
“Could you be a bit more precise?”
“I'm short-tempered, which has led to... unpleasant situations. At other times,
we get along well enough.”
“And what do you feel for Sansa?”
“I love her.”
The sentence was out before Sandor could think about it. He froze, wanting to
undo his statement.
Lord Stark was now showing the same owlish expression he had done back down in
the cell of Winterfell when the Hound had begged him to ask Sansa about the
imminent marriage.
After a moment of silence, his father-in-law puffed and said with a strangely
hoarse voice: “Gosh! You really know how to surprise a man. And from the look
on your face I'd say it just came to you as a surprise as well.”
Sandor rumbled: “I... had an inkling, but didn't think I'd say it aloud.”
Clearing his throat, Lord Stark went on: “Well... well that's a better
development than I would have ever hoped for – at least if the feelings are
mutual.”
“I'd... think so. Ask... ask your wife who started the... the farewell kiss in
Riverrun”, the Hound floundered.
A strange spluttering sound escaped Lord Eddard's throat. And then he
whispered: “By the Old Gods, who would have ever thought of that?”
Another moment of silence.
“Well, Clegane, I think we have both quite a bit to digest now. Let's leave it
at that for the moment and talk again tomorrow.”
“As you wish.”
The two men bowed and went back to the feast. When they entered the first thing
Sandor saw was flamboyant Petyr Baelish dancing with some nondescript
noblewoman. The sight of that man really gave him the heebie-jeebies.
“I'll better go pay Nymeria a late visit in the thrice-damned Godswood, then
honour the privy with my leftovers, and finally go to sleep. The less I see of
the flaming Mockingbird, the better!”
So Sandor turned around and called it a day.
***** Chapter 8 *****
During the next days he buried himself in work – otherwise he would have gone
mad from missing his little wife. First of all, he had to learn about the
present political situation. The greatest problem were the Martells from Dorne.
Since Doran Martell, the patriarch of the family, was too ill to leave his
homestead, Sunspear, it was his sly brother Oberyn, who had become the Second
Hand of Three. What made it worse was that the man always had two or three of
his many bastard daughters, the so-called Sand Snakes, around him. Since these
women were all extremely dangerous and skilled with various deadly weapons and
poisons some of the mysterious demises at court could have been caused by them
(as well as by overambitious Lord Baelish, of course, and the Seven knew who
else).
The problem about the Martells was that now that the wedding between Quentyn
and Arya was cancelled they didn't trust Lord Eddard any longer and felt deeply
insulted. That the northman's elder daughter Sansa was married to a Clegane
didn't make things easier since thrice-damned Gregor had raped and killed
Oberyn's and Doran's sister Elia and crushed her baby son in the past. So
Sandor himself would never ever get a foot in their door either.
Fat Mace Tyrell was the representative of Highgarden and the Third Hand of
Three. He had a notoriously bad relationship to the Martells, because his son
Willas had been crippled accidentally by Oberyn in a tournament. Apart from
that, plump Mace was stubborn, which was a foolish thing to begin with, because
as a strategist he wasn't the brightest horse in the stable. The fact that
Gregor had slaughtered his son Loras of late made him a further staunch enemy
of the Hound. This was only bested by the mutual animosity between Highgarden
and Sunspear.
Sandor felt that it would remain a mystery for him forever: what had the Lords
been thinking when they had formed this blasted alliance? Oberyn and Mace did
not even GREET each other officially when they met for their Council of the
Hands, and the Warden of the North served as a constant mediator. Sandor could
only shake his head.
Then, there was Petyr Baelish. He had just married Lady Catelyn's sister Lysa
Arryn, which made him the Master of the Vale for as long as Lysa's son from her
first marriage had not come of age. And the sickly boy WOULDN'T come of age –
Sandor would have betted anything that Littlefucker Baelish would see to that.
Tywin Lannister was to be taken into account, too. His influence had dwindled,
and he was also hated by the Tyrells and the Martells alike, because he had
employed Gregor Clegane. Still, the Old Lion wouldn't give up and certainly had
some plan or another up his sleeve.
 
 
One Morning, Sandor met Tywin Lannister in full armour in the training yard.
After a curt nod the latter one asked: “Clegane, will you spar with me? I need
some practice.”
Only the grizzled patriarch could let a question sound like an order so
effectively. Sandor was allowed his normal training here in the Red Keep, but
there were very few people who accepted a mock fight with him, so he was
content to oblige.
He already knew what the Old Lion fought like, still he was a force to be
reckoned with – even despite his age. After all, it hat to mean something that
the man had survived and gotten so old. Their swords sang, their lean, muscular
bodies swirled and danced in a potentially lethal rhythm; there was the loud
clank of metal on metal to be heard and the growing stench of sweat to be
smelled. It only took mere minutes for a crowd to gather and to watch open-
mouthed and breathless. Sandor and Lord Tywin didn't grant each other one inch,
and Kings Landing had not seen such a magnificent fight since the last
tournament – and the refined fighting technique was something people had only
ever beheld with the Hound, Ser Barristan or Ser Jaime over the last years.
When Sandor finally managed to disarm his opponent, there was hooting and
clapping and whistling around them. Lord Tywin took off his helmet, ran his
hand through his damp, golden-grey hair, and the corner of his mouth turned
lightly into the closest approximation of a smirk one could possibly ever get
from the man. He knew that though he had been beaten, they had actually both
won by showing off their abilities and fitness.
They left the training yard together, and the Old Lion stated: “Lady Lollys was
watching – did you notice?”
“I think I did, my lord.”
“She will be a good wife and bear me strong sons.”
“If it please my lord. – By the way, now that you're speaking of sons: I talked
to Lord Stark in favour of Tyrion to become the Master of the Whispers.”
Lord Tywin betrayed the tiniest hint of surprise: “Did you? That was a good
thing to do. Still loyal to the Lannisters though they gave their dog a kick?”
“Loyal to the Starks. It would be the wisest thing to do.”
The Lannister patriarch looked at him with hard green-golden eyes.
“Probably. Tyrion might really serve as a place-holder. After all, he only
killed his mother. His siblings killed the family. And now I have to make sure
that this family is reborn since there is no-one else apt for that duty.”
Sandor shuddered inwardly and remembered how he had berated Sansa about the
word “duty”.
“I see, my lord. What do you think about Lady Lollys?”
“She's so simple that she confides in me. That's a really new experience – to
be trusted by somebody. It makes her somehow endearing.”
The Hound gave a little snort. “I know what you mean.”
Lord Tywin's eyes narrowed a little bit, which gave him an even more feline
appearance than usual.
“Do you?”
Sandor smiled knowingly, which made the corner of his mouth twitch. When he
became serious again, he asked: “How is your granddaughter?”
“Which granddaughter? I have none.”
After having experienced Lord Eddard treat his bastard son like a family member
Lord Tywin's behaviour was somehow repulsive.
“If you don't want Myrcella to stay in Casterly Rock... she's always welcome in
Clegane Keep.”
The Old Lion shot him another pensive glance.
“I've never seen the slightest trace of benevolence in you. It doesn't become
you, I'd say. It's not really in your character. Still. I won't complain and
accept your offer. The girl will go live in your kennel. One problem less for
the Lannister family when she is gone.”
Only years of training as a sworn shield made it possible for Sandor not to
show his disgust in the face of so much emotional coldness. Which only made it
evident that he had really partly changed.
 
 
There was another business that kept coming back to Sandor's mind. He
remembered who had stacked the cards so that Sansa had landed in his room in
Winterfell. Joffrey was well beyond his reach by serving at the Wall now. There
was another man, however, who had helped to catch and to tie her: Ser Ilyn
Payne, the late King's decapitator.
When the Hound tried to seek the mute man out, it became clear that the knight
had quit his job and left Kings Landing. Intelligent bastard. So Sandor made
some inquiries with regard to the whereabouts of Ser Ilyn. Nothing. Not even
the old Captain of the Hands' Guard, Ser Barristan, had heard anything. The man
seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. To Sandor's chagrin, it
looked as if there would be no revenge. It left the Hound with a sour feeling
in his stomach.
The tidings he learned from Aengus Cronhold about Clegane Keep were far more
positive in contrast. His castellan sent him a raven two weeks after Sandor had
arrived in the capital and told him that the recent developments were very
promising. The harvesting was in full progress, and the farmers proved avid.
Falcon and Gendry were often stuck in the smithy and had started to revive the
abandoned building; the younger man turned out to be a skilled apprentice, and
the elder man was happy to tell him everything he knew. A day before, Lady
Myrcella had arrived; the poor thing was shy, confused and upset – and grateful
for every friendly gesture. Old Ayella had started to feed her some blueberry
cakes right away, and she and Tombry had prepared a nice room for her that had
already been renovated. Aengus went on and said that some peasants, who had run
away, had come back – and amongst them, there was also a wise woman called
Cembara. That was a good thing since there was no maester in the keep. All in
all, Sandor could be pleased that so much had been achieved in so little time.
 
 
Two days later, a raven arrived from the Wall. Jon Snow was writing about an
attack of White Walkers that had nearly led to the Lord Commander's death. He
went on and related that he had accidentally burned his sword hand in the
assault, because the undead bodies could be wiped out by fire. That piece of
information gave Sandor the creeps, and he also felt compassion for the wounds
of the young man since he knew that kind of pain well enough. It also explained
the spidery handwriting – Lord Stark's bastard son had written his lines with
the poorer left hand. At least, it sounded as if the young man would recover in
due time.
In the second part of the letter Jon mentioned that Joffrey had finished his
training and taken his oath. Since the lad was rather craven he had not become
a ranger, and since he was also snaky and malicious towards inferior trainees
he hadn't been chosen to become a steward either, which meant he had been
classified a builder.
At the end of his report, Jon explained that there were far too few men at the
Wall. The Black Crows needed more staff and provisions. It was a statement as
well as a plea. Lord Stark sighed on reading this, knowing full well that the
duty at the Wall wasn't as attractive as it had been of old, and that the other
two Hands had no understanding whatsoever of just how important the
fortification of the north was. Still, he promised in the answer to his son
that he would do what he could.
 
 
Sandor himself had used a public rookery again and sent a message to Sansa. He
had told her about the situation in the capital and also that he was paid a
most generous regular salary by her father, because he had become an official
kind of advisor. He also wrote that half of the time he was just listening, and
that more often than not he simply didn't know how to put something into words.
Next he asked his wife about Lady's condition. Nymeria had become quite round
due to her pregnancy; the Hound had also taken her outside of Kings Landing and
into the woods twice (Arya had been forbidden to leave the keep), because the
direwolf had gone almost rabid from being locked up in the Godswood for so
long.
On their way, he had once chanced upon Petyr Baelish, and bloody Littlefucker
had greeted him with the snide remark: “Ah, Lord Clegane! Working as a
kennelmaster again? Back to the roots, I gather.”
Nymeria had bared her fangs, and the Hound had stepped up to the arrogant
little shitstain in his silky, plush clothes, put his huge hand around his
adversary's throat and crushed him against the castle wall in such a way that
the Mockingbird's feet had been dangling in the air for a moment. In addition,
he had snarled: “If you want to speak of me being back to the roots it will
mean the sweet killing of a thrice-damned louse like you. Do tell me, if you
need any first-hand experience. Have a fucking nice day.” And with those words
he and Nymeria had left the still gurgling and panting man behind. In his
letter to Sansa, however, Sandor omitted the rougher details.
At the end of his message he asked her, if she was well herself, and how she
was faring. He even went as far as to admit that he was missing her and that he
wished she could be with him. His groping for words was very ham-fisted here,
but hopefully, she'd understand what he wanted to tell her.
 
 
Only one day later, he got a letter from Sansa – obviously their birds and
messages had crossed in the air. She asked him what he had already answered in
his own document and said that she was mostly reading books from the library in
Riverrun, praying in the Sept and doing needlework. At first sight, it sounded
harmless enough, but it suddenly occurred to Sandor that somehow she appeared
to be quite lonely. He also remembered that when he had been with her in
Riverrun she had not had any female friends her age. And Brynden and Edmure
fucking Tully were certainly no replacement. At least she still had Lady.
And what the Hound read about this topic made his heart swell: “You should see
her! She is so round and lazy these days – but also happy. At night... oh, I
can hardly write about it, but I must tell you: at night I can feel her pups in
her belly! It's wonderful! I can hardly await the day when Lady is giving
birth.”
Suddenly, there was a wild thud-thud-thud in Sandor's chest. Anybody who had
spied on them and read the message wouldn't have understood its hidden meaning.
But the Hound understood: When his wife was asleep and dreaming, she warged
into her direwolf and got a fair idea of what it was like to be with child. And
she liked it! What would that mean for their own relationship? Did she want a
child? Probably soon? Or did he interpret too much into her writing?
Well, one thing was evident: she missed him, too, because when she finished her
letter she sent him “a thousand hugs and sweet kisses”. Fuck the Seven, he had
not been so emotional with his own wording! And her tender expressions made him
dizzy all day. So he went straight to the rookery a second time, and he was so
eager to thank her for her wonderful letter that he crushed no less than three
quills with his oversized hand, which made him roar in frustration.
 
 
After his little wife's letter something had changed within Sandor, which he
found out soon enough: his libido was suddenly back to normal, or probably his
body even needed to catch up with the months where it had been nearly asleep;
there were days when his cock was even sore from rubbing, because he had to
fuck into his hand so often. He only had to think of Sansa's hungry kisses, her
tongue playing with his own one, and the petite noises she sometimes made while
their lips were glued to each other, and in an instant he was so hard that his
member throbbed and hurt.
Sandor's mind started to wander as well. Before, he had forbidden himself to
think of bedding her, but now, it was simply impossible not to do so. He had
never thought himself to be a creative man. Still. He had not known so many...
but at least a few women's cunts, and he started to connect those memories with
the sweet sensation of Sansa lying curled up next to him, her body flush
against his own one. Oh, it was all too much for him: whenever he thought of
finally consummating his marriage, he couldn't hold back, moaned her name and
exploded.
Almost parallel to the revival of his lust he started to get regular nightly
headaches. It wasn't really painful, it just felt as if his brain was a little
too small for his skull, and it had to duck – like he had to do with his back
when he entered a low door. Strangely enough, his sexual appetite didn't abate
in these moments – quite the contrary!
Doddering old Maester Pycelle had nothing better to do than to explain his
headaches away with the Hound's consumption of alcohol. Or the lack thereof. Of
course, the theory was utter rubbish. Stupid self-pissing dolt. And no, thank
you, he didn't need any thrice-damned milk of the poppy. All he needed was a
decent fuck with his wife. Sandor didn't say the last thing aloud, of course.
It wouldn't have done him any good to make his feelings public in Kings
Landing. And public it would have been with this maester, because the sodding
fool was as talkative as a washerwoman – given he was paid an adequate sum or
threatened effectively. And since the Hound had enough enemies for a lifetime
he kept his mouth shut and didn't ask for medical advice again.
 
 
A week later, Lord Stark learned that Tyrion Lannister was heading back for
Kings Landing, and that he would arrive within eight or nine days. Sandor and
the First Hand of Three were rather surprised that the Imp was about to come
home so quickly. In any case, they kept the news a secret, hoping that
Littlefinger didn't find out any time soon.
Even then, the Mockingbird would certainly never suspect that the Halfman was
supposed to take his post as Master of the Whispers, but Sandor put it like
this: “Never give the sucker an even break.”
 
 
Less than a day later, another raven arrived from Riverrun. Edmure fucking
Tully had written to Lord Stark. He expressed certain worries with regard to
Sansa. She allegedly didn't eat well, slept a lot and seemed to have many
nightmares, because she often moaned loudly in her sleep. Lord Tully indicated
that it surely had something to do with what her infamous husband had been
doing to her.
Sandor was seething with rage when Lord Eddard confronted him with the
accusations; at the same time he was anxious about Sansa's afflictions. He
wanted to jump on Stranger's back without further ado, but his father-in-law
calmed him down: “It does you credit that you want to leave and take care of
her, but it won't do you any good, if you panic. Maester Vyman in Riverrun is
very capable, better than Maester Pycelle, if you ask me, so he'll nurse her up
to her strength in no time.”
Losing his temper, Sandor snarled back: “I've been flaming missing her for
weeks, and now I hear that she's ill. Seven hells, you don't really want to
tell me I should put my arse onto a chair, twiddle my thumbs and wait!? I'm
going back, and you won't stop me!”
Lord Stark held up his hands in an appeasing manner: “No! I'm not telling you
to stay here, and I'm not stupid enough to believe I could hold you back. But I
ask one thing of you: wait until Tyrion Lannister has arrived and taken up his
new duties. That will be a delicate situation – and Sansa is not in mortal
danger as it seems. So please wait a little longer – just a little bit.”
The Hound spat, swore and paced up and down like a caged animal. Finally, he
pressed out between clenched teeth: “Fuck the Seven! All right. But the morning
after Tyrion's welcome feast will see me on my courser's back!”
Lord Eddard nodded understandingly and rumbled: “When I married my daughter to
you everybody called me crazy. By the Old Gods, I sometimes did it myself. But
there was this strange inkling that told me that you might not be as bad as
quite a few other men – and these days I often feel that it wasn't a bad
decision after all.”
Sandor felt strangely embarrassed and rasped: “Rubbish! Why do you all keep
telling yourselves I was a good man? Blimey, I can't stand this kind of
waffling. Unsheathe your sword and give me a nice, bloody fight – that's
something I can cope with.”
On hearing those words, the First Hand of Three frowned, cocked his head and
said animatedly: “Deal! Haven't had a good training unit for ages. This job
here is killing me. I could really need some exercise. Don't want to look like
our late King Robert in the end. I've heard of your fight with Lord Tywin. So
I'm wondering, if I can't best him. Or even the infamous Hound himself.” Now,
Lord Stark was even grinning a little – what a rare thing to happen!
 
 
It turned out that they were both eager enough to cancel three of the Hand's
appointments and to stride to the training yard right away. There, Sandor
learned that Ser Barristan and the Old Lion weren't the only accomplished
fighters in the capital. In no time, the two men were hacking at each other
with heaving ribcages, fierce grunts on their lips... and boyish twinkles in
their eyes. The Hound realized that his father-in-law was indeed a little stiff
from lack of training, but he also knew that on a good day it would supposedly
have been an almost even match. So Sandor only fought back and didn't really
try to best his opponent – Lord Eddard knew this. And whatever elegance Sandor
lacked on the dance-floor with a woman he equated with concinnity when it came
to a sword in his hand. For the gathering audience it was in any case another
spectaculum, and they cheered, shouted, stamped their feet and hollered with
enthusiasm. The people weren't accustomed to a leader capable of fighting any
longer, not after years of fat Robert, for whom even a hunt had become
cumbersome prior to his death. So this little episode helped Lord Stark in more
ways than just the physical aspects of the training.
 
 
Two days later, a calamity came to pass, though the event itself went unnoticed
by most people in the keep.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Sandor had just broken his fast and wanted to ride out with Stranger when
suddenly a sobbing Arya stormed down the corridor – and flew into his arms.
“Sandor!” she wept.
“Arya, what is it? Something wrong with Nymeria?” the Hound asked, alarmed.
His sister-in-law was usually anything but clinging, so the fact that she
sought his consolation was quite telling. And it turned out that he was right,
for Arya nodded like mad.
“She's ill! Something terrible is happening, I can feel it!” she cried.
As a consequence, Sandor took her by her arm, and off they went to the
Godswood. Even from afar they could hear a painful whining.
“Nymeria!” The Stark girl was frantic now.
They rushed through the Godswood, heading into the direction where the yowling
had come from. And then they saw the direwolf. Nymeria was lying on her side
with blood at her back opening and a heap of twisted, deformed flesh between
her legs. The pup was dead, had most likely never had a chance to live.
“NOOOOOoooo!”Arya bellowed.
Sandor grabbed his sister-in-law, gave her a shake and rasped at her: “Will you
shut your mouth!? Your wolf is agitated enough – do you want to make it worse
for her by you losing control?”
Tears were streaming down Arya'a face, and she was almost beside herself.
Almost, but not quite out of reach. She did hear Sandor's words and tried to
steel herself.
The Hound made a gesture to still her further and walked over to the twitching
body of the direwolf. Nymeria whined and growled and bared her fangs.
Sandor rumbled soothingly: “Shhhhh, there's a good wolf. I don't want to hurt
you. Please, Nymeria, let me just see how you are – and if there are other
pups. Come here, I'll be gentle. As gentle as a dog can be with a wolf.”
He knelt down slowly next to the wolf and examined the direwolf gingerly.
Nymeria whined and growled again, and at some point, she snapped into the air;
not because she wanted to bite, but to show that it hurt.
“Yes, I know”, Sandor murmured. “There's pain. I'm sorry – but I have to do
this. I want to help. Shhhh... what a good wolf you are, so brave, so strong.”
When the Hound turned back to Arya he saw that she had pressed a fist on her
mouth, eyes wide and glazed, and that she was crying silently.
“You're brave and strong, too, little Stark.”
“How is she?” Arya peeped up between hiccups.
“There are no more pups left. This foetus should have developed into two
animals, but they didn't get separated properly. Nymeria is quite hurt now and
has lost a lot of blood, but she is so strong and robust that I'm sure she'll
survive. She'll need good food now and lots of rest. Then she'll recover. And
now we must get the dead little thing away.”
Arya hiccuped again and wailed: “Can you bury it?”
Sandor sighed inwardly. The foetus could be disposed of differently – but here,
it became clear that Arya was still a child, even if she was usually wild and
independent. So he nodded and said: “There is nothing left to do for you here.
This is no job for you. Go back to your room. Pray, if necessary.”
The girl hung her head and wept: “Nymeria, I'm so sorry. I wish I could help.
Please be strong and get well soon. I love you.”
There was a tiny whine from the wolf and Sandor explained: “See. She
understands you. She's an intelligent wolf. Just give her some time.”
Arya nodded sadly, turned around and staggered to the entrance of the Godswood
where she waited for the Hound. When he appeared, he washed his bloody hands in
a well and guided the girl back to her room. When they were on their way, they
attracted some furtive glances, but they ignored them.
 
 
Later, however, the incident closed in on him. He was just sitting in his room
and honing his sword when there was an urgent knock on the door.
Sandor opened – and saw himself face to face with a sallow Lady Catelyn and a
stern-looking Lord Eddard.
“What have you done to our daughter?” the woman snapped.
“Me? To your daughter?”
The First Hand of Three cut in with a grave voice: “You were seen how Arya
embraced you, how you went to the Godswood and how you returned with blood on
your sleeves and my weeping daughter next to you. Now, there are wild rumours
in the keep. And Arya is so upset that she doesn't say a word. So we must ask
you.”
Sandor's face was stony now.
“You haven't got the tiniest clue, have you? Her wolf miscarried in the
morning, and she wanted my flaming consolation and my help – so I even did her
bidding and buried the dead pup. That's why I had blood on my clothes and why
she is still weeping.”
Lady Catelyn was disbelieving: “Then why didn't she tell us so?”
“Fuck, what do I know? I'm the Hound, the grandson of a kennelmaster, I know my
ways around four-pawed animals. And if she chose not to confide in you it was
probably, because you've had some blasted arguments with her recently.”
“She's our daughter!” Lady Catelyn bristled.
“I never denied that!” Sandor shot back.
“Stop it!” Lord Eddard boomed and looked angrily at his wife as well as his
son-in-law.
“Now we know what has happened, and Lord Clegane may be rough, but I don't know
him for a liar. Still, you should be aware that now you'll have to live with
some nasty gossip.”
“I've done that all my life.”
“Did those rumours say that you have developed a... taste for little children?”
Sandor froze. Then, he just rasped: “Thank you for the warning. I'll... manage.
And I'll try to keep my blood down. If possible.”
After these words, Lady Catelyn retreated while her husband stayed for another
moment.
“Clegane. I'm sorry for suspecting you for a moment. It was wrong, and it
wouldn't have happened, if I had not been so worried about my daughter.”
Sandor breathed deeply.
“An apology. Now that's something. I'm not accustomed to that. My lord, you're
too damned honourable. It'll lead you to an early grave. But nevertheless.
Thanks.” The Warden of the north inclined his head and said: “I'll see you in
the evening then.”
“As you please.”
 
 
It was good that the Hound had been warned. When he walked down to dinner the
people avoided him even more thoroughly than they usually did. He could hear
their malicious whispering and their condescending glances. Of course, he tried
to tell himself that these buggers weren't worth a second thought, but to no
avail. The Starks – and Sansa above all – had turned him from an ice-cold
killer into a feeling man. And for that reason deep down he DID feel hurt...
and that made him furious. But... hadn't he always been furious? Didn't that
mean that he had felt something all the time? Fuck, what should he...
“A man would like to know what happened to the little Wolf.”
Sandor spun around. He was in the corridor that lead to the throne room.
“Forel! Well, you're worth your balls, I see. Apart from the Starks, you're the
only one who's dared to address me directly.”
The First Sword of Braavos was standing there and was smiling nonchalantly –
though his eyes were serious.
“A man wants to know; so he asks.”
Sandor cleared his throat. “Would you follow me into the inner yard? I don't
like talking where there are too many ears.”
Still smiling, Syrio Forel lifted his hand a little, half-pointing as if he was
willing to follow, if the Hound took the lead. So they went.
In the inner yard Sandor faced the Braavosi again and explained: “Well, Forel,
here we are. So let me start without beating about the bush. You see, Lady Arya
is very fond of her direwolf. Perhaps you have heard of the huge animal in the
Godswood. The wolf-bitch was pregnant, but she lost the pup today. This is why
the Stark girl is so distressed right now. When her wolf has recovered, she
will recover as well.”
Syrio Forel cocked his head and stated calmly: “Then the rumours are false,
that much I can see. So the big Lord is a little Wolf's friend. That is a good
thing to hear.”
Without thinking Sandor answered distractedly: “Fuck the Seven, the way you say
“little Wolf” just sounds like the way I say “little Wife” to Sansa.”
“You are perceptive.” The Braavosi flashed him a smile. Suddenly, the Hound's
eyes widened in understanding.
“You're taken with Arya Stark?”
“The young Wolf is more open-minded and less arrogant than most other people
here. For a foreigner that is a trait very simpatico. You must know that there
is only one god, and his name is Death – but there is also one force of life,
and its name is Love. And two living hearts are stronger together.”
Sandor was dumbfounded.
“She's but a girl!”
“I can wait, if the young Wolf is willing.”
“Phew! Right. Well. But you know that this is not all, don't you? First of all,
her parents have to approve.”
Syrio Forel grinned: “I have heard that a certain big lord was only approved of
after his marriage. But this may be an exception, of course. So yes, I intend
to talk to the little Wolf's father, who is known to be honourable and
understanding.”
Sandor breathed in and out deeply.
“Well, as far as I know you you're a good man, so I guess I have to wish you
good luck. But I can only warn you: you need to get Arya's acceptance, too –
and that might prove very, very difficult.”
The First Sword of Braavos retorted: “True. This man has heard of what a Wolf
is ready to do to make herself heard. But I am as perceptive as a big lord, so
she won't have to shout so loudly around me.”
Sandor chuckled: “Ah, that sounds exciting. I feel that the next days in the
Red Keep will be very entertaining.”
Syrio Forel was still smiling and bowed like an actor after a performance. The
Hound didn't applaud, however, but clapped him lightly on the shoulder,
something he usually didn't do, because apart from Jaime Lannister other men
didn't do it to him either, but now, he made an exception. With broad smirks on
their faces they went back towards the throne room.
 
 
The next morning, Lord Stark addressed the Hound and put the Braavosi on the
agenda.
“He's asked for Arya's hand. I still don't know what to say to that. I'd have
never thought about him, and he's somehow... difficult to pinpoint. His
character, his social position.”
“Aye. That's true. Well, it's clear that he is very intelligent and quick-
minded, determined and flexible. He has not been known for whoring, whatever
that is worth for. But he used to be highly estimated in his home country. I
wonder... it might be good to have a connection to Braavos. The Seven Kingdom's
have been notoriously indebted, so an international marriage alliance could
probably further the trade between the two countries, which would be good for
our finances. I'm certainly no expert on economy, but even I can see the
advantages.”
Lord Stark twisted his beard with his fingers and murmured: “Your words make
sense. It's worthwhile to think about them, I'd wager. The only thing is that I
don't want to experience another catastrophe with Arya.”
“Let her get to know him. He's a fantastic fighter; “water-dancing” his
technique is called. Very light-footed, but effective. Let him be her fighting
teacher. She'll adore him. And in the end – ask her like you did Sansa before
the betrothal is arranged.”
Lord Stark smiled a little. “Have you been trained as a bawd of late?”
Sandor was so surprised of the concept, that he accidentally swallowed his own
spit and had to cough.
“Me? Fuck the Seven!” he swore in between rattling breaths. “What will come
next? You mistaking me for the Maiden?”
The First Hand of Three sniggered darkly. “And you'd be mistaking me for a
jester.”
Sandor roared with laughter. “I'm already starting to do so.”
 
 
Yet, even if the Hound got along with his father-in-law well enough, there was
always this underlying tension caused by his worries for Sansa. So he tried to
distract himself. There was a third spectacular training fight, this time with
Ser Barristan. He arranged the fighting lessons between Arya and Syrio Forel.
He rummaged through various documents that had been set up before King Robert's
death in order to be able to give Lord Stark better advice about what had been
going on before the monarch's demise. For very much the same reason Sandor also
rode out with Stranger a lot and listened to the ragtag in Kings Landing. And
he helped Arya by looking after Nymeria; he snatched the best meat from the
kitchen and fed it to the direwolf. Slowly, the animal got better. So that was
at least one problem less.
 
 
One week later, all the waiting came finally to an end: the Imp arrived back in
the capital. From a window the Hound could see how he was greeted by his
unmoved, towering father in the courtyard. What a “sweet” reunion.
After more or less an hour, the Imp was admitted to the Council Room of the
Three Hands. Sandor had to wait outside like all the other courtiers. Eddard
Stark, Oberyn Martell and Mace Tyrell took their time to question Tyrion about
his experiences in Essos. When the door opened again, the Imp waddled out with
a smug expression on his face.
He turned to the Hound and said jovially: “Ahhhh, Dog, how very good to see
you! I've heard that I owe my new... position and rank to your recommendation.
I guess I should be grateful now. Well, and you have worked long enough for my
family to know our saying: A Lannister always pays his debts.”
Sandor growled back: “Well, then pay them back by serving the First Hand
loyally. Don't need a personal reimbursement, and even less so from the likes
of you.”
Tyrion chuckled: “I'm a Lion, not a Dog – you know? A Lion is not so very good
at submitting. But then again – being a Halfman, I'm accustomed to looking up
at others. I get the impression that that might not be so different.”
The Hound didn't feel the need to answer and just glowered at the Imp. The
latter one laughed airily, waved and waddled off. Some minutes later, the door
to the Council Room opened again, and Oberyn Martell and Mace Tyrell stomped
off.
After another moment, a musing Lord Stark came out slowly. He left without
addressing anybody else – a very unusual behaviour. So Sandor became really
curious about what had been going on behind those doors. But he had to wait
until supper before he got to know some details.
 
 
There was a welcome feast for Tyrion with lots of good food and music – and in
the background of the banquet hall the first whores had lined up, knowing that
the Imp was always a lusty and generous man. When Sandor passed them to reach
the long tables, one of the women (a dark-haired wench he had had more than
half a year before the trip to Winterfell) gave him a playful smack on his
buttocks and laughed throatily... at least until he saw the raw look that the
Hound flashed her.
Fuck the Seven, when he had still been a normal sworn shield no woman had
flirted with him, but since he had risen in status there were some daring sluts
who eyed him like cash cow! Bah, it was disgusting, but it was what life was
like.
Sandor sat down and looked about him. The places of honour had been given to
the Hands and the Imp, of course. At the next table, there were the closest
relatives of those people, such as Lady Catelyn and Lord Tywin – and he himself
was at the top of the third table. In the days of old he would have been either
on duty, standing invisibly and stone-still behind Joffrey Lannister, or he
would have crammed himself in amongst some lowly knights at a table at the back
of the hall. Which would have been better of sorts, because as an official
advisor he now had to “behave”. How very good that he'd be leaving the next
day!
Then, Lord Stark stood up, and there fell a deep silence.
“Lords and ladies, men and women – we have come here together tonight to
welcome back a well-respected man, who has travelled to Essos and who has some
important news to report. I am speaking of Tyrion Lannister.”
There was some restrained clapping from the people present, and the Imp gave an
ironical smile. “Well-respected”. Sandor shook his head a little. Sheesh, Lord
Stark was really turning into some sort of a jester.
At that moment, the Halfman stood up and on his chair so that everybody could
see him.
“Dear friends”, the voice of the Imp was dripping of sarcasm, “I really have to
tell you about a few interesting episodes that I experienced in Essos. First, I
went to the Free City named Pentos. It was my aim to track down the last
dangers posed by the mad Targaryen family. You may have heard that there were
two living descendants: Viserys, the Beggar Prince, and his sister Daenaerys
Stormborn. When I arrived I heard that the young woman had recently married the
most famous khal amongst the Dothraki, a wild people of horse riders. It became
obvious that the remaining Targaryens wanted to embattle an army of about a
hundred thousand fierce fighters to regain the Iron Throne. As you can imagine
I was very alarmed.”
There were shocked, doubting, unbelieving or dismissive glances. Nothing had
been heard of the Targaryen offspring for many years before late King Robert's
death, but in the months past there HAD been some alarming rumours, spread by
international merchants.
The Imp went on: “While I was there – incognito, of course – I learned that the
young Dragon Viserys was aloof and as dumb as greedy. And there was more than a
little bit of the Targaryen madness in him. The Dothraki khal seemed to notice
this and killed him, which put the horse lord and his young wife into the
position to challenge the Iron Throne for themselves. Khaleesi Daenerys was
pregnant and determined to secure an according place for her unborn child.
Despite her young age she showed much cunning and was developing into a very
real threat to Westeros. So I sneaked into the Dothraki camp to find out more.
After her husband had been wounded in an attack he had led against an inferior
tribe his wife lost her child under dubious circumstances and was weakened,
too. I seized the opportunity, killed Daenaerys Targaryen and let it look as if
her sworn shield had betrayed her – which he had actually done, but under
different circumstances.”
“What an entertaining story-teller you are!” Petyr Baelish chipped in
deridingly.
“Ah, Littlefinger!” Tyrion retorted. “I do get the impression that you've got
the feeling that my story is not completely authentic?”
The Mockingbird sneered: “What a clever Imp you are indeed!”
Tyrion wasn't vexed about the arrogant man at all and snipped his fingers at a
servant to bring forth a big box.
“Well, Lord Baelish, as the interim Master of the Whispers you'll know that
there was a certain exiled knight named Ser Jorah Mormont in Pentos and later
in the Dothraki camp. If I've understood correctly, he was spying for Varys and
you in the hope of being allowed to come back. Well, there was just one little
problem: he had fallen in love with the Targaryen girl and didn't reveal the
acuteness of the danger posed by the Dothraki. Sad as it is to say, he had
finally taken sides with Daenaerys and tried to defend her when I sneaked into
her tent, found her unconscious and dropped a precious Tear of Lys down her
throat.”
“Your stories are getting better and better!” Petyr Baelish guffawed. “Yes,
true, there is this said exiled knight in Essos, and yes, he is a spy, but he
is such a miserable, disheartened creature without his home that he wouldn't
turn into a spirited enemy all of a sudden.”
“Right...”, Tyrion was scratching his chin, “... then why did I have to kill
him?”
While saying these words, he opened the box he had been given, put his hand
into it... and suddenly produced the severed, embalmed head of a middle-aged
man. At once, there were hysterical shrieks from several of the present ladies,
and some of the pages and young fops pretending to be knights had gone white as
milk or even green as well.
“Baelish, please tell me: is that Ser Jorah Mormont?” the Imp asked casually.
The other man, who usually knew how to act in front of the court, had obviously
been taken by surprise. It took him a moment to gather his wits.
Then he shot back: “True, that's Mormont's head – but how do I know that it was
YOU who killed him? And besides, the head doesn't prove your story at all.”
Tyrion put the head back into the box and waved his other hand dismissively.
“If you don't believe me – go ask the merchant Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos. He'll
back up the story. And certainly not, because he's my friend. He supported the
Targaryens, so I would even consider him an enemy. ANOTHER enemy, actually.”
The Imp flashed the Mockingbird a meaningful smile, and there was a simmering
fury to be seen in Petyr Baelish's eyes.
That was the moment when Lord Stark cut in: “A very... impressive demonstration
indeed. We, the Three Hands have long discussed the matter at hand and have
deemed the account credible. Which means that Tyrion Lannister has done
Westeros a great favour and has shown that he's loyal to the Iron Throne. Lord
Baelish, as a provisional Master of the Whispers you have certainly done your
very best, and we all know how very difficult your task was since you had to
take up your duty so suddenly after Lord Varys's unforeseen death. So we really
have to thank you for your efforts. This is even more relevant since you're a
newly-wed man, and you've been separated from your lovely wife due to your
responsibilities here in the capital. I know what that means, because I had to
leave part of my family in Winterfell recently, and I don't want to put that
extraordinary burden onto your shoulders any longer. So I release you from your
position as the Master of the Whispers and transfer the job to Tyrion
Lannister.”
There were stifled gasps everywhere in the room; Petyr Baelish froze and turned
whiter than anybody else who had just seen the severed head. Lord Eddard's
words meant utter ruin for the Mockingbird's aspirations. He had fallen from
grace – and everybody in the hall knew it!
Sandor had to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to roar with laughter.
After he had regained control of himself he rose his steel-on-stone voice and
rasped: “Well, now that this matter has been settled – what about the first
course? I heard the cook prattle in the kitchen that there'd be a hearty soup
with lobster and crabs and shrimps.”
On hearing those words, three or four of the present ladies, who were still
sick from the sight of Ser Jorah Mormont's embalmed visage, jumped up and made
for the doors with retching sounds.
The Imp, however, took up the suggestion and commented: “Splendid idea, Dog!
And what about the musicians? – Get started! You're here to entertain the
guests after all!”
 
 
The atmosphere at the feast was strained, as might have been expected, but
Sandor didn't bother himself with that. Knowing that there was a voyage on
horseback lying ahead he indulged in the fantastic food and had his fill, which
would have sated three normal men.
When the tables and benches were set aside he suddenly felt a strong grip on
his shoulder and heard Lord Stark's murmur in his ear: “Clegane.” It was all
the Hound needed to know he was being asked to retreat with his father-in-law.
As soon as they were alone, Lord Eddard started talking: “Clegane, did you
notice the Mockingbird's reaction? Times will be even more dangerous in Kings
Landing than they've been already. So I have decided that my wife will
accompany you with some men in the morning. Lady Catelyn is going back to
Winterfell with Arya, at least for a while. This will also be better for my
sons up there.”
Sandor blinked.
“I understand your plan, and I can only support the idea of sending them back,
for Nymeria of all it'll be a total relief to be back in the open – but let
them travel at their own speed with their safety guard. Without them I'll be
twice as fast.”
The First Hand of Three sighed.
“There are two reasons that speak against this. First, I remember the ambush on
your way here and the way you saved Arya and Cat. No, please listen, there is
something more!”
Sandor was pacing back and forth and he wanted to snarl Lord Stark should
bugger himself.
“Clegane, what I'm telling you now is a secret, and it must be kept at all
costs.”
That attracted the Hound's attention at last.
The Warden of the North stepped over to a big box.
“More heads?” Sandor jested.
“No. Worse. Tyrion sent me this in secret.”
Lord Stark opened the box and Sandor gasped. He only needed a second to
recognize what he was beholding, but his mind simply refused to accept the
message that his eyes sent. There was a thick layer of richly embroidered
brocade in the box – and on it there were three dragon eggs. One in green, one
in black with red veins, and one in gold.
“Nobody else knows about these eggs. They are old, and they've turned into
stone, but they're still extremely valuable. Danaerys Targaryen owned them
before she died. Tyrion gave me these eggs as a present. I think it was meant
to be a very personal offer of amends after what his family has done. My plan
is to send the box to the Wall, this time as a present from me. It'll show that
the Night Watch is still highly favoured by the Iron Throne. Jon asked me to
help him – and this is something I can do for him; together with a few other
measures the dragon eggs may very well help to make the Black Crows attractive
again. They are unique.”
Sandor whistled in acknowledgement (though he was poor at producing that sound
with his partly burned mouth) and said: “A good decision. Here in Kings Landing
people would only want to try to barter with you and to snatch the eggs away
from you. But there's one thing you haven't thought about: should Sansa and me
go back to Winterfell as well? I won't let her travel to the north, if I have
to stay in the south after obeying your order. Probably I can't accompany the
eggs all the way.”
Lord Stark nodded.
“I know. Still. I want you to be around for as long as possible. We'll decide
who will go where when you have seen Sansa yourself and you know what her
situation is like. Oh, and by the way, there is somebody who will also come
along with you and my ladies. I thought I could hire a... private security
guard for my wife.”
“Forel?”
“You look sullen more often than not – but there's a sharp mind hidden under
your scars.”
“You're as good at making compliments as you're at jesting, do you know that,
Lord Stark? And I still want to travel ahead.”
“First: it was a statement, no compliment. Second: we cannot always get what we
want.”
Sandor growled deep in his chest.
 
 
The next morning was rather chilly – definitely a sign of autumn, but the Hound
welcomed the fresh air, because it helped clear his mind. Arya at his side was
chatting excitedly about what she'd do once she was back in Winterfell. Lady
Catelyn's face was extremely serious, of course. Leaving her husband wasn't
easy though it would mean she'd be reunited with her children in a few weeks.
The soldiers of the security squadron were milling around with their horses.
Nymeria and Stranger were both in high spirits. For them, it was like a
blessing to leave the capital, even more so since the direwolf had recovered
well enough to travel.
After the farewell greetings with Lord Stark they trotted off.
As soon as they had turned their backs to the Red Keep, Arya addressed Sandor:
“I still had a few coins. So I bought a little wooden shield for Rickon, a very
nice belt for Robb, a small knife with an ivory hilt and nice carvings for
Theon, and finally a leather gauntlet for the wrist for Rickon.”
“You're very attentive. Do you have anything for Sansa, too?”
“Do you?”
Both of them blushed.
Then, Sandor murmured: “I'm back in a few minutes!” – and off he stormed with
Stranger down a road in Kings Landing.
Ten minutes later, he caught up with the squadron again and showed his widest
doggish grin to Arya.
“Right. Give her this.”
He handed the girl a glass with lemon marmalade, and Arya beamed.
An instant later, she looked at him with an impish grin herself and teased him:
“Right – and what does the big brute have for my sweet sister that he would not
have, if we had not talked?”
Sandor emitted a deep, good-humoured rumble and said: “Oh, just a scarf trimmed
with fur. I guess that's very suitable; you see, after all, your family keeps
reminding me that winter is coming.”
Arya laughed loudly – and very unladylikely, if one heeded Lady Catelyn's
reaction. And then, another horse closed the gap on Arya and Sandor.
“Young Wolf, it is good to see you in such a good mood again.”
Arya turned her head back a little, smiled and said: “Ser Forel! And it is good
to see you in such a good mood, too!”
Sandor cut in at that: “He is no ser.”
Which made Arya giggle: “Coming from you it means that it's an honour he's
none.”
“And you're absolutely right!”
 
 
The trip back to Riverrun was utterly boring. Until one day and a half before
they expected to reach their destination. It was then that they discovered some
sentries with the Tully trout stitched on their tunics, and they were galloping
up to them.
“Why so much speed?” Sandor thought, and that bad feeling that he had had over
the days past increased.
“Do you have her?” one sentry bellowed as soon as they got into earshot.
“What? Whom?” the Hound roared back.
The riders were now approaching them and looked very worried.
“Is Lady Sansa with you?”
There was suddenly the strangest mad flutter in Sandor's chest, and he spat:
“What are you babbling, you stupid bastards? Where is my lady wife?”
The sentries looked like curdled milk now.
“So she's not with you?”
“WHAT'S HAPPENED TO SANSA? Tell me, or I'll chop off your heads and stuff your
arseholes with them!”
The Tully men were so frantic now that they tripped over their tongues, but in
the end, one soldier pressed out: “She disappeared from Riverrun three days
ago. We've been looking up and down the Kingsroad.”
“WHAT!?”
Sandor's eyes were bulging and a vein was puckering up on his forehead.
He was about to strangle the stupid sentries when an agitated Lady Catelyn cut
in: “She disappeared? Under which circumstances? Tell us more, and let's ride
on together!”
The sentries swung in to their sides and started to report: “She was sleeping
much of late, and never wanted to eat. Three days ago, Lord Tully wanted to
wake her at noon, because she seemed not to have stirred – but the bed was
empty.”
“SEVEN THRICE-DAMNED HELLS OF SHIT!” Sandor bellowed. Then, he fought to calm
himself and snarled: “What about her belongings? Did anything disappear? Her
horse? Lady?”
“Which lady?” a sentry asked, confused.
“Her direwolf, for fuck's sake!”
“Oh, well, I don't know about her belongings, but her palfrey is gone, and I
think I haven't seen her godawf... the direwolf since then. What do you say,
Glenn?” the sentry who was talking asked his partner.
“Nah. The horse's gone. Don't know nothing about the wolf.”
Sandor put his face into his hand, close to despair in the face of so much
stupidity. If there had been a sign of her horse, Lady or Sansa's belongings,
the flaming sentries wouldn't have even recognized it.
“Lady Stark, you may ride with these men. I'm off to Riverrun, and nobody will
hold me back.”
Sansa's mother looked at the Hound, nodded and murmured: “The Seven be with
you, Lord Clegane! Find my sweet little child.”
“I will – and if it's the last thing I do.”
Then Sandor took Stranger's reins and darted off as if the fire demons of the
Seven Hells were on his heels.
***** Chapter 10 *****
In the main yard of Riverrun he jumped off of Stranger's back. The sun was just
rising after a frosty night. At that moment, Edmure Tully came out of the main
building with swift strides and a serious face.
“Have you found her?” Sandor boomed.
“So you didn't see her on the road? I'd have thought she'd ridden to meet the
party”, the young lord shot back.
“Right, Tully. I'm here, and now I want to hear some details. Your sodding
sentries were too stupid to answer the easiest things”, the Hound fumed.
By then, Edmure was standing at his side and looking up at the man he resented,
but at least, he didn't refuse Sansa's husband the information he wanted to
hear.
“She's been gone for almost four days now. I wanted to wake her, but she had
disappeared into thin air. Only one palfrey was missing, and since she knew my
sister was coming here, I thought she'd gone down the Kingsroad. When she
didn't come back in the evening, and the sentries had no other tidings, we also
started to send men up into the direction of Winterfell."
“What!? You didn't form various search parties at once?”
Sandor grabbed Edmure by the collar and crashed him into a wall. At once,
several spikes and arrows were pointed into his direction. Lord Tully was
panting now and shot him a petulant look.
“Well, Clegane, is this the way you touch her? No wonder that Sansa ran away!”
“This is the way I touch people who are too stupid to take care of my wife, for
fuck's sake! Tell me, did she take her belongings with her, and what about
Lady? Her direwolf, just in case you forgot. She was pregnant – has she given
birth?”
Lord Tully narrowed his eyes and snarled: “As far as we could tell, a bag with
some “important” female things might be missing, but we don't know exactly. The
wolf-bitch disappeared together with her palfrey. The wolf gave birth, aye, but
the three pups were too small and didn't survive or something like that, what
do I know?”
Sandor went white and wanted to crash Edmure fucking Tully into the wall again,
but he needed more information, and soon.
“Aye, you know nothing, you fishy Trout! Were there any signs of a fight?”
“You won't speak to my like that, Clegane, understood!? And no, there were no
hints that could've indicated a fight at all.”
“In your message to Lord Stark you wrote Sansa was ill.”
“Yes. I told you she slept a lot, ate little and obviously had terrible
nightmares in her sleep, because she often moaned.”
“Did you talk to her about her problems?”
“Maester Wyman talked to her. He was worried, because she was rather weak in
his opinion, but she didn't tell him about any further problems. Her being not
fit also made us think she wouldn't get far and return soon.”
Sandor breathed heavily.
“So you sent your men up and down the Kingsroad. And the Gold Road?”
Edmure looked at him with confused Tully blue eyes.
“What about the Gold Road?”
“You're not saying that there are no sentries in that direction?”
“As I told you – there was no sign of a crime, and why for the Seven's sake
should she travel down the Gold Road?”
Now, Sandor moaned. How could anybody be so unbelievably daft!?!?
“First: Sansa is the wife of Sandor Clegane and the eldest daughter of the
First Hand of Three. Which means that she has powerful enemies, who might pay
someone capable well to captivate her and make it look as if she had run away
on her own. Second: at the end of the Gold Road, there's Lannisport – and that
is very close to Clegane Keep.”
“Clegane Keep? Why should she want to go there? It's no important place, she
knows nobody, and she's never been there.”
“Fuck the Seven, she even wanted to go there when I travelled to the keep some
months ago.”
There was nothing Edmure Tully could say against that, so he shrugged and
rumbled: “If you want to look in that direction – go ahead, I don't mind. Ah,
one more thing – take uncle Brynden with you. He's just recovered from a bad
flu, but he'll be able to ride. And you'll get a few provisions.”
“And an extra blanket and some basic herbs. If Sansa is really ill she might be
in dire need of both.”
 
 
While some servants and stable boys were now running to and fro Sandor made
good use of the privy, washed himself under a water pump, ate a few bites,
sipped a mug of hot broth, which warmed him up after the cold night, and then,
he slumped down on a log in the yard and actually dozed off for a few minutes.
He was woken again by a strong grip on the shoulder.
“Clegane?”
It was the Blackfish.
Sandor rubbed his bloodshot eyes and rasped: “Everything prepared? Let's go
then.”
Together, they sauntered out of Riverrun. The Hound would have preferred a
quicker pace, but they had to husband their strength, men and horses alike.
After some miles in silence Sandor grumbled: “I heard you've just recovered
from an illness?”
“Yes, one of those nice infects, where you digest at double speed – and in both
directions. Otherwise, I would have made sure that the search after Sansa
were... more effective.”
The Hound grunted.
After some more miles, they started to talk about Kings Landing. Brynden Tully
was down-to-earth enough not to ignore Sandor, even if they were no friends.
Which didn't mean that they were enjoying a relaxed chat; the whole situation
was simply too worrying.
 
 
They rode day and night, alternately sleeping in the saddle and only making
brief pauses for the horses, and they also passed the village where Sandor had
had his fight without any problems. In the late afternoon of the next day, the
Hound was close to desperation. There was no sign of Sansa and the people they
had asked on the road hadn't seen her – or hadn't wanted to tell the truth to
the fierce-looking, mail-clad riders.
Suddenly, Ser Brynden pointed to the horizon, where the Gold Road was
disappearing amongst fields and groves.
“What's that movement over there? Looks a little like a donkey, but it's yellow
and too fast.”
Sandor's heart and breathing stopped for a moment – and then he roared at the
top of his lungs: “LADY!”
The furred bolt of lightening that was his wife's direwolf was running in their
direction and even sped up when it heard the shouting. Sandor galloped forth,
but after a while he had to stop and dismount; he had a clear idea of what was
coming and didn't want Stranger to panic. And sure enough, Lady jumped at the
towering man, so hard that he toppled over, huge paws on his chest, crushing
the breath out of him... and then the wolf licked him like mad and whined and
whined and was completely beyond its wits.
The Hound started to ward off the animal's gestures of affection and gasped:
“Right, right, it's okay, please let me live! Lady, listen, please! Where's
your mistress?”
Lady cocked her head and looked at him as if she was confused.
So Sandor changed his wording: “Lady – find Sansa!”
Now the wolf was sitting on its behind, panting, lolling out the tongue.
Sandor's eyes grew wide.
“Sansa?” he thought.
If it was true and his wife had warged into Lady, it meant that her body wasn't
awake. Fuck, what did that mean? That Sansa was sleeping somewhere in a warm
bed – or that she was lying unconsciously in a ditch? In one swift motion
Sandor stood up and mounted on Stranger's back again.
“We'll ride into the direction where Lady has come from, Ser Brynden. I'd bet
on my arse that Sansa is somewhere close by.”
And off they went.
 
 
Half an hour later, the two men on their horses watched Lady become nervous, so
they concentrated even more. And then, Sandor saw it: a palfrey that was still
wearing its tack was standing next to the road and grazing. Fuck the Seven, the
Hound's heart was hammering, and if he hadn't had Lady at his side he would
have feared the worst.
They came closer. Oh, oh no! Nononono! There was a patch of auburn hair and a
bit of blue cloth to be seen in the ditch alongside the road!
“SANSA!”
Sandor bellowed, jumped off his horse and rushed to where his little wife was
lying unconsciously. Her face was on the side so that he only saw the back of
her head; luckily, there was no water in the ditch so that she couldn't drown.
With few big strides the Hound was at her side, knelt down with trembling hands
and started to examine her carefully without moving her too much. Her breathing
was shallow, but constant. There were no apparent gashes and no blood. Slowly,
Sandor raked her hair to the side and took a first look at his little wife's
face. He sucked in the air sharply.
Sansa had a pinched face and sunken cheeks; where her skin had been soft and
white, it was now papery and grey. Her formerly silky red hair was now thin and
dull. When Sandor turned her body around slowly he could see at once that Sansa
was frail, her bones protruding from the skin. Where she had had soft, sweet
curves that had told him of the development of her womanhood before his
departure there was no flesh left now.
Any starving child in Flea Bottom down in Kings Landing would have looked more
spirited than her. She had apparently ridden her mare until this point and
fallen off from sheer exhaustion. Shivering and tears streaming down his face,
Sandor cradled his wife in his arms and murmured: “Shit, what has happened to
you, my sweetheart? Oh, and I'm so late, so late, and I wanted to be faster.
But now I'm here, and I'll help you, I promise – but please don't leave me!”
In that moment, the Blackfish was at their side, too, obviously shocked as
well, but he still seemed to have his wits about him.
“Clegane, if I remember correctly there is a village with an inn about two
miles from here. I think I can already see the smoke from the chimneys.”
“Yes”, Sandor rasped, “I stayed there overnight last time, the innkeeper will
recognize me. Let's take her there. – Lady, come here!”
The Hound mounted his courser again, and the Blackfish helped him position his
unmoving little wife in front of him. Then, the castellan of Riverrun took the
palfrey's reins. Twenty minutes later, the riders arrived in the little village
and headed for the inn.
 
 
“This is no result of four days without food”, Sandor hissed accusingly at Ser
Brynden once they had placed Sansa on a soft bed. The Blackfish nodded in
grumpy assent.
“I know. She had already lost weight in Riverrun. I didn't see her often,
because she kept to herself so much, and when she appeared – I don't know, she
didn't look so very bad. Must have done something with her clothes or some
make-up. I sent Master Wyman to her when I noticed that she was worse, and when
he said he was worried Edmure sent that message to Kings Landing to inform you.
Still, I wouldn't have believed she was so weak – she was wearing a mask and
really acting like a lady.”
“Coming to speak of “lady” – what about the direwolf's pups? I heard they
died.”
“I was already falling ill, so I don't know the details, but it must have
happened two or three days before Sansa disappeared. – By the way, it was good
that you left the wolf in the stable in her own box. Otherwise the other
customers would be up in arms now.”
“Fuck, what do I care about customers!? And where is the buggering oaf of an
innkeeper with the warm water and the honeyed milk? I gave that order more than
five minutes ago.”
“Clegane, if you now rasp at him with your vicious voice it won't be any good,
because the man will let everything fall down. He almost pissed himself when
you snarled at him and demanded the best bed.”
Sandor sighed deeply.
“I know. I'm just so worried.”
The Blackfish looked over at Sansa and murmured: “You're fond of her –
something I would have never believed from what I've heard about you over the
years.”
“Wouldn't have believed it myself.”
“I wonder if Sansa lost so much weight because she was missing you. While you
were away she was in the sept every day... and she was always praying to the
Warrior.”
Sandor's heart beat faster on hearing this, but he couldn't react to the
Blackfish's words, because the door finally opened with a wooden creak and
revealed a pale, deeply frightened innkeeper with a bowl of warm water, a piece
of cloth, and a large mug with honeyed milk.
The Hound grabbed the items with a low growl, and the man hastened out again.
“Ser Brynden, please retreat to your own room now. I'll take care of her and
inform you, if anything changes. You've been on horse like me, and you still
need to recover yourself. So go and take a nap.”
“Right, Clegane. But do tell me, if you need any help.”
 
 
Finally, they were alone. Sandor bent over Sansa and washed her face with the
piece of cloth. Still no reaction. The Hound was unsure. He wanted to feed her
the milk, but he feared she might choke on it.
So he gently patted her cheek and urged her: “Sansa! Little bird! Wake up! It's
me. I've come back.”
There was the tiniest noise in her throat, but no further response. He patted
her again, stronger this time, and repeated his words. Heavy lids fluttered,
and then they opened a little, revealing a trace of Tully blue.
“Sansa!” Sandor exclaimed emotionally, took her hand and pressed it where his
heart was beating frantically under the tunic.
“San... San...”
“Shhh... don't strain yourself. Come here and drink a swig!”
Carefully, Sandor placed the mug at her lips. Sansa actually spilled more than
she drank with her first sip, but it didn't matter.
“That good, my sweetheart?” Sandor whispered, relief thick in his voice.
“M... l... my l... ” Sansa croaked.
“Shhh...”, Sandor put a finger on her dry, crustal lips and said: “Your lord is
at your side now.”
Sansa's mouth turned into a half-smile, and then, she extracted with some
effort the first intelligible words from her throat: “My l... my love.”
 
 
Sandor's eyes opened wide, and suddenly, a strangled sound erupted from his
chest, a sound he didn't know he could produce: it was a sob.
“Oh my love, oh my love!” he uttered, dipped his head and kissed her.
Weak as Sansa was, he could still detect her answer to his caress, so he kissed
hungrily on.
When their lips parted again Sandor put the mug with milk to her mouth again,
but Sansa tried to shake her head.
“Drink something”, Sandor pleaded. “You need it. After each swig you'll get
another kiss.”
Sansa looked at the mug as if it contained urine rather than sweetened milk,
but after a moment, she steeled herself and sipped a little.
“Good girl!” Sandor murmured and kissed her again.
So they went on for more than half an hour – only then had she managed to empty
the mug. The way Sansa had to force herself to consume even this little amount
of liquid food told the Hound that something was completely wrong with her. He
could only be happy that her need to kiss him was bigger than her disdain
towards food.
There was another thing he needed to do.
“Sansa, when we found you – Ser Brynden is here, too! - you had fallen into a
ditch. You're quite dirty now. May I... may I take your clothes off and wash
you and put a clean tunic on you?”
Sansa nodded lightly. She was so exhausted that she was already gliding back
into sleep.
Sandor shoved the blanket aside and fumbled on bodice and laces. Having that
done, he pulled down her dress. Apart from a mumbling sound in half sleep there
was no further reaction from his little wife. So he went on and removed her
underskirt and her smallclothes as well. His heart was bleeding – he had always
wanted to see her completely naked for the first time under different
circumstances. But that was only one thing, and a minor aspect at that in
comparison to her physical state. Now, he could actually see that she was all
skin and bones, and even though he could see her pubic hair and her lady parts
and her rosy nipples, he felt no arousal, because at the same time her frailty
was predominant.
The Hound took the bowl with the water and the cloth again and washed her.
Then, he produced a clean tunic from his saddlebags. It was hopelessly
oversized, but Sansa had only packed one set of clothes for changing and that
had already been dirty; Sandor had ordered the innkeeper to have it washed.
After having done everything he could do for the time being he went down to the
common room and ate some cold roast and a gruel made of pearl barley. It didn't
look good, but it was surprisingly tasty. Together with the food Sandor made
short work of a tankard with dark, strong ale. Then he went for a piss, swaying
slightly, and recognized that he was dead tired himself. So he went upstairs
and snuggled himself against Sansa.
***** Chapter 11 *****
In the morning, he was woken by a knock on the door.
“Clegane? Everything okay?”
It was Ser Brynden's voice.
Sandor rubbed his face, yawned and rumbled: “One moment!”
At his side, Sansa was stirring slightly, but didn't really wake up. With his
creased clothing and tousled lank hair, he opened the door. The Blackfish was
standing there - already spick and span.
“Morning”, Sandor yawned again. “Sansa woke up last night and managed to drink
her milk. Let's see if she manages to eat some porridge today.”
“Good idea. Hopefully, we'll be able to return with her to Riverrun soon.”
Sandor straightened.
“She wanted to travel to Clegane Keep. So this is where I'll take her. No
discussion.”
“What!?”
The Blackfish was dumbfounded.
Sandor was adamant: “You heard me. I will take her... home. My castellan has
told me that there is a wise woman now – and somehow I feel that a female
healer might be better for her than a male maester.”
“Maester Wyman is very capable.”
“Maybe, but he is a man. What if the origin of her mysterious problems is some
kind of female affliction? Then, Sansa would need somebody who really
understands her most of all.”
The Blackfish grumbled, but uttered no further objections.
“As soon as she's able to travel with you I will head back for Riverrun. The
people there are waiting breathlessly for some news.”
“I understand. And as time goes by I'll also be able to send some ravens. But
let's wake Sansa up first.”
 
 
They turned around and walked over to the bed. Sandor sat down on the edge and
patted his little wife's cheek the way he had done the evening before. Sansa
murmured and then opened her eyes. A smile spread across her face that caused
his heart to hammer away again.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning, too! Feeling better? Look, who's here!”
“Ser Brynden! Oh, I'm so sorry to appear in such a bedraggled state.”
“Never mind, Sansa, never mind. It's only important that you recover soon.”
Sandor cleared his throat. “Blackfish, since you're not as fearful a sight as
me – would you please go to the innkeeper and get some porridge to break our
fast?”
“Of course. And some bread and cheese as well.”
As soon as the castellan of Riverrun had left Sandor leaned down and kissed
Sansa lightly.
Then he asked: “Please tell me, I've got a question: when I met Lady on the
road... were you there, too?”
Sansa smiled: “Oh yes! Oh yes, I was. And I was so very, very happy.”
“Why didn't Lady show me the way to you right away?”
“But I've just told you! I was there with her.”
“Your body wasn't. And why did you leave Riverrun – and how did you manage to
do that? And did you want to travel to Clegane Keep like I thought?”
Sandor got no chance to hear her answer, only her nod with regard to the last
question, because the Blackfish was already coming back with some food. There
was a bowl with creamy porridge; it was sweetened with a bit of fruit purée and
enriched with ground nuts.
“Ok, let's break our fast”, the Hound rasped. Sansa wrinkled her nose in
disgust and said: “Oh, thank you, but I'm not hungry. Just go ahead and have
your fill.”
Surprised, Sandor looked at his little wife. “You're joking! Yesterday, you
fell off your horse, because you were too starved to go on. No, you HAVE to eat
something now.”
Sansa looked at him, nauseated, but there was no escape. Sandor ate the first
spoon and handed her the second. It took her a full minute until she swallowed
it; her face contorted as if she had to eat a naked mouse. She seemingly had to
fight against sudden feelings of sickness. It was a heart rending sight. Sandor
ate another spoonful, and offered Sansa the next bit. So the fight about
consuming the offered food went on. The Blackfish felt uncomfortable watching
the scene and tried to distract Sansa by telling her about the latest news in
Riverrun.
And Sandor added: “When we have finished eating, I'll relate what is going on
in Kings Landing and how your father is faring.”
Sansa's eyes lighted up.
“Oh yes, please!” she breathed.
But first, Sandor forced more porridge and even some morsels of cheese down
Sansa's throat. Only when he was contented with the amount she had eaten did
Sandor start to talk about Lord Stark and about what had happened in the
capital. The Blackfish listened carefully as well, even though he had already
heard the tidings during their trip on the road.
Sansa was thrilled and happy and worried at the same time.
“Kings Landing must be so interesting! And the balls! The fine clothes! And
father amongst them. He's so just and dignified! He'll do everything for the
sake of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“He'll do as much as the others will let him do”, Sandor grunted. “Didn't you
listen? They're all entertaining vicious feuds amongst each other. Just in case
you forgot: You've already become a victim of one of these feuds.”
Sansa looked upset, and she blurted out angrily, her eyes suddenly brimming
with tears: “I don't feel like a victim. At least most of the time. I only do
so when you're in one of your tempers.”
Sandor stiffened, and he felt like shit again.
“The Stranger take me, I'm being a bloody bugger again.”
In a sudden strange mixture of wrath and mirth, and her eyes still being wet,
Sansa's lips changed into a venomous smile, and she addressed Ser Brynden in a
saccharine voice: “Doesn't my lord husband look simply sweet and adorable when
he's so contrite?”
This caused the two sturdy, accomplished, battle-hardened men in the room to
blush crimson red like greenhorns. Especially Sandor, who was no artist with
words anyway, could only utter a stammering sound.
The Blackfish, who was in an easier situation as an onlooker, gathered his wits
sooner, and was able to joke then: “Well, if you're able to philander like this
again you are certainly better, and you should ask your “sweet” husband for
help with a good, hot bath. Though admittedly it might give him some other
ideas as well, being smitten with such beautiful lady wife as he is.”
Sandor had now changed from crimson to purple. The salacious banter of whores
and comrades-in-arms had never affected him much, but this here was flaming
different. At least, Sansa had blushed now, too. And the short moment of
distress had passed as well. So the Blackfish grinned broadly and took his
leave.
When he was gone, Sansa giggled and said: “Don't be so bashful – that's my
female privilege – and give me a kiss!”
“Fuck me sideways, for more than half a maid you're rather daring I'd say; but
I certainly won't complain.”
So he bent over the bed and kissed her again. When their lips parted they were
both panting, and Sandor remembered that he wasn't allowed to overexercise his
little wife, even more so since she was still so very thin and weak.
Sansa smiled at him, so his heart kept hobbling in a most unruly way.
Then, she said: “I should go back to sleep.”
“Do you want to run with Lady again, little skinchanger?”
Sansa's eyes were gleaming, and she was flushing red even more.
“Oh no, I'd prefer running with my Hound. You could indeed go and have a bath
and... see to your needs again. That's so... so... wonderful.”
Sandor looked as if he had been struck.
“What the fuck...?” His eyes widened. Bulged.
In Kings Landing, he had pleasured himself extremely frequently. Those
headaches when his brain had felt so strange. Sansa moaning in her dreams.
Sansa the skinchanger. It all fell into place. SEVEN THRICE-DAMNED HELLS!
He had not known... had not even had an inkling. Shit, he had moaned her name!
Had looked at his cock while fucking into his hand! Had seen himself harden and
redden and... leak... and twitch... and release...
The Hound gasped and pressed his hand on his mouth in shocked understanding.
“Sandor, what is it?”
He floundered and stuttered: “It's... ohfuckohfuckohfuck... I... I didn't...
didn't know you were there... that you could... could bridge such a distance!”
“Oh”, came Sansa's small answer. Now, it was her who was tripping over her
tongue: “I thought you knew, because... you... you were so... delighted. It...
felt... so... good. So... right.”
Sandor shook his head in disbelief.
“It was so good for me, because it made me happy to think of you.”
“But then... everything is fine. Basically. Sorts of”, Sansa breathed. “I
mean... even if you didn't know... it was breathtaking, truly it was! I came to
you as often as I could during the night. Once I had learned how to do it. It
took me almost a month. I didn't warg at daytime, of course, because I didn't
want to disturb your duties. At first, it wasn't easy either, not at all, but
it was worth the effort. And... now you know... Will IT be even better?”
The Hound felt as if he was on his last legs.
“Right, that's really fine for you, but I'm just learning that we're on...
intimate terms already, and I didn't experience YOUR lustful reactions...
Blimey, it's just all a little too much. You wanted to sleep? Then go ahead, I
really need some time for myself. And no warging into me! Understood?”
Sansa nodded meekly, and Sandor stormed out of the room.
He took a good stroll around the village. When he saw that a wine merchant was
unloading some barrels from a cart and was having some problems, he stopped and
helped with the heavy containers. After twenty minutes, he was heaving and
sweating – but feeling better. The merchant was very grateful and offered the
Hound a glass of sour Dornish red. That helped to improve his temper even
further.
Finally, he was able to contemplate the situation and its implications. He had
been caught with his pants down – quite literally. Uuuh, well, at least his
innocent little wife had not been frightened beyond her wits by his body and
his lust. Fuck the Seven, she had actually even enjoyed it! After what he had
done to her in Winterfell this was more than he could have ever hoped for. So
there was a fair chance that she might delight in his body when they'd be lying
together as well. At that thought his cock twitched, but he willed it to calm
down and took other aspects into consideration.
How well could she control her skill? Was it something one could do
purposefully like waggling one's ears, or was it something like a heartbeat
that you could only influence a little by running or keeping quiet? Well, she'd
said that it had been difficult to reach him in Kings Landing, so she must have
tried to do it deliberately. Regarding the distance it was simply unbelievable.
And... could warging go wrong? Could she have accidentally landed in, let's
say, Lord Eddard's brain? He didn't even want to think of what might have
happened, if she had entered Littlefucker while tutoring his whores. Or Lord
Tywin busy snogging Lollys Stokeworth. (The Old Lion snogging? Never ever!)
Brrrrr. He shook himself in disgust. But this clearly had not happened,
otherwise she wouldn't have been so... eager about experiencing his one-hand-
show again. However... could it be the warging that had weakened her?
 
 
Then his tactical thinking as a soldier set in. He had never seen it from this
angle before – but a capable and experienced skinchanger could be a crucial
factor in a war by spying on the adversary. Especially if the enemy didn't have
a clue that there was a warg at work. It also meant that it was of utmost
importance that this ability amongst the Starks was kept a secret. If people
knew they wouldn't just despise the Starks or even forsake their liege lord,
no. Greedy people would seek to abuse those powers for their own purposes.
Somebody like the Mockingbird would abduct the Stark girls and their wolves, or
Tywin Lannister would imprison Lord Eddard and force Robb to work for him.
Worst of all, the Greyjoys would probably try to rise again by misusing fierce
Rickon's powers, and the Houses from the south, the Dornish and the Tyrells,
might fight over Bran like dogs over a bone.
And what about that young man at the Wall, Jon Snow? He had never been meant
for the Game of Thrones, but if he could warg – and the fact that he also had a
direwolf was a meaningful sign – people would suddenly become very, very
interested in him, too. Fuck, he had to ride to Riverrun at top speed, and to
inform Arya and Lady Catelyn. When they travelled to Winterfell they could tell
the others. Did he have to go back to Kings Landing personally, too? No. Lord
Stark wouldn't talk about these skills anyway.
 
 
Having finished his wine Sandor strode back to the inn. He headed for the
stables, because he wanted to prepare Stranger for riding back. But what he saw
there let him stop dead in his tracks and blink as if he was hallucinating.
FUCK THE SEVEN! Lady, who was almost pony-sized now, had entered his courser's
box – and was licking Stranger with closed eyes as devotedly as a cat would
wash another feline.
The black horse turned his head on hearing his master's steps with a suffering
expression and shot him a dark glance that could only mean: “Don't you dare
ask!”
Sandor staggered backwards, still taking in the incredible scene for a moment,
then turned around and hastened to the entrance door of the inn. As soon as he
had stepped into the common room and closed the door he couldn't hold back any
longer: ignoring the few goggling customers and the innkeeper, he threw himself
onto a wooden bench and laughed so loudly and heavily that tears were streaming
down his face. At some point his midriff started to hurt, even more so, because
the Hound wasn't accustomed to such unrestrained sounds of levity – but he
couldn't stop.
Then, a steady hand fell on his quivering shoulders.
“Well, Clegane, if I've ever seen a disintegrating man it's you now. May I ask
what caused this spectacular fit? Sansa heard your roaring upstairs and is very
confused now.”
“So am I!” Sandor gasped. "So am I!”
After another minute, he attempted to explain the incident to the Blackfish,
but he had to hold his waist, and again and again there were bubbles of
laughter.
“Oh man!” Ser Brynden sighed. “If I didn't know you for the deadly,
intimidating Hound I'd mistake you for a giggling chick!”
“Never mind”, Sandor sniggered, and the burned corner of his mouth twitched
like mad. “Sansa will understand me when I tell her. – But back to business.
There is also something really serious I've got to tell you. You'll have to
stay here for a few days and look after Sansa while I have to travel to
Riverrun myself.”
“What!?”
“Yes, I realized that I have to talk to Lady Catelyn about something extremely
important – and the fewer people know about it the better.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“It's even more mysterious than it sounds. Can I count on you that you'll take
good care of Sansa? That you will make her eat her food at all costs? You've
seen her aversion.”
“Rest assured, she will regain her vitality.”
“Better for you. You're clever enough a man to know how to keep your head on
your shoulders. I'll be back in a week from hence, I think. And now, I'll go
upstairs and talk to Sansa.”
 
 
His little wife had actually got up and was waiting for him impatiently. He had
barely entered when she flung himself at him with newly regained vigour and
kissed him in such a passionate way that he would have flipped her on her back
then and there, had he not also felt her protruding bones. So he decided
differently, cradled her against his chest, sat down on the edge of the bed and
made her sit on his lap.
Next, he ended the kiss and started: “Sansa, we must talk about your skill.
Describe to me what and how you do it, and if you know any more about it.”
Sansa flushed red.
“It's a big taboo. I only know the few things Old Nan told in her stories – and
those were... abstract, to say the least. It all started with strange dreams
after I'd got Lady. I realized I was looking through her eyes. I told Maester
Luwin, but he said I was just having vivid dreams. Then I confided in Robb...
and he was very astonished, because he was experiencing the same! He talked to
Jon, and he had those dreams as well. And Arya, too. It was also her, who
reminded us of Old Nan's stories. At first, we didn't want to believe this. We
were also distracted after... our sudden marriage.”
Sansa fell silent and nestled her cheek up against Sandor's crook of his neck
as if to seek shelter. Fuck, that was sweet! On impulse, the Hound combed with
his fingers through her auburn hair and nibbled on her earlobe.
“I want to feel you”, his little wife whispered and he grew hard – until he
realized that she didn't mean a normal fuck, but her warging into him.
He thought to himself: “What on earth...? Normally, it should be strange for
her to be confined in a huge, hairy, male body with a burned face all of a
sudden. And to have raw, strong, male, passionate emotions pulse through the
veins. She's really different from other women. How can she still want to be
so... intimate with someone like me?”
He dipped his head, and their tongues played again. There would never be enough
kisses to sate him.
After some minutes, he came back to the topic at hand: “When you warg – can you
control what you're doing?”
In between playful pecks and a little nibbling on the burned corner of his
mouth Sansa breathed: “At first, I didn't have a clue, but then, it got better.
And when you were in Kings Landing... it was as if you were calling for me.”
Sandor moaned.
“I was, little bird, I was.”
He pushed the oversized tunic a little aside and licked along Sansa's
collarbone – but he stopped again, because it was too prominent for his taste.
With a little sigh he said: “Fuck, this reminds me of Lady.”
His little wife shot him a confused glance, so he explained how he had
encountered the direwolf licking Stranger.
Instead of bursting into laughter, however, Sansa became sad.
“She's still so overly sensitive, and she still has got these protective and
caring instincts after the birth of her pups. It was her happiest moment when
they were born – but they were so tiny. At first, I thought that it was normal,
I mean – all babies are small, aren't they? But Lady knew better at once. They
weren't strong enough for sucking and died. It was so horrible, for both of us.
And it still is. Do you know that her teats hurt, because there's still milk in
them?”
Sandor felt embarrassed. He had been oblivious to why the direwolf had been
behaving so strangely. He hadn't had a flaming clue about the problems of milk
production either. Fuck, and Sansa knew what that felt like although she had
not even truly consummated the marriage with him.
“I didn't know”, the Hound admitted. “But I do know something about warging
that you haven't thought about so far.”
He started to describe his worries to her. Sansa was looking up at him, and her
Tully blue eyes widened in shocked understanding.
“So you have to leave me again, right?”
“I wish you were strong enough to travel, but you have to recover. You are
still too weak. Give yourself a week and eat and put on some weight. Then I'll
be back and take you to Clegane Keep.”
Sansa was weeping now, so Sandor added: “I promise.”
She pressed her face into the crook of his neck again and inhaled deeply. Then,
she started to nibble on his skin, which was more sensitive there than
elsewhere. Whoa, damn, this had to stop at once; if she went on like this he
wouldn't be able to depart any time soon!
“Right, little bird”, he rasped and withdrew. “I have to go now – or I won't
leave at all. Please: regain your strength. I need you. I love you.”
After those words Sansa embraced and kissed him again – and then gave him a
little shove.
“Out with you, big man! The sooner you're gone the sooner you're back. And
don't dare come back later, or I'll watch out!”
“Well, I know a threat when I hear one!” he chortled back, waved and left the
room after having shouldered his saddlebags. He went down to the stables where
he met the Blackfish.
“So the Lady Clegane has been seen off?”
“Yes. And... oufff.”
Lady wanted a proper farewell, too, as it seemed. In fact, she was as clinging
as her mistress. Ah, but then again, it was probably no wonder, if they
sometimes shared the wolf's vision. When Sandor regained his composure and a
spiteful Stranger had stopped snorting he was able to mount at last.
The Blackfish patted the courser soothingly – and was bitten adequately. That,
in its turn, left the Hound snorting with glee. He thought that he had never
experienced such an... entertaining farewell.
“See you in a week, Blackfish!”
And off he galloped unceremoniously.
 
 
“Slowly, but surely all this thrice-damned travelling is becoming boring! And
the nights are becoming too cold. Blasted autumn!” the Hound thought to himself
when he came within eyeshot of Riverrun once more.
While he was riding into the courtyard he realized that there was a real
pandemonium going on. Catelyn Stark was sailing into his direction in such a
desperate, unladylike way that he couldn't believe his eyes. Edmure Tully came
skidding down the steps of the main entrance. An overjoyed Nymeria was whizzing
at him, with a panting Arya in her wake.
“Have you found Sansa? Have you found my baby?” Lady Catelyn wailed.
Lord Tully cut in: “Where's uncle Brynden?” And Arya shouted: “What has
happened, Sandor?”
The Hound felt his head spin – and Stranger thought definitely the same about
this commotion, for he exploded and nearly bucked his rider off. Only then did
the others realize that their frenzy was no help and fell silent.
Sandor dismounted at last and started to tell them that his little wife was in
an inn and recovering from a dizzy spell. No, she was in no immediate danger
any longer, but she was still weak. And yes, the Blackfish was with her and
looking after Sansa.
Lady Catelyn breathed in and out deeply, overcome by relief. Arya, however, was
more quick-minded than the others. As usual.
“Sandor, why are YOU here then – and not uncle Brynden?”
The Hound ruffled her hair in an affectionate manner and answered: “Because I
have to talk to you and your mother about something very important. Something
only meant for Stark ears.”
A pointed side glance told Lord Tully explicitly that he was excluded from the
upcoming family conference.
 
 
Sandor was ushered inside, and once Arya, Lady Catelyn and himself had been
left alone in Lord Tully's solar, he started to talk about the pressing matters
at hand: Sansa's state, the skinchanging and the inferring problems and
possible dangers. Lady Stark looked increasingly morose, her mouth tight and
the brow furrowed. Sansa's little sister, however, was extremely thrilled and
hanging on his lips.
“This thing about warging is utter nonsense, Clegane”, Lady Catelyn finally got
het up. “And into a wolf? I remember my children pestering Maester Luwin about
their wolfish dreams, but this is all the effect of having heard too many of
Old Nan's stories.”
“But mother...”
“Silence! I will have none of this. I will not have the Stark family be shamed
by the distorted fairy tales of an aged woman. And you, Clegane, I cannot
believe that a battle-hardened warrior from the west should believe in northern
humbug!”
Sandor cleared his throat: “Let me speak plainly, Lady Stark: whether I
personally believe in the stories is of little importance – or even no
importance at all. Neither do you have to believe in the points I've mentioned
in my report. The vital point is that there will be other people who'll be more
than willing to cling to them as soon as they hear them. They'll do anything to
be successful in the Game of Thrones. So the only thing you've got to do is to
make sure that no rumour about this affair seeps through. Think of your younger
sons, at their age they won't understand the whole thing and need to be
protected even more.”
Lord Eddard's wife hissed back: “I do nothing else than think of my family and
my children! And I can only tell you that this rubbish you've been talking
about wasn't even worth its breath. Rest assured that this topic will most
certainly not be discussed again so that there will be no danger of anything
seeping through. And you, Arya! You've heard all this and I forbid you to talk
about it again!”
The Stark girl bristled at that.
“You can't hush up such a topic by just FORBIDDING to talk about it. And if I
keep my mouth shut about that matter in the future you can thank Sandor for it,
because he's been willing to explain things.”
“Right”, Lady Catelyn stated in a bitter voice. “These days noble Lord
Clegane's elegant words are the only ones you pay any heed to. Your own mother
counts nothing any longer.”
“Mother, I'm feeling as if it is ME who counts nothing for you – at least not
my opinion, or my wishes or needs. You want to know why I appreciate my
brother-in-law? He LISTENS to me. Other people don't.”
“Arya, you have turned into a brattish girl, more boyish than female, and you
are betraying your position as a lady and as a highborn lass. If you want to be
listened to by important people you have to fit the requirements first.”
Now, there were tears in the girl's eyes.
“But that's the problem! Try as I might, I will never ever come up to stretch!
It would be easier to teach Sandor how to do proper needlework and such than
me. I. Am. Not. Sansa.”
And with those words a sobbing Arya stormed out of the room. Lady Stark's eyes
bore into nothingness, and she hissed: “Thank you for annihilating our family,
Clegane.”
Sandor gave a short, barking sarcastic laughter: “Don't thank me, my lady. I
did not cause the rifts.”
Next, he left the room. What did Catelyn fucking Tully think!? Her girl was
growing up, and she was certainly not the first one with an unruly daughter.
But no, it had to bis his bloody fault, because it was so nice and easy to have
him as a scapegoat. Small wonder that he couldn't help himself and kept
swearing under his breath.
 
 
After this interlude, Sandor went out and walked to the stables. He had to look
after Stranger. His courser had had a hard job, galloping up and down the Gold
Road, so he wanted to reward him with some extra treatment. From the corner of
his eyes, he saw Arya dart into the armoury; so he decided to follow her. She
had run away with Nymeria once after her betrothal. Probably, she needed to be
calmed down to not do it a second time.
When he arrived at the door of the armoury and he was just about to open it he
suddenly heard Arya's upset voice that was met by the soothing singsong accent
of a foreign man. AHA. Forel. The little man seemed to have already found
access to his young Wolf. Fair enough. The voices stopped talking. Hm.
Sandor had never been a curious one, who spied on others for his personal
entertainment, but... Wasn't he meant to be a chaperon of sorts? He shut a
glance through the adjacent door. The First Sword of Braavos was embracing the
weeping girl lightly and stroking her back gently. No kissing, nothing
improper. Well, then it was fine for him. So he marched off contentedly and met
a rather worn out Stranger. Which reminded him of the fact that he was
exhausted himself, too. Once the Hound had dealt with his horse, he asked a
servant to see him to a guest chamber, threw himself on the mattress and slept
till late afternoon.
Afterwards, he went to the bathhouse and refreshed himself. Ah, sweet fuck, the
hot water was just so good! And the bathtubs here were even almost as
marvellously big as in Winterfell with its hot springs. In contrast to that he
had always had to duck in the smaller tubs of Kings Landing. But here, he
almost had a basin that was big enough for two. Unbidden pictures of himself
and Sansa bathing together – her straddling his lap, soaping his broad chest
and engulfing him with wet, auburn locks – crossed his mind, and his cock
hardened. Under normal circumstances, he would have stroked himself to a
release now, but he thought of the warging problem, and he didn't want to risk
to lure Sansa into him, in case she was asleep.
So he distracted himself with pondering the renovations of Clegane Keep, and
slowly, he softened again. About five minutes later, he heard some not too
heavy, but firm steps. Oh. Syrio Forel was approaching him with one of his
typical nonchalant, knowing smiles.
“Ah, there is the big lord. I hope you have recovered?”
Sandor nodded.
“As you can see I'm still working on it, but a few hours sleep have already
helped a lot. Now tell me – how are things going with the younger Stark
daughter?”
“There is no reason to complain. The young Wolf is an adept pupil – for now.
And as you will have noticed she is... on friendly terms with this man.”
Sandor raised an eyebrow, and the Braavosi chuckled: “If a man does not want to
be heard he should not wear mail while eavesdropping on a door.”
This caused the Hound to bark with laughter: “Bugger that, I forget how very
perceptive you are in contrast to the arrogant fops I'm surrounded with most of
the time. But I can tell you – I only did it, because I knew that Arya was so
very upset after the argument with her mother.”
“Yes, it was a sad thing to hear. Mothers and daughters or fathers and sons
have to learn how to be friends, if they want to feel peace in their hearts.”
“Sansa has turned out to be my first friend to give me a measure of peace.”
“The same is true for the young Wolf and me.”
“You're an interesting man, Forel.”
The Braavosi was grinning widely now.
“So are you. Perhaps there will be new friendships in the course of time.”
“Perhaps.”
“Now, when will you return to your lady wife?”
“Tomorrow at the first light of dawn. I need a little more rest, and I don't
have to worry too much, because the Blackfish is with her.”
“This man will be delighted to get to know the Lady Clegane one day.”
“You will always be welcome in Clegane Keep, Forel.”
The Braavosi thanked him with a bow. “Now, I will leave the big lord so that he
may attend to his increasingly soaked self. A clean skin is only good as long
as it doesn't dissolve.”
Sandor guffawed again. “Forel, has anybody ever told you that you've got a
knack for catchy buzz phrases?”
Syrio laughed, too, and answered while heading for the door: “The head needs a
tune to remember.”
 
 
Finally, Sandor also found time and strength to take care of Stranger again,
groomed him until the black beast shone, and gave him delicious fodder. Later,
after supper, he found the possibility to talk to Arya privately.
“Feeling better?”
“Sort of. I guess.”
“I see. … Erm. There is something else I would like to ask you. About this...
skinchanging.”
Arya shot him an alarmed glance. “What is it?”
“Do you only warg into Nymeria, or can you also enter other animals or...
people?”
“WHAT!?”
“So you don't.”
The young Stark girl was flustered.
“That's possible?” And – clever as usual – she added after a moment: “Sansa can
do that?”
Sandor nodded.
“Holy Seven, then I have to try to do that, too!”
“Arya, I'm telling you, because this is what you should exactly NOT do. From
what I have found out it could well be the reason why Sansa fell ill. It was
probably all too much. If you can control it – restrict your warging to
Nymeria.”
“Oh.” The girl sighed. “It would have been interesting.”
“I know, but I'm convinced you're sensible enough not to experiment. It's bad
enough to be worried about Sansa. – By the way, there's something I didn't tell
your mother. Sansa and me won't be coming back to Riverrun. We'll first stay in
Clegane Keep for a while. I didn't say anything before, because I don't know
enough myself, but Sansa ran away for a reason, which I still have to bring to
light. So better watch out for any possible dangers. Will you get along?”
Arya pouted a little, but then she conceded: “You want to have some peaceful
time with her; I can understand. And yes, never mind – I'm a Wolf after all.
And I've got Nymeria.”
Sandor smiled a little, and his mouth twitched.
“You can always find a friend somewhere, even in dire situations. Just keep
your heart and your eyes open.”
“Boah, you start to sound like Syrio. One mysterious person like him is really
unnerving enough. Better stick to your swearing and your straightforward
messages.”
That caused the Hound to throw his head back and to roar his houndish laughter.
“Seven flaming hells, if that's what you want I'll fucking oblige.”
***** Chapter 12 *****
The next morning, Sandor felt fine enough to start directly after sunrise. The
air was chilly enough already so that steam was rising from Stranger's
nostrils, and around Riverrun Castle there were banks of mist. No flaming
wonder in the Riverlands with so much water flowing here and there.
The young Lord Tully didn't feel the necessity to see him off – but Arya was
there and handed the Hound something. Two glasses. One with the honey from
Clegane Keep (which meant that Sansa had left it behind), and the second one
with the lemon marmalade that had been purchased in Kings Landing. Sandor
thought of his wife's eating problems and could only hope that she would be
able to enjoy these treats any time soon. One moment later, Nymeria was darting
round a corner and wanted to have her own farewell. So she got her fur ruffled
adequately, and some friendly rumbled words as well.
When the Hound had mounted Stranger he looked down at Arya and rasped: “Right.
One last thing. Take your fighting lessons seriously. Forel is an extremely
capable man. The next time we meet I want to be able to spar with you.” The
Stark girl beamed on hearing that and shot back: “I'll needle you with my
comments AND my sword, I promise!”
“I know a threat when I hear one.”
They both laughed, and Sandor took his leave.
 
 
Days later, he arrived at the stable of the inn where he had left Sansa and the
castellan of Riverrun. Sandor was in high spirits; the nights had already been
colder than he would have liked, so he was looking forward to some mulled wine
– and to Sansa first and last, of cause.
Hm... the Hound looked around in the stables, but Ser Brynden's and Sansa's
horse were gone. So was Lady. How strange. Sandor was worried at once, and he
entered the common room of the inn swiftly. The innkeeper paled again as soon
as he laid his eyes on the fierce warrior. Still, he waved.
“Over here, my lord, please. I've got some news for you.”
“Better to tell me at once what's going on”, Sandor snarled. The man pulled in
his head and handed him a note with a trembling hand. Sandor broke the seal
eagerly and started to read. It was a male type of handwriting.
 
 
“Clegane, I am a fighter and a castellan – but I have found out that I am
neither a maester nor a wetnurse. Sansa was very difficult with regard to
eating, you see, and I had no sweet kisses to offer to make her consume enough
of the food she was being offered. So I'm taking her to Casterly Rock now. It's
close enough to your home, and they've got a maester there. Don't be cross with
me for taking your wife away from you, but Sansa's welfare was my driving force
here. I talked to her about why she left Riverrun, and she said in a rather
cryptic way that she had sensed some danger, but she refused to tell my any
details. And leaving the castle must have been easy, because the stable boy as
well as the night shift above the entrance gate had fallen asleep. I feel there
is some public flogging ahead when I come back home. Sincerely, Brynden Tully,
Castellan of Riverrun.”
 
 
Sandor grunted. His worries had intensified again considerably. He wondered if
Sansa's mysterious hints had anything to do with a warging experience.
Naturally, he was also angry that he couldn't see her now, but he understood
the Blackfish, there was no denying it. Though instead of flogging the daft
culprits, who had let her slip away, he would have chosen decapitating. And
now, there would be more days and nights without his wife. That was enough to
cause him to lose his temper.
“Innkeeper!” he roared. “Hot mulled wine – I want to see it steam; something
hot, rustic to eat. Better fill a big plate to the rim. And a simple room with
a mattress for the night! Oh, and hot water for a bath! Better for you to
expedite at once, I'd say! Move your skinny arse, and pronto!”
 
 
Some minutes later, a platter with sausages, white beans in a sauce, grilled
ham and lots of toasted bread with molten cheese was put in front of him,
alongside with a huge tankard of mulled wine. Very good.
While the Hound was gnawing on the crisp, extremely tasty bread, he suddenly
noticed that a few drunk people in the common room had started to sing some
tavern songs. First, they started with “The Bear and the Maiden Fair”, and
Sandor was vivified enough to fall in line with the singers by grumbling the
tune with his steel-on-stone voice. Then, a new melody started, and it was one
he didn't recognize.
Neither did he know the saucy lyrics, but suddenly his hair was standing on
end, and he listened closely:
“Lannisters' golden ashes
seen through Cersei's lashes -
the slut of all sluts
without morals and guts.
Her fine knightly brother,
does not even bother -
for it's him whom she begs
to rest between her legs;
and year upon year
with neither remorse nor fear
her sibling lover
slips under her cover.
So he's not without flaw
and duly shortened a paw;
the queen in her bed
even shortened a head.
She gets more than gashes,
for in Ser Barristan dashes,
because he's no git...
and that's the end of it:
Lannisters' golden ashes.”
 
After the end of the song, there was lots of sneering and bawdy laughter.
The Hound's blood started to boil. What did these lousy sods think? They were
in the West already, and whether the people liked him or not, Tywin Lannister
was their liege lord! So singing this song was high treason. And, being a lord
of the West now, he himself was a Lannister representative again, even if he
didn't like the position at all. Plus, he also had a duty to little Myrcella,
who was in his care now. So what should he do with these traitors?
He hadn't killed for a while, still, he could imagine gutting those men easily.
He could already smell the stench of blood in his nostrils, see gaping wounds
in bellies and warm, damp intestines spilling out, the victim's breaking eyes
widened in absolute shock... How often had he seen that and killed like that?
He had lost count, and it didn't matter. Adrenaline pumping through his veins
he rose to his feet...
… only to stop dead in his tracks before he could so much as lift a finger.
There was a well-known headache building suddenly up in his brain. OH FUCK! Of
all moments! Killing was flaming normal for him, he didn't give a damn about it
– it was what life was like. But Sansa didn't have a clue about these things,
she was weakened anyway, and it was his duty as a husband to protect her; so he
couldn't let her participate in the petty slaughter of some drunk traitors.
The headache became worse, and it made him gyrate. Shit, was something wrong
with his little wife?
Forgetting the singers instantly, he held his head, rasped at the innkeeper:
“Change of plans. No sleeping here.” After some moments, the pain abated – but
not his sorrow. So he threw some coins at the owner of the inn, stalked out on
wooden legs, and hurried to Stranger.
 
 
Days later, a completely exhausted black courser with foam at its mouth and an
even more worn-out big man were struggling through the huge lion's stone jaw
that formed the entrance of Casterly Rock. The Hound glided off Stranger and
stood tremblingly, barely managing not to collapse. A stable-boy was running at
him.
Sandor wanted to bark: “Sansa! Where's Sansa!?” – but all he managed to emit
was a rugged growl.
There were more steps and a wolfish whine around him now, but it was all a
blur. And then, there were warm, gracious arms encircling his neck from behind
and a lithe form clinging to his back.
“Sandor! You're here! At last! Oh, but what's wrong with you? You're grey in
the face!”
“Little. Bird.”
There she was! Sansa! Safe and sound! Still too thin, but far from being as
ghostly as he had seen her the last time. He sank to his knees, took hold of
her, crushed her to his chest and kissed her desperately, not caring in the
least, if anybody was watching. SosweetsosweetsoFUCKINGsweet...
ohmyohmydontstopkissing... From afar there was a cocky voice commenting on
something (the Kingslayer?), but Sandor didn't understand and was neither
interested in doing so. And then, it was getting dark around him; his lights
went out.
 
 
When he came back to his senses his befuddled brain sent him various flashes.
Warm. Bed. Aching muscles. Stiff body. Pressing bladder.
He opened his crusted eyes and blinked heavily. He was in a bedroom he didn't
know exactly, but the tapestry on the left wall was golden and crimson and
showed a big lion in all its royal beauty. The exaggerated decoration of
Casterly Rock. With a moan the Hound heaved himself upwards, out of bed and
grabbed for a chamber pot he caught sight off. Having seen to his most urgent
need he looked about himself again. Judging by the light outside it was mid-
afternoon. How long had he slept? And where was Sansa? From the disorderly
blanket next to his own one he could see that she must have rested next to him.
But when had she left, and where had she gone? His clothes were all stacked on
a neat pile.
As a soldier he was accustomed to being orderly, plus in the past he had owned
too few things to be messy, but he had never shown perfect female accuracy
either. Remembering Sansa's absolutely precise stitches from her needlework, he
had to smile, and the burned part of his mouth started to twitch.
With another moan (“Fuck, I'm getting old!”) he bent down and took hold of his
boots from under the bed. Next, he went to a little basin and poured some cold
water from a bucket into it. Then, he washed himself superficially with a rug.
He'd have a good, hot bath later. His long, lank hair needed a few brushes with
his comb, too.
Now that he thought himself to be more or less presentable again he put on his
clothes and left the room. He had served the Lannisters long enough to know the
Rock like the back of his calloused hand. Sluggardly, he strolled down the
Golden Gallery, made his way to the kitchen, because he sensed a real hole in
his stomach, and got himself a roll plated with delicious cold slices of a
pig's roast.
Chewing and feeling much more animated now, he walked on to the training yard.
Of course, he wouldn't find Sansa there, but Jaime might be hanging around, and
the cocky Kingslayer would know about his lady wife's whereabouts.
 
 
The sight Sandor was presented with at the training yard, however, was so
flaming barmy that he forgot his question for a moment.
Aye, there was Jaime Lannister – though not hanging around idly, no, he was
clad in mail and fighting in the pit. Left-handed, needless to say. He was
grunting and huffing and puffing, and sweat was trickling down his golden-
haired, handsome face. His movements were awkward, which was no wonder,
considering that he wasn't using his normal sword hand, that he had only
recovered from a horrible blow a few months before, and that he could only have
started training with his left hand mere weeks ago. Given all of these facts it
was really impressive what the Lion had achieved in such a short time.
Yet, if the Kingslayer being back to fighting was already a surprise the
identity of the person he was sparring with was even more baffling for the
Hound. He actually had to look twice to be sure. It was a huge, muscled...
woman. She had short, flaxen hair, a freckled, homely face and betrayed not
even a trace of female curves. A little belatedly, Sandor remembered that this
had to be Jaime's wife. What had he named her again?... Briella? Ah, no,
Brienne. From Tarth. And every ounce exactly the way she had been described by
the one-pawed Lion.
The Hound watched on for a moment and thought to himself: “Well, I've seen and
fought and killed many worse men. Not bad, this one. Really not bad. Would be
nice to test her sword skills.”
An instant later, Jaime was disarmed. With a loud CLANK his weapon landed on
the earth, and the Kingslayer swore in frustration.
The woman shouted at him: “I've told you! Up with your arm! Don't let it hang
down like a limp dragon wing!”
“If I had so much as a limp dragon wing, wench, I'd still flip you on the back
right now. Which would be pretty good, flipping you on the back, come to think
of it... OUCH!”
The woman had punched the Lion in the belly with the pommel of her sword.
Now, Sandor couldn't help himself and had to bark with laughter. Jaime looked
up, and his mouth twisted into an ironic grin.
“Hound! Has the biggest of all Dogs finally left his kennel? And what for? Just
to watch the affectionate caresses of Lady Lannister and the way she tends to
her poor, weakened husband?”
The woman smacked Jaime on the back of his head and rumbled: “Is this how you
treat your guests?”
At that the Kingslayer erupted with laughter: “A guest! The Dog! Holy Seven!
Why not even call him an HONOURED guest? Sweetest Brienne, have I ever told you
that you have too much of a tender heart?”
The new Lady Lannister looked up at Sandor with astonishingly bright blue eyes
and growled at the Hound: “Have you known him for many years, Lord Clegane?”
“Aye.”
“Has he always been so enervating?”
“No. Worse.”
“Argh. Can't believe that.”
Sandor laughed again, Brienne smiled and looked suddenly much nicer, and Jaime
chuckled with his broadest smirk: “Haven't seen you in such high spirits for
ages. If ever. Well, with the exception of this melodramatic scene in the yard.
I think I've had a brain dysfunction ever since I saw the deadly, rabid Dog
snogg a certain red-haired incarnation of the Maiden like a lovesick fool.”
“You're flaming wrong there, Kingslayer. Your dimwitted brain has NEVER worked
properly. Always slower than your hands – HAND, that is – and your mouth. And
since your acid tongue is so fast – better use it and tell me where my wife
is.”
“Ah! You may have become more romantic of late, Clegane, but you're certainly
not more charming, if I may say so. Well. Right. Anyway. Your sweet little wife
might be in the...”
“OUFFF”, Sandor made.
“... Stone Garden. She's often there. And as you'll have noticed by now, her
giant wolf is standing right on top of your chest. Enjoying a good view of the
sky from your back?”
“Fuck. Your. Self. – Lady. Please. Get. Off. Me!” Sandor gasped.
The yellow-furred direwolf obeyed, but not without lapping happily right across
his burned face.
Jaime was heaving with laughter now: “Holy Seven! They're all craving for your
burned kisses now!”
And Sandor spat: “Should I test the thesis on your wife?”
“Have a try, and I'll unman you.”
“What – with your left or your missing hand?”
Then, Brienne cut in, her face and neck aglow in a deep red: “I've got another
offer: I'll unman you myself. BOTH!”
More guffawing ensued. After that, Sandor stood up again, turned around, wiped
his face, patted Lady and made for the Stone Garden. He had not gotten far when
suddenly, he heard light, running steps and a happy voice from behind.
“Sandor! Here you are! I've been searching the whole keep!”
“Sansa! And I was looking for you!”
With pearly laughter, Sansa threw himself at him, and at once Sandor pulled her
into a dark alcove to taste her properly. Lady made some yipping background
music. Blimey, that was good!
When their lips parted again Sansa breathed: “I was already getting worried,
you know? You've been sleeping for almost a day and a half.”
“WHAT!?”
“Yes, it's true!”
“Fuck me sideways, no wonder I needed to take piss when I woke up!”
Sansa giggled into the crook of his neck and asked: “Hungry?”
“I've just had a bite from the kitchen and a little taste of my wife. That
should be enough until supper.”
He gave a meaningful grin, and Sansa flushed deep red and hid her face against
his shoulder.
“Sandor! You're... you're improper!”
“And you're only noticing that NOW?” he teased his little wife, chortled and
kissed her again, just to make his point clear – and because it was so
delicious.
Shit, it was such a flaming wonder – why on earth didn't she back away from
him, or look at him fearfully? Where did her positive feelings stem from? He
had done so little to deserve her love.
For an instant, he remembered that Sansa had been meant to marry this shitstain
Joffrey, and to rule the Seven Kingdoms at his side. Would she have ever seen
beyond the mask of the Hound? Would he have taken a liking to her while
guarding the couple? That was well possible, judging by the feelings he had for
her now. But in King's Landing he had been a different man. She would have been
a juicy bone that he'd only have been allowed to look at, and he would have
been so unbalanced that he wouldn't have been able to cope with the situation.
For him, it would only have meant more rage and misery, he was sure. And for
Sansa? She'd have been Queen. But she'd also have been married to a creepy
little monster. Well, that was over. And he was just so happy about it.
Sandor ended the kiss, panting a little, and said: “Damn me, little wife, if I
had a choice, I'd go on like this forever, but we need to talk. There are so
many questions that need to be answered.”
Sansa nodded: “Yes, I know. Let's go to our room and talk privately!”
She took his huge hand for a moment and pressed it a little, then his arm, and
together they made back for their quarters. The Hound smiled, because he had to
make much smaller steps, so that Sansa could keep up with him.
 
 
When they arrived they sent Lady on her way. Sandor also noticed that somebody
had cleaned the chamber pot in his absence, and he was grateful for that. He
let himself fall onto the mattress and pulled his Little Bird into his lap. She
chirped happily and laid her head on his broad chest.
“Right”, he rumbled. “Now that we're in a comfortable position – tell me first:
how are you?”
“I'm fine. No need to worry.”
Sandor gazed at his wife, and although she looked a little better he didn't
believe a word, but didn't want to press the matter either for tactical
reasons.
“Where's Ser Brynden?”
“Already on his way back to Riverrun. He's needed there as you know.”
“Aye, with that sod Edmure in command he really had to return swiftly.”
“Don't talk like that about my uncle!”
“I'm only telling you the truth, believe me. Your buggering uncle didn't even
have a clue of how to organize a simple search party for you! And come to talk
about that – you didn't confide in him either, but rather chose to run away at
night. Why?”
Sansa stiffened a little, murmured something like “I felt the need to do so”,
developed a sudden interest in the v-opening of his shirt, and started to place
some little kisses on the base of his neck and on his Adam's apple.
Sandor's heartbeat quickened at once, but he wasn't distracted so easily.
He took hold of her chin and made her look at him. “Sansa. Does it have
anything to do with a warging experience? Tell me!”
And suddenly, there was a panicking fear in her eyes he had not seen since
their first horrible encounter in his room back in Winterfell.
So he growled soothingly: “Sansa, if there is a danger, open your sweet lips!
I'll keep you safe, and no harm will come to you, I promise!”
His Little Wife uttered a tiny sob and stammered: “I looked... through...
somebody's eyes. Somebody unknown. I don't have a clue what made me warg there
– wherever it was. And I saw... that man with the other one's eyes.”
“Which man, Sansa?”
“The mute man, who captured me in Winterfell.”
Ser Ilyn Payne!
“I see. What happened?”
“He was given money. A full pouch.”
Seven flaming hells. That sounded as if the former hangman had accepted another
job. And Sandor would bet on his arse that it was an extremely nasty one.
“Was anything said to him?”
“Yes. - 'Bring her to me. The one which looks like her mother.' Then, I knew
that I was being meant. And I don't know, if it'll help you, but I smelled mint
somewhere.”
After that piece of information, Sandor had a pretty good idea which man had
been on the paying side: Littlefucker! The Mockingbird's infatuation for Lady
Catelyn was no secret, so it was very likely that Petyr Baelish would mention
such a comparison while giving orders for an abduction. FUCK.
“Can you tell me any more details?”
“Yes. When the mute man had gone, another one entered. There was a second pouch
with money. And the man whom I'd warged into said: 'Here is the money you
wanted. So we've got another deal. But do as I've told you: only act a month
after I've left. And there must be no traces.' The other one nodded then and
answered: 'This man knows how to become a shadow of a shadow. Valar Dohaeris.'
”
On hearing this, Sandor sat bolt upright in shock. WHAT!? He knew that Braavosi
accent. Forel!? And he had trusted the man!
But then, something struck him as odd. When had they left King's Landing? When
had Littlefinger given his orders? The timeline somehow didn't seem to work.
Sansa was looking at Sandor now with frightened, blue eyes.
“What is it? Please! Why did I unsettle you so?”
“Sansa, tell me first: what did the man look like, who was receiving his
payment?”
“Ah, that was the strangest thing.”
“Was it?”
“Oh yes! On the one side of his head his hair was white, and on the other it
was red.”
Sandor breathed out, relieved. That didn't sound like Syrio Forel.
“Little Bird, I thought you were talking about someone I knew and who I hold in
a certain esteem. But now I know that at least it wasn't him who was paid for
some sort of crime.”
They both relaxed a little.
Next, the Hound said: “After what I've heard we must ask the Kingslayer to send
various ravens. To Riverrun, to Kings Landing, and to Winterfell. People must
be warned. And we must watch out, if Ser Ilyn Payne turns up in Casterly Rock
or elsewhere.”
“Oh yes! Oh Holy Seven! Hopefully, we're not too late!”
“Shhhhh, don't even think of something like that!”
Sansa was looking even smaller now.
Then, she peeped up: “Sandor – do you know who the man was, who was smelling of
mint?”
“Yes, I do. Do you remember what I've told you about the Master of the Coin?”
“It was him? Oh – oh no!”
“Oh yes! I'm sorry.”
Now, it was Sansa who let herself fall with the back on the mattress.
She pressed her delicate hand to her temple and breathed: “Holy Seven, what a
mess! And now, you must answer me another question before I forget it.”
“If I can.”
“I'm sure! Sandor, why did you strain yourself so much to reach me here in
Casterly Rock that you collapsed in the yard? Shouldn't you have known that I
was being looked after?”
“Yes, of course, I read Ser Brynden's message, but when you warged into me in
that inn and it hurt I was so worried something might have happened to you that
I simply couldn't stay and had to reach you as soon as possible.”
Sansa looked completely flustered.
“Warged into you in that inn? You mean the one at the Gold Road? But... I never
visited you there!”
This was another shock for the Hound. It meant that somebody else had entered
his mind! Seven. Fucking. Hells.
His Little Wife came to the same conclusion and asked: “Who was it then? Arya?”
“Not unlikely, but who knows, what with your family of skinchangers.”
“Hopefully, nothing has happened to anybody of them.”
The Hound nodded.
“I know.”
After a pause, he added: “But pondering doesn't help. Come, let's go to Jaime
and see if we can wangle some ravens off him.”
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
     Slowly, we're getting more explicit.
When they asked the Kingslayer, if they were allowed to use the Lannister
rookery, the maimed man held up his stump and showed an ironical grin. “Doesn't
look like you're taking anything away from me, being even less of a writer
these days than I used to be anyway.”
“Thank you so much!” Sansa thanked Jaime chirpily, and the latter one smiled as
if he had made a major achievement. Sheesh, what a cocky man!
Hastily, Sansa and Sandor moved on to the rookery and started writing their
messages in the little adjoining scriptorium. The first note was for Lord Stark
in Kings Landing, of course, warning him that Petyr Baelish was staging some
sort of treachery. Sansa was absolutely aghast when Sandor wrote down: “These
days you mustn't so much as fart without a security guard next to you.”
“Sandor! You can't say such a thing, much less even write it to my father!”
“Of course I can!” the Hound snapped back and went on: “That's exactly what
your father wanted me for: straightforward advice. And with my wording at least
he'll know the letter is genuine.”
The next paper was directed at Lady Catelyn, and this time it was Sansa who was
holding the quill. Of course, they didn't tell her that their information had
been obtained by skinchanging – but they asked her to find out, if Syrio Forel
knew anything about a white-and-red-haired Braavosi. What they didn't include
after a little discussion was the mentioning of Ser Ilyn Payne. He was looking
for Sansa, not for the other members of the Stark family, and Sandor wanted to
catch the man red-handed. Finally, Sandor notified Robb in Winterfell about the
recent developments.
Having that done and sent the ravens on their way, the Hound flexed his aching
fingers – grrrrrr, how he hated quills! – and stated: “Right! Now I'm ready for
supper. Let's go!”
Sansa hesitated and suggested: “Didn't you want to take your bath first?”
This made Sandor wary, and he remembered her eating problem. He wondered how
grave it still was.
So he answered: “Hmmmm... let's do it like this: we won't eat down in the big
hall, but have a bite in our room while we're waiting for my bathtub with the
hot water.
Sansa still looked very demurring, but didn't come up with another objection.
Without further ado, Sandor took his Little Wife by the arm, steered her to the
kitchen, helped himself unceremoniously to a platter with bread, cheese, some
marinated, grilled mushrooms, a bowl with semolina pudding and some berries.
Plus a big tankard with small beer. Sansa looked at him as if she was having a
crazy vision. As a high-born lady she was clearly not accustomed to this rustic
approach of snatching food away without troubling a maid.
When they arrived at their room a servant asked them, if he could do anything
for them.
“Aye!” the Hound shot back. “A really nice, warm bath in our room in about an
hour.”
The servant bowed and left. Well, well, there was no denying it: Sandor was
attuning to being a stupid lord, and he grinned until his mouth started to
twitch again.
They sat down next to the hearth, where a little fire was crackling merrily.
Sansa, in her turn, obviously wasn't quite as happy and eyed the food
suspiciously.
“Good, Little Bird, what do you want first?”
 
 
The next hour turned out to be an ordeal. Sandor started to really understand
why a stalwart man like the Blackfish had given up and taken Sansa to Casterly
Rock. Tomorrow, he'd seek out the local maester and talk to him about the
eating problem, he promised himself. In the meantime, he had to watch the
listless nibbling on tiny little bites and a whole arsenal of disgusted facial
expressions. But in the end, Sansa had won the battle over her portion, and the
platter was empty.
Just in time. There was a knock on the door, and some servants entered with a
bathtub, soap, towels and buckets of warm water.
Sandor rubbed his hands in relief and rumbled: “Ah! That's just what I need!”
He wondered how shy his little wife would be now – if she'd excuse herself or
retreat to the bed and turn her back... or stay. Immediately, he started to
peel off his clothes and hummed a little tune with his steel-on-stone voice.
The nightly caterwauling of rival tomcats sounded better than any sounds he
might possibly produce, but somehow for once he didn't care.
In no time he was naked, stepped into the bathtub and lowered himself into the
water.
“Aaaaaah! Thaaaat's good!” he growled.
Slantingly behind him Sansa exclaimed: “Oh, they didn't put the soap within
your reach. Wait!”
Sandor heard her approaching steps, his heart started to stutter – thud-a-thud-
a-thudthudthud! –, and suddenly, he felt a little cold around his middle
section, because a certain part of him was rising determinedly above water
level. Next, Sansa was kneeling behind him and handing him the soap. Then,
Sandor noticed her discovering his arousal, and from the corner of his grey
eyes he saw her blush fiercely.
Notwithstanding, she silently put her chin on his shoulder and leaned her cheek
against the burned side of his face. Sandor thought that fire was coursing
through his veins now.
After an unnerving minute or so, he rasped: “A silver stag for your thoughts!”
His Little Wife pressed her mouth against his shoulder for a moment and was
deeply embarrassed.
Then she murmured: “This way... it's... more or less the same... angle I
remember from Kings Landing.”
“You mean the point of view for looking at my cock?”
Sansa winced, hid her bright red face against the nape of his neck and nodded.
The body part in question was slowly, but surely starting to hurt.
“I see.”
 
 
“By the way, there is something I've already been really curious about for a
while. What was it like for you the first time you warged into me and caught me
wanking?”
Sansa cringed.
After a moment of mustering her strength she stuttered an answer:“Erm... erm...
it's... you know... at that moment it was like a... like a whirlwind, and I
couldn't think... only... EXPERIENCE. Take... take the sensations in... sort
of. I mean, when I entered your mind you were already... were already...”
She faltered, so Sandor helped out: “... close to shooting my load?”
Sansa choked and coughed.
When she had recovered a little she mumbled: “It was... was so... unbelievable.
I woke up right afterwards. And I felt... heavy and relaxed. For... a moment.
Then horror set in. I mean... the memory of your hands... of the... the
friction... up and down. And... and I suddenly thought of what my septa would
have said about this and how... improper and unladylike that action was.”
“Bugger your septa.”
Sansa winced again, but nodded lightly against Sandor's shoulder.
Then, she went on: “It took me a day or two to... digest what I had witnessed.
I was still shocked, but... also fascinated. So I came back. Your body feels...
good from within, you know. So strong. Bold. And... the next time you did THIS
you... you moaned my name. I thought... you knew about me. It was... lovely.”
Sandor shook his head in disbelief. “Fuck me sideways, my scarred, burned body
feels GOOD? Now, that's a good one. But certainly I won't want to change your
mind. And now – do tell me, what's the major difference between looking at my
cock from my eyes and from your own ones?”
Sansa shrank in sheer embarrassment.
 
 
From behind Sandor's back there was Sansa's small voice: “This time, I'm able
to talk while looking at you.”
“Ah. Yes, of course. Was there anything special you wanted to say, little
wife?”
Suddenly, there was a suppressed, rather girlish giggle, which irritated the
Hound and made him growl: “What?”
“Oh, please, please don't be angry with me! It's just... down there...
you're... you're... like... a mushroom!”
“WHAT!?” Now, Sandor was goggling.
“Please, I asked you not to be angry! But really, I mean... have you ever
touched a mushroom? You're even... you're even... just as velvety on top!”
“I think I'm going nuts”, Sandor could only think to himself.
Then, he breathed in and out deeply and reasoned with himself not to have
another aggressive fit.
“Right”, he summarized. “The twitching of my burned mouth is dinky, and I have
a cock like a bloody lowly plant. Fuck, don't tell the Kingslayer, or I'll
never ever have a peaceful minute without a patronising comment again.”
Sensing that Sandor wasn't about to snarl at her, Sansa started to giggle again
and added meaningfully: “You're not just twitching dinkily around your mouth.”
The Hound stiffened (at least the parts that weren't stiff already), and his
middle section reacted to her words in just the way she had indicated. And then
it happened. It started deep down in Sandor's throat: a dark, chortling sound
that grew into a fit of bellowing laughter just like the one he had had in the
inn at the Gold Road. There was a fleeting, isolated meta-thought in a corner
of his brain about how a man could laugh so intensely while having a damned
aching erection, but after an instant, he simply couldn't focus any longer.
Sansa seemed to be at a loss of how to react to his raucous sounds of levity –
and it didn't get any better when Sandor wiped some tears from the corner of
his eyes and gasped: “Girl, you're flaming shy and you don't know how to seduce
your husband – but at least you know how to surprise and to entertain him!”
All of a sudden, his Little Bird seemed hurt, and her merry chirping stopped,
ambition and the bit that was a Stark wolf within her taking over: “ Me? Shy?
And I don't know WHAT? But I've watched you often enough! Ha! I'll teach you a
lesson!”
And though she was as red as a cooked lobster, she swiftly grabbed his member
and started to rub him without further ado.
The onslaught shocked Sandor so much that a loud moan was ripped from his
throat, and this time, it was him, who didn't know how to react. Either his
mind or his body or both were not at his command any longer. He was not even
able to process half of the sensations he was being flooded with. And then,
Sansa came up with a new idea: the tip of her nose parted the long, dark hair
at the nape of his neck so that he could feel her rugged breathing there, only
to be replaced by her open mouth. Her tongue drew a little circle on a
sensitive spot he had not known it existed, and a flash of lightening shot
through his body. He grabbed the edge of the bathtub, moaned wildly... and
erupted so heavily that he saw white for some long moments.
When he was coming back to his senses, he discovered a rather smug smile on
Sansa's otherwise still embarrassed, crimson face.
“No need to comment”, he gasped. “I take everything back. You've made your
point very clear.” He was still having a hard time to get his shit together,
after just having experienced the climax of his life – and it had not even been
a real fuck! Gosh, these plays were meant to be appetizers; he could only hope
he wouldn't get a heart attack when they finally came to the main course!
“And now”, Sansa announced happily, “I think you should concentrate on your
real task at hand: having a bath. You've got your soap, you've got your towels.
So you'll get along on your own, I'd say.”
She giggled again.
“Holy Seven! You... you... look rather... accomplished!”
“Do I?”
The Little Bird laughed into her hand, nodded vigorously, turned around and
flew out of the room with billowing skirts.
After this episode, a rather flustered Sandor could only think: “Fuck the
Seven! I guess I'm doomed!”
 
 
An hour later, Sansa still wasn't back, so Sandor grabbed his swordbelt and a
dagger, which he put into his boots, and went to look for her. First, he headed
for the Stone Garden since she was said to like that place. But it was already
dark, and the place was empty. Where else could she be? The sept! Of course! He
clicked his fingers.
But when the Hound arrived, the various naves for the Seven only showed him
some flickering candles. Shit. Hm. Where next? Oh, yes, the library – best to
look for her in the section for romantic stories! Sandor started to whistle a
tune that sounded – thanks to his partly burned lips – as crooked as his
singing and walked on. But the library was empty, too.
Sandor scratched his head and asked a passing servant, if he had seen Lady
Clegane. The servant apologised and negated the question.
Next, the Hound stepped into the yard, undecided. There, he saw Lady from afar
how she was sneaking into the stable. Sandor followed her and the scandalized
snorts that were emitted by the horses on sensing the big, furred predator.
When Sandor arrived at the stable, he found the direwolf – right, where else? –
in Stranger's box. His black courser had obviously accepted the inevitable,
namely that Lady had developed a fierce fondness for him – in spite of the
horse's tries to kick and to bite the wolf in the past.
“Hey, lovebirds!” Sandor called and got a murderous look from the courser.
Lady, however, yelped happily, sauntered over to him and licked the big man's
hands. So the Hound knelt down and ruffled her fur, which caused the direwolf
to emit some more contented whines.
“Right, Lady, now – do you know where Sansa is?”
The wolf barked blithely and set off to show Sandor the way.
Not being able to deny himself the comment, he looked back at Stranger and
rumbled amusedly: “Don't get impatient, she'll be back in a short while.”
There were definitely daggers in the horse's looks, and Sandor knew immediately
that his next ride wouldn't be exactly entertaining. Growling under his breath,
he asked himself if anyone could tell him why he was surrounded by so many
intelligent beasts that understood their human masters better than was good for
them.
In the meanwhile, Lady directed him towards the private quarters of the
Kingslayer and his wife. Ooooh, fuck, of course, why hadn't he thought of that!
The current master and mistress of the Rock had invited her guest for a nice
chat in the evening.
Sandor knocked on the door that led to the Lannister solar. “Come in!” he heard
Jaime shout from inside. He entered, and true enough, there was his Little
Wife. She was sitting near the hearth, smiling at him, blushing a little, and
sewing at a piece of cloth. It was an almost homelike atmosphere – if you were
willing to overlook that Lady Brienne was still clad in the tunic from the
training yard and honing her sword with abandon. The Kingslayer was in the
middle between them, the cock of the walk, and had seemingly been playing at
being converser.
With a grand gesture of his good hand, he beckoned Sandor to come over and have
a seat. Lady hesitated for a moment, thinking of whether she should go back to
Stranger or not, but then, she decided to stay with her mistress and settled
herself down at Sansa's feet.
“Dog, I've been told you have already eaten – but can I offer you a nice sour
Dornish Red?”
“Won't say no.”
“Then I'd ask you to open that flagon over there, please. A one-pawed Lion
isn't very good at that”, the Kingslayer stated sarcastically.
While Sandor was opening the flagon and pouring them all a drink – even Sansa
was willing to have a sip – Lady Brienne cut in: “Your Lady Wife has been with
us for half an hour, and she has been telling us about what you related to her
about Kings Landing, but it would be nice to hear something from you.”
Jaime snorted: “Did you meet my glorious Lord Father? We got a raven from the
capital only yesterday, and it said that father has married Lollys
Stokesworth.”
Sandor was surprised.
“Has he? So soon? Fuck my sideways, now that's something. Well, yes, I met him,
and we also sparred a little. He was already interested in Lady Lollys, but I
thought your Lord Father would still wait for a few months and take his time
for wooing.”
Jaime laughed derisively: “Ah, wooing! Well – why wait any longer than
absolutely necessary? Father is always straight to the point, whatever the
matter. And, you know, he's getting old, but he's certainly got no lame
haunches yet. Or probably he wanted to speed up before that happens.”
“JAIME!” Lady Brienne admonished her husband and flushed red.
Sansa was uttering a shocked giggle.
“Ah, what, wench?” the Kingslayer shot back. “It's true! He needs an heir as
soon as possible since his existing spawn is not to his likes. And you know
what? I don't even mind! I've disappointed him so thoroughly that he doesn't
put his hopes on me any longer – and thus doesn't put me under pressure any
more. What a relief! Once your reputation is in shambles life becomes much
easier, because you don't have to live up to anybody's expectations.”
Suddenly, Sandor had to think of Arya and her unladylike behaviour. He sighed.
“What is it, Clegane? Afraid you can't match the expectations of being the
fearful Hound any longer?” Jaime teased him.
And Sandor snarled: “You better believe me that I'm still as deadly as you
remember, Kingslayer. At least if you want to keep your head on your shoulders!
If you are unsure go visit the dead bodies along the Kingsroad and the Gold
Road that I left there.”
Jaime boomed with laughter, Lady Brienne was quite stiff after the alpha-male
banter, and Sansa had put her face into her hand.
After a moment, Brienne addressed her female counterpart markedly: “I know that
it is not polite to ask a guest, who has only just arrived, about his scheduled
departure, Lady Sansa, but watching our peacocking heroic lots has made me
think...”
Ripples of laughter were now emanating from the women, and Sandor and Jaime
were looking a little like drowned rats.
The latter one tried to outplay the mockery by asking the Hound: “Erm. And did
you see Tyrion as well?”
Sandor cleared his throat and rasped: “Yes, at his welcome feast after
returning to Kings Landing. I can tell you, it was the most entertaining moment
during my oh so frustrating stay in the capital. The way he beat competition –
I can tell you, the Mockingbird was thoroughly uprooted!”
“Ah, yes, that's my clever little brother. Well, I think I'm happy for him – he
always wanted to rise beyond what our Lord Father conceded him. Which was
little enough.”
They started to discuss the political implications. At some point, the Hound
asked Jaime to keep his eyes open and to tell him, if and when Ser Ilyn Payne
turned up at the Rock.
“Sure, I'll tell you”, the Kingslayer shrugged.
Next, they talked about Clegane Keep, the way it had been left to decay and
Sandor had started to revive the fief. They all started to relax, and after an
hour or more, Jaime asked Sansa to play the harp and to sing something for
them. She smiled sweetly and began with “Jonquil and Florian”, which caused
Sandor to roll his eyes upwards. Some northern songs from Winterfell followed,
and Sansa was simply adorable.
Then, Jaime asked with a sardonic grin: “Have you heard of the latest song here
in the west? It's called “Lannisters' Golden Ashes”.”
Sansa shook her head innocently, but Sandor growled: “Aye, I became an ear-
witness in an inn during my travels. Rarely ever heard a less favourable song.”
Jaime laughed sharply and answered: “From a Lannister point of view the “Reynes
of Castamere” are indeed nicer to listen to.”
Sansa, who seemingly wanted to distract the men, peeped up: “Then what about
“The Bear and the Maiden Fair”?”
On hearing that, Jaime almost fell to the floor in a fit of wild, gleeful
laughter, and he barely managed to gasp: “You may sing that song to your
husband when you're alone.”
Lady Brienne looked embarrassed now, and Sansa was rather confused, so the
Kingslayer intoned: "A bear! A bear," /"All black and brown," /"And covered in
hair!" / "She kicked and wailed," / "The maid so fair," /"But he licked the
honey," /"From her hair!" ”
When Sansa still didn't understand, Jaime was taken aback – and then he
chuckled at Sandor: “If ever there was a wonder, then it is that your Lady Wife
doesn't understand the song after having been married for months on end to you.
You really do have to teach her some songs! Not just the simple in-and-out
tune. Though I must admit that it's really a difficult task for you, what with
your barking instead of a singing voice...”
“Go bugger yourself with a hot poker!” the Hound snarled madly at Jaime. The
latter one was unperturbed and smirking his broadest, most salacious smile.
Then, it was a stammering Lady Brienne who declared that it had been a long
evening for all of them and that it would probably be best to retreat.
Sandor was only too willing to oblige; he took Sansa's arm with one hand and a
second flagon with the other. Lady was already walking off, most likely back to
the stables. One instant later, he and his wife were marching back to their
room. While they were walking Sansa leaned closer to him and whispered: “What
was that last prattling about?”
The Hound snorted: “The Kingslayer compared me to a hairy bear and wanted me
to... lick your hair.” Sansa was bemused, not getting the allusion, and
stammered: “But... why? Because of the... red colour?”
Who-hoops. Sandor noticed that he was getting hard again. So soon after his
intense release less than three and a half hours before? It all couldn't be
true – his little wife was making him hungry instead of sating him!
“Your colour might be one aspect”, he growled.
 
 
As soon as they had entered their chamber, he swirled his Little Bird around
and meant to teach her some new songs, just like the Kingslayer had
recommended. He pressed her against the wall and himself against her and
started to kiss his wife passionately.
Sansa put her arms around his neck, her hands were fingering through his dark
hair, and they were playfully snatching each others lips and tongue in turns.
Sandor started to rub himself against her, sumply unable to hold back – and she
didn't even flinch, as would actually behoove somebody so inexperienced.
Emboldened, the Hound slowly hoisted her skirts while holding her middle with
his other arm, and sneaked his hand into her smallclothes.
The momentary impression of warm, wet, silky, delicate flesh was searing in his
brain... when suddenly Sansa tensed. Faster than Sandor could react she
unsnapped from his embrace and hastened to the farthest end of the room, where
she curled into a trembling ball and pressed herself against the wall. Her
Tully blue eyes were extremely wide.
Shocked, Sandor wanted to approach her, but she stopped him with a gesture
meant to fend him off.
“NO! No, pleasepleaseplease, no hands, no fingers”, she sputtered desperately
and kept repeating that sentence.
A flashback! To his utmost horror, they were suddenly in his room in Winterfell
on their first evening again. He saw her being terrified of a monstrous-
looking, hulking man whom she didn't know and who had come to violate her
powerless body. But... but that was impossible! Seven thrice-damned hells,
Sansa had been relaxed and more than a little aroused a few moments before!
His voice was even hoarser than usual when Sandor uttered: “I wasn't about to
hurt you! Believe me! I beg you! I just wanted to stroke you a little bit...
and to pleasure you. Nothing rude, I swear!”
Sansa was still shivering and trying to come to terms with what had just
happened. It wasn't easy for her, that much was clear, but she answered more
coherently: “I... why... yes, probably. I... believe you. But please, I don't
like that... kind of touch with your hands. Down there, I mean.”
Sandor was shattered. Damn. Lilyrose had taught him how to pleasure a woman,
but that lesson had been all for naught! And if his Little Wife couldn't accept
an intimate touch – how could he possibly ever enter her with his cock!? The
fact that for a split second he had felt the loveliness of her lady parts
didn't make things better with regard to his needs. But worst of all was the
realization that his first, misled fumbling in Winterfell had caused some
lasting damage. Was it him after all, who was somehow the origin of her other
health problems? Fuck, he deserved to be unmanned and gutted!
The Hound staggered to their bed, slumped himself on the edge and put his face
into his hands. He couldn't say a word. After two or three minutes he felt the
mattress sag lightly. Sansa was behind his back, though she didn't touch him.
“Sandor, I'm sorry, I know you didn't want to hurt me, I really do. Please
believe me, I love you so!” she whispered pleadingly.
The Hound barked a mad, bitter laughter.
“Aye, you love me, I know, and it's even true. But I ask you: what is this
madness – to fall in love with a man who hurt you in the first place!”
“Oh Sandor, no, don't do that, don't see yourself like a monster!”
“But I bloody am!” he snarled.
And despite her shaken state and tears on her cheeks, there was suddenly also
wolfish anger. “Right! Drown in self-loathing, drown our marriage in misery!
What do you think, will it help to improve our situation one whit? I must ask
myself how you managed to survive so many battles, if you draw in your horns at
the first sign of problems. Have you never experienced a setback before? Holy
Seven! Should I be inspired by your attitude? Should I start to hate myself now
for not being able to respond to your needs like a wife should? Would be easy.
But if I had wanted the easy way I would have... simply given up myself after
Joffrey had called me “a heap of tainted shit”. I didn't. Now I tell you that,
yes, I may have some problems, more even than I could possibly want, but I want
to become whole and sound again, I really do! Won't you help me?”
Sandor looked up again with bleary eyes and croaked with his steel-on-stone
voice: “You're so wonderful, so absolutely wonderful. And even if you just look
like a delicate girl, you're so much stronger than so many others and wise
beyond your age. How can such words come out of the mouth of someone aged
three-and-ten? And believe me, I'd do absolutely everything and anything to
help you!”
Finally, Sansa approached Sandor from behind by hobbling on her knees;
gingerly, still trembling a little, she embraced him from behind and buried her
face against the nape of his neck. Sandor clutched her arms and leaned further
against her. They were each other's anchors in this world, he suddenly
understood. After some long moments, they lay down, now face to face, still
with their clothes on... but it didn't matter, and they rested in each other's
arms, finally falling asleep.
 
 
In the morning, Sandor was woken by the drumming sounds of heavy rainfall. The
crappy weather of autumn. Sansa was still asleep, curled into him like she
always was. The Hound looked down onto the crown of her head with its auburn
hair. Was she running with Lady right now? Perhaps playing some pranks on
Stranger? Was she elsewhere, in a distant place and a situation that would
shock and disgust her? Or was she just sleeping?
The memory of the previous evening came back – and the shame as well. Fuck,
what should he do? Give him a sword and a scoundrel, and he'd know what to do.
But here... things were so very different. Emotional and abstract. He wasn't
made for that. He was neither patient nor tender, nor soft. How on earth should
he instruct his Little Wife to let him in? And what's more: how to enjoy it?
Sandor's senses started to focus on her sweet scent, her relaxed breathing, the
warmth she emanated – – – shit, he was getting hard again! He was craving for
her, and his lust was growing by the minute. How could he possibly control
himself? With his size and strength he could hurt her so very easily as soon as
he got carried away.
Sandor rolled himself onto his back. His erection formed a tent under the
blanket and started to hurt. Inwardly, he started to curse like a bargee.
Suddenly, there was the hint of a smile on Sansa's beautiful sleeping face that
was now resting on his left shoulder. A moment later, Sandor felt a well-known
strange kind of headache. He was full of vim now. His cock started to throb
like mad. Oh fuck, what should he do!?
And then he realized that he desired to hear her moan in pleasure like he had
never desired anything else before.
Very slowly and carefully, so as not to wake up his Little Wife, he started to
unlace his trousers with his right hand. Through the fabric of his tunic he
felt her breathing quicken, and his own heart was hammering away now.
He whispered: “I won't touch you, I promise, I'll only touch my own body.”
After a bit of fumbling, he was able to reach himself. Sansa was still
sleeping, but her body was responding in a simply delicious way, and he thought
he wouldn't last long. Her mouth was slightly open, and when he started to
stroke himself, there was a tiny little moan in her throat. It was the sweetest
sound Sandor had ever heard.
Warily, he went on and knew all too well that he couldn't allow himself any
jerking movements or grunting moans because Sansa should stay asleep until the
end. The – literal! – task at hand was so strenuous that he started to bite his
partly burned lips, which were twitching like mad, and there was sweat on his
forehead. He slowly ran his thumb around the bell-end, and there was an echo in
his mind: “You're even... just as velvety on top!” Sandor looked at himself so
as to offer his little wife a good view – and that thought in its turn aroused
him even more.
Since he was gentler to himself than usual, it actually took much longer than
he had anticipated at the beginning. His cock was dark red and extremely
swollen now, with whitish fluid leaking out. There was another whimper from
Sansa, and Sandor pressed the back of his head into the pillow. He was so
unbelievably tense now, but knowing that the Little Bird might chirp again, if
he only held out a little longer he prolonged the game as best he could. There
was the indistinct feeling that Sansa was actually pulsating next to him, too,
and she was so sweet and warm!
Finally, he snapped and erupted with the primal force of a volcano, giving off
a loud, hoarse moan. The same instant, Sansa exploded against him, ground her
quivering body into him and echoed his sounds in a way that brought tears to
the corners of both their eyes.
When they came back to their senses they were panting heavily. Sandor looked at
his wife and saw her open her Tully blue eyes. They were glassy and confused.
She looked at him, silent for a moment.
Then, she murmured: “I... I... could hear and see and... feel myself. How...
how strange.”
Worried, the Hound wanted to know: “But it was... good?”
Sansa blinked. Next, a small smile full of peaceful joy appeared on her face,
and she cupped his cheek.
Another murmur: “It was the most wonderful thing I've ever felt. And it was
caused by the most wonderful man.”
With a jubilating cry, Sandor scooped his wife up into his arms, crushed her to
his broad chest and kissed her like mad. Sansa was laughing freely in between
his kisses, and so was he after a while, so relaxed in the aftermath of their
very special kind of warging love play as if there was no care in the world.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Reality came back to them when they went down for breakfast. Sansa had put on a
new dress since the other one was crinkled after sleeping in it and smudged by
the Hound's semen beyond washing or repair.
They entered the great hall together and were greeted by a happily yapping
Lady. Her muzzle was bloody, which indicated that the direwolf had just been
enjoying a nice, raw piece of meat. Sansa wrinkled her nose. Together, they
headed for the tables and sat down. Jaime and Brienne were already enjoying
some bread, cheese, cold meat and lemon biscuits and were discussing their
plans for the day. Apparently, the two wanted to ride to Lannisport, because
there was a fair that always took place at the end of the moon-turn. There was
a leather manufacturer, who they wanted to meet.
At once, Sansa was electrified and asked Sandor, if they couldn't come along,
too. The Hound shrugged: “Don't mind. But you'll stay close to me, understood?
And first, you've got to eat.”
That topic didn't please his wife at all, and Jaime and Brienne shot each other
knowing glances. Since Sansa used to have a sweet tooth before the beginning of
her problems Sandor handed her a slice of bread, butter and some cherry jam,
along with some lemon biscuits. His Little Bird turned green in the face.
So he murmured into her ear: “Yesterday, you said you wanted to be whole and
sound again – and I said I wanted to help you. In that case... there's no way
around eating.”
Sansa nodded and looked at the food like a warrior would look down on a hostile
army besieging some castle walls. And then, she took the first biscuit and
ground it to pieces as if she had iron jaws. The next piece followed. And the
next. Tears of determination were now pooling in her eyes.
The others were already averting their looks carefully. Sandor could see his
wife chew and swallow, and she clearly tried to suppress the knowledge of what
she was doing. She started to make havoc of a slice of bread. At some point, it
didn't work any longer, and Sansa started to retch, but she swallowed
everything that was rising in her throat again.
It was then that the Hound didn't care any longer, if it was proper in public,
or who was looking – he simply put his arms around her waist, pulled her onto
his lap and rocked her gently with soothing sounds. For a long minute, his
little wife sobbed against his shoulder; however, when she remembered where she
was, she suddenly flushed crimson red from shame, wriggled free and hastened
out of the hall.
Without hesitating Sandor followed suit, and with his long legs he had no
problems to catch up with her. He took hold of her shoulder, Sansa spun around,
flung herself against him and broke down with more heavy sobs. For the Hound,
it was a difficult situation, too, because he wasn't experienced when it came
to consoling young, high-born women, plus he was upset by his Little Bird's
agitated chirping. So he hoisted her into his arms and took her to their room.
Afterwards, he sent for Maester Creylen.
Some fifteen minutes later, the man arrived. Sandor looked at the scholar's
chain and detected links made of lead, pewter, copper, iron and yellow gold
(symbolizing economics – how very fitting for the damned Lannisters). The Hound
had known Maester Creylen for years, he had even stitched him up after various
skirmishes, and some of his nastier scars on the body reflected the man's
ability to close wounds that would have been fatal under normal circumstances.
At first sight, mousy Creylen was not a mite of an impressive appearance, but
his mind and the way he used it certainly was.
“Lord Clegane”, he greeted him in a friendly, but formal tone.
“Maester Creylen, I'm relieved you're here. My wife is in a poor state.”
“Aye, I know”, the maester nodded. “I examined her the day she arrived with the
castellan from Riverrun. I would have wanted to speak to you anyway, if you had
not called. – Good morning, Lady Clegane.”
Sansa greeted Creylen feebly from the bed and was flushing red again.
“My Lord, can we speak privately for a moment?”
“Of course.”
The two men left the room. In the corridor, there was no-one else to be seen,
so the maester started: “Your lady wife is undernourished as you will have
noticed.”
“Is she very ill?”
“Aye, she is. I have seen this a few times before, especially with young women.
It is an illness of the mind. You see, some people get so accustomed to alcohol
that they can't let go of the flagon – and in her case, she has got accustomed
to not eating, so to speak. You must keep her under surveillance – otherwise
she might starve to death. I have seen this happen to young Lady Mirella, of
House Dorston. One of my first patients in Oldtown before I was assigned to
Casterly Rock. The lady pretended to eat and puked secretly as soon as she was
alone. When they called me it was already too late, and she was too weakened to
recover.”
Sandor paled.
“Oh shit, and San... my wife?”
“I think she has got a chance, but you must really look after her. And you
mustn't overexercise her. Erm... I'm sorry to say it to a vigorous man like
you, but... amongst other things that include physical activity I would
recommend to avoid the marriage bed until she is much stronger. She is in a
delicate state and shouldn't be... unsettled... any more than necessary.”
“I see.”
Sandor felt as if he had Lannisters' golden ashes in his mouth.
Creylen looked him in the burned face and seemed to gauge the Hound's attitude.
He betrayed no sign as to what he concluded, and spoke up again: “Right. Let's
go back to your wife.”
When they were in the room again, the maester seated himself next to the bed
and said: “I have just told your husband that I'm worried about your state. You
are quite weak. But I can also see that the tea that I prescribed to you during
our first meeting wasn't useless, and the diet that I recommended to you as
well.”
“You didn't tell my about that”, Sandor growled, and his wife looked positively
guilty.
Maester Creylen cleared his throat and appeased the Hound: “I'm sure she just
forgot to tell you, because she was so happy to have you back. Now, here is a
little bag with some more herbs for the tea. She should drink it thrice a day;
it will stimulate the appetite and strengthen her as well. With regard to the
food, I'd say it must be light and simple, but nourishing. Oats, honey, soft
bread, broth, perhaps a bit of chicken, boiled eggs, milk and some fruit.”
Inwardly, Sandor was relieved that the food in the inn at the Gold Road had met
exactly these recommendations. After some more friendly words between Creylen
and his Little Bird the maester took his leave.
Sandor sat down on the edge of the bed.
His wife blushed, averted her eyes and whispered: “I'm... I'm so sorry.”
She swallowed hard. So did he.
He took hold of her chin and made her look at him.
“You're ill. I tell you, there is nothing to be ashamed of. We're simply not
quite ourselves when we're ill. Or was I when I had that blasted pneumonia?”
At that, Sansa smiled a little and peeped up: “Sick or healthy – you're ALWAYS
very much of a presence.”
Sandor couldn't help himself and had to chortle darkly. He bent down and kissed
her, then he rubbed his big, hooked nose against her ridge, just like he had
learned it from her.
That made her giggle, kiss him again and ask: “I guess I can't go to the fair?”
“Of course not!”
“Oh...”
The Hound scowled at her.
“Don't look at me like that! There will be other fairs once you have
recovered.”
Sansa thought about it for a moment; the she took his calloused hand and placed
a kiss on his palm.
“I've got an idea.”
“Namely?”
“You could go to the fair and bring me something from there.”
“The hell I'll do!”
Fuck, she was looking at him with those damned blue eyes that could make the
Wall melt!
Suddenly, Sandor remembered something that made him start and rummage through
his saddlebags.
“Shit, I had completely forgotten! Look, here's your honey from Clegane Keep!
And here... a glass of lemon marmalade from Arya. It's from Kings Landing. And
here, this was meant to be a little gift from me.”
With those words he handed her the scarf trimmed with fur he had obtained on
leaving the capital.
Sansa was overjoyed; she chirped like mad and pecked at his half-burned mouth
as if his lips were a special treat, too.
“Well... at least she still likes MY taste”, he thought, but then he berated
himself, because he was drifting off into arousal again, and he should take
seriously what Maester Creylen had said about the marriage bed. Fuck, that
would mean nothing less than torture for him!
His Little Wife was looking into his eyes again.
“Sandor, I'm so grateful! Now, please listen to me. You've had a tiresome time
with all those political schemes in Kings Landing and with all the travelling.
You deserve a nice day. Go along with Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne; have a
good look at offers for scabbards and stirrups and knives and whatever else
they sell at the fair that might interest you. You should have a good time and
a nice strong ale or something else.”
The Hound snorted. “As if I could leave you alone when I'm worried about you!”
Sansa smiled and said: “That's really sweet of you, but you could...”
She didn't get any further, because Sandor gave off some sarcastic barking
laughter: “Fuck me sideways, now we can add “sweet” to the words “dinky” and
“mushroom”!”
On hearing this, Sansa shot back indignantly: “If you want to polish up your
silly Hound's reputation – go out with our hosts and have a nice tavern brawl –
best including some minor killing–, and leave a servant and Lady as my safety
guard at my side!”
Sandor switched from sarcastic to fuming and he rasped: “The SILLY Hound's
reputation is kind of a bloody safety insurance for you, won't you get that
into your pretty little red-haired head!? And since you are so horribly intent
on me pissing of... this is exactly what I'll do!”
Even when the Hound was leaving their room with big strides and slamming the
door so heavily that it groaned in its hinges and almost splintered at the
handle he knew he had fucked it up again; yet, he was still so very angry that
he couldn't regret his words. Only after a gallop at a breakneck pace on
Stranger's back towards Lannisport did he come to his senses.
 
 
He decided against turning around and going back. It wouldn't have made any
difference. Sansa was surely mad with him now, and for good reason. So he could
go to Lannisport just as well. It wouldn't help much to appease her, but he
decided to buy her something nice nevertheless. And he wanted to visit his
daughter's grave at the sept.
There were already many people, carts and stalls in the streets. Stranger
didn't like that, but after the hard ride he was exhausted enough not to bolt,
kick or bite. They went to the graveyard first and later turned into the street
where “The Golden Candelabra” was. Sandor left his courser there. He'd come
back later. For lunch. Or dinner. Or drinking.
After half an hour and assessing the multiple offers on display he decided to
buy some expensive Myrish lace and a valuable big memo book wrapped in calf
leather and embossed with a wintry scene that would remind his Little Bird of
Winterfell. Some minutes later he came across Jaime and Brienne, who were
discussing the quality of a sheath they had purchased for a dagger that
belonged to Jaime.
“Dog! Over here!” the fair-haired man called.
The Hound growled deep in his throat, but approached the couple.
“How is Lady Sansa?” the huge woman asked at once.
Sandor had to give it to her that she was at least open and direct and didn't
try to cover her curiosity.
“Not so very well. Especially after we had a bad row. But she'll be better
soon, I'll make sure of that, rest assured of that. And as an offer of amends
I've just bought something nice for her.”
Jaime clapped him on the back. “The rabid Dog doesn't like the collar of
marriage and has to snarl all the time, I gather. But don't be too angry – at
least your mistress has put you on a long leash. In contrast to mine.”
The Kingslayer grinned teasingly and Brienne smacked him with an angry scowl on
his good arm. Sandor didn't know exactly how to react. His mood simply was
still at a low point after the argument with his wife, so he was even more
unnerved by the Kingslayer than usual. At the same time, he didn't want to blow
up the whole show with the Lannister couple – one major quarrel a day was
likely to be enough. So he limited himself to more non-verbal growling.
Together, they walked around. The air was salty and fresh from the sea, and the
seagulls were screeching overhead as usual. There was animated haggling all
around them, and some jugglers were performing in the middle of the market
place. Normally, the Hound would have had a rather relaxed day, if he had
ignored the frightened stares at his gruesome face, that was. But not on this
day.
 
 
After a long stroll they went back to the Candelabra to have a hearty meal.
They sat down at a table and resumed talking about this and that, and Sandor
tried not to be completely taciturn.
At some point, Brienne asked: “You told us you wanted to catch this man...”
“Ser Ilyn”, Jaime cut in.
“Aye.”
“Why is that so?”
“There's more than one reason. First of all, he was involved into the scheme
that led to... my lady wife's... present situation.”
“WHAT?” the Kingslayer called. “That man had something to do with putting Lady
Sansa into your room?”
The Hound bared his teeth, which was answer enough.
Jaime commented on this: “It's just so strange, and I've been thinking about it
again and again. I know how much... my sister... despised the Starks. There's
no denying that. With hindsight I also know that she had more than one finger
in the plot and orchestrated Joffrey – and Ser Ilyn as well, as it seems.
Still. I simply can't understand why she chose to do it exactly THIS way. She
could have chosen other means of preventing the marriage between Sansa and
Joffrey, and of harming the Stark family. Why disgrace an innocent girl, who
had nothing to do with the past... I mean with Lyanna Stark and Robert?”
Sandor sighed deeply and was just about to shrug – when he suddenly froze. In a
moment of clarity the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
“What?” Jaime asked.
“Seven hells! I think it has something to do with the second reason for why I
want to catch Ser Ilyn. He's involved into some kind of treason – most likely
high treason – by the order of Littlefinger. And the bloody Mockingbird is a
mastermind in the Game of Thrones, as we all know.”
The Kingslayer frowned: “Whoa, now that's some news! But what should Petyr
Baelish have to do with putting Sansa into your room? Do you think it was him,
who came up with the idea? But why on earth?”
Sandor felt nauseated and rasped: “Because he had two damned strong motives.
First: it's no secret that he has been infatuated with Lady Catelyn Stark since
their youth. Since he'll never get her, he wants to have the younger version.
Normally, Sansa would have been above his rank, but after being disgraced he
might have been a more suitable match for her. Second: By marrying into the
Stark family he could have got a strong grip on the north. I'm pretty sure he
wanted to become a Warden of the North, so you could have expected many nasty
killings and murders. Sudden deaths like the ones in Kings Landing these days.
BAH! I HATE the Mockingbird!”
Lady Brienne had pressed a hand on her mouth in shock.
“How awful!” she breathed.
And Jaime added: “It would all have worked out nicely, if not for Lord Eddard.
He did the unspeakable, something that nobody in the Seven Kingdoms would ever
have reckoned with: He married his daughter to the infamous, burned, big brute,
who was serving another house and who had violated his daughter, a man, who was
far too low-born, no knight and in a position barely above a simple sellsword.
To be honest – I always thought that Lord Stark must be absolutely insane...
but if this act was madness there was still method in it.”
Suddenly, Sandor felt restless.
He pushed away his half-finished platter and tankard of ale and rumbled: “Aye,
I'm coming to the same conclusion. But you will excuse me now. I've been away
from Sansa long enough, and I simply want to make peace with her after our
quarrel in the morning.” What the Hound didn't say to his hosts was that he had
a very strange feeling in his stomach that he couldn't name – he only knew he
wanted to be back at the Rock.
***** Chapter 15 *****
This led to Stranger being pushed to the limit a second time that day – and it
was remarkable to say that the black courser was very willing to oblige. As if
the horse sensed that something was amiss, too.
And no sooner than when they arrived at the stables of the Rock did they
realize that their premonitions were well-founded. For Lady was lying in
Stranger's box. Unconscious. Hind legs twitching.
“LADY!” Sandor roared.
A stable-boy appeared with a frightened face.
“YOU!” he boomed. “Off to Maester Creylen! Get him! He must save the wolf. If
he doesn't – tell him the Hound will be very, VERY angry and the bloody seven
hells will be freezing like the Wall in comparison to my rage! Understood!?”
The stable-boy went white as chalk and was on the brink of pissing himself, so
Sandor snarled again: “OFF WITH YOU, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!”
Next, the Hound tried to lead Stranger to another box, but the courser was
suddenly adamant to stay close to the direwolf, which made his master growl:
“Right, you flaming thickheaded beast! Now isn't the right time to stay close
and to discover your sudden sympathy for Lady! The maester has to get through
to her, and that will be impossible with your broad, black arse!”
His words helped better than any tugging on the reigns, and in a few moments,
the corridor was clear. Sandor looked at the twitching form of Lady and
suddenly remembered her bloody muzzle in the morning. Had anybody poisoned the
meat?
Fuck, what about Sansa!? With his long legs he darted from the stables like a
bat out of the seven hells. On his way, he came across Maester Creylen, who was
rushing into his direction.
“Maester! I think the direwolf has been poisoned. And if that has happened my
lady wife is in danger, too!”
Creylen wasn't one to fuss. “I see. I'll be prepared. Find me in the stables,
if you need me!”
Sandor gave a nod and hurried on.
He arrived at their room. The door was open. It was empty. A stool had been
knocked over. So had the empty chamber pot. The blanket from the bed was
pooling on the floor. Shit, oh shit, no – this couldn't be true!
Where was Sansa? Where was that bastard, and where was he taking her?
The Hound instantly gave the alarm, and within few moments the Rock was a
beehive bustling with guards and soldiers. The people knew the name “Clegane”
more than well enough to put them on the alert in two ticks.
It took the Hound mere minutes to organize various search parties and to send
them up and down the shore and inland. Sandor's experience in dire situations
helped him not to panic, but it was difficult to push the rising dread aside.
Suddenly, he felt a slight headache that he recognized at once for what it was.
Sansa! She was unconscious! Probably even calling for him! Could he... could he
use this feeling as a tracking signal or something like that?
Right in the middle of the pandemonium, he stilled completely, barred the
shouts, orders and the metal clanking of mail, and did some soul-searching. He
completely focused on the internal intruder that was the mind of his sweet
Little Wife. Then, he started to walk, like a sleepwalker. Fuck, her presence
was already fading again! Was he wrong, or was there the faint smell of the
sea? The crashing of waves? It was difficult to tell, because that was the
normal atmosphere of Casterly Rock and Lannisport anyway.
But suddenly, it struck him: Pirate Bay! It was a lonely, secluded little
place, close enough to the castle and hidden from curious eyes, so that the
Lannisters had liked to use the place for secret meetings in the past years.
With a small boat you could row out to a bigger ship easily enough.
SHITSHITSHIT! Time was of paramount importance now, and Stranger was back in
the stable. It happened then that Jaime and Brienne were coming home from their
trip to Lannisport and were completely taken by surprise on seeing the chaos in
the castle.
“Kingslayer! Ride to Pirate Bay! Save Sansa! Payne has got her!”
The eyes of the Lion bulged, but he didn't question Sandor, spun around with
his horse and yelled: “Wench! Follow me!” And off they galloped like flashes of
lightening, bodies bent down close to their coursers' necks. Fuck, now Sansa's
fate was at the three hands of two Lannisters. Because he, the Hound, her
husband, had failed her.
Sandor ran back to the stables to get Stranger out.
There, he met a sweating Maester Creylen and asked: “How's the wolf?”
The mousy man shook his head and answered: “It's a wonder of the Seven that
she's not dead yet, any normal wolf would already have passed away twice. Very
robust animal. But still... I wouldn't lay my hopes on her survival. We're on
the razor's edge here.”
The Hound could only snarl in response: “Bugger that! Save her!”
And with shaking hands, he pulled a very reluctant Stranger out of his box,
mounted the horse and blasted off at top speed once more.
Some fifteen minutes later, he neared Pirate Bay. Two horses could already be
seen from his point of view. Which meant that Jaime and Brienne were down on
the beach. So he had been right with his intuition. Sandor nearly jumped off
his courser and skidded down the slope that led to the water line. There was a
little, empty boat moored in the swell of the water. And on the sand, under
some overhanging rocks, there were two lying shapes: Sansa and Ser Ilyn.
The heart was beating madly in Sandor's throat. He staggered closer and reached
a bystanding and onlooking Jaime, while his wife was binding the mute ex-
hangman. But since the bugger seemed to be being dealt with, he rather focused
on Sansa, rushed to her side, sank to his knees and cradled her in his arms.
Her skin had taken on a most unhealthy grey hue.
Sandor's voice came out as a mere croaking whisper: “Oh my love! We're here
now! We're helping you! And Maester Creylen is helping Lady.”
“Dog!” Jaime called. “We've to get her back to the Rock at once. Put her on
your horse and ride home. We'll manage here. Brienne was fantastic – knocked
the bastard right out even though he had a dagger. He'll have to answer for his
deed later.”
With a nod Sandor rose and did as he had been told. There was no time for
melodrama; they had to act.
 
 
A little less than fifteen minutes later, Stranger swept back into the
courtyard of Casterly Rock like a foaming black wave. It had been a crackpot
ride, but the Hound had had an iron grip on his wife.
Maester Creylen was already hastening into his direction.
“To the healing quarters!“ he ordered.
Without further ado, they went off into that direction. When they arrived Sansa
was placed on a divan bed; next, the maester ordered the Hound to leave him and
an assistant popping up from a back room alone with the Little Bird.
“Bugger yourself with a hot poker, you quacksalver! I won't leave my wife!”
Sandor hollered.
Anybody else would have given in on facing the raging warrior, but Creylen was
composed as always and said: “You're quite thickheaded, you know, and it's good
that you feel so much for her, but staying close to your wife won't help her
here. You're simply too big and would only be in the way while I'm trying to
save your wife. I won't say it again: leave!”
Sandor was rather taken aback. Had he not used similar words for Stranger and
Lady? Shit. He growled into his non-existent beard and left with stiff strides.
Outside the door, he leaned against the corridor wall, but he felt so
devastated that he slumped down, angled his long legs, leaned the elbows on
them and the forehead against his fists. Time and sound were a blur.
 
At some point, an exceptionally serious Jaime appeared and sat down quietly
next to him. That the Kingslayer didn't talk was remarkable in itself.
Only after a while did the Lion offer: “Payne is down in the dungeons. Want to
question him?”
The Hound growled: “Does shit smell? Course I want! But not now. I'd only kill
him at once in my rage instead of just torturing him like he deserves. And I'll
stay close to Sansa.”
Jaime nodded.
“I see.”
There was a pause.
Then: “It was strange. When we arrived at the beach your lady wife was already
unconscious. Ser Ilyn was there, and Brienne approached him. Ilyn had a dagger
in his hand and a sword at his side – but he used neither. He looked...
puzzled. He must have been completely surprised by the sight of such an
impressive woman clad in mail. And Brienne was so very angry that she swung her
fist and crashed it into the face of that nasty bit of work. Impressive
crunching sound, I tell you! Her attack cost him a tooth, that much could be
seen at once. And his nose was broken, too. Wouldn't have thought that my soft-
hearted wench would have so much primal violence in her.”
The Hound's answer was void of any emotion: “Tell your lady wife I'm deeply
grateful for what she's done. I just can't appreciate it like I should as long
as Sansa is in such a bad state.”
“I know, Clegane.”
And then, the two men were silent again. Jaime left after a while, only to come
back later.
“I have found something out”, he informed the still brooding Sandor.
There was no apparent reaction, but the Lion wasn't discouraged so easily.
“The captain of the guard told me that Payne turned up yesterday, quite late in
the evening. Being my father's bannerman he was admitted, of course, and the
captain didn't know that you were looking for him in some pressing affair, so
he didn't notify us.”
“Ah, fuck, it so doesn't matter”, Sandor rasped. “It was MY mistake. It was ME,
who left my wife alone although I knew bloody well that there was some
impending peril.”
“Clegane, it wasn't your mistake. You must have sensed the danger, because you
returned early. You realized where she was. You did everything efficiently to
save her. Nobody could ever reproach you.”
Sandor laughed bitterly. “Then you don't know Lady Stark well enough. What
makes it worse is that she'd have the right of it. I shouldn't have left.
Simple as that. No matter what I did later. I failed Sansa.”
Jaime shook his fair head, but realized that Sandor had sunk deeply into a new
fit of self-loathing, just like the ones the burned man had nourished in Kings
Landing. Apart from whoring, which was out of the question, only one option was
left then. The Lion left the Hound a second time and returned with a flagon of
sour Dornish red.
“We'll share it”, the Kingslayer announced. “I don't want you to get pissed
alone.”
The Hound had never been so thankful, though he didn't say a word. Words were
wind, and they were not needed in this situation.
After an hour or so they were both rather boozed, and slowly, but surely, it
was getting dark. Then, Brienne turned up.
Jaime slurred: “Wench, you won't berate me for drinking with this poor man, who
is so very worried about his wife.”
The huge Lady Lannister scowled at the two drunk men and rebuked them: “As if
there was only drinking to solve a crisis! Well, but I knew that that would
happen. You men are just so very predictable and simple. And since I don't want
to have to endure a tipsy husband with his drunk witticisms I've got another
flagon, this time with port. And the two of you won't drink so much, because
I've got to catch up!”
Jaime laughed at that and called her “his lovely wench”. In less than half an
hour Brienne had actually “caught up”, and together, they were drinking
themselves into a collective stupor. The last thing Sandor thought coherently
was that in the morning he wouldn't be able to tell a warging visit from Sansa
from the normal effects of a horrible hangover. But he was already gone too far
to care in the least.
 
 
In the morning, the Hound was woken by a hand shaking his shoulder roughly.
“Lord Clegane?” Sandor moaned, because his head was hammering, and his bones
were screaming after a night on the cold, hard tiles in the corridor.
Next to him two other forms were stirring awkwardly. Jaime and Brienne.
“Lord Clegane?” the voice inquired again.
Sandor looked up and into the stern, tired face of Master Creylen.
“Sansa!?!?” No! No! She wasn't dead, was she!?!?
The mousy healer pressed his shoulder appeasingly, but Sandor brushed his hand
off rudely, so the man hastened to say: “She's still very, very weak, but she
should be out of the wood now. And her wolf likewise. They were both poisoned,
and normally, they should not have survived. You may not keep any gods, if I
remember correctly, but in this case a prayer would be adequate.”
Sandor was standing now, trembling.
“She'll... survive?”
Creylen allowed himself a small smile.
“If nothing interferes – yes.”
On hearing this, the still quite tousled-looking Jaime clapped him on the back.
“Well, that's fantastic news, isn't it? Congratulations!”
The Hound's mouth twitched from suppressed emotions, and he rasped: “Can I see
her?”
The maester nodded and explained: “She's asleep. Don't wake her. And you may
only stay for a moment.”
 
 
Inside the healing quarters, there was a horrible smell, a mixture of illness
and a stench of alchemy. Just like Creylen had told him Sansa was sleeping. The
grey colour of her face had changed a little, and now it looked more like milk.
Still not healthy, but at least not deathlike.
Sandor's huge hands were balled into fists, and his nails dug crescents into
his flesh. He wanted to embrace his little wife so much. So much! Wanted to ask
for her forgiveness. But it would have to wait, even if he could barely endure
it. And he could only hope that the healer was right, and that she – and Lady –
would recover completely.
A little later, the Hound was ushered out again. Jaime and Brienne were still
waiting, and he told them about his impressions.
Next, he stated: “Now that there is hope I want to see Payne.”
The Kingslayer nodded in understanding and commented: “Let's have some
breakfast first and get over this hangover. Then we'll go down to the prison
cells.”
“Right.”
 
 
The dungeons were dark and damp, as one might expect. During his first years at
the Rock the Hound had been there several times, taking prisoners to their
temporary premises or out of them, or witnessing inquiries and also some
torturing sessions. In contrast to his brother he didn't like the obscure
entrails of Casterly Rock and enjoyed the cruelties that took place there even
less. And now, a central figure of the actors had turned into recipient.
Ilyn Payne had never been attractive, but it gave Sandor a small amount of
satisfaction that Brienne had obviously truly made short work of his visage. He
should really spar with the tall woman one day.
The former king's decapitator was hanging on the wall, bound in iron fetters,
and his nose and mouth were a blood-crusted, swollen ruin. But he had regained
consciousness, and his eyes were hard as flint. So were Sandor's.
“Right, Payne, you bloody son of a dry cunt of a pockmarked whore. How do you
want to die? Slowly, under torture?”
No apparent reaction.
“Or rather quickly? Without an ordeal?”
Ser Ilyn didn't do so much as blink.
“Let me summarize your present situation”, the Kingslayer, who had descended
into the vaults of the prison cells as well, offered. “You have been found
while trying to abduct the wife of a most loyal bannerman of House Lannister,
you have poisoned the woman, and her wolf as well. Kidnapping and attempted
murder. I don't know what you'd call it, if you had a tongue, but I'd say that
it was high treason. And I'm very COMPETENT about high treason, as you will
certainly remember. Oh, and by the way, it looks as if it wasn't the first time
that you've harmed Lady Clegane. Though the first incident was carried out on
the orders of... a prince... and you cannot be held responsible, it still
indicates that you're capable of doing very nasty things.”
The chained man spat into the Kingslayer's face.
“Whoa – hats off, how did he do that without a tongue?” the Hound asked himself
with mild interest.
Jaime wiped the saliva away and droned on: “Well, well, Ser Ilyn, it really
looks as if you wanted to shorten the procedure – I mean, insulting his liege
lord's son is a dazzling new point on your list of wrongdoings.”
Then, the Hound growled: “And we haven't talked about your crappy deal with
Littlefinger yet. Didn't it matter to the Mockingbird, if you brought Sansa to
him as a flaming rotting carcass, or did you just have a problem with the dose
of the poison?”
It was the mention of Petyr Baelish that caused the prisoner to shoot a
surprised glance at the Hound, but a moment later, he looked completely sullen
again.
So Sandor snarled once more: “Seven shitflamed hells, did Littlefucker want her
a) dead or b) alive or c) didn't care? Just nod for the right answer.”
Ser Ilyn pretended not only to be mute, but also to be deaf.
The Lion present had had enough of the game.
“He doesn't want to cooperate, Dog. Give him an impression of what he can
expect. Break a finger.”
“Any preference with regard to the hand?”
Jaime looked at his stump inquiringly.
“Always start with the sword hand I'd say from my own experience.”
The Hound grunted, grabbed the hangman's flouncing right hand, bent back his
index finger and... KRCKS. Ser Ilyn gave a pained moan.
The Kingslayer scratched the golden stubble that was growing on his chin after
the night in their cups.
“I guess our point is clear. Information in return for a quick and
comparatively clean beheading. Otherwise... hm... nine fingers are left. And
after that... Dog, what do you think about smashing his knees with iron bars?”
“Not a bad option – though I'm always in favour of buggering someone with a hot
poker.”
“You mean one with smouldering metal?”
“Exactly.”
“I guess the hot iron could also be used on his eyeballs?”
“Certainly so. Though I'm not an expert like Gregor; he knew how to handle
these things effectively. With me the job might be dirtier.”
It was a common method to intimidate a culprit by showing him the various
instruments of torture, and all three of them had learned how to play that game
– though Sandor had never been a fervent player. He had always preferred
instant killing. He found out that that attitude had not changed at all. But he
only needed to close his eyes and to recollect a frightened Sansa in his room
in Winterfell, or an unconscious wife, or a twitching Lady – and his old rage
soared to a new peak. That rage had always let him do what needed to be done,
even if he had not liked it. And it wouldn't fail him this time either.
Payne still wasn't inclined to give them any piece of information though his
eyes were glazed from pain, and he was panting heavily. The Hound and Jaime
looked at each other, shrugged and left, calling it a day with regard to
questioning the hangman.
When they arrived back in the yard, and the fresh, salty air hit Sandor's face,
his hangover got the better of him, and he retched noisily against a castle
wall. Fuck, he shouldn't have had a breakfast!
“Dog, you're getting quite soft-hearted, if I may say so! I'll have to go back
to Ser Ilyn alone next time”, the Kingslayer maundered.
“Says a man, who is as green in the face from drinking as me!” Sandor rasped
back.
Jaime offered an afflicted grin. “Wonder what Brienne is feeling like. She
wasn't in a good condition this morning either.”
“At least better than Sansa, Lion. But I must say that you seem to be quite
taken with your battlesome lady wife.”
“Ah”, Jaime smirked sarcastically, “I guess I have always had a soft spot for
battlesome, fair-haired women.”
“And if your freckled sparring partner was lying in Maester Creylen's den you'd
be as mad and worried as me.”
The Lannister man sighed. “Clegane, you absolutely know how to hit a bull's
eye.”
“I absolutely know how to hit lots of things, best you don't ever doubt that.”
“Oh, small doubt of that – I've seen you in action often enough.”
 
 
In the afternoon, Sansa woke up for the first time. She was still disoriented,
but she leaned towards Sandor intuitively when he arrived after having been
admitted to the healing quarters. It warmed his heart. A few minutes later, she
was dozing off again, but the Hound was still mightily relieved.
“When she wakes up the next time, we can put her on a stretcher and carry her
to your room, Lord Clegane”, the maester stated with a smile.
“I'm bloody delighted to hear that.”
After visiting his little wife he walked over to the stables. Lady was still
lying in Stranger's box, and though she was weak the direwolf had at least
regained consciousness. His big, vicious courser was hanging his head over the
wall of the adjoining box and keeping a good eye on the yellow-furred animal.
Sandor stroked Lady between her ears soothingly and gave his horse an apple.
When the Hound left the stable again and made for the training yard he was in a
much better mood. Brienne and Jaime were already in the pit and exercising. The
Lion's face had a sour expression, because his handicap with the left hand was
unnerving him as usual. CLATTERBOUNCE! His sword was just landing on the earth
once more.
To tease him Sandor rasped: “One-Paw, fancy an animated threesome battle?”
“Dog, fancy a nice spear for your head?” Jaime spat back.
“Fuck me sideways, I've heard wittier comments from you, Kingslayer. And I'd
leave the spears for Payne's ugly head, if I were you.”
At that moment, Brienne cut in: “Well, Lord Clegane, as you can see my husband
is only intent on sparring with his tongue, so probably it's the two of us, who
should train a little bit.”
Jaime had to have the last word, of course, and shot back with a meaningful
grin: “Of course, I'm intent on sparring with my tongue...”, he licked his lips
lecherously, “... but not only.”
The big woman flushed crimson red in an instant, and Sandor could only rise an
eyebrow on the good side of his face. In the meantime, the fair-haired
Lannister caught his chance, grabbed his sword from the ground and attacked.
The next moment, they were all merrily hacking at each other. And the Hound
felt more spirited than he had in days.
 
 
It was around sunset when Sansa was transported back to her room. Sandor and
Brienne were carrying the stretcher while Maester Creylen was prattling on
about the Little Bird needing nourishing food and relaxation. Sandor had his
very own ideas about feasible ways of relaxing, but he was quite sure that the
mousy healer wouldn't approve of those intentions. He sighed inwardly. It was
just so unnerving. When would his Little Bird and himself finally be able to
shag normally – without warging and wanking, that was? Aye, of course he
wouldn't force himself upon her, ailing as she was. He just couldn't help
himself, remembered their arousing interludes and felt his need surge. When he
placed her on their bed with her red tresses spilling over the cushions the
situation helped nothing to douse his internal fire.
Sansa looked up at her helpers and thanked them all like the lady she was. The
others took their leave, and his wife glanced at him with a smile.
“Sandor, can you lay down next to me?” she asked with a small voice.
Oho, nothing was easier than that! He slid under the blankets and embraced her.
She snuggled up against him. Carefully, Sandor combed his fingers through her
hair, and she nestled even closer; he could feel her breath on his chest where
it hit the fabric of his tunic. He couldn't stop his heart from beating
quicker, put a finger under her chin, lifted it slowly and started to nibble on
her lips. Like always, she opened up to him like a winter rose would to the
sun.
Sandor took his time kissing her. With the only exception of his dead sister,
he had never been soft and gentle towards a human soul before he had known his
Little Bird; but now he tried his very best. At some point, he had to end the
kiss, of course.
There was a knock on their door.
“Supper”, Sandor murmured.
Sansa wrinkled her nose in anticipation of the inevitable.
The Hound looked at her again and rumbled: “One kiss for each bite.”
“Deal.”
“I'm happy that at least you still like the taste of my mouth.”
That caused Sansa to smile sadly.
“Always, my love.”
Sandor spoon-fed her, and half an hour later, they had finished their wearisome
meal. Sansa lay back, exhausted. Sandor gave her one last, melting kiss, and
then she dozed off. Silently, the Hound sent the tray with the empty plates
away, peeled off his clothes and slipped under the blankets, too. If they
couldn't have their ways with each other, he wanted to be as close as possible
to Sansa nevertheless.
 
 
The next few days were all very much the same. They awoke in the morning,
shared some general tender touches and kisses, the Little Bird getting stronger
all the while. After that, Sandor forced a bit of breakfast down his wife's
throat; then, they prepared for the day – Sansa naturally with the aid of some
servants. Next, the Hound met Jaime, and they walked down to inquire Ser Ilyn
Payne further.
 
 
It took four more broken fingers – one each day – until the sod gave in and
admitted by writing clumsily with his left hand that he had misjudged the dose
of the poison, that he had meant to knock out Lord Clegane as well, but had not
managed to make him consume the toxin. He also related that he had used a
secret passage he had known for many years to get Sansa out of the Rock
unnoticed, and that Littlefucker had had various plans with the woman. At that
moment, Sandor snarled: “Was raping her one of his aims?”
The doomed hangman nodded, and the Hound rasped to his host: “Right,
Kingslayer, we've got everything we wanted to know. Should we bring it to an
end?”
“Would you strike the blow, Dog? I promised him an execution as neat as
possible for his information – that's something I couldn't do myself with one
hand. And a Lannister always pays his debts.”
Sandor shrugged indifferently.
A little later, a new head was adorning the battlements of Casterly Rock.
 
 
For two more days everything was quiet, and Sandor and Sansa could relax and
gather their strength. Since Maester Creylen had recommended not to become too
intimate they tried to hold back, but it was getting increasingly difficult,
now that the Little Bird was recovering; so they also made sure not to bathe in
each other's presence.
Sansa also avoided warging into the Hound and ran with Lady at night. The
direwolf was feeling much better, too – and she and Stranger were becoming the
running gag at the Rock, because the two animals had simply come to adore each
other. Jaime said something about the fresh, salty, coastal air of the west
that cleared your brain and facilitated strange kinds of relationships and
supported cuckoo lovebirds.
Sandor was also able to train and to hone his body everyday in the training
pit. He came to appreciate Lady Brienne as a good fighter, and they took it in
turns to pick at the Kingslayer teasingly to improve the left-hand fighting
abilities of the soddingly cocky Lion.
 
 
Then came the ravens.
***** Chapter 16 *****
First, it was a combined message from the Wall. One paper was from Jon for
Sansa (seemingly, Robb must have informed his half-brother of the whereabouts
of the Little Bird), and one from Joffrey for his... father.
“What does Snow write?” Sandor asked his wife.
“He says that they have found out that the Others can be destroyed with Dragon
Glass and Valyrian Steel. And he tells me that more and more wildlings are
arriving at the Wall. Jon relates that the leader of the wildlings, a deserter
from the Night's Watch named Mance Ryder, was killed by a White Walker, as the
wildlings call the Others. With him many more people died, and now the
wildlings seek refuge south of the Wall. That's a big hullabaloo, because Robb
doesn't want any wildlings to roam and to plunder his domain. Now, the Night's
Watch is discussing with the leaders of the various tribes, if they'd be
willing to man the stations along the Wall. That's very difficult, of course,
because they all don't trust and even despise each other. But Jon thinks that
it's actually a good idea, because the real danger are the Others, and he says
they should be actually happy to recruit fierce defenders for the Wall since
the Night's Watch is in a poor state. He also asks, if we could send some
provisions for the impending winter to the Wall.”
Sandor furrowed his brow.
“Won't be easy, because Clegane Keep still needs to be repaired and the fief to
regain its old strength, but we'll see what we can do. I'll also talk to the
noblemen in the neighbourhood – and the Kingslayer can probably organize
something.”
During supper, the Hound addressed the topic in the Great Hall. Jaime was
unusually serious and nodded his consent gloomily.
“What is it? Bad news from Joffrey?” Sandor wanted to know.
The Lion sighed.
“I received a litany of complaints. Don't want to go into too many details.
Amongst other things he's got a nickname from the other Black Crows that sparks
off his ire: they call him “Bogey”.”
On hearing this, the Hound roared his laughter and rumbled: “For which reason?
For being nasty, yellow, slimy and always in the way, so you feel you can't
breathe properly?”
“SANDOR!” Sansa gasped reproachingly.
Jaime showed a sardonic and also sour smirk.
“Well, Lady Clegane, your lord husband is not one to mince his words, that's
for sure. And I fear we'll never be able to drill a bit of diplomacy into him.
So we have basically the following choices: expel him, ignore him as a person,
ignore just his rudeness or show him the finger yourself.”
This caused Brienne to scoff: “You only want to distract us from your own lack
of diplomacy, Jaime!”
“Ah, wench, have you never guessed before why I keep company with the Hound?
Well, then you'd be lacking in heedfulness what we're lacking in sense of tact.
Given a choice I'd always choose the latter shortcoming.”
The Kingslayer grinned wickedly and earned himself another smack from his wife.
 
 
The next raven was from Riverrun. Lady Catelyn and Arya had both written.
Sansa's mother asked her daughter, if she was fine and sent her an embrace and
lots of kisses. They had not wanted to leave Riverrun and to travel further
towards Winterfell until they knew she was fine. Lady Stark also mentioned that
she could easily believe that Petyr Baelish was up to no good. About the
Braavosi with the red and white hair she said that he was some kind of
religious assassin, so it was really no surprise that the Mockingbird would
meet him, if he really had some treacherous plan in mind. She explained that
Syrio Forel had become very upset on hearing about the other Braavosi. He had
revealed that he had come to Westeros to prosecute and to arrest the man in the
first place, but had never found the buggering rascal; and after two years of
searching he had more or less given up. Forel had allegedly wanted to go back
to Kings Landing, but Lady Catelyn had forbidden that and referred to both the
unofficial betrothal and his promise to protect her and Arya.
That didn't sound harmonious, to say the least. Sandor could imagine well
enough how the little Braavosi had smiled outwardly and fumed inwardly.
Arya was writing about how she was improving with her little sword Needle. She
also mentioned that ever since their raven had arrived Syrio had been very
agitated, but nobody had informed her why, of course – this was gnawing at her,
and she was getting worried about her teacher.
This made Sansa smile. Until she read what followed. Arya wrote that she had
been ill; Ser Brynden had most likely infected her. She had recovered, but she
admitted that in her fever once she had had a very strange DREAM about an inn.
Sandor and his Little Wife exchanged meaningful glances. Now, it was clear who
had invaded the Hound's mind; and it was also clear that Arya had not done it
on purpose.
At that moment, Sansa uttered a strange, tiny noise.
“What is it, Little Bird?”
“I... I only hope she won't become like me.”
“Ah, your sister didn't visit me while I was having some fun with my hand, I
can assure you. That coast is clear.”
“It's not THAT what I mean.”
Sansa was blushing.
“Speak up, woman.”
“You see... when Ser Ilyn Payne and I were on the beach I tried to call you.”
Sandor nodded.
“I know that, and I heard you. This is why we made it just in time.”
“But that's not all. I also... entered HIM.”
Now, the Hound froze.
“What!?”
“Yes, it's true. I saw Lady Brienne arrive through his eyes. And then, I did
it. Somehow... I took over for a very short moment. I... sort of paralysed him
for two or three heartbeats. Then he... won free, and I was hurled out of him
and only came back to my senses in Maester Creylen's rooms. But still. I'm...
I'm a monster, if I can control another person's body!”
Sandor was speechless. Some of the words that Jaime had said to him about the
scene on the beach made even more sense now. But he didn't have much time to
ponder about that, because his Little Wife had started to weep.
He felt rather clumsy and didn't know what to do and to say now, so he offered:
“What a stupid idea, Sansa; it's me, who is the bad-ass here! I should have
never left you to go to Lannisport. But no, I had to start an argument and to
storm away from you. Leaving you without protection. I ask you, which kind of
husband am I, if I don't protect my wife properly!?”
Now, the Little Bird was distracted enough from her growing warging skills and
breathed: “You're rude, and you've got a hellish temper at times, but you're a
good husband! So much better than those, who I would have fancied in the past.
You accept me with my direwolf and me being a skinchanger. You even heard my
call inside your head! Which other man would have heeded that? No, don't snort,
I'm being serious! Honestly, if we had not had a proper wedding at Winterfell,
I'd marry you now all over again to have a happier memory of that day.”
With his steel-on-stone voice Sandor just managed to whisper “Little Bird!”,
then crushed her to his chest, and within two shakes of a duck's tail he
started to learn that kissing was a very good soothing technique...
 
 
A day later, there was a message from Aengus Cronhold, delivered by a very
good-humoured Glendor, who had planned to stay overnight, and to return the
next day. The smith was greeted with Jaime's jovial words: “Oi! Another one-
paw! Be my guest of honour!” Not being a nobleman and neither entitled to such
treatment, Glendor turned an interesting shade of pink under his beard.
The Hound murmured towards the Lion: “If word of this reaches your father he'll
have you flogged for socialising with the common people.”
The fair-haired man responded while looking at his stump: “Ah, what do I care?
Can't be worse for either of us than the process of unconvering the infamous
Lannister incest.”
Sandor shrugged and clasped Glendor's remaining arm as if he was greeting an
old friend. He had not thought about the gesture, until he realized himself
performing it, and he noticed again that he was not the lonely Dog he had been
of old.
“Falcon!” he growled. “How are you? How's the keep? You really have to tell me,
I'm very curious indeed! And here, let me introduce you to my wife, Lady
Sansa.”
At once, Glendor fell to one knee and bowed his head. The Little Bird was
absolutely delighted to get to know someone from Clegane Keep and chirped
excitedly, even when the smith had been allocated a room and the man had gone
to have a bath after his trip to the Rock.
 
 
An hour later, they had supper in the great hall. While Sansa was nibbling with
difficulty on a soft, white roll and some marinated vegetables as best she
could Falcon gave Sandor Aengus' detailed, written report and started to give
an oral account of what was happening at Clegane Keep himself.
“The people there are very content. Some, who had left, are coming back. The
harvest was better than we might have ever thought – you arrived just in time,
my lord, to get things going again. We have also started to work on the keep
itself. Some days ago we removed those creepy gargoyles and repaired the roof.
And within a week, we'll have finished the opening between the rooms that are
supposed to be your suite. We also scratched the plaster off the walls in the
pink room.”
The Hound frowned.
“Which pink room?”
Then he remembered.
“Oh, you mean the little chamber my mother used to storage her needlework in.
Or to lock up unruly little Clegane boys. Though we were never “little”, so to
speak. Counting it all together Gregor must have spent weeks there before I was
even old enough to remember. But why did you scratch off the colour, Falcon?”
The Smith was suddenly ill at ease.
“So you didn't know?”
“What? Speak up, man!”
“Some time ago, the original colour of the room was quite faded, and Lord
Gregor ordered it to be renewed. We had to mix the white colour of the paint...
with... blood... to get the pink colour.”
Sansa gasped, her food instantly forgotten. And from the way Falcon looked
Sandor gathered that the blood for the colour had not come from animals.
The smith went on with difficulty: “I refused to... obey. That was when I lost
my arm.”
Jaime, who had known the Mountain that Rides well enough, too, was a little
pale around his nose, and it became clear that he was reliving the moment when
he had been maimed himself.
So Sandor hastened to go on: “Right, that was a very good thing to do at once –
to scrape the plaster off. Are there any more good news from the keep?”
Falcon was regaining his vigour at once and smiled: “Very much so, indeed. My
lord, I would like to ask you... when the next wandering septon arrives, would
it be possible to perform some marriages?”
A broad smile appeared on the Hound's face: “Of course! A kennel should always
be full of pups, shouldn't it?”
The one-armed man looked a little embarrassed again and asked: “And you won't
insist on... the privilege of the First Night?”
“No, never ever!” Sandor chided and went on: “If I dared to do so my Little
Wife would order her direwolf to bite off my member – after having roasted my
hairy arse!”
That caused Jaime to boom with laughter and Brienne and Sansa to blush scarlet.
Interestingly enough Glendor flushed red as well, and the Hound rasped smugly:
“Am I mistaken, or do you have good cause to ask for marrying? Are you into the
Game of Love yourself, too?”
Now, the balding, middle-aged man looked positively like an ungainly teenage
lad, who had just had his first woman.
“Erm... erm... yes, my lord. It is Cembara, the wise woman, who has come to
live at the keep.”
“Aaaaah!” Sandor made, and Jaime repeated his joke about the love-inspiring
quality of the air in the west.
Sansa was smiling again, too, and asked: “Can you tell us a little bit about
your future wife then?”
That made Glendor beam as proudly as a peacock and he prattled on: “Oh yes, of
course! She's six years younger than me and used to work for the crannogmen
before she came to us. She's very skilled and sensitive, you'll like her at
once. What else? She's a widow and has a son, who is eight years old, a
charming boy.”
Sandor had to think of Bran, Rickon and Tommen while Glendor related that
Cembara also had some experience as a midwife.
It was then that – out of the blue – an unintended thought crept into the
Hound's brain: “If a kennel should be full of pups I want to have some with
Sansa.”
He stopped dead when he realized what he was thinking, and under the table his
cock started to agree with his idea fervently. He cursed himself silently and
gnashed his teeth. As if he could use this physical reaction in the great hall.
Sandor bowed forward, leaned his elbows on each side of his food plate as if to
listen more carefully and slid stealthily further under the table with his
lower body.
Sansa, however, was too flaming sensitive, and though her face didn't betray a
hint of what she was thinking her hand was suddenly on his thigh under the
table. It moved a little inwards, and even if she didn't touch his most private
parts he thought he would go nuts any moment. His cock twitched, and his Little
Wife shot Glendor a sparkling smile. “FUCK, she knows!” the Hound swore
inwardly and resolved to pay her little torture back later in their room.
The same moment, Sansa chirped: “She worked for the crannogmen? You mean for
Howland Reed? Oh, that's lovely! Howland Reed is my father's friend!”
“Indeed?” Glendor responded and appeared to be even happier now.
Then, he flashed his host, Jaime Lannister a look and went on in a little
subdued way: “And in a way mine is not the only romantic story.”
The Lion lifted an eyebrow and inquired: “Myrcella?”
At that, Sandor cut in: “What!? Isn't she far too young? She's but a girl!”
The same instant, the Hound simply had to think of Arya and the fact that she
was more or less of one age with Myrcella and already more or less betrothed to
Syrio Forel.
Glendor just shrugged and answered: “Yes, oh yes, one might think so, but after
what... she's been through she was seemingly looking for a male friend to lean
upon. And she seems to have made a rather fitting choice, if you ask me.
She's... she's fallen for my... my apprentice. His name is Gendry.”
Jaime took this piece of information in and looked thoughtful, undecided about
how to react. So he just uttered a very un-kingslayerish “ah”.
Sandor leaned towards him and offered: “An interesting young man from Kings
Landing. No flaming wonder the girl's heart has gone out to him. He's very
serious. Very tall and muscled, with dark hair – the very image of late King
Robert in his younger days.”
The fair-haired Lion understood the implication about the boy's bastard origin
and murmured: “Well, I guess I should deem it an adequate pairing then. If the
friendship is mutual I'm the last one to intervene.”
Sansa, who had not got what the Hound had wanted to tell his surroundings
indirectly, chirped innocently with her oh so Tully blue eyes: “Very tall and
muscled, with dark hair? Sounds good, but with my husband I already have my
fill of these male qualities. – So you don't need to be jealous when we arrive
at the keep, Sandor, and Myrcella neither.”
The Hound had just wanted to sip a little wine, but on hearing his Little
Bird's words he chocked, coughed and squirted out most of the precious Dornish
Red, and Jaime erupted with laughter. Sansa was confused.
“Sweet Lady Clegane”, the Kingslayer tittered darkly, “how can anybody married
to our Dog be so unsuspecting of the effect of one's words?”
Those casual words seemingly caused Jaime to ponder them, and suddenly, his
face distorted in disbelieving understanding. He looked at Sandor, speechless,
with shocked, bright green eyes and the sentence “You haven't bedded her
properly yet!?!?” written all over them.
“What!?” the Hound snarled at the Lion and lashed out: “Not everybody is as
slithery with his wording as the golden spawn of the Rock. I think we've had
enough for tonight. Sansa! We're leaving!”
The Little Bird clearly didn't have a clue of what had gone wrong, but she was
a good wife and obeyed. Together, they marched back to their room; Sandor's
stomping, angry strides were so long that she had to run to keep up with him.
It was obvious that she wanted to ask him questions, but thankfully, she kept
silent. Good girl! The problem was, however, that Sandor WANTED to explode,
because his fury had bottled up inside of him.
He stopped, and with a grunt, he crashed his fist into the castle wall next to
him. And again. And again. BANG BANG BANG!
Sansa gave off a little whimper and put her hand on her mouth. Then, she
plucked up courage from somewhere and grabbed a thrashing fist. No man in his
right sense had ever tried to stop him when he was raging like the rabid dog he
was. Thus, the behaviour of his little wife took him so much by surprise that
he stopped dead and glared at her like Jaime had done at him only moments
before.
He watched her take a look at his fist and kiss his bleeding knuckles. His
stomach somersaulted, and he was spellbound. She lifted her head and her eyes
comprised the Seven Heavens. Silently, he took her in his arms, ON his arms.
Carried her to their room. Laid her down on their bed.
And then, he was on top of her and kissing her as hungrily, as desperately as a
choking man gasping for air. Sansa answered him eagerly. Her hand slipped under
his tunic and started to caress his back. Goosebumps rose on their skins.
In one of the short moments when their mouths parted to breathe Sansa whispered
needily: “Oh Gooods! If my moon blood had not started just today, I'd want you
to bed me now!”
The Hound stiffened. Fuck! Fuck! This was the epitome of bad luck. He himself
had seen enough blood in his battles to not care about it, but naturally he
couldn't consummate his marriage for the first time when Sansa was suffering
from cramps in her tummy and the flaming Seven knew what else. So he rolled off
her frustratedly and didn't know what to do with his energy, his lust.
Sansa turned towards him, and her soul was in her sad smile.
Then, she huddled closer and murmured: “I know.”
The next moment, her hands were busy with his laces. He realized wide-eyed what
she was about to do, and his heart took on a rhythm that would have easily
excelled the trampling of a stampede.
His wife admitted: “If I may, I'd like to kiss your mouth at the same time.”
Shit, she really always sounded courteous, regardless of proposing something so
intimate!
“Yes. Yes. Please.”
The Hound's voice sounded even hoarser than usual.
And then, the Little Bird made contact with fingers and lips at the same
moment. He bucked into her hand and moaned shamelessly into her mouth,
completely overwhelmed.
This time, it was different from the incident in the bath – and not only
because Sansa was facing him, which was a flaming wonder in itself. This time,
she didn't just use the movements she had learned from him, but explored his
private parts and probed his texture. Her fingertips moved along his veins and
around and across his tip before actually encircling him with her hand.
And she bestowed corresponding caresses upon his facial burns with her lips.
Blimey, it was incredible! Sandor moaned again, and his Little Bird smiled into
the kiss.
Over the years, various whores had rubbed his cock in the past, so the
sensation itself was not really new – then how on earth could an act that was
technically the same feel so different? So much better?
His hands gripped into the pillow. Fuck, he wanted to touch her, too, but
feared her reactions.
In the end, it didn't last much longer; he was simply far too aroused and
couldn't hold back. Sansa's lips had returned from his cheek to his mouth when
he exploded. Afterwards, he sagged completely into the mattress, his mind
shrouded.
His Little Wife laid her head on his chest and looked up at him with a relaxed,
complacent expression.
His thumb traced her jaw, then her lips, and he barely managed to rasp: “I love
you, Sansa.”
“And I love you, Sandor.”
 
 
The next dawn at the Rock was garnished with a third raven, which had been sent
by Lord Stark. In King's Landing the political situation had become next to
unbearable, he stated. The Martells and the Tyrells were picking on each other
and torpedoing each other's ideas when it came to ruling the Seven Kingdoms.
Lord Eddard was close to despair and expressed his utter gratefulness for
Tyrion Lannister being there and arranging things behind the scenes.
He also referred to their information with regard to the Mockingbird's alleged
plans for high treason. Not knowing that Sansa had already fallen victim to Ser
Ilyn Payne the First Hand of Three assumed that there had to be further
investigations before Lord Baelish could be put to trial. Apart from that,
Littlefinger had been sent away to Braavos; since he was still the Master of
the Coin he was supposed to lead important negotiations with the Iron Bank
across the sea. Since the Lannisters had been forced to pay so much
compensation money it was now possible to pay back some old debts to the
Braavosi.
Notwithstanding, Lord Eddard was at least willing to keep his eyes open and to
set an extra guard aside. Just in case.
Sandor swore under his breath. He wished that more measures had been taken to
ensure the safety of the Warden of the North. Well, they had just sent a
message with a report of the failed abduction to the capital; hopefully, it
would arrive in time so that their warnings were taken more seriously.
 
 
And there was a fourth raven. From Lord Tywin for his son Jaime. With a note as
clipped as one might expect from the old Lion. It just said that he was about
to leave the capital with his new wife and to return to Casterly Rock. They
could be expected home about two months from then.
After that information, the Kinglsayer's mood was dimmed all day long. Gone was
the man with the flamboyant remarks. The Hound was surprised and understood
just how icy the relationship was now between him and his father.
Sandor also talked about the impending arrival of the Lannister patriarch with
Sansa. “I want to leave and to travel to Clegane Keep with you in two or three
days. You have recovered enough to manage a one-day trip. But we have to come
back when Lord Tywin has settled in the Rock again after his absence. Not that
THAT will take long, him being such a goddam presence of a man.
I still have to kneel before him as our liege lord and pledge this damned oath.
Forgot to do that when I disarmed him in the training yard in Kings Landing.
And you know what? I don't like the idea. I hate vows. It reminds me of why I
never wanted to be a flaming lord. But there's no way around it.” And then he
indulged in some more vulgar language and graphic strong maledictions. Sansa
only shook her head at that with her eyes rolled upwards.
 
 
During their last days at the Rock they really enjoyed their time together.
Although Sansa didn't like fighting she always watched on when he was
practising with Brienne and Jaime in the pit. They also rode out together for
the first time, and they went to the beach – the opposite direction of Pirate
Bay, of course. Sandor felt that his little wife needed a bit of training when
it came to sitting on a horse; mercifully, her palfrey named Snowflake was as
gentle as her name – and as her mistress. Lady also came along, even if she was
still a little slower after her illness; but when they all watched the direwolf
ploughing through the water merrily and snatching at some frothy bubbles or a
piece of driftwood their hearts were light.
In those days Sandor and Sansa also retreated to the Stone Garden. His Little
Bird loved the picturesque rock formations there, and she often pointed at some
surface or another, or chirped about something with regard to the colour of a
stone figure. It all meant nothing to the Hound, but he was happy enough to
watch her delight and enthusiasm. They also sat down and Sansa nestled in his
lap and his embrace. The servants were rather baffled by the open displays of
affection between the spouses – especially those, who had known the burned
warrior as a wild, hard young man. But Sandor simply didn't care any longer
about the castle gossip. Having his wife close just felt so perfectly right
that in his opinion, the kitchen wenches could as well have a lockjaw from
staring in disbelief, and it still wouldn't bother him.
Now that they were together so much Sandor also watched his little wife
carefully. She was definitely looking healthier, but he was afraid that she
might relapse as soon as he turned an eye. And there was something else that
caught his attention: sometimes, when she didn't expect his touch and didn't
see that he was making contact she didn't react at once. As soon as he
increased the pressure, or made a jerking gesture, or she espied his hands on
her she immediately opened up to him, came closer and looked very much at ease.
Yet, Sandor wasn't fooled. Maester Creylen had done a good job with her, to be
sure, but there were still some things that had to be settled. He remembered
the healer's advice about avoiding the marriage bed. That proved to be a
flaming torture, it really did, but in the harsh light of day, he thought he
could also see some wisdom in it. Sure enough, Sansa loved to touch his body (a
total mystery he'd never ever understand!), to be embraced and to snuggle up to
him at night, but there was always a tiny instinctual withdrawal from him when
his hands lightly approached her private parts. It was more than likely that
she really thought she was prepared for the consummation of their marriage, but
there were still some doubts lingering on his own mind. Sandor sighed – grrrr,
why on earth had it all to be so difficult?
There was one thing, however, that astonished him. He had expected the
Kingslayer to spill out nasty comments about Sansa not being bedded adequately
– but the one-pawed Lion didn't say a single word on that topic. It came as a
major surprise, and Ser Jaime actually gained quite a bit of respect in this
way.
 
 
Sandor also sought another chance for Sansa to practise riding, so he asked
Brienne to accompany them to Lannisport. The homely Lady Lannister consented to
his plea, and it turned out once more that the young women got along easily
enough.
At some point, his Little Wife whispered into the Hound's good ear: “She's a
bit like an adult Arya. I wonder, if I'll get on with my sister as well when
she's grown up.”
This resulted in an eruption of bellowing laughter, a chirping giggle and a
confused side glance from Brienne.
When the three (plus Lady, of course) arrived in Lannisport, Sansa liked it at
once. The sounds of the nearby sea and the screeches of the seagulls, the
normal sounds of a buzzing town and the harbour, and the lively activity of the
people around them had a stimulating effect on her. Once they had dismounted,
she dashed at once to a shop that displayed wooden carvings, accompanied by her
direwolf.
With sparkling eyes and dancing up and down on her toes she exclaimed: “Oh,
look Sandor! How absolutely beautiful! We've got similar ones at Winterfell!”
The Hound and Brienne smiled at her benevolently, thinking that now she was
more like a carefree girl and less like a highborn lady.
Suddenly, Sandor slapped his hand against his forehead. At once, his startled
Little Wife was at his side again.
“What is it, my love?”
“Oh nothing of importance, your stupid husband is just getting old and his
brain is turning into a sieve. Grrrr... You know, when I was in Lannisport the
last time I bought a present for you, Myrish lace and a nicely decorated memo
book. I meant to appease you with those tokens after our row at the Rock. But I
simply forgot it when you were so ill.”
The next moment, his Little Bird flew against him and wrapped her hands around
his neck.
“Awwww, I love you, I love you, I love you!” she chirped excitedly, then looked
up at him and grinned: “At least when I'm not mad at you for one of your
tantrums!” Sandor boomed with laughter again – slowly, but surely his facial
muscles and his midriff were really getting accustomed to that process. He
liked it.
All of a sudden, there was a big commotion behind them, which caused them to
turn their heads.
A heavy-set man with a bald head, bulging eyes, a choleric expression, large
knife in hand, and some bloodstains on an apron was storming out of the
adjacent shop next to the woodcarver, raging: “Seven hells, get the damned
beast! It's stolen my best steaks!”
On seeing Sandor, the butcher stopped dead in his tracks, and his eyes flicked
from the Hound to a satisfied, markedly innocent-looking Lady. The big direwolf
was just retreating like a yellow-furred flash behind a very protective
Stranger and started to munch on two pieces of fresh, bloody meat greedily.
With a sigh, Sandor reached into his pouch and produced some coins.
“Will that cover your fucking expenses?” he growled.
The butcher was quite intimidated now, bowed hastily and quacked: “Oh, oh yes,
m'lord, of course, m'lord. I'm sorry for the disturbance!”
The Hound rasped in return: “No need to be sorry. Judging by the wolf's refined
taste your steaks must be very good. I'll recommend you to the cook at the
Rock.”
Relieved, the butcher's head bobbed up and down.
“Thank you, m'lord! Thank you so much! I'm deeply honoured!”
“Yes, yes, fine, and now off with you, back to your flaming work!”
As if the fire demons of the seven hells were after him, the butcher made back
for his shop. He had barely left the scene when Sandor grabbed his wife by the
arm, burned mouth already twitching, and steered her resolutely around a
corner. Brienne followed suit. And then, they had the best joint fit of
laughter one could possibly think of.
 
 
Later, while they were sauntering around, Sansa came up with a question:
“Sandor isn't your nameday next week?”
“Why is that so important?”
His little wife looked at him with round eyes: “Why – because of the
celebration!”
“Which celebration?” the Hound growled irritatedly.
Sansa was shocked.
“What? You don't celebrate your nameday? But that's impossible! When it was my
last nameday and you had this horrible pneumonia, Mother still organized at
least a nice dinner and gave me some hair ribbons!”
Sandor felt guilty that he had fucked up her nameday, and that made him even
more angry.
“I'll tell you what. The only time I remember “celebrating” my nameday was when
I turned 15. Lord Tywin had somehow heard of it and gave me some stags, because
I was so bloody loyal. And do you know what I did with that money? I saw to it
that I had lots Dutch courage – and then I fucked my first whore. Almost three
years after killing my first man. Funny, isn't it?”
Brienne had heard it all, too, and both women had flushed dark red now.
The Hound threw the arms into the air and snarled: “Yes, yes, sure, I know – no
need to tell me. One of my so-called “tantrums”. I guess I should leave, before
I get really nasty. I'll go to the graveyard. Have to say goodbye to somebody.”
Without further ado he stomped off; and when they all met again the atmosphere
was still tense for hours afterwards. Which was no surprise. Ah, the only
wonder was that Sansa hadn't taken his revelations much worse and started to
converse with him again the same day.
 
 
The evening before they wanted to leave there were three more ravens with
messages.
“Rookery must be rather crowded by now”, Sandor thought to himself.
The first letter they learned of was from Robb. His Little Bird chirped
delightedly and started to read. She was smiling, but towards the end a
slightly disappointed note crept into her eyes.
“What is it?” Sandor inquired.
Sansa looked up, bemused.
“What?”
“I can see it in your face that something is not the way it should be.”
“Oh, it's really nothing.”
“Do you take me for a fool whose brain has molten alongside with his face?”
“No! Sandor, it's really nothing bad. It's just...”
“Well?”
“He's writing about Bran and Rickon, Maester Luwin, Old Nan, Mikken from the
smithy and Arya's old friend Mycah. And of Greywind, Summer and Shaggydog, of
course.”
“You miss them.”
“Yes, of course, but that's not the point. He's only writing about private
things from Winterfell. Nothing about the situation in the north. No news about
the situation at the Wall. He's writing in a way as if I was still a little
child and had seen nothing of the world.”
“Don't be too harsh with him. When you left Winterfell you were barely more
than a girl. You have grown so much over the last months.”
His little wife looked Sandor in the eyes and smiled again. This time, it was
genuine.
And then she said: “So have you. For most of the time, that is.”
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The next two ravens were not addressed at him and Sansa. The first black-winged
bird arrived from the Quiet Isle, the place where Tommen had been sent to. The
letter had been written by a certain Elder Brother. He told the Kingslayer that
the little boy was still missing Myrcella, his mother and Kings Landing. To a
lesser degree he was also missing the man he had known as his “father”, King
Robert, and his “uncle” Jaime. Tommen had been informed about the truth, but
the boy had stubbornly resolved to stick to the way of expressing himself he
was used to. Otherwise, he seemed to like the Quiet Isle. He had already
adopted various stray cats and started to show interest in herbs and healing.
The Faith of the Seven was interesting enough for him when it came to singing,
but he didn't care much about the scriptures. All in all, one could say that
the situation for the boy wasn't too bad, considering what had been uncovered
about his parentage.
 
The last note came from Tyrion, who wanted to inform his older brother about
the most recent developments in the capital. When Jaime had read it, he tossed
the paper to Sandor and grunted: “Read. You might not believe me, if I told
you.”
So the Hound bowed over the letter and started to study the message.
 
 
“Dearest Brother,
I intend to enlighten you about various aspects whose importance you might find
substantial. First of all, there is the political state of affairs in Kings
Landing. I don't exaggerate, if I say that the recent system of the Three Hands
may collapse any day. Sad as it is to say, Lord Mace has got the intellectual
horizon of a clerk, not the one of a leading political figure in the Game of
Thrones. The representatives of the Martells all have got more political
aptness in their little finger than Lord Mace in two hands. Which leaves nine
fingers for each Martell to juggle with vials of poison. This is a most –
demanding factor. Lord Eddard is a good man. Which makes him unfit for the role
of the First Hand of Three. He has got the best intentions, but the simple
pattern of honour he believes in limits him – and thus puts him into mortal
danger. He is entirely too trusting; he even confides in me! He would be the
first man to do so, apart from you. Thus, I can positively say that for the
last few weeks it was me who has saved him from the clutches of the Stranger.
But let us not stray. There is more you should know. In my last letter I
already told you about the splendid marriage of our DEAR Lord Father and the
way the High Septon fawned on him during the ceremony. I wonder if the High
Sparrow had an exceptionally successful prayer up his sleeve, but be that as it
may: the unspeakable has happened. Our Lord Father is extremely taken with our
new “Lady Mother”! One might argue that he just wants to sire new heirs, and
that that is the reason why they only ever leave their quarters at lunchtime
these days. But there is something that speaks against the concept of the
overeager fulfilment of duty: I have actually seen our Lord Father SMILE at his
new wife time and again – and it was a genuine smile. Never before have I
experienced something so creepy. But beware and do not mistake his enamoured
behaviour for weakness. He is still very much the Old Lion with a backbone made
of steel. He actually impaled a knight, who had made a hint of a jest about the
age difference between the spouses, with his sword. I will not comment on this.
Just let it suffice to say that our “Lady Mother” was rapt by the fierceness
with which their marriage was defended. So I can only advise you to prepare
yourself mentally for some... awkward moments when our dearest Lord Father
arrives at the Rock.
I remain your devoted brother,
Lord Tyrion.”
 
 
Sandor looked up at Jaime and could only rasp: “Fuck me sideways, now that's
really some piece of news!”
“Dog, I have rarely ever been more in line with your wording than now.”
 
 
Of course, the Hound was far gentler with the Imp's description of Sansa's
father when he related it to his Little Wife in private. She sighed on hearing
the various aspects nevertheless.
“He may be true about father being too honourable for the Game of Thrones – but
I would never want him to be any different.
And I'm so sorry for Tommen. He's the least one to blame for the... the incest.
When we arrive at Clegane Keep I'll see, if I can befriend Myrcella. Let's hope
that the two of them will find a measure of happiness in their lives.”
“You've got a heart of gold, little wife, do you know that?”
Sansa started to giggle. “I'm no Lioness, so I doubt that I know much about
gold. Quite the contrary, right now I actually have got this strange need to do
some mischief. Like kissing you out of your senses.”
And Sandor growled with a twitching smirk: “Hehe, oh really, Little Bird? Now,
that's some kind of mischief right after my fancy.”
 
 
The next morning, they were up early. Sansa was a little sad that they'd leave
Casterly Rock, in spite of her bad experiences with Ser Ilyn Payne.
Fortunately, she knew that they could come for a visit easily. The same was
possibly also true the other way round. Sure, Jaime was meant to stay in the
Rock and around Lannisport, but Clegane Keep wasn't far away, and apart from
that, in Lord Tywin's domain the Lions had their own rules anyway.
When the two said goodbye to Lady Brienne and the Kingslayer in the chill air
of the first sunbeams, the latter one leaned towards Sansa and whispered
something into her ear with a smirk. Whatever he'd said made her giggle, and
suddenly, she pressed the tiniest peck on the Lion's cheek. Jaime was
dumbfounded, and Sandor hollered: “Little Bird, what do you think you're
doing!?”
At that, Sansa turned around and answered with a malicious grin: “What do you
think? Making you jealous, of course!”
“And you're mightily successful!”
Sandor stormed towards her, grabbed his little wife and kissed her soundly.
Brienne had stood by watching, but then, she spun around, said: “Lord Clegane
is absolutely right!”, grabbed her husband, who was the blushing one for once,
and copied the Hound's behaviour.
In the background, Stranger snorted in what sounded like a moan that was meant
to say: “The humans have all gone mad!” But the aloof courser stood no chance,
since he was interrupted by happy yapping, and Lady, who had wangled her last
raw piece of meat off the cook in the kitchen, was running in his direction.
The only one in the yard, who was unperturbed, was Snowflake.
 
 
Some hours after they had left the Lion's Den and were trotting down the road,
Sandor spoke up: “What did the Kingslayer say to you?”
“What, if I told you it was private?”
“Of course it was – but as your husband I order you to tell me!”
Sansa pouted: “You're obnoxious!”
“Tell me something new.”
The Little Bird sighed and related: “Jaime said he would have lost any wager,
if there had ever been a bet on you becoming an amiable companion through
marriage.”
“Right”, Sandor growled, “you stay here for a few hours until I've come back
from gutting the Kingslayer.”
Sansa only sniggered.
 
 
In the evening, they finally arrived at Clegane Keep. Sandor was suddenly
rather self-conscious, because his family seat was so humble and naturally
couldn't compare to the splendour of Casterly Rock, or Riverrun, or the sheer
impressiveness of Winterfell. Somebody like his Little Wife, however, only
deserved the best – something he'd never be able to offer. But Sansa seemed
perfectly content and curious about her new home... and very, very tired.
Interestingly enough, it was the blind inhabitants again that appeared first:
Tombry and the old dog (who Sandor had come to learn was actually only four
years old, but after having been made a cripple by cruel Gregor the poor animal
simply LOOKED as if it had seen thrice as many namedays). Anyway, the blind
ones seemingly had the best ears and heard first that there was somebody to
greet.
To make it easy for them to find and to recognize him Sandor boomed: “Tombry!
Let Ayella sneak you out of the kitchen? And still alive and kicking, as far as
I can see. Good, good. Everything all right in the keep?”
The elderly servant stumbled closer, his face beaming: “My Lord Clegane! It's
good to have you back! Yes, everything is fine at the keep. But... excuse me my
lord... do I hear a second horse?”
“Yes, Tombry, you're quite right. Let me introduce you to my lovely wife
Sansa.”
At once, the servant fell to his knees and uttered some weird submissive
sentences. His Little Wife went to the servant, begged him to stand up and took
his elbow to support him. Tombry blushed crimson; it was unheard-of that a
highborn lady should help a servant. Sandor shared that notion and rumbled:
“Sansa! I think your Snowflake needs to be tended to, now. Stranger as well.
Let's take them to the stable. – Tombry, do I see it correctly that the roof of
the stable has been repaired?”
“Precisely so, my lord. The boxes have been mucked out, cleaned and repaired as
well. There's also fresh, sweet hay for the horses.”
“Good to know!” And off the little travelling party trotted while the servant
made for the smithy to inform Falcon and Gendry about the arrival of the lord.
They had barely lead the horses to their boxes when the two smiths arrived to
greet their lord and lady. Falcon was smiling while the apprentice looked as
serious as Sandor had got to know him. But the young man's face lightened up a
little in appreciation when he saw Stranger. “M'lord”, he said, “you are tired
after your voyage – my I tend to your wonderful courser?” The horse in question
moved his ears back and recognized somehow that Gendry was praising him; that
left the malicious courser as dumbfounded as Sandor had been when Sansa had
told him the twitch around his mouth was cute.
Lady was yapping her consent and wanted her fur to be ruffled. “Fuck, the wolf
is still simply too trusting – even after having been poisoned.” In the
meantime, the blind dog had sneaked into the stable as well and started to
sniffle curiously at Lady's behind.
“Who-hoops! Imminent storm ahead in the seven heavens”, Sandor commented
inwardly, but could in fact only shrug his shoulders.
Animals had to settle their mating affairs themselves.
Now, it was Glendor, who offered to take care of Snowflake, and tired as she
was, Sansa approved of this solution.
Together, the couple set off for the main house. Suddenly, the entrance door
opened, and a golden-haired girl stepped out. Sansa had only seen her once, and
very shortly, at Winterfell, but seemed to recognize her as Myrcella. The girl
approached them hesitatingly and... curtsied.
Sandor was appalled.
“Lady Myrcella, what on earth do you think you are doing?”
She looked up at him, afraid and confused. “But... Lord Clegane, you've got a
higher rank now than me.”
“Fuck the rank!” the Hound spat. “You're still the granddaughter of my liege
lord, whether it pleases him or not. So I won't tolerate you curtsy in front of
me again. And if there's anybody, who tries to belittle your status, I'll chop
off his head. Understood?”
“Sandor, and will YOU stop snarling at our ward!? Look, she's drawing in her
head! What do you think you're doing!?”
The Hound was utterly puzzled at the sudden berating tone of his Little Wife.
“She's getting really self-confident!” he thought and answered in a somewhat
contrite way: “I just wanted to make my point clear.”
“You won't make anything clear, if you frighten her out of her senses so that
she doesn't understand what you're actually saying”, Sansa tut-tutted.
Myrcella looked at his Little Bird in bewilderment, obviously expecting he
might bite her head off any moment. Fuck, the Lannister girl had known him as
the rabid Hound before he had got to know Sansa.
So he inhaled deeply and rumbled: “Lady Myrcella, I'm sorry, if I have
frightened you.”
Now, the girl's glances flicked from Sandor to Sansa, and she was overstrained.
Sansa took it upon herself to step up to the Lannister child, to smile at her,
to extend a hand and to ask: “My husband will be busy controlling the staff –
so would you be so kind as to show me around?”
It was a peace offer for Myrcella; and at the same time she made it clear to
Sandor that he should better retreat for a while after having fucked up the
situation. Shit, his little wife was getting rather clever.
 
 
There was wisdom in Sansa's suggestion, of course. So Sandor took the
saddlebags with their belongings (fuck, they had grown and become heavier
somewhere between Winterfell, Riferrund, Casterly Rock and here!) and slumped
down them unceremoniously in their new sleeping room. He looked around. Ah,
yes, there was the connecting door between his room and Sansa's.
The Hound frowned. Was this a bad jape? A door with wooden bars on both sides?
Whose crappy idea was that? And who needed that? Fuck, apart from that, Sansa
was the only one who could be kept out anyway, because in one of his fits he
might shatter any door easily. Sandor sighed. It was so very clear that it was
him, who was the weak link in their marriage, in spite of his sheer size and
physical strength. No need to tell him by putting bars on a door.
Irritated, he went into the adjoining room. It appeased him a little, because
it had a clear female note that Sansa would like. The wooden chest for her
clothes had been simple before, but now, it bore some beautiful carvings and
new, intricate metal fittings as well. The smiths had obviously done a good
deed here. There were also two armchairs that had been newly padded in an old
rose hue, plus silver-grey cushions. Silver-grey – Stark colours, a heedful
choice indeed.
What made things even better was that somebody had added a wicket that led to a
newly-built privy. That was a real luxury for a smaller mansion like Clegane
Keep. And it would allow them more privacy. How very good! It was absolutely
astonishing what the people here had achieved in a few weeks. It didn't feel
like a monster's cave any longer.
 
 
Now, that his ire had subsided, Sandor felt able to face the rest of the staff.
First, he intended to go to the office of the handicapped castellan. Aengus
Cronhold wasn't able to come to his lord, so he himself had to approach him. It
was then that Tombry entered and asked if he could be of service.
“Which room did you assign to the castellan? I need to talk to him first.”
“Oh yes, m'lord, let me show you the way. Since he's crippled we gave him three
rooms next to the kitchen. One room for himself and his wife, one room for the
offspring – his wife is pregnant, isn't that good news!? – and one room that he
can use as his office. From there, he can roll into the kitchen easily for the
meals and out of the kitchen back door, because there are no steps there. They
even made flat wedges for the threshold, so that it's like a little ramp, and
he can roll out into the yard easily.”
Sandor was confused: “Wait a moment, what are you talking about? What do you
mean with “roll”? Explain!”
But that was not necessary. They were just walking down the corridor that lead
to the kitchen wing, when suddenly a door opened a little awkwardly – and a
smiling Aengus came out. He was sitting in a chair with big wheels, and he was
pushing and conducting it with his hands. Sandor's jaw dropped open, and the
castellan looked positively proud on seeing his lord's surprised reaction.
With an air of dignity the man approached the Hound, bowed in his chair and
stated: “My lord, it is good to see you strong and sound. We are all happy you
are back and welcome you and your wife at the keep. I hope you have noticed
that we have put much effort into the restoration of the house.”
Sandor had recovered a little from his first moment of surprise and rasped
back: “Well, well, I'd have never though I might say it one day, but it's just
so good to be back, and I must say that the changes here are outstanding. I
guess the Lannister Imp would say now: “It has all been administered in a most
effective way.”Or some other garbled sentence in that style. Anyway, you have
earned yourself some respect; so have the others. And Tombry has just told me
that your wife is with child – congratulations!”
Aengus beamed, and then, there was an amused twinkle in his eyes.
“Thank you, my lord. And yes, the canny decision to have a sleeping room for
ourselves as well as Ayella's nourishing food has been... most inspiring.”
Sandor threw his head back and bellowed his laughter.
“Well, as I've already told Falcon – there should always be pups in the kennel.
So I might see it as an act of loyalty towards the lord the people call “the
Hound”.”
Aengus was grinning outright.
“Oh, an ACT it certainly was – though it had more to do with the loyalty
towards my dear wife.”
Now, all three men were guffawing, and Sandor suddenly realized, that there was
nothing bad in laughing along with these men. The only times he had laughed
together with a Lannister before his marriage had been Jaime after the
Kingslayer offering a lewd joke to his comrades-in-arms. And after the
marriage? Well, when it came to the Lions things were still similar – though
Brienne had been added to the game, and despicable Cersei had been taken out.
Definitely a change for the better!
Then, Sandor focused on the situation at hand again.
“Good, good. And now that we're in the kitchen wing, I actually want to see
Ayella and her “inspiring” food. Later, I want to have a detailed conversation
– and tomorrow, I intend to see the stocks and more of the fief.”
“Very well”, Aengus said and added: “I could even accompany you. There is a
new, special curricle for my mule. Glendor built it for me from an old half-
rotten cart they found in a barn. In this way, I can visit the peasants easily,
and I have a good look-around regularly.”
Sandor was amazed and asked: “Did he build this chair-on-wheels for you, too?”
“Yes, he did, with Gendry's help of course. Our Falcon really has an eye for
solving problems.”
The Hound nodded and then took his leave to enter the kitchen. Ayella was there
and approached him at once, wiping her hands on her apron and curtsying. The
castellan's wife was there, too, and greeted him in the same way.
After some introductory words and congratulating the younger woman for her
pregnancy, the Hound rasped: “I have heard many praises about the good food
here. So tell me what you've got here for tonight.”
Ayella blushed a little and said: “Our dear Falcon told us that your Lady Wife
needs a special diet. So we have lots of light and nourishing food. There's a
hearty bread soup, with some fresh herbs from the kitchen garden. And we've got
mashed parsnip and some tender little yellow turnips, and purple carrots. There
will also be chicken for all – and some fried bacon for the men, m'lord.”
“Oho, that sounds tasty indeed; my burned mouth is watering already. Another
question: I've heard that there is a healer now at Clegane Keep. Where can I
find her? I would like to get to know her tomorrow.”
“Oh, m'lord, you could even meet her tonight. She's always coming over for
supper, because of... Falcon, you know?”
“Aye, he has told me. And a place to stay and a seat to eat your good food is
the least payment she's supposed to get, if she's like she's been described.”
Sandor was just about to turn around and head back to his quarters when
suddenly, Aengus Cronhold's wife (what was her name again? – ah, yes, Nayla)
peeped up: “M'lord?”
“Mmmh?”
“Lady Myrcella and your Lady Wife have already been here and... we are so
happy! Your Lady Wife is admirable, and it was good to see Lady Myrcella
finally smile and chatter animatedly. We've never seen her so carefree before.”
Sandor nodded.
“My wife DOES have that effect.”
 
 
Whistling contentedly, the Hound returned to his chambers and ignored the fact
that he sounded as if somebody had stepped on two cats' tails with one stride.
Had he ever felt so good? So balanced? He couldn't remember.
His peacefulness ended, however, when he entered his bedroom. Sansa was lying
on the big four-poster bed, face down, fiery hair untangled, and her nose in a
book. She had bent her legs in a relaxed, but most unladylike way; her feet
were bare and interlocked, teetering slightly, and the hem of her dress had
slid down to her knees so that he could see her beautiful legs. Sandor gulped.
Further down, his body reacted accordingly as well.
Sansa had seemingly heard him enter, but didn't look up. “Sandor! You didn't
tell me you had a little library here, too! True, most books are old, about
hunting and breeding dogs, but this one looks good, almost new, as if it has
never been read. A love story, or something like that. They say on the cover it
was written in Pentos and translated from Valyrian into Westerosi. Must be
really famous then, but I've never heard about “Lady Rysaya's Romances”.
On hearing the title, Sandor almost choked and snatched the book from his
wife's hands, which earned him a confused frown.
“Hey! I found it first! And since when do you like romances?”
Sandor coughed into his fist and tried to suppress a new fit of laughter. He
browsed through the pages and started to grin mischievously.
“Sansa, you really have to read this book to me one day. Perhaps, we could even
stage the plot.”
His Little Wife was dumbfounded now, but then, she beamed and said: “Oh, my
love, I didn't know you like acting! But that would be fantastic! I've just
learned that the first scene is on a balcony. We could do that on the steps in
front of the main entrance, couldn't we, and Falcon could play the worried
father, who doesn't want his daughter to go to the masked-ball! And you'd be
the suitor, who's come to abduct me to the feast. Oh, that will be great!”
Sandor's grey eyes were very wide now. Then, he pressed his half-burned lips
together. To no avail. After just two heartbeats, he threw himself on the bed
next to Sansa, burrowed the ruin of his face in the pillows and snorted and
bellowed and wept into them so helplessly that his Little Bird was absolutely
nonplussed.
“Holy Seven, what's wrong with you? Did you swallow a jester for breakfast?”
It took Sandor several minutes to recover, and by that time, Sansa looked
downright indignant, hands on hips and a scowl on her face. When the Hound was
finally able to talk again, he gasped: “Sansa, this is not a love story.”
“Pardon?”
“You've heard me correctly. It's a very detailed and graphic collection of
erotic stories, and Lady Rysaya is a soon-to-be whore, who starts travelling
through Essos and bedding the most prominent people from the Free Cities. If
you had read only a little more than just the beginning, you'd have come across
the first explicit situation. Remember what you did to me in the bathtub? She
does the same at the masked-ball, but accidentally to the wrong man, who
happens to wear the same mask like her suitor. You've got some very nice
illustrations here, too. Bedding scenes with different positions as well. I
guess you wouldn't want to act THAT out on the front steps – and with Falcon
watching.”
Sansa's jaw had dropped in shock, her hand flew to her mouth, and she flushed a
deep crimson.
“Oh holy Seven! Holy Seven!” she whispered.
Sandor roared with laughter again.
But when his Little Wife had digested that bit of information she suddenly grew
suspicious.
“Dearest Lord Hound Clegane – how come you know about this specific piece of
literature?”
After wiping some tears from his eyes and cheeks he responded: “Ah, well...
Fuck, you see, before I got to know you I visited one of Littlefinger's...
“institutions” a few times. And since the Mockingbird praises himself to have
very exclusive establishments I came across the book there.”
No need to tell her that this set of stories had indeed been staged in front of
a well-paying audience. Sandor had rather stayed for the free alcohol after
having spent a substantial amount of a lump-sum for the night. Even though
Baelish's numerous whores were trained not to show any revulsion and had at
least been clean and healthy, the Dornish red had still usually been better
than the fuck, if he was honest with himself. And while he had been sitting in
the common room he had been able to watch some harlots and catamites acting out
the most ribald scenes.
Well, even if Sansa didn't know the fruity details she was still upset. She
looked to the side and murmured: “I know I shouldn't be jealous. You didn't
know me and...you were... independent. You could... do as you pleased. It's
just... I can't stand it to imagine you with another woman. Even if it was in
the past.”
Sandor was deeply moved. He took her chin with his hand and made her look into
his eyes.
Then, he stated: “Seven hells, Sansa, I swear it was only carnal desire. It
didn't mean a thing. There was just a bit of physical relief, but it never made
me happy. I can barely – if at all – remember the faces belonging to the cunts.
One of your kisses, even one of your sweet smiles is more meaningful for me
than any of those acts!”
“What about... the woman with the child?”
The Hound pondered about it for a moment and then answered: “I had more ore
less forgotten her when I left for Kings Landing and didn't have a clue I could
have a child. She was... nicer than Littlefucker's whores, come to think of it.
But I never felt much for her. When we met again she was... an old
acquaintance. Yes, I think that that word fits best. I did have some strange
feelings for the dead girl – but for the woman... I'd say it was some sort of
compassion, because she's poor. If she had a grudging character, which she
doesn't, she'd rather envy you – so it really shouldn't be the other way
round.”
Sandor could see how Sansa was trying to get a grip on herself and to behave in
a mature way, although she was still so young, and he loved her with all his
heart for it.
“Right”, she grumbled and then nodded towards the obscene book. “Will you show
me the pictures?”
The Hound chuckled darkly. “In due time, my eager Little Bird. In due time.”
Chapter End Notes
     Littlebirdhound has drawn a lovely picture about the chapter, and she
     has allowed me to put a link here, which I am very grateful for.
     Enjoy!
     http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/littlebirdhound/57408764/5018/
     5018_original.jpg
     http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/littlebirdhound/57408764/4697/
     4697_original.jpg
***** Chapter 18 *****
They refreshed and cleaned themselves after the tedious journey, and Sandor
told his wife that he was proud of how well she had ridden, given that she was
no experienced rider and in a weakened state. Sansa smiled and kissed him. She
mumbled against his cheek: “And I thought you disliked gallant little lies.”
The Hound winced and bristled.
“On my word as a Clegane, of course it's true! You played your cards as well as
possible, and I've just told you that you didn't have the best deck to begin
with.”
At that, his little wife bumped her nose against his hooked one and teased him:
“Ah, but I've got the most important card in the deck!”
“And that is?”
“The Knave of Hearts.”
The Hound growled deep in his chest. “Aye. And the knave wants to trump.”
 
 
After some minutes of busying each other with kissing fervently, they parted
reluctantly and went to the kitchen wing. Sandor explained that it had become a
habit to dine with the staff. This was nothing new to Sansa, because her father
had often eaten with his inferiors, too.
Together, they entered the kitchen and greeted the servants present, namely
Tombry and his wife, Gendry and Falcon. Aengus's son, Rollin, had emerged from
somewhere, too, and Lady was already begging shamelessly at Ayella's side. The
cook started to bluster that a lady, direwolf or not, should know how to
behave, but the animal couldn't be bothered. Not even a minute later, the wolf
was retreating into a corner, with a big, big sausage between her teeth – and
grinning from ear to ear.
And innocent Sansa chirped merrily while looking up to her big man: “Awww, how
sweet! Now, I know how to beg efficiently, if I ever want to have a sausage
myself.”
Sandor, who had just grabbed himself a big tankard, nosed his beer and coughed
like mad. Similar noises in varying degrees of embarrassment could be heard
about the kitchen, Rollin being the only one who looked as surprised as Sansa
with regard to the reactions.
When the Hound had recovered he threatened: “Little bird, I tell you: don't
ever say that sentence in front of the Kingslayer! Or even better any other
high-born person.”
A moment later, Aengus, Nayla and Myrcella arrived. Sandor was relieved that at
least they had not heard his Little Bird's comment. After another few minutes,
there was a knock on the door that announced the healer, Cembara, and her
little son. The wise woman was probably of Lilyrose's age, but unlike the
harlot in Lannisport she still had pitch-dark hair. She was a bit of a rustic
appearance: tall, sinewy and bony at the same time, with not an ounce of fat,
her dark eyes very much awake, but also with a lot of warmth in them.
The healer greeted the new Lord and Lady Clegane with all due respect and
introduced her son, Giles, who tried to bow, too, and who screwed up his face
in a rather hilarious way, when he tried to concentrate on how to behave
correctly. Having that done, he darted to Rollin's side, which revealed that
the boys had already become friends.
They all sat down and started to eat. Sandor's attention was split into three
parts. The first one kept an eye on Sansa's strained efforts to bring some food
down her throat. The second part tried to understand the lively conversation at
the table. And the third one could only marvel at how different the complete
building felt. He had passed his childhood here, and it had been... like a
carcass, most of the time. He had only ever felt a heartbeat around his sister
– and when she was gone, the last sparks of life had disappeared, too. With
Gregor as the head of the house, it must have been even worse, as if it was an
undead being, like those damned Others beyond the Wall.
But now... there was laughter and chatter. The little boys were prattling about
a badger's hole they had found in a grove. Gendry and Falcon were discussing a
repair animatedly. Nayla and Cembara debated the taste and usage of some
kitchen herbs. Myrcella had put her head on Gendry's shoulder and listened
contentedly to the talk around her. Lady was now lying under the table, right
between Myrcella and Sansa and got her fur ruffled time and again. Aengus was
talking to him about the peasants and lots of recent developments; he was so
very full of energy – unlike the crippled man he had got to know in Lannisport.
And then, there were Tombry and Ayella. Sandor had known them since his
childhood, and even though he had known that they were married he had never
actually registered them as a truly loving couple. Now, he noticed the blind
man's hand stroking hers several times under the table, and how she leaned
closer to him and whispered something into his ear that made him laugh. It was
downright unbelievable. The Hound had to be in the wrong house, hadn't he?
Life wasn't a song; Sandor had always known that. It was still true, but now,
the angle to look at this attitude had changed. No song would ever be able to
express that the straight harmony of an almost average household could be so
extraordinary. No poet would even see anything special in the scene in the
kitchen worthy to turn it into a song. Bloody, buggering, stupid romanticists,
who always needed heroes, honourable knights in shining armour and good faeries
that granted you magical wishes – such as having a burned face restored. No
spell could ever restore his face; but somehow, he had stumbled upon a loving
wife and people around him, who were willing to accept and even to respect him.
So there were wonders in real life, but they went unnoticed by the bards.
“Perhaps it's good that I have no ear for music and such, or I would be as daft
as the damned artists”, he thought to himself sarcastically and grinned.
When they all rose after the meal, Lady was suddenly begging again, and Ayella
berated the direwolf. The huge animal, however, just snatched another leftover
sausage, made for the back door, and opened it easily with a paw. Sandor was
about to get angry with the spoiled, yellow-furred beast, but then, he suddenly
discovered the blind dog at the entrance. Lady just put down the sausage in
front of him, and there was a little whining on both sides.
“Who-hoops, do we have a threesome out there in the stables now?” Sandor
scratched his head, puzzled, and could only hope that Stranger wouldn't be in a
bad mood he intended to vent on his master over the next days.
 
 
“M'lord, may I talk to you for a short moment?” It was Cembara.
It suited the Hound well that the healer was willing to approach him so soon.
So he made a gesture to Sansa and told her: “Meet me in our rooms!”
 
Then, he addressed the wise woman again: “Now, what is it?”
Cembara inclined her head and said: “I've dealt with a few burns over the last
years, and I've developed a salve for scarred flesh. If you want to, I can give
you a little crucible. It's nothing great, but your puckered skin would be a
little less taut.”
Sandor stood frozen to the spot. He had expected her to talk about Sansa's
problems, or about the healer's employment, position or payment – but certainly
not this. After the insufficient initial medical treatment, which had done
nothing beyond saving his life, nobody had ever medicated his face again.
But... shit, he was being unfair. The Hound suddenly remembered that after his
second battle for the Lannisters Maester Creylen had stitched him up for the
first time and had muttered under his breath that something should better be
done about the face, too; young Sandor, however, had snarled at the measter in
such a vicious way he should go bugger himself with a hot poker that the mousy
man had never addressed that topic again.
Uncertain, the Hound ran his hand through his dark, lank hair.
At last, he spat: “If you think so, woman.”
Cembara looked at him intently and said: “You'll get it in the morning. And
then, there is this other problem about your Lady Wife.”
Sandor felt that even if that was a difficult topic, too, he was readier to
talk about it than about his scars. So he told her about what the maester at
the Rock had related to him.
Cembara listened carefully, nodding or humming thoughtfully here and there.
When he had ended she said: “The maester is certainly right about her illness,
even I could see as much from having watched your Lady Wife eating – but did
the man also find out what the origin for her ailment is?”
Sandor furrowed his brow and wanted to know: “Is that important? I thought it's
important to find a solution that ends the problem.”
The wise woman sighed: “It's like everywhere else: a matter of cause and
effect. And you can't just clip a weed's leaves, you have to really root it
out, if you want to get rid of it.”
This was something the Hound understood, and he nodded.
“M'lord, often young women are afflicted by this illness, as you have already
heard. It's a possible complication of growing up. When a girl turns into a
woman she sometimes gets confused about who she actually is, and as a
consequence, she also gets confused about eating.”
“Seven Hells, my wife knows that her name is Sansa all right!” the Hound
growled.
This caused Cembara to snort with a little smirk, and to answer: “I wasn't
talking about her name, but about her identity, or character. Tell me, did her
life change a lot during her last year?”
Sandor gave off a sarcastic barking laughter.
“Fuck me sideways, of course it did! She got to know me, we were forced to
marry, we left her home, we fell in love, I had to leave her with her uncle for
a while... is that enough change!?”
Cembara looked very serious.
“Oh yes, indeed. You'd have to be a mature, balanced, grown-up person to deal
with so many changes at a time comparatively easily. But your wife has barely
left childhood behind and doesn't have many strategies to cope with basic
problems. Add to these aspects that her body is changing rapidly. Especially
you should know how it can unsettle you, if your outward appearance changes all
of a sudden. I guess it was all too much for her, it put her under pressure,
and she was so strained that she couldn't eat any longer.”
Sandor just managed to grumble a “hmhmmmmm”.
“And... well... m'lord. There is another important point that can play a big
part. The awakening... womanhood. Would you say that you have... normal
interactions with your wife?”
The Hound clenched his fists, irritated. His first impulse was to bellow at the
healer that that was none of her business.
After breathing deeply, however, he gathered his wits and spat out: “No.”
Without any more information.
Yet, Cembara just nodded businesslike, and went on: “Well, it's hardly a
surprise, but we might kill two birds with one stone with your Lady Wife's
future treatment.”
“What!? You mean I should f... bed my wife? The maester at the Rock advised me
not to do that.”
Cembara blinked.
“Passion is a normal part of adult life – so it wouldn't be good to suppress
it. The question is the context and the way it is carried out.”
“Speak plainly, woman, for fuck's sake!”
The healer sighed.
“I will have to know some... details. Then I'd think about how you could
approach your wife best.”
Sandor glared at Cembara.
“The Others take me – are you absolutely sure that that's necessary?”
The healer tilted her head again and answered him with another question: “Is it
necessary that both partners enjoy the marriage bed?”
The Hound swore and crashed his fist against a wall. BANG!
The wise woman was not intimidated.
“M'lord, are there any more things that might have confused your Lady Wife's...
body and soul?”
“FUCKFUCKFUCK”, Sandor thought to himself – could this woman look into his
head!?
Notwithstanding, he rasped back: “Aye. Sometimes, she has got... visions.”
Cembara got interested at once: “Does she? You see, the crannogmen often have
the second face, they call it Greenseeing. What about Lady Sansa – does she see
the future, the present, the past, or even a mixture?”
Sandor was surprised that the woman reacted in such an understanding way and
retorted: “She sees the present. In her sleep.”
“How very fascinating. I wonder in what way it is influencing her present
condition.”
Sandor growled: “Could you give her something so that she can't w... have those
premonitions?”
“I don't want to give her sedatives like the milk of the poppy. It would be
better first to help her digest the information she gathers in those moments.
That might be enough.”
The Hound growled deep in his chest again: “Right. I will think about your
statements carefully. We'll talk again tomorrow.”
 
 
Back in their sleeping room, Sansa had donned a nightshift yet and was lying on
a fur in front of a merrily crackling fire, a cheek on her arm, and reading in
an old book she had already had in Riverrun. Reflexes of the yellow-red flames
were playing across her pale skin, her hair seemed to have a halo of its own
and the curves of her body were shining through the fabric. Now, it was also
possible to see that her body had put on a little flesh again and looked so
much less like a child, more like a woman. Well, it was no wonder – at her age
physical change came really fast, just like Cembara had said. Sansa's breasts
had grown; of course, they were not huge, but clearly female, now that she was
recovering.
Sandor gulped, and he grew hard once more. Gruffly, he undressed and peeled off
his tunic and breeches. Only in his smallclothes, he approached his reading
wife and threw himself onto the fur next to her.
Finally, the Little Bird looked up and chirped with a meaningful smile: “Oh,
hello, you're back! And what a lovely sight to see. If I wasn't sore from
riding all day you might give me some ideas.”
Oh fuck, the Hound really had to teach her more about love. Her innocence was
choking!
“Sandor, what's wrong again?”
“Sansa, back in the kitchen, when you were talking about getting a sausage...”
He pointed. His wife squeaked in understanding and flushed crimson red.
Sandor chuckled darkly, went over to the bed, took “Lady Rysaya's Romances”,
opened the book and said: “And with regard to being sore from riding all day –
look at this picture.”
Sansa's eyes grew even wider than they had already been.
“I've told you, my love, the images are exceedingly detailed.”
It took the Little Bird a moment; then, she stammered: “I... this is...
different. I... didn't know. Mother only ever said I should... lie back and let
my husband... do his duty. And when YOU told me about these things you didn't
mention... this.”
The Hound chuckled again and retorted: “Ah, at the time it was already more
than enough information for you to digest. Plus, we didn't know each other so
very well yet.”
Sansa coughed, hesitated and then asked: “And there are... more pictures in
this book?”
That made Sandor bark with laughter: “Aye, curious Little Bird. Look, here is
what you've already done to me.”
“Oh... yes.”
Sandor turned a few pages and went on: “Look, and here is the position your
mother was talking about.”
Sansa was watching in awe.
“Oh Holy Seven! But... isn't the man too heavy for the woman? Or... is that a
stupid question?”
“No, it isn't. I guess for the woman it's indeed better, if the man props
himself up a little bit. For more than one reason, actually: breathing and
having fun herself.”
The Little Bird's eyes were so unbelievably blue, and Sandor was so hard that
he couldn't stop himself and had to show her another picture.
“What... what is that? That looks strange, like a tendril somehow. Why do they
have their faces... oh HOLY SEVEN! They are kissing each other THERE!?”
The Hound was having the fun of his life.
“Aye. You don't have to use cocks and hands all the time. Oh, and you don't
have to do it simultaneously, that would be a more advanced exercise.”
Sansa shot him a quick glance and looked down at herself for a split second.
Her eyes were full of questions. If possible, Sandor got even harder, but he
also realised that she had seen enough for one evening. So he closed the book
and laid it aside.
His Little Wife looked at him and mumbled with a husky voice: “Do you want
to...?”
The Hound cut in and growled: “My body – yes. My head – no. And actually, only
my cock is really enthusiastic now. The rest of my body is a little tired from
travelling today, too, though not as much as yours.”
“Would you... would you like it, if I... stroked you again?”
There was more than just the reflection of the hearth fire in Sandor's grey
eyes when he answered somewhat over-enthusiastically: “Do farts smell? Of
course I'd like that!”
So Sansa bit her lips, giggled shyly at his crude words and set to work. He
remunerated her with moans and kisses. Never in his life would Sandor have
believed that their first night together at Clegane Keep could be so sweet...
 
 
To his surprise, the next morning started as sweetly as the evening had ended.
When the Hound awoke at dawn – naked now under the blankets after more of his
wife's lovely ministrations – he realized that her shift had slipped up to her
middle section, and one thin sleeve had slipped off her shoulder, revealing a
perfect little breast. In her sleep she had nestled up against him as usual so
that her nipple was pressing against his chest. Additionally, she had thrown a
leg over his thigh.
“Skin on skin”, the thought flew like an arrow through his brain and hit the
target. Shit, of course, he was getting aroused again. Gently, he rubbed
himself a little bit against her lady parts. Whoa. She was so, SO tender there!
Sansa murmured in her sleep; he discerned his name and something like “giggle”
or “tickle” or “prick”. Next, she put an arm around his neck, her hand into his
hair... and rearranged her position, leaving them even closer. Fuck, that was a
flaming invitation!
Carefully, he moved his tip along her entrance, only to notice that she was
indeed a little wet there, and to receive a very contented “mmmhmmm”. So she
could feel him there, at least to a certain extent.
Her hand was moving at the nape of his neck and brushed his sensitive spot
there. And that proved to be too much for Sandor again. With a grunt, he
spilled himself like a green boy. Or even less than a green boy. At the age of
fifteen he had not reacted like that! He swore under his breath and tried to
disentangle himself from Sansa – only to find out that his sleeping Little
Wife, oblivious of the mess between their lower bodies, was rather clinging and
didn't want to let go. Thrice-damned seven hells, what should he do!?
 
 
It was Lady, who finally cleared up the situation. Under the window of their
bedroom there was suddenly a loud, long AWOOOOOOOOO. Sansa's eyes snapped open,
and without even registering their position in bed she jumped up and rushed to
the window, absent-mindedly pulling up her sleeve.
There, she put her hand on her mouth in astonishment and exclaimed: “Sandor!
You won't believe it!”
That caused the Hound to rise, too; he wrapped the blanket around himself and
went to the window as well. In castles like Winterfell or the Rock the openings
in the walls were too small and too high to look out, but here at the keep they
had a good view. And the scene below was incredible.
Lady was sitting in the yard, tongue lolling out, with a bloody muzzle and
proud as fuck. And at her feet, there were a boar and a stag. A very dead boar
and stag.
“Fuck me sideways!” Sandor rasped and ran his big, calloused hands over his
eyes and through his hair.
“Look at her game!” Sansa breathed.
“Well, well,well”, Sandor grumbled. “I think we've got a master poacher under
our roof. What do you think – will she be as willing to share with us as she is
with the blind dog?”
“Don't know. But I come to the conclusion that it's good for a lady to have an
obedient dog.”
Sansa grinned, and Sandor shot back: “With sausage and mushroom, I know.”
“YOU!” Sansa bristled in a playful way.
Hurriedly, the Hound returned to the bed, put on his clothes and strode to the
door, because he didn't want to come up with a comment on white sauce served
along with the food in question. When he was slipping out the door the last
thing he heard was a confused: “Holy Seven, what's wrong with my shift?”
“Meet you at the breakfast table!” he rumbled back and fled.
 
 
Later, in the kitchen, Sansa shot him a series of awkward glances, but Sandor
pretended to be unknowing, the very image of innocence – at least as far as
that was possible with his obscure, houndish appearance. Aengus addressed him
and talked about their imminent joint round in the keep and further to the
tenants. Gendry offered at once to prepare Stranger and the mule for the latter
project.
The women offered Sansa to show her the kitchen garden, the next orchard and
the beehive, whereas Rollin put on a conspirational expression and promised the
Little Bird to show her the badger's hole. Sandor grinned inwardly; his sweet
wife was already charming her surroundings.
Myrcella wanted to stay at the smithy, of course, since Gendry would be there
most of the time. She pointed out that she liked the heavy, clanking sound of
hammer upon anvil. This reminded the Hound of how much King Robert had liked
his warhammer and looked at his natural son.
The young man had started to discuss another task with Falcon.
“Right”, the elder man was just saying, “we have to use some tar to caulk it.”
“Caulk what?” Sandor asked.
Falcon looked at his lord and explained: “There is a huge bathtub, but it's
leaking. Actually, it has never been used. Your Lord Brother always said...”
The man fell silent.
“What did sodding Gregor always say?”
Falcon cleared his throat and answered hesitantly: “He always said that it was
still too small for him.”
“And what did he say exactly?”
The one-armed smith flushed red.
“He said the... the pisspot of a tub was even too small to drown a babe in it.”
There was a heavy silence in the kitchen now.
Sandor growled deep in his chest, knowing that he had asked for it.
“I see. And I swear that in the afterlife I will be Gregor's personal eighth
hell. – And now, Falcon, do tell me: how did you get this glorious idea about a
chair-on-wheels for Aengus? It is an absolutely stunning concept.”
The smith's breast swelled with pride, and he started to explain, the dark
shadow of the former lord's past soon forgotten.
After the breakfast, Sansa was at the Hound's side in an instant, before he
could sneak away.
“Dearest Lord Husband, would you please be so kind as to tell me how it came to
pass that I found distinctive... blotches on my body and my shift this
morning?” the Little Bird whispered urgently into his good ear – or at least as
close as she could get.
“Oh Sansa, don't be as horribly ladylike as your mother!” he swore under his
breath.” Just to inform you: It was YOU who pressed her naked teat against my
chest, it was YOU who embraced me with a leg, and it was YOU who fumbled in my
hair. Oh, yes, and it was YOU who was so damned lovely that I just lost control
as if I was having my first wet dream.”
His Little Wife looked up at him as if he'd grown two horns all of a sudden. If
the Hound had not been irritated he'd have thought it hilarious. Any further
communication was interrupted, however, by Aengus, who rolled to their side. So
Sandor just excused himself – better than having one of their impressive
quarrels.
 
 
Together with the mutilated man he started their tour of the keep. If he had
already been impressed by what had been done so far, his high opinion about the
servants rose even more. Fresh rushes, clean tiles, no more cobwebs, and the
mouldy tapestries were gone as well.
The reparations in the stable had been carried out with circumspection. And all
of this at a time when there had also been a harvest! Aengus related to Sandor
how he had told the tenants of him having been given a chance in spite of his
handicap, and that it had motivated the farmers to give their very best.
“Even the children ran around in the keep with mops and swabs, and for the
first time in their lives they were not afraid of the building, but curious of
going inside, exploring it and coming out alive and unharmed.”
The implications weighed heavily on Sandor's heart. “The pisspot of a tub is
even too small to drown a babe in it.”
Fuck the seven, WHAT had his brother done here!? It was one thing to kill and
probably even to loot in combat, or to punish a wrongdoer; it could be even
thrilling – but inflicting pain, torturing and killing at random for one's own
pleasure... that was beyond his grasp, even after so many years in the
Lannister's service as their fearsome Hound.
Sandor's dark brooding was interrupted by an extremely happy yelp. The next
moment, he had Lady's paws on his shoulders and his burned face was licked
fervently. Behind her the blind dog was wagging his tail, and further down the
corridor Stranger was whinnying in his box.
Sandor swore and fended the wolf off: “Oi! Let me go, giant fuzzball!”
Aengus was roaring with laughter.
“M'lord, you really have got the right touch with animals, I must say. Though
with the direwolf it's certainly not difficult. She's casting her signs of
affection left and right like no supposedly wild animal I've ever seen.”
“Aye. She comes after her mistress.”
“Ha! That's something I can believe easily. Aw! Oi! Lady! Not me, too! I'm a
helpless cripple without legs, has nobody told you!?!?”
Now, it was Sandor's turn to boom his laughter on seeing the direwolf gift the
castellan with her wild animal greeting.
Suddenly, there was something cold and wet touching his hands. The shy dog was
touching the big man on his own accord for the first time. Sandor sank to his
knees.
“And who do we have here?” he murmured and scratched him lightly behind the
ear.
On the animal's face there was an expression of disbelieving happiness about
the gentle touch that almost broke Sandor's heart.
From behind, Aengus explained: “It was Myrcella's idea to call him Moonlight.
She says he's just as gentle as a ray of moonlight, and he was the first one
she saw in the moonlight when she arrived here at the keep at night.”
“Moonlight”, Sandor murmured to himself, and the dog wagged his tail.
He had obviously started to respond to that name already.
“Aengus”, Sandor growled, “make sure that the last and biggest sausage is
always left for him. And now, let's go to Stranger, I can already hear him
seethe with jealousy.”
In the end, it took two apples to appease the big courser, and lots of gruff-
friendly words. Plus some caresses on Lady's part.
Gendry made his appearance with a saddle.
“I have already harnessed the mule to the curricle, Aengus. Just give me a
minute with Stranger.”
Sandor was surprised again at how deftly Gendry worked with his foul-spirited
beast of a courser.
“The dark-haired and sullen-hearted ones have to stick together, I think”, he
thought to himself.
While the courser was being saddled, the Hound walked over to Snowflake and
gave her an apple, too.
Then, they were ready. In the yard, Gendry helped Aengus from his chair-on-
wheels into the curricle. Before mounting Stranger, he took the shoulder of the
smith's apprentice and asked quietly: “I've heard you're Myrcella's... friend?”
The lad stiffened.
“Myrcella is a decent little lady, and a good soul.”
“Aye, I didn't say otherwise. I've known her since the cradle, you see.”
Gendry's eyes flickered up, then down to the earth again, silent.
So Sandor rasped on: “She's been through a lot, and I fear there is more to
come, considering her... heritage. She'll be in need of good friends. You'll
take care of her, too, won't you?”
The lad answered guardedly: “I'm just a smith and a bastard, but I'll do what I
can, you have my word for it, m'lord.”
Sandor bethought himself for a moment and growled then: “I always thought I was
just a rabid cur – until somebody saw more in me than that. Perhaps you should
see more in yourself than just a smith and a bastard.”
Gendry's eyes flickered up and down again.
“Thank you for your friendly words, m'lord.”
Sandor nodded, mounted and and left with Aengus.
 
 
They came near the tenants' homes. At first sight, not much seemed to have
changed. When looking more carefully, however, more huts and cottages seemed to
be occupied – justlike the Hound had been told. There was less filth. A few fat
chickens were pecking in a little front garden.
“Most people are at work, as you can see. Some toddlers are still here, under
the guard of some older children, who also look after the fowl. And then,
there's old Grayle. He broke his leg when he fell off the stable roof during
the reparations. Cembara has been treating him, and he's recovering. We've also
sent him some food to support him while he's ill, because it happened while he
was working for his lord.”
Sandor gave a curt nod. Then, the door of a little hut opened. A tiny woman
came out, pregnant and near her time of giving birth. She looked extremely
frightened, like an animal that had been kicked by its master. Even so, she
approached them and fell to her knees in reverence.
There was a strained tone in Aengus's voice when he explained: “This is Jayne.
Your brother's last... victim, if I may say so. She ran away to Lannisport, but
didn't get any work there – so she despaired and came back.”
If it had needed anything for Sandor to hate his brother even more, it was that
revelation. Said Jayne looked very much like his sister when she had died, if
he remembered her correctly. This lass was so small and thin, much tinier than
Sansa although she was most likely one or two years older, and Gregor had been
taller and bulkier than even him. That the poor thing had survived and not been
split apart was a wonder. And now she was carrying his natural nephew. Or
niece. Sandor thought of how Lord Eddard had treated his bastard son, Jon.
He stepped up to the trembling woman, and said: “Rise.”
Jayne obeyed.
“Look at me, girl.”
After a moment's hesitation she obliged, her eyes seemingly remote and
expressionless, but with a deep well of tears and fear underneath the
blankness. The Hound had seen some fey criminals on the scaffold, who looked
like her.
Sandor breathed deeply and then rasped: “Your name is Jayne, my castellan has
just told me. From what I hear you've been wronged in one of the worst possible
ways. There's no way to undo what my brother has done to you, but House Clegane
will see to it that you're treated better from now on, and that you and the
child will be looked after.”
His words didn't really reach her, only his steel-on-stone-voice, that much was
clear. And she saw the ruin of his face. She seemed to expect some final blow
at any moment. Yellow liquid was trickling down her legs, Sandor suddenly
noticed.
It was strange. He had often been hurt in battles, badly even, and known pain
like the back of his sword hand; moreover, he had experienced peoples'
revulsion and fear ever since he had been burned – so he was actually surprised
that Jayne's reaction could still sting in such a horrible way. Knowing that he
couldn't do much more for her at the moment, he turned around and left with
Aengus again.
As soon as they were out of earshot, he growled: “Cembara must look after her
daily.”
“That's what she's doing already. You should have seen the poor lass when she
arrived.” Aengus shook his head. “I guess she only didn't take her own life,
because she was simply to confused to do so. And her body was so ill, too. She
still can't control her bladder properly. What you've seen wasn't just fear.
You see, m'lord, back in Lannisport, I always pitied myself for my fate, but
now, I can actually see that I'm better off than many.”
 
 
Slowly, they returned to the keep and made for the store to check on the
harvest and goods.
It was then and there that Sandor asked Aengus: “We've got to send a few things
to the Wall. Up there, they don't have any fertile land.”
The castellan replied thoughtfully: “I see. I think we can afford to send them
a little grain and some honey. Those things don't perish so easily on the long
way to the north.”
“Good. So this is settled then. But I'm also thinking of something else. The
people here have worked so much and so well that some kind of reward would be
proper. I remember that other lords sometimes celebrate a good harvest with a
feast. Would that be possible here, too?”
Aengus looked at him, surprised. “That's a splendid idea, m'lord! They don't
have this particular kind of feast at Casterly Rock, so it didn't occur to me,
but here, it would be just the right thing.”
Sandor rasped in response: “My nameday is in four days, and my wife wanted to
have some kind of feast anyway, so I'd prefer to have it this way; then, it's a
general celebration, not mine.”
The castellan inclined his head and beamed: “Then it shall be done according to
your wishes, m'lord. Within four days a lot can be organized.”
 
 
At lunchtime, Sandor told his Little Wife about his new plans, and she was
absolutely enthusiastic about them. Twittering like a bird whose brain is on
overload she started making strategies on how to carry out the event. After
all, she had been raised as a lady at Winterfell, who had to be prepared to
lead a big household. The Hound didn't listen too closely; things like frilly
decorations were certainly not his mug of beer.
After the meal, Cembara sought him out again. She gave him the crucible with
the salve she had promised, and then, they started to talk about Sansa.
“M'lord, I met your Lady Wife in the morning, and she confided in me. There
were interesting aspects I got to know. It really looks as if her problems
started in Riverrun when the other family members had left for Kings Landing.
She said she stayed in bed often and... dreamed of her direwolf's hunts. She
added that she dreamed of Lady's feasting on the game and thought she wasn't
hungry herself, because she had already eaten.
“Ah.”
The Hound was just listening intently.
“Well, yes, and she also stated that often her... dreams feel more real than
reality itself.”
Sandor inclined his head in a half-nod.
“That fits quite well to my own observations. Sometimes, it is as if she
doesn't feel my touch very well.”
“Is that also your problem... in marriage bed?”
Sandor froze a little.
“Actually, there is something else that bothers me. At the very beginning I
accidentally hurt her, and now, there are certain kinds of touches that she
doesn't like... in... top priority places, so to speak.”
The healer shifted and hesitated as if to choose her next words wisely.
“But she doesn't despise... all of your touches. At least from what can be
observed during the meals. She doesn't look as if she was ill at ease with you
in general.”
“You're right there, woman. She likes to touch me, and she likes my kisses.
She's also curious.”
“Those are very good signs. Now, the question is – what does she not like?”
Sandor fell silent. Breathed in and out. Swore.
“Fuck is this really necess... Aye, aye, okay. – It's. My. Hands.”
Cembara shot a glance at the shovels at his sides, and he balled them into
fists involuntarily.
“Hm...”, she murmured. “I think you should probably focus on those things that
she likes. You may encourage her there and give her some positive feedback. It
will help her to become more self-confident, you see, and that is very
important. You should also help her to focus on her own body. She needs to get
a positive notion of her body again – with regard to eating as well as...
pleasure; so touch her in a way she enjoys. Later, it will help her to accept
other kinds of touches as well.”
Sandor was irritated because he remembered his own incapability in the morning.
“Sounds difficult. I fear I'm not patient enough for that.”
On hearing that, Cembara looked at him sternly.
“If you relieve yourself of your needs first before you approach your wife
you'll be more patient, m'lord.”
The Hound snorted. “Well, you're a bloody outspoken woman, I must say. Unlike
all these overly delicate high-born ladies. I appreciate that. But. If you ever
tell a word about this to anybody else you'll curse the day you were born.”
The healer looked at him coolly. “M'lord, I'm neither daft nor suicidal. And
I'm faithful with regard to my patients. As you will hopefully come to
understand.”
“Distrust has helped me to survive in the past, woman. It is an attitude that
is hard to come by.”
***** Chapter 19 *****
In the afternoon, the Hound planned to train a little bit. Here, no-one told
him he was forbidden to train in the yard. Nor did he get any snide looks from
any arrogant Lannister man. The problem was rather that nobody was here, who
was fit to spar with him. He was the only soldier. Fuck.

So what could he do? Ride out with Stranger and work on a straw puppet. It was
too cold for swimming in a little nearby lake. He pondered the situation a bit.

Hm, probably he could ask Gendry to work with him. He was young and strong and
knew at least something about armour, even though it was only from its
production. So Sandor went over to the smithy and addressed King Robert's
probable bastard. The sullen apprentice betrayed no expression that might give
away whether he was happy about the offer or not.
He just said evenly: “I'm at your disposal, m'lord.”

When they started to train, the Hound found himself confirmed: Gendry wasn't
trained with a sword, true, but as a smith's apprentice he was in good shape.
His attitude was not the one of a carefree, arrogant, high-born fop, who
considered himself to be the embodiment of omnipotence; no, the young man was
serious, attentive and controlled. And though he hadn't sounded enthusiastic
about practising with Sandor at first, there was a kind of pride in his
movements – the straightforward pride of a common man. Of course, Gendry lost
his sword again and again and again, but the stalwart young man just nodded at
the barked comments of his lord, and went on with utmost determination. Almost
against his will, the Hound was impressed. King Robert's bastard probably
didn't have a Kingslayer's education, physical elegance and inborn fighting
aptitude, but he carried himself with grace where the golden Lion was short-
tempered and where Robert would have just thrown his sword away and asked for
his three Ws: wine, whores and his bloody war-hammer.

At some point, Sansa, Lady and Myrcella came along and started to watch them.
Involuntarily, the men threw themselves into pose as best they could, and
Sandor cursed himself a flaming lovesick fool. Gendry had obviously understood
what had been crossing his lord's mind, and all of a sudden, he started to do
something the Hound had never seen the young man do: he grinned. Seven Hells,
if there had been any need for a further confirmation that Old Robert had been
his sire, this smirk was proof enough!

“Fuck me sideways, smith, if you can still stand around and grin like a
Westerosi cat for your little Lioness I have to give beans. Watch out for
this!!”

And on they went, thrashing at each other, and the female onlookers squealed in
delight. In the evening, Sandor was so tired after hours of training that he
fell into bed like a stone.
 
 
The next few days were more than a little unnerving for him. Sansa was so over-
eager with regard to the nameday-harvest-feast that most of the time the Hound
fled when she started to prattle on about this and that. It also doused his
romantic feelings in the evenings and mornings. How the fuck could a man even
try to fondle a woman while she was talking about a bloody decoration with
sheaves and fruit baskets!? He made attempts to silence her with kisses, but as
soon as he needed to draw breath, his Little Bird started to chirp that his
hair was so long that it was quite tickling, and probably, he should have a
haircut for his big feast... ARGH! He was on the brink of going crackers.

There was only one exception. The evening before the celebrations Sandor came
up with an idea of his own when they were lying in bed.

“Sansa, I think I have a wish for my nameday.”

“Yes!? Oh, what is it? Say it, and I'll do everything to fulfil your desire.”

“Fuck, she's still too innocent. Desire, of all words!” Sandor cursed inwardly.

“Little Bird, do you remember that Falcon has repaired this huge bathtub?”
 

“Yes, of course”, Sansa answered. Then, she started to suspect something: “Do
you want me to stroke you again while you're having a bath?”

The Hound grinned so that the burned corner of his mouth twitched.

“That could actually be part of the program, but I'm thinking of a more...
universal treat. I would like to bathe with you.”

His Little Wife's eyes grew wide.

“Do you want to... consummate the marriage then?”

“Hmmm... I want us both to have fun, and there are various ways for that. Let's
find out together what we want to do tomorrow. I don't think we should plan
this ahead and put us under pressure.”

He actually didn't want to put HER under pressure. Seven hells, of course he
himself wanted to fuck her out of her senses until they were both totally,
completely exhausted, but he couldn't say that aloud; it might scare her off.
And he had to be prepared for her shying away from him again, or for being
pleasured in those ways that they had already experienced. She was still so
very young, and to be honest, he had to be grateful that Sansa was able to
respond in an intimate way yet at all. True enough, she had flowered and was
considered a woman, who could and should bear him children, but after what
Cembara had told him about the problems of women growing up, he wanted to be
sure that not only her body had flowered, but her mind as well.

When Sansa leaned over him and murmured: “Let me see, if I still remember the
basics correctly of how to make you happy!”, he concluded that her mind was
actually very mature already.
That was also the last coherent thought before all his blood left the brain and
centred on parts where it was suddenly needed more urgently...
 
 
Sandor awoke at dawn as usual. His little wife was still sleeping, curled into
him as usual. He inhaled her lovely scent greedily and thought of his last
nameday. He had been on duty, guarding sodding Joffrey all day, and in the
evening, he had got pissed in “Barney's Tavern”, a low dive close to Flea
Bottom. That was all he could remember. And then, his life had been uprooted. A
day later, the king had started his journey towards Winterfell, and the Hound
had got to know his Little Bird.

Sandor sighed, noticed that his bladder was full and called for relief,
untangled from his wife and made for the privy. When he looked out of the
window he stopped dead in his tracks. Everything was white outside.

“Winter is coming”, he quoted the Stark motto under his breath and smiled
wrily.
 
 
After breakfast, the first snow had already melted again, and Sandor stroked
his full tummy. Ayella had prepared fantastic fresh bread with cold roast for
his nameday, and crisp bacon and scrambled eggs as well. The servants had all
congratulated him. And Sansa had given him a tunic she had embroidered herself:
there were black dogs on the neck-line and silvery birds on the sleeves. Even
though he didn't have a fucking clue about needlework he could tell that the
pattern was a masterpiece, the stitches being as perfect and delicate as the
hand that had carried them out.
 
 
Next, they started to prepare the entrance hall, the main yard and the nearby
barn for the tenants. The latter building should be used for eating and
drinking, so they took square stones and coarse, long boards, which would serve
as makeshift tables. They had also cut three big tree trunks into pieces; those
would form stools.

In the entrance hall, there would be music and dancing. Tombry had declared
that he could play the flute even if he was blind, Myrcella could play a lute
they had dug up in an attic, Sansa would be singing, and Glendor knew how to
click two metal spoons together so that they would have a good rhythm. A tenant
had signalized he could play an uilleann pipe, others had also talked about
home-made basic instruments, and Cembara had a dulcimer.

In the yard, there would be games for the children. Ayella and Nayla were busy
there: there would be a race with cooked eggs on spoons, a sack race, apple-
eating with hands bound on the back, targeting games with horseshoes and a
wooden peg in the ground, and finally blind man's buff.
 
 
Soon enough, the farmers arrived and helped as well. Wherever Sandor looked
there were shy smiles and sparkling eyes. And in his own heart there was a joy
he had never known before. They were only few, but they were his people, and
they looked better than they had done in decades. He started to understand why
Sansa, Lord Eddard and the Starks loved Winterfell so much, and it was a
feeling that was different from the one prevalent at Casterly Rock. Now he knew
what it was: community spirit. The Hound remembered how even dumb stable boy
Hodor had been integrated, almost as if he was a member of the family. Back in
the north, that had been a little like a mystery, but now, it started to make
sense.

In the afternoon, almost everything was ready. A huge pot with a hearty stew
was carried to the barn, along with some barrels of ale and mead. Then, huge
wheels of oven-warm bread followed, together with similarly-shaped cheese.

After that, the people came together in the yard and looked up at Sandor, who
was standing on the steps and checking, if every task was carried out
correctly.

“My lord”, Aegon whispered at him from the entrance hall, “they want to hear a
few words from you to start the feast.”

The Hound was baffled. That was a new task for him – and he had never been
trained in unctuous gobbledygook.

After a moment's hesitation, he raised his raspy voice and rumbled: “Well, men
and women, you have worked a lot, and you have worked well over the last weeks.
The harvest was good, and the keep has been repaired. As your new lord, I'm
very contented. So let us have a feast and celebrate. And now – out with you
into the barn before the stew gets cold and the beer stale!”

The smallfolk cheered and surged towards food and drink. Sansa approached him,
smiling. He smiled back, and his mouth twitched. But that didn't matter.
 
 
His Little Wife did her best to please him by eating a complete bowl of stew
and drinking a mug of mead. She still had to concentrate on her task, but it
was becoming easier for her to swallow the food. Sandor was very proud of her.
Since she wasn't accustomed to more than a tiny sip of alcohol any longer she
was rather tipsy afterwards.
He was having a bit of a Westerosi holiday, so to speak – until the Little Bird
chirped aloud merrily: “And now, we'll dance!”

At once, the tenants hollered their agreement – while Sandor felt rather
cornered. He basically had no choice left: after Sansa's announcement, he had
to lead the first dance with her.
The Others take the man, who invented music! On stepping into the entrance hall
he hissed at Tombry: “If you dare start a buggering pavane, you'll pay for it!”

The blind man got terribly hectic then.
“No, m'lord, of course not, m'lord! Would a polka suit you?”

Belatedly, the Hound remembered that the servant had been maimed by a Clegane,
and he cursed himself.

“Yes, of course, Tombry. Go ahead!”

Almost defiantly, he put his arms around Sansa's waist and rasped: “I hope you
know how to dance a rustic polka. It has none of the elegant, high-born moves.”

His Little Wife looked up at him, puzzled because of his gruffness, but she was
too drunk to give it a second thought and flashed her husband a brilliant
smile.

“Oh, of course I do! I always danced it with Robb and Theon back in Winterfell,
and a few times even with Father. Come!”

At that moment, the music started, and off they went, frisking up and down the
hall, and the tenants were clapping and stamping their feet. Sandor felt like a
stick that was hurled around, and he tried frantically not to jump on Sansa's
tiny feet. Seven bloody hells, he hated dancing, and why for fuck's sake did
the song take so damned long!?

Finally, the music ended, and he wanted to leave the dance-floor... but
suddenly, his Little Bird was clinging to his neck, panted and crowed
jubilantly: “That was great! Another one – and everybody join us now!”

Within two heartbeats, they were surrounded by other couples, and the next
melody started. Sandor could only resign with a desperate sigh. It turned out
that Sansa didn't intend to stop or give him a chance to escape... and after
the third round, he slowly started to relax... and to like it a little bit.
Nasty rascal that he was, he told himself that at least he had a good view on
her panting bosom and her bouncing little teats. It was improper, but it helped
him to endure this part of the feast.

After the song had ended, Myrcella, who had danced with Gendry (of course),
approached him and asked shyly: “What about switching partners, Lord Clegane?”

Sandor goggled. Seven fucking hells, since when did girls invite grown men for
a dance? And since when was the little Lioness willing to touch him? If he
remembered correctly, he had never touched her directly before. The rabid Dog
had never been allowed to be close to her in his days back in Kings Landing,
and Myrcella had been as much afraid of him as everybody else.

He cleared his throat. “Erm. Yes. Why not. If you're not afraid of my huge
feet, that is.”

The girl actually laughed: “Sansa still seems to be able to go on dancing,
which means it can't be that bad.”

So the Hound gingerly took Myrcella's arm, and a minute later, they were busy
hobbling around in tune with the music. Well, this was really a memorable
nameday celebration, and no mistake. And this was BEFORE Sandor had to realize
just HOW memorable the day would still turn out to be.
 
 
Towards the evening, the atmosphere was even more frolicsome. Food, ale, mead,
gaming and dancing had done their work. In fact, Sansa had snatched another
tankard of mead, even bigger than the first one, without him noticing it until
she was almost done with her drink. By then, she was positively as drunk as a
skunk.

Sandor had never seen her in such a state. She was really sweet in her
helplessness, and when one tenant started to sing the song of “The Bear and the
Maiden Fair” she sang along loudly and animatedly. The Hound grinned – the
dignified high-born lady had completely disappeared and given way to an
absolutely carefree lass. The best moment was when Sansa grabbed a bowl with
lemon pudding and started to munch a few spoons as if it was the most normal
thing in the world. Sandor felt absolutely relieved – he could be sure now that
his wife was getting back to normal.
 
 
Suddenly, there was a cough behind him. When he turned around, he saw Glendor
with an extremely serious face.
“Falcon, what is it?” Sandor was alarmed at once.

The balding smith answered: “It's Jayne. She's giving birth. Cembara is with
her. She left an hour ago. I went with her. It doesn't look good, she says. The
baby is seemingly... Clegane-sized, and Jayne is too small and too unstable.”

“Seven Hells, right, I'll saddle Stranger.
Tell Sansa where I am and why I've left. I haven't told her about... this
atrocity of Gregor.”

Falcon nodded obediently, and Sandor spun on his heels to hasten into the
stable. His destrier greeted him and seemed to be pleased to be taken out for a
late ride. Only minutes later, they were on their way.
 
 
When he arrived at the poor woman's hut, there was a light in it, but
everything was quiet. He had expected screams, but there was nothing. He
approached the building and knocked on the door. There were some steps behind
it to be heard. Then, Cembara opened. Her face was tired and grave.

Sandor rasped: “She didn't make it?”

The healer shook her head.
“No, m'lord. I tried everything, but there was no chance. Jayne just gave up
herself. She had already... endured too much pain. – But there was at least one
thing I could do. Would you please come in, m'lord?”

He followed Cembara into the hut. Seven Hells! There was as much blood as on a
battlefield! The dead body of Jayne was lying on a little, soaked cot.

The healer uttered: “Look here!”

And with those words, she put a bundle into Sandor's arms. His stomach
somersaulted. Could it be...? He wiped a corner of the cloth aside... and
looked into a sleeping baby's face. Sandor was stunned. He had never held a
baby, and he was afraid, he might make a mistake, let it fall or something
similar.

Cembara murmured: “A girl, and she's got the dark hair and the size of the
Cleganes. And she is healthy, as far as I can tell. You're her only living
relative; Jayne was completely alone.”

Sandor was at a loss and didn't know what to say – and suddenly, it happened.
The baby girl opened her eyes. He looked straight into them. They were blue and
grey. He felt a strange tug at his heart, and suddenly, it was as if a loose
piece fell into place.

“Hello, little pup”, he growled in a low voice, and with a strangely shy smile
on his face.
The girl uttered a tiny baby sound, and he thought he was melting into a
puddle.

“She's so quiet”, he wondered.

“Well, that's a good omen – seemingly, she hasn't inherited your brother's...
fierceness. But don't you be worried, she'll cry soon enough. She'll need her
milk.”

Sandor cleared his throat.
“I see. I'll take her to the keep. How should I... hold her?”

Cembara showed him, and the Hound nodded. Next, they left the hut, and Sandor
stepped up to his horse. He gave the healer the baby, mounted, and took the
girl again.

“Right, Stranger, now we'll walk slowly and carefully, do you understand?”

The wise woman greeted him and stated: “And I'll stay here and wash Jayne, so
she can be buried decently, m'lord.”

The Hound gave his assent and returned home.
 
 
Back in the yard, he was awaited by the curious servants and tenants – and
Myrcella and Sansa, of course.
He halted and addressed his Little Wife: “My love – I fear we're never doing
things in the right order, but I think... now... we've got a daughter.”

At that, he lowered his arm and gave her the little bundle with the baby.
Sansa's Tully blue eyes were not as glazed from drinking any longer, grew wide,
and his wife took the tiny girl.

“Oh Holy Seven!” she breathed. “What about the mother?”

Sandor shook his head, and the people around him made the sign of the Seven.
Obviously, Sansa had been told all the sad details about the girl's origin,
because she didn't seem to feel the need to ask any further questions, and her
eyes were full of compassion and warmth. A moment later, Lady sneaked about
between the people and went to her mistress’s side.

Sansa let her sniff at the little bundle and explained to the direwolf: “See!
That's a little Clegane. You'll protect her, too, won't you?”

Lady put up her ears, cocked her face and gave a little whine.

Sandor's heart had already gone out to his wife long ago, but if it was
possible, he loved Sansa even more now. She accepted the tot without even
thinking twice!

The Hound dismounted, took Stranger's reins to lead him back to the stable,
summoned Falcon and told him they'd need a nice, wooden cradle as soon as
possible.
 
 
The evening and the night turned out to be quite different from what they had
planned. The tenants soon went home after helping the servants to clean up. In
the meantime, Ayella organized some milk and swaddling clothes. Nayla was
talking about how to treat a little baby. Sansa and Myrcella were holding the
little Clegane in turns.

At some point, Sandor asked: “By the way, what should her name be? What do you
think, Sansa?”

His wife looked up, bethought herself and asked: “Her mother's name was Jayne?”

“Aye.”

“Hmmm. She's born on your nameday, so she should also be called adequately.
What do you think about Sondra-Jayne?”

Sandor's heart was pounding. “You sure?”

Sansa smiled, and that settled the matter.
 
 
As one could imagine the night was very... exciting. In its very own way.
Instead of crawling into each other, Sandor and Sansa rather slept like two
spoons, and the Little Bird was cradling baby Jayne to her chest. Several
times, the newborn awoke at night and cried for milk, and once Sandor's sleep
was disturbed by a very distinct smell.

“Seven hells, she's just been born, but she can already shit like big one. How
the fuck is THAT possible? Does she have loose bowels because she didn't get
human milk for dinner?”

Sansa shrugged, and while she was taking care of the baby and swaddling her as
she claimed she had seen Old Nan do at Winterfell with Little Rickon she asked:
“What do you think, Sandor? Will you let her live here and raise her like our
own, or will you adopt her completely?”

The Hound had not thought about it before, but seven hells, it was a bloody
important question, of course.

“Hmm”, he rumbled. “Could you accept her as your own child, Sansa? I'm just
thinking, you know. It's bad that she's goddamn Gregor's natural daughter –
because HE was her sire, because she was conceived in an act of brutality, and
because she's bastard-born. Ask your brother Jon about being a bloody bastard.
Even if your father treated him fairly. Here in the west, there are more proud
than honourable men. Look at how Lord Lannister has expelled his own
grandchildren. So even if we accept her completely, it will still be fucking
difficult for her – we'd only fend off the worst effects of her heritage. So...
if you say you could love her as your own child... it would be best for Jayne
to adopt her.”

Sansa mused things over.
“The way you say it... I was never really close to Jon. Mother didn't like him,
because he was... not her own. So I didn't treat him like an equal either. Oh
Gods, I see your point! Holy mother, I fear I wasn't fair with him. And I
guess... so were others. I... I do see your point. Oh my, I really have to
write him some letters and to apologize – or even visit him at the Wall one
day, what do you think? – But back to Jayne. If we adopt her she'll be heiress
then, won't she?”

Sandor scratched his head. He knew the connotations with regard to lineage as
well as anybody, but it had just never come to his mind that this could mean
anything for his own existence.

“If we've got a son together some day he'll inherit the keep. And if for some
reasons we don't... we'd have to think things over again in the future. Fuck,
the whole situation is such a surprise that I still have got to come to terms
with it.”

Sansa nodded.
“I know what you mean. But Jayne is sweet, isn't she? I feel it's impossible
not to love her. Awww, look at her tiny fingers and fingernails! Gods, she's a
wonder! So small, but everything is already there!”

“Not quite so small – she's a Clegane after all.”

His Little Wife smiled.
“Yes, she is. And it's strange – somehow, I've got the feeling I'm starting to
forget I haven't given birth to her. No, she shall be ours – like the children
we'll hopefully have together one day.”

It was all Sandor needed to hear to crush Sansa to her chest – and though he
was known to the outside world to be the fearsome Lannister Hound, he suddenly
had a big lump in his throat; and his eyes were glinting from deep feelings he
couldn't and didn't want to conceal any longer.
 
 
In the morning, his whole body was stiff. Somehow, he had been afraid of moving
and rolling onto the child accidentally, even if Sansa's body had been a
buffer. Now, his tense muscles were screaming, and he felt as knocked out as he
had usually done after a nightly skirmish in the past.

“Seven Hells, I really need a warm bath today! What a tedious night. I mean,
our Jayne seems to be a sweet babe all right, but I feel... fucking unprepared
for this. Now, I'd give a lot for the warm springs at Winterfell”, he rasped.
The bathtub was in Sansa's room; they had completely forgotten it in the course
of events.

His Little Wife nodded and answered: “I'm tired, too. And I guess this is the
reason why you usually have nine months to get accustomed to the thought of a
baby. Well, be that as it may. Let's see if Tombry is already up and about and
can tell us, if Myrcella can take care of Jayne until breakfast and until we're
spick and span.”
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It turned out that the blind servant was already waiting eagerly outside the
door and wanted to know, if the child was fine. And yes, Myrcella had already
risen and could barely await to see the baby again. Falcon and Gendry had even
had an early breakfast and were busy working on a cradle yet.
Sansa put on a simple house-gown and took Jayne to the Lioness, and Tombry left
to tell the women that warm water was needed for the bathtub. Sandor went with
him since there was nobody else, who could carry the water to their rooms.
The women had already planned ahead and warmed some water.
Nayla smiled: “Yes, m'lord, the first days and nights with a baby can be quite
demanding. Men and high-born ladies, who have got wet nurses usually don't
understand this, but as I can see you're grasping the concept.”
“I guess you're right, woman. And now, hand me the buckets with the water
before it gets cold again.”
In the end, Sandor had to cover the distance thrice until the water in the huge
tub was at least almost high enough to soak yourself. Impatiently, the Hound
slipped out of his clothes and dunked himself into the water.
A minute later, he heard the door in his back open and close.
“Sandor, you're doing that on purpose. You forgot the towels and the soap
again!”
“Guilty of charge”, the Hound grinned, although he had actually forgotten those
items. He had been used to water pumps and pools along the road for so long
that most of the time he had had to get along without these things anyway.
In his back, he heard the rustle of fabric. And then, Sansa came into view.
Sandor's eyes bulged. He had heard the noise of her clothes slipping down, he
realized, and now she was naked. Stark naked, so to speak. The little bird was
flushing deep red, but he couldn't take his eyes off her lovely body.
Fortunately, she didn't flinch in spite of feeling embarrassed – and then she
stepped into the tub to keep him company.
Even though the Hound was literally dog tired his heart was beating in an
unruly way. He put forth his hand, caught hers to support her so she wouldn't
slip, and then guided her to straddle his lap. All of a sudden, he was
insecure. He had never been face to face with a naked woman while being naked
himself, let alone with a woman he loved and who was still more than half a
maid.
Sansa looked at him questioningly and chirped hesitantly: “Should we...
embrace?”
Sandor cleared his throat. “Bloody good idea.”
So his little wife put her arms around his neck and snuggled closer. Sandor
breathed in deeply. Oh my. OH MY. Her nipples were pressed against his chest
now. At the same time she felt rather similar to the way he had known in bed
already. His huge, calloused hands combed through her auburn hair.
It was strange. He had dreamed hundreds of dreams of bedding Sansa, but now
that they were skin on skin at last, arousal was only a part of the mix of
feelings. He felt nervousness, but also a serene joy, and even a little
playfulness (how the fuck did that go together?). His cock was hard, but the
rest of his body was still rather leaden after the long night. And her warmth
against him, her face in the crook of his neck and the soft rippling sounds of
the water somehow had the same relaxing, even sedating effect like a purring
cat sleeping on your tummy. After two or three minutes, it was just so very
comfortable that he was really enjoying himself.
“Sandor?” he then heard Sansa's voice from below his chin.
“Hmmm, Little Bird?”
“Is that... you... down there?”
“Aye.”
“Oh. - - - And is that where you... enter?”
The Hound chuckled darkly.
“No. That's just a very sensitive spot. I hope you'll come to like it. Your
opening is a little below.”
Sansa moved a little, very tentatively.
“Here...?”
“Hmmm. Sweet. You feel enticing, do you know that?” he hummed casually with his
raspy voice and wished he was as fit and hungry as he usually was. He guessed
that their next bath would be... livelier than today, when he wouldn't actually
be too tired to...
 
 
The Hound yelped. Suddenly, he was very wide awake. For Sansa had plunged
forward, pressed her body on his, and her weight – even light as it was – was
enough to impale her by half.
She went rigid, and Sandor was so taken by surprise that he only put his hands
around her waist helplessly and gasped: “WHAT THE F...!? Little Bird! What...
what is it? Don't hurt yourself!”
Sansa was gasping now, too, and uttered: “No... not really hurting... just...
tight.”
“Breathe slowly! Relax! It's normal. It's the first time.”
“Oh.”
Sandor combed through her hair and kissed her crown, desperately trying not to
show how confused he really felt. His senses were clearly overstrained. Blimey,
this was so very different from pushing into a battle-tested whore, and from
just getting some physical short-term relief!
After a moment, Sansa unclenched a little bit.
“Good! That's just right!” he encouraged her.
She was panting and nodded. He tried to guide her by holding her waist, and
after another moment, he managed to slide a little deeper into her. Fuck, that
was laborious! But he swore to himself he wouldn't hurt his Little Wife. His
wife now in earnest! Gosh, if only he had known she wanted to go through the
whole procedure right now, he would have tried to prepare her better!
It took two more careful movements until he was engulfed by her womanhood
completely. SEVEN HELLS. They were both breathing heavily and needed a moment
to digest the sensations from the place where they were joined.
“Holy Mother!” Sansa murmured and looked down into the water incredulously.
“You're so close!”
“That's the way it should be”, Sandor growled in a low voice.
Then, there was a mixture between a gasp and an embarrassed giggle: “Gods, I'm
relieved you're a fraction smaller than Hodor.”
The Hound froze.
“WHAT!?!?”
Sansa looked up at him with slightly glazed eyes.
“Did you never see him running around naked in the Godswood?”
Sandor snorted: “I thought you were a lady, and ladies wouldn't stare.”
“Ladies know that and learn to see things from the corner of their eyes. – –
AH!”
All of a sudden, Sandor had to bark his laughter, and that confused him even
more. Never before had he laughed while being together with a woman! But the
reverberations... felt good where their bodies were linked.
Sansa gasped again.
“That good, Little Bird?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Sandor tried to focus and decided not to carry out the normal in-and-out-
movements, because that was likely still a little difficult. So he just started
some rocking movements while still embracing her. He felt a bit clumsy, but his
wife didn't seem to mind and gave little gasps from time to time. After a few
minutes, his body decided that it was enough, and he peaked. From a neutral
point of view it was unspectacular, but from within his body, Sandor thought
that he had had a glimpse at the Seven Heavens.
When he came back to his senses he realized that Sansa hadn't even been close
to losing control, but from the way she looked up at him with her unbelievably
blue eyes, he understood that she liked what they had been doing. Fuck, that
was probably as good a first time for her as they could have ever expected.
Still, he would have preferred to pleasure her more.
Sandor was just about to make up his mind to put her onto the bed and to do
some other, sweet things to her, which might make her release as well... when
Sansa suddenly got up, chirped with a smile: “I can't wait to try it out
again!”, stepped out of the tub, dried herself with a towel and got dressed in
no time.
The Hound could only watch in astonishment. He wanted to say something, but
didn't dare to do so for fear it might come out wrong and spark off a quarrel.
And he didn't want to have a row after their very first lovemaking.
In the end, he settled for a – hopefully – harmless compliment: “You're lovely,
Sansa.”
His Little Wife turned around and flashed him a bright smile that made his
stomach somersault.
“You too! And now out of the water with you, big man!”
“Ah, not quite as big as Hodor, I've been told.”
The next moment, Sandor had to duck from a hairbrush Sansa had thrown at him.
The Hound stood up, his body and his long, dark, lank hair dripping, a
mischievous, twitching grin on his burned face. The Little Bird squealed in
anticipation and dashed into their adjoining bedroom. But her try to escape was
fruitless. After a few long strides, the Hound grabbed her and threw her onto
the bed. Sansa was crowing like mad, and Sandor didn't show any mercy and
tickled her until she was undone completely. Only then did he switch over to
kissing her, and only the fact that his cock was sated for the moment helped
that the whole situation didn't get out of hand again.
 
 
When the two of them arrived at the kitchen some half an hour later for
breakfast, Ayella commented: “M'lord, m'lady, I hope the bath was to your
liking. Here you've got some nice food to fill your bellies with. M'lady, we
reserved some lemon pudding for you from yesterday. And there are nice
omelettes with ham this morning. We've got hot milk with spices and sweet rolls
with nuts and almonds as well.”
Sandor couldn't help himself. The cook looked and sounded innocent enough, but
somehow, he was dead sure she knew exactly what had just happened between the
lord and the lady of the keep...
 
 
The day flew by like a breeze. There was his training. First a ride with
Stranger, then a fight with Gendry. Lunch. Helping Falcon and Gendry with the
cradle. Playing with Jayne. Sondra-Jayne. He even offered to feed and to
swaddle her. No man he knew had ever done that, but he didn't care one whit
about what was proper; he had never done that. And above all, there was the oh
so sweet, soft knowledge of what his Little Wife looked and felt like. The
Hound caught himself grinning into nothingness more than once. And he noticed
the servants shoot each other meaningful glances. Then, he barked some orders
at them – and knew damn well that they were smirking and winking behind his
back. The Seven fuck them all! But... well... what did it matter in the long
run? There were no malicious undertones. So finally, Sandor shrugged and
ignored the knowing smiles.
 
 
The only sad thing on that day was the burial that had to be carried out before
sunset. Since there was no holy man in the keep it was Sandor's duty to say a
few last words; when a wandering septon arrived at some later point the grave
could still be consecrated. The task wasn't easy for the Hound; he didn't know
the right words, and being the brother of the man who had violated Jayne didn't
help in that situation either. Finally, it was over, the grave closed, and they
retreated back home.
 
 
At dinner, the mood was still a little depressed. Myrcella was holding the baby
on her lap and was feeding the girl with milk. Lady and Moonlight had slipped
into the kitchen and were gnawing on some bones contentedly in a corner. Aengus
and Falcon were discussing the tasks for the next day. Cembara reported that
old Grayle's broken leg back in the tenants' village was a little better.
Otherwise, however, they were a little taciturn.
When they retired the new cradle had been put into their bedroom, together with
a cushion and a little blanket.
“It's not finished, as you can see”, Sandor explained with a smile, “but it'll
serve its purpose for the first night. Tomorrow, the men want to add the vats
so that it can be rocked, and later, they also want to add some carvings. They
want to put the sigil on it – plus a snowflake and a little bird.”
Sansa was smiling, too.
“That's so sweet. And look! Jayne is already asleep!”
“She's a lovely little thing. So calm. She must take after her mother in that
respect.”
Sandor halted, pondered, frowned.
“What is it, my love?”
“I just remembered that... my daughter Aralene was said to be tall, but calm
and amiable as well.”
Sansa hesitated, then said: “Well, when I look at you I can see that there is
so much more than just a wild, deadly streak within you. I wonder what you
would have been like, if you had had a better childhood. And if people had not
just always seen your size, strength and your burns.”
Sandor took hold of his wife's chin, raised her face to his, and looked into
her eyes.
Then, he bowed, nibbled on her lips and growled: “Fuck the Seven, what a pity
that we can't risk to wake the baby up. I've got a few ideas of what I'd like
to do with you. Our little episode in the morning was nowhere near enough.”
Sansa tittered, although she looked already a little tired. “Oh, I've got an
idea myself. You could show me this special book again.”
The Hound chortled: “You're quite eager for someone who's supposed to be very
delicate.”
“I'm a wolf, don't forget that.”
“Aye, and winter is coming.”
Sandor sighed, produced the collection of erotic stories and settled with his
Little Bird on the bed. Sansa yawned, put her head on his chest and begged him
to read, since she couldn't keep her eyes open to look at the pictures. He had
barely read two sentences with his raspy voice when his wife had dozed off. The
Hound smiled down at her sleeping form, yawned himself... and didn't even
manage to put the book away before he glided off into some sweet dreams
himself.
 
 
Two hours later, Jayne demanded new swaddling clothes.
Another two hours later, she was hungry.
Around the hour of the wolf the girl decided she had slept enough and made
crooning and bubbling baby noises.
When the morning dawned Sandor and Sansa had red-rimmed eyes and couldn't think
straight, let alone experiment with any kind of lovemaking. Fuck, Sandor
couldn't quite understand it: he had had many stressful night vigils during
uncounted military campaigns – then why was he more dog tired now than he had
ever been in the past?
At the breakfast table Lord and Lady Clegane were closely watched by Myrcella
and the staff. The Lioness offered them she could take Jayne after lunch so
that they could have a little nap. Sandor nodded his assent.
 
 
During the next month they were busy with the baby day and night. Oh yes, it
was lovely to have her. Sandor had never cared about human babies, only ever
about pups, but that had changed entirely. The only problem was that he and
Sansa were just too tired to make love again; whenever somebody offered to look
after Sondra-Jayne it was just enough time to get some sleep and gather their
strength again. The fact that the girl sometimes suffered from nightly colics
made them feel additionally drained in the mornings.
Nayla, Aengus's wife, had some problems of her own: she was often so sick
because of her pregnancy that it was impossible for her to enter the kitchen.
The castellan himself had some problems with the change towards the winter
weather, and he suffered from phantom pains in his non-existent legs.
Myrcella had her first moon blood, and she had horrible cramps that not even
Cembara's herbal teas could cure; in the end, when the pain bordered on wafts,
she needed to be given milk of the poppy. Gendry was quite beside himself, and
he suffered along with his little friend. Cembara's son, Giles, and his friend
Rollin had chickenpox and had to stay in bed; luckily, it was a mild form and
Jayne wasn't infected.
The only ones who were having a really good time were the animals. It all
started when Snowflake got into heat. Stranger hadn't cared much about Sansa's
palfrey before, but all of a sudden, he was as horny as a rabbit. Oh yes, he
still maintained his friendship with Lady, but whenever the direwolf went
hunting he started to mate with his fellow horse.
Lady didn't seem to be jealous, however. She got into heat, too, so she rolled
herself in front of the black courser and showed him her belly – but when he
didn't understand that his abilities as a lover were required here as well, she
turned towards a madly wagging Moonlight. And the blind dog knew exactly what
to do.
For Sandor, it was unnerving that the animals were fucking merrily, and he was
short-tempered. Sansa didn't feel much better; she couldn't warg into Lady
during these times, and once she accidentally slipped into Edmure Tully around
midnight. But the Lord of Riverrun had just been philandering with a kitchen
wench, and that caused Sansa to wake up with a squeak. After that, she couldn't
go back to sleep again right away, and the next day, she was as groggy as never
before.
Another time, she warged into her father. Lord Eddard was still in a tedious
council meeting, and when she noticed that he was suffering from the typical
headache that went along with being entered by a skinchanger, she fled again.
Next, Sansa tried to visit Arya, but her sister was too remote in the north –
and so were her other siblings. Once, she caught a fleeting glance of her
mother, but it stayed a blur. Even so, the Hound was deeply impressed by
Sansa's warging abilities. And it was just as important, if not more, that his
Little Wife didn't fall back into bad habits and kept eating her fill.
 
 
And then, they had their first wedding day. Sandor couldn't believe it. On the
one hand, time seemed to have flown, on the other hand, so many things had
happened that it would have been enough for five years.
A few days before the event, he had a secret conversation with Falcon, and in
the end, they were both smirking. The Hound remembered how much effort Sansa
had put into the celebration for his nameday, and he intended to repay her her
kindness. That also included a proper bedding, and this time, he meant to make
it better for her. So he tried to recall everything he had ever experienced or
heard on the matter. The evening before the wedding day he crossed Sansa's
bedroom, which was, in fact, only used for bathing and to reach the privy;
accidentally, his eyes glanced at a board and saw two little glasses. He
remembered them. And then, his mind connected them to a somewhat different
memory in one of Littlefinger's place. It had been something he had not
participated in, because he had not been interested at the time, but he had
seen enough and with his Little Bird... hm... his plans slowly brought a sly
grin to his face and made his mouth twitch – and water in anticipation of
some... interesting experiments.
 
 
There was something else that was settled, and it was right after dinner. They
had all eaten a hearty pastry filled with game; Ayella had really excelled
herself once more. Sansa was still eating consciously, with only little
problems, and her portion was back to normal. Cembara had already given Sandor
a secret appreciative nod.
Now, everybody was leaving to retire.
“Lord Clegane?”
The Hound turned around and faced Myrcella.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Can we... talk for a moment?”
“Why – yes, of course.”
Sandor was surprised. True, he and the young Lioness had exchanged a few
sentences over the years, but they had been rare and clipped, had all been
related to concise situations – such as excusing himself with a snarl for
standing in her way back in Kings Landing, or her asking him for the dance at
the feast for his nameday. They had never had a real conversation as such.
When they retreated into the empty corridor for a private word, the girl was a
little shy, but not afraid as she had been in the days of old.
“Lord Clegane, I've heard that you will have your first wedding day tomorrow.”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Right. I wanted to offer you to take care of Jayne for the next two nights and
days, so that you have more time with Sansa. I know how to handle the baby well
enough, and if I had a question there'd be so many people I could ask for help.
And in a ticklish situation I would have to disturb you, of course.”
Sandor was amazed, and smiled.
“Lady Myrcella, how mindful of you! I've seen you treat Jayne carefully and
lovingly. Your offer is very nice, and if you promise that you won't shrink
back from telling us, if anything is amiss, I'll be happy to leave her with you
for a short time.”
The young Lioness beamed up; she had indeed become very fond of the baby.
“My lord, and there was something I wanted to say. I wanted to thank you for
taking care of me. Nobody else did. They always called you “Hound” and “Dog”,
and in Kings Landing I was so afraid of you. When I was told they wanted to
send me here, to you, I believed my life would become... even more of a hell
than it had already done. But... that was so very wrong! I'm happy here. More
than I would have ever believed possible. It's strange. When I was a princess,
everybody was so friendly and obeyed me. When they found out... the same faces
treated me badly. You were they only one where it was the other way round. You
are so much nicer now. I can't believe it.”
Sandor was at a loss for words for a moment.
Then he growled: “There is nothing to thank me for. I simply know what it's
like to be treated like a bloody cur. I couldn't let it happen to you, because
you are a Lannister lady, whatever they say. And if I have changed for the
better – that's thanks to Sansa and her father.”
Myrcella furrowed her brow.
“Lord Clegane, I don't know who to ask, so please let me ask you. The
Lannisters don't want me any more, so I don't want them any more either. I have
flowered. Could I... would it be possible to marry Gendry?”
The Hound was dumbfounded.
“You love him?” he rumbled.
Now, the girl's eyes were full of warmth.
“Oh yes, very much so! At first, I just felt drawn to him... I don't know...
somehow he felt as if I knew him already, and he made me feel comfortable. But
the more I really get to know him, the more I see his serious sincerity. He's
careful and gentle, and that makes me feel... I don't know... at home. I hope
you understand.”
“I know damn well. I'm at home where Sansa is.”
They looked both incredulous: Myrcella for the Hound revealing his feelings
openly, and Sandor for the Lioness being able to feel so deeply at such a young
age. Seemingly, at first her subconsciousness had been attracted by Gendry's
similarity to his sire – the very man who she had believed to be her own father
for years. Robert had probably not been a dedicated father, but he had liked
his “children” well enough. But be that as it may, obviously Myrcella loved
Gendry now for who he was.
“Lady Myrcella, first of all, I want to say that you shouldn't reject your
family as a whole. It is true that your mother is dead, and your grandfather
can't accept you right now, but there are still your brothers. And... Jaime.”
The girl looked up at him, thoughtful.
“You are right about one person. I miss Tommen. But I don't miss the others.
Mother killed fa... King Robert. Joffrey... I don't know. He was more and more
mean every day. Even back in Kings Landing I didn't like him as I used to do in
the past. And then, I heard what he had... done to Sansa. I heard it from him
myself. And he was happy about what he thought would be Sansa's downfall! No, I
don't miss him, not really. Grandfather is as cold as the gold he's supposed to
sh... produce on the privy. And UNCLE Jaime. I may be of... his origin. But
nothing more. You are more of a father for Jayne than he ever was for me. Over
the last weeks even YOU have been more of a fatherly friend for me than UNCLE
Jaime in more than eight, nine years. I don't know, if he didn't like me, or if
he didn't care, or if he was just afraid of the truth to be known – and
honestly, I don't care. At first, I thought I hated him. But now... I simply
don't feel much at all. He doesn't mean more to me than any other knight or
nobleman in the Red Keep. There is still uncle Tyrion. He might have a chance.
I don't know what to feel for him. It's just... I'm asking myself... He is so
intelligent, and he is family – did he really not know?”
“Your grandfather is very intelligent, too, and so is your great-uncle Kevan.
And they both didn't have the slightest clue of what was going on. And even if
your uncle Tyrion had an inkling there wasn't anything he could do. It was too
sensitive a topic, and nobody would listen to him. And Jaime... he wishes you
well. He allowed you to come here, because he felt you'd be happier here, and
he was right. And he accepts your... fondness of Gendry.”
“I don't care what he accepts. I only want to know... will my Lord Grandfather
kill Gendry, if I marry him against his wish? He might still want to marry me
to a lowly bannerman.”
Sandor was shocked.
Myrcella had just proved to be a real Lannister. Even at her age she had a deep
understanding of what Lions could do, if anybody crossed their plans.
The Hound pondered the options.
“If you were still a princess he would do it, I won't lie to you. But your...
tactical value for him has sunk so much that I don't think he'd consider it
worth the effort.”
Myrcella sighed.
“Good. Then, it's worth something I'm not a princess any longer.”
Again, Sandor was impressed. Myrcella was smart, unlike Tommen. And she was
mature beyond her age. Like Sansa. Both girls had been forced to grow up too
early.
“Lady Myrcella, you should still wait with your marriage.”
“Why? I've flowered. I'm a woman, I can carry children. And Joffrey made me
watch servants from a cupboard, so I know what goes on in marriage bed. I'm not
afraid of Gendry's touches. He'll be careful with me, I know that.”
The girl's revelation, unflinching as it was, made Sandor still shudder about
Joffrey's internal deformity.
“Yes, I'm sure Gendry will treat you carefully. But you should wait three or
four years, even if you have flowered. The rest of your body still has to catch
up, and to look like a woman. Only then can you not only get pregnant, but also
carry a child safely. I don't want to have a second Jayne, you know. And a
child's body is not made for the marriage bed. It would hurt. You will both
like it much more when you're older. – FUCK, I can't believe I'm talking to you
about these things!”
Finally, Myrcella blushed, but she answered adamantly: “It may not be proper
for a noble lady, but I'm beyond that. You are some sort of... guardian now.
And you know my family, and you know many things about life. You're the best
one to ask.”
If Tywin Lannister had been transferred into the mind and body of a girl, he
couldn't have sounded more like Myrcella did now. For the first time in his
life Sandor asked himself what the old Lion had been like as a boy.
Warily, he answered: “I must say you're a practical one, Lady Myrcella. It
suits you. This shows that I can really entrust you with Jayne. Let's take the
cradle to your room!”
 
 
Usually, Sandor was a light sleeper and woke up early in the morning. Years of
serving as Joffrey's sworn shield and numerous bloody wars with military camps
in the open had seen to it that the Hound was always on guard, even
subconsciously.
This morning, however, was different. The first quiet night after a month. So
he woke up very slowly, and his body was faster than his brain in that respect.
His mind DID realize some stimuli, though. Warm. Soft. Relaxed. Close. Closer.
Silky. Lovely. Hot. Wet. It was the most natural thing to want to be closer
still and to press into that heat.
Then, Sandor's eyes popped open, and he gathered that he was just in the
process of entering his wife. He stopped dead and goggled. From his point of
view, he could just see Sansa's auburn mane under his chin, not her face. What
became obvious was that she was wearing no nightshift; it lay discarded on her
side of the bed. Her arms were thrown around his neck. And his laces were open,
so that his cock was free... to be put where it was now.
“Little Bird?” he whispered, incredulous.
“Hmmmmm”, Sansa murmured. “How very charming to begin our wedding day like
this.”
Next, she tried to snuggle even closer, if that was possible, and the last inch
or so slid into her.
“Holy shit!” Sandor rasped – and Sansa giggled breathily: “You feel good, too!”
The Hound was so gobsmacked that he even forgot to move.
A moment later, one female arm moved slowly down, from his neck... over his
sides... around his waist... and suddenly, she was shyly cupping a buttock.
Sandor uttered a hoarse moan, and Sansa looked up at him in alarm.
“Not good?”
The Hound growled: “Too good! Put that damned hand away, or I'll peak before
we've really started!”
“Oh.”
Thrice-damned seven hells, he really had to take over now, or he'd blow the
whole show! So Sandor put his arms around his Little Wife and rolled her on the
back. And then, he started to kiss and nibble and bite her mouth; and when she
responded eagerly, he started to move. Oh. Oooohh! Sansa felt so good, so
unbelievably good! Sandor really tried his best to take things slow, and to
make them enjoy their loveplay. The only thing was that his Little Bird
compensated her inexperience with enthusiasm. Some of her movements were
sometimes a little clumsy, but her happy, glorious little noises enthralled him
in such a way that soon enough, he lost his rhythm, thrust into her frantically
and exploded with loud, wild moans.
It took him a moment until his senses came back to him – but then, he hastily
rolled aside, noticing that his weight was crushing and choking his wife.
So they lay there, panting. After two or three minutes, Sansa propped up
herself and grinned.
“Has the Wolf worn the Dog out?”
“No flaming chance. The Dog is just contemplating the next race.”
“We could contemplate it together while having a bath, what do you think?”
“On my word – I think there wouldn't be much contemplation.”
“Sounds promising.”
Sandor couldn't believe what he heard his wife say. He grabbed her hand.
“Sansa?”
“Hmmmmyes?”
“I didn't hurt you, did I?”
“You mean before you fell on top of me like a stone giant?”
Sandor's eyes widened for a moment with worry – until he saw that mischievous
twinkle in the Little Bird's eyes. What the fuck!? She was pulling his leg! He
had fucked her only the second time, and she was already so much at ease with
him that she was having him on!
“Need more of your giant, don't you?” he growled with a smirk.
Sansa squealed, and for the next few minutes, they were tussling in bed –
laughing and wriggling and giggling and rumbling like mad.
When they finally collapsed, the Little Bird panted: “Goooods! We really do
need a bath now. Wait, I'll just go and tell the women to heat up the water.”
And in no time, Sansa was out of bed and donning a simple gown. Sandor watched
her from the bed, and suddenly, his wife grinned again.
“What now, woman?”
“Your hair is so much in disorder that it looks as if you've got a black halo!”
“People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Only your hair is
red.”
“Oh, where's my brush then? – By the way, Sandor, in the north people say about
redheads that they've been kissed by fire.”
The Hound snorted. “What an idea. But at least I can attest to you having been
kissed by a burned man.”
They both laughed again, and then, Sansa sneaked out to order the warm water.
In the meantime, Sandor rose, too, and put on some clean clothes. He looked
back at the bed. Fuck the Seven, from the look of it the servants would ask
themselves what the heck their lord and lady had been doing to make it look
such a mess. Ah, to all hells with it! This was their wedding day after all.
 
 
Half an hour later, the water was there, and they poured it into the bathtub.
And as soon as the door had clicked shut behind the last servant, Sandor nearly
tore off his clothes and kicked them aside. Having that done, he helped Sansa
out of her dress. The Little Bird blushed sweetly, though it struck him as odd
that she'd do that now – after having seduced him right before. Still, the
crimson cheeks and neck didn't fail to turn him on, and they had barely entered
the bathtub when they were busy making love again.
Whoa, now that was a wedding day after his taste! Sansa was eager as well as
playful, and when she moaned happily, he thought he was hearing a divine choir
from the seven heavens. His hands were around her waist so as to guide her, but
she needed no help and had seemingly grasped the concept.
Never before had he enjoyed it so much to be together with a woman – but then
again, he had only ever fucked. Never made love. The only problem about bedding
his Little Bird was that he was unable to control himself enough to satiate
her. After few minutes, he spent himself once more. And involuntarily moaned so
loudly that surely the whole keep knew then that the lord was having a damned
good time. Again.
Afterwards, Sansa didn't move an inch away from him, even though he had
softened. Instead, she took the soap and used it on his chest – and from her
looks she felt privileged to be allowed to do so. A flaming wonder.
Next, it was him, who soaped her. On touching the tender, silky skin of her
torso and the wet tangles of her hair he thought that he would release there
and then, if he hadn't done so mere minutes before. It was the first time that
Sansa could accept his hands on her breasts. She still tensed a little, but
after a while of gentle ministrations she was able to relax. Sandor jubilated
inwardly and kissed his wife. What the fuck had he done to deserve so much
happiness?
 
 
Finally, they made it down for breakfast. It was already late, and apart from
Ayella and a dozing Lady on a blanket in a corner, no-one else was left. But
there was already plenty of food on the table, and Sandor wolfed down nothing
less than four rolls with cold roast, two little sausages, two fried eggs and
two pancakes. Fuck, in a few moons he'd surely have put on weight! He had
always been gaunt, but now, he was able to indulge in food like he had never
done before. And a bit of his hunger had apparently rubbed off on the Little
Bird. She ate a complete bowl with sweet porridge with a good appetite and
drank a big glass of honeyed milk. How very good! Sandor thought to himself
that he should bed her regularly, if their lovemaking sparked off her hunger.
After the breakfast, they walked into the yard. The sounds of a hammer crashing
upon an anvil could be heard from the smithy. They sauntered over and saw
Gendry swinging his hammer and Falcon work the bellow with his single hand.
Myrcella was in the background with Baby Jayne, but near the entrance and well
away from the smoke. When the infant saw Sandor and Sansa she started to make
happy bubbling sounds.
“Did you have a good night with her?” the Hound asked the young Lioness.
Myrcella yawned.
“Yes, fine, no real problems. I just had to swaddle her twice.”
“I see. Thank you for taking care of her.”
In the meantime, Falcon had walked over.
“M'lord, good morning. Let us express our best wishes for your wedding day.
Today, we'll be working on a plough. The metal was already a bit rusty before
the harvest, and now it's even worse, so we have to repair it.”
The Hound nodded.
“Just you go ahead. By the way – has everything been prepared?”
The smith inclined his head and smiled.
“We have arranged everything according to your wishes, m'lord.”
“Good. Very good. Thanks.”
Chapter End Notes
     I must say that I've noticed that I age Sansa and others up a little
     in my mind in "M" or "E" surroundings. I don't mind the age gap in
     general, but Sansa's extreme youth troubles me.
***** Chapter 21 *****
Together, they made for the stable. Stranger greeted them loudly – he wanted to
be taken out. Over the past weeks, they had put him on the meadow as often and
as long as possible, but sometimes the late autumn weather had been too foul.
The day before, there had been lots of sleet, so Stranger and Snowflake had
been kept indoors. Today, it was better, whatever snow had fallen had thawed in
the first rays of daylight, and between the clouds the sun could be seen time
and again. The only negative thing was that the ways were still wet and
slippery, so they would have to be careful, especially since Sansa wasn't such
a good rider.
Still, Sandor was in high spirits. The horses were harnessed, saddled and taken
out. Lady had joined them, sensing that there would be a nice excursion with
her big, black friend. Blind Tombry staggered carefully across the yard with a
bundle of food and two flasks. The Little Bird was getting curious.
“Oh, what's that?”
“Something for later”, the Hound rasped and put the provisions into a
saddlebag.
Next, he helped his wife to mount Snowflake. Stranger attempted a half-hearted
bite at his master; but he was far too eager to move, so he didn't bolt or come
up with other vicious ideas. One little kick and a tug on the reins, and off
they went. Sandor had to slow his courser down, because Sansa wasn't so fast.
Still, their ride was wonderful. First, they headed towards the tenants'
village, where they were greeted submissively, but the Hound noticed that
underneath the peoples' servile attitude there was also some kind of friendly
tenor.
Sansa distributed some toffees on behalf of their wedding day to the children.
She and Nayla had made them together, and somehow Sandor felt proud that his
wife had helped in the preparations. When they had finished giving away the
sweets, they went on. It was the first time that they did have a thorough look
at the fief together. There were lots of fields (of which still too many lay
fallow), but also two streams, one small and one bigger lake as well as some
timberland.
The spouses also left the boundaries of the tenure and moved closer towards the
sea, even if they didn't get there. They still had not visited the neighbouring
mansions and keeps, but the Hound pointed out that the lords were usually
present at Casterly Rock anyway and often only showed interest in their land
insofar as to what they got out of it. Sansa couldn't understand that; her
father had cared so much about the north – the people, the land, everything!
Lady was running to and fro, clearly happy about their trip and the movement.
Snowflake proved to be very sure-footed so that the muddy way was no problem
for Sansa, and Stranger behaved as if he was the cock of the walk.
In the early afternoon, they were back on Clegane land and in a little forest
that bordered on the smaller of the two lakes they chanced upon a cabin.
Sandor explained: “There was once a charcoal burner here, but he has left –
along with so many others. Falcon told me he was one of the last to run away,
so the hut hasn't gone into decay yet. Let's have a look, and we could also eat
Ayella's food there!”
With those words they dismounted. Lady was overjoyed and sniffling around like
mad.
While Sansa was already jigging towards the cabin the Hound growled at the
direwolf: “If I were you I'd be off hunting now. There are lots of fat, tasty
animals in the wood. So better abscond, if you know what's good for you.”
Lady looked at him, completely innocent, cocked her head and didn't move one
inch.
“Sweetest fuzzball of a beast, since when are you daft? Your mistress and I
want to mate!”
No reaction.
Sandor swore in frustration: “Stupid furred monster, if you want to wait
outside and listen – it's no hair off my arse. Not at all.”
Lady yawned and lay down peacefully next to Stranger and Snowflake where they
had been tethered.
“Your choice”, Sandor rasped indignantly and stomped off towards the hut with
the saddlebags.
Inside, Sansa awaited him with a wide smile.
“Oh, my love, we're lucky! Everything is still clean! Look, here we've got the
hearth, a table and two stools! And here, we've got tinder and wood. Over there
is a rocking chair, and there are heaps of fur, too. So we won't feel cold
here, even in this chilly weather. Oh, and where's Lady?”
Sandor smiled to himself. Of course, they wouldn't feel cold! And of course he
would neither tell her that somebody had come here in advance, dusted the cabin
and arranged a few things to make the hut comfortable.
“Lady is with Stranger and Snowflake.”
“Ah, I see. Well, then close the door, it's quite cold, and let's eat and drink
something! You won't believe it, but I really feel a little hungry after the
long ride!”
Sandor looked at his wife, surprised and happy at the same time. She was able
to feel hunger again! What a fantastic sign! Eagerly, he darted to the table,
opened the saddlebags and produced some ham and cheese, bread and fancy
blueberry cakes. There were also the flagons with Dornish Red, just the way he
liked it. Next, he kindled a little fire. He didn't like flames, but he
couldn't avoid them, if they wanted to have it snug and warm.
He said to Sansa with a grin: “Right. Let's sit down, it all looks really
delicious. You most of all!”
“Sandor! You're improper again!”
“No, I'm not. I'm your husband.”
Sansa laughed and grabbed a blueberry cake. In the meantime, Sandor opened the
first flagon, and since they had no cups, he took a swig directly from the
bottle. Then, he helped himself to a little cake, too. Later, they cut the
cheese into morsels and nibbled them along with the wine. Sansa's cheeks were
already a little rosy, and she was rhapsodising about the lovely things they
had seen today, and that the children in the village had been so enthralled
about the home-made candy.
The Hound was just listening most of the time and enjoying himself.
After a while, he patted his belly and rasped. “Aaaah, that was good! Now, I
think it's high time for the dessert.” He bowed and rummaged in the saddlebags.
“Sandor, you're quite insatiable! How can any man eat so much! I still remember
what you wolfed down for breakfast. Must have something to do with your size, I
guess. – Oh, what's that?”
“Aaaaah... you must have seen something like that before. It's called a
“spoon”.”
“Don't take me for a fool!”
“I'd never do that. And look, here we've got your glass with Clegane honey.”
Sansa frowned.
“You want to eat honey for dessert?”
Sandor bellowed his laughter.
“Aye. To be precise: The bear wants to lick the honey off the maiden's hair.”
And with the darkest growl he added: “Get your clothes off and lie down on the
table!”
His Little Wife stared at him with wide eyes. Then, she looked at herself, and
next to the table.
“THERE?” she asked and was clearly confused.
“Aye.”
Slowly, Sansa started to undress, and the Hound's eyes roamed over her body. He
would never tire of drinking in her sight! Ah, yes, this was all he wanted, and
she was flushing so damned enchantingly! When she was naked she looked again at
the table and still couldn't believe he meant it in earnest. But when he didn't
say another word she slowly sat down on the edge of the table.
“Lie back.”
Hesitantly, she obliged. Her legs were dangling down, and it seemed to be a bit
unpleasant for her, so she decided to slip a little more towards the middle of
the table. Her bosom was heaving now, just the way Sandor wanted to have it.
He opened the glass, put the spoon into the golden honey and let a bit of it
trickle onto her collarbones. Then he bowed over the Little Bird and set to
work with his tongue. Sansa gasped. She would be messy and sticky in no time,
but that didn't matter to him; there was a little stream outside, so they could
clean everything up later. He took another spoonful of honey, and this time, he
aimed for a breast. Sansa's face was marked by utter puzzlement – and arousal.
He dipped his head and sucked on the honey-glazed nipple. The Little Bird
moaned. It was the sweetest song he could possibly hear, and he was enthused by
her reactions. When he caressed her second breast in a likewise manner, she
moaned again and started to arch into his mouth. Oh! Yes!
Just a year ago he would not have believed in his most fervent dreams that any
woman would ever react to him like that – and now, there she was, Sansa, his
wife, the woman he loved more than his own life!
He repeated his ministrations with both breasts, and the Little Bird started to
melt like the honey he was using on her.
“Oh Gods, Sandor!”
He just grunted hungrily in response.
The next step were belly and navel. His wife giggled, obviously she was
ticklish there and the Hound smiled into his caresses. Afterwards, he dropped a
bit of honey on her knees, and they were holding each other's gaze while he was
licking her clean there.
“Let's get to the core of it”, he murmured with his steel-on-stone voice – and
pushed the legs apart.
“Sandor! What are you doing!?”
Sansa gasped in shock and wanted to sit up, but the Hound held her down and
made some soothing noises.
“Ssshh! Don't fret. I just want to admire your loveliness. And there will be
nothing but caresses, I promise. If there's anything you really don't like I'll
stop at once, but let's try it out first!”
Now, Sansa was so excited that he could see her blood whoosh where her pulse
point was, and he was panting himself because of his hammering heart. To be
honest, he wasn't quite sure if he would like what he was about to do. He knew
that some men pleasured their lovers with their mouth while others felt
disgusted by it. In Littlefucker's brothel he had seen men do it to whores and
also seen the reactions (though most of the time it had been the whores' mouths
that had been busy with the customers – or other harlots, for the sake of
watching); anyway, he himself had never felt the need to touch a woman in that
way. But Sansa didn't like his hands on her private parts, so he had to try
this version to satiate her.
Sandor pulled her more towards the edge of the table and draped her legs over
his shoulders. Slowly, he put the spoon into the honey once more... and let it
trickle on her mound. The Little Bird gasped. Then, he bowed deeper and kissed
her there. Sansa whimpered, but it was not in pain. The Hound furrowed his
brow. Her skin was delicious, and her strong female scent down there made him
dizzy – but the sticky pubic hair in his mouth was more disturbing than
entertaining. He didn't want to be left chocking. So... probably he just had to
move where there was no hair. Carefully, he spread her legs even further, so
that she was completely open for him. Sansa had blushed a deep, rich crimson.
“Sandor, do you really think –?”
“Aye!” he cut in.
Then he dipped his head anew. Above him, there was a resounding moan. Hmmmm, oh
yesssss, that was it! THAT was what he wanted!
Her taste was a bit strange, but he didn't really mind it. He took his time and
let his tongue move here and there to get to know her womanhood. Sansa
involuntarily bucked into his mouth. A moment later, he found her sensitive
spot – and was rewarded with a sharp, high-pitched whine. Ohhh, how very, very
good! No howl from a wolf could be better. Now, Sandor was downright avid, and
he caressed her with abandon.
Sansa moaned and squeaked and wailed, completely forgetting herself, while he
had put his hands around her waist and was holding her firm in place.
The Little Bird's legs started to twitch and to tremble – and only moments
later she screamed out her release. There were even tears streaming down her
cheeks.
The Hound's heart was in his throat, and he couldn't believe that finally, he
had managed to satisfy his wife. Carefully, he took her limp form in his arms,
put her onto the furs and snuggled down next to her. It took her two or three
minutes until she was able to gather her wits again.
Then, she looked up at him, and her blue eyes were full of wonder.
“Back amongst the living, Little Bird?”
Sansa nodded shyly.
Slowly, she cupped Sandor's cheek – it was the burned side – leaned up towards
him and breathed: “That was just so incredible!”
For an instant, there was an extremely smug grin on the Hound's face, but that
stopped at once, for his wife started to kiss him so wildly that he was almost
knocked senseless.
She was weeping again, and there were tiny little sobs: “I love you, I love
you, I love you!”
Fuck that was almost too much for him! This was absolute bliss!
After a while, Sansa asked: “What about the glass with honey? Is it empty? I
can't see it on the table any more.”
Sandor chortled: “You threw it down with your twitches when you peaked. But
never mind. Do you know what I still have got in my saddlebag? The glass with
the lemon marmalade!”
A twinkle stole into the Little Bird's eyes.
“That's more after my taste. I could use it on you then, couldn't I?”
The Hound licked his burned lips.
“That's something I'd surely like. I hope you remember how to do it from the
picture in the book – don't worry, I'll show you the details. And afterwards,
we could make love in the rocking chair.”
Sansa's looks darted to the piece of furniture in question.
“Why... oh Holy Mother! I've never thought about that possibility. O Gods!
Would it be... the same like in the bathtub?”
“Har! You're a clever Little Bird, do you know that?”
 
 
They were both laughing softly – when suddenly, there was a scratching and a
whining sound on the door.
“Fuck, what does Lady want now?” Sandor growled.
But Sansa... froze.
“Something isn't in order!” she whispered.
At once, the Hound was alert. He was still fully clothed, that was good.
Swiftly, he tossed Sansa her clothes as well as a dagger from the saddlebags,
and grabbed the sword that he had put onto the earth when they had sat down for
eating.
Stealthily, Sandor moved to the door and opened it. Lady was waiting there, the
fur at her collar standing on end. Her eyes darted into the wood and back.
Then, she shrank into the underbrush. Sandor put his finger to his lips to ask
Sansa to be quiet, grabbed the handle of a lid of a big, wooden box, so that he
could use it as a shield and tiptoed to the horses, which were nervous, too.
Quietly, he loosened the reins. Stranger was too good a fighter to do without
him. Still no sign of a danger, but that meant nothing. Remembering where Lady
had disappeared, he followed her into the underbrush.
For two or three minutes, everything was quiet. But then, there was the crack
of a twig. Somebody was approaching the cabin. And from Lady's reaction it was
no-one she knew. And... no friend, most likely. But who?
A man crept into sight. He was wearing dark, earthen colours, a dirty leather
doublet, gauntlets, a short sword, and he had a hard face. The visage of a
fighter, and a mean one at that. Behind him, there was another, taller, bonier
man, but also with an air of malice. And then, a third, fourth, fifth. Oh SHIT!
That was a little horde!
Suddenly, Sandor's eye caught a detail about one man: he was wearing a plaid
with a kraken. Those men were from Pyke! They were Ironborn! It was downright
incredible – what the fuck were they doing here of all places?
The Greyjoy spawn was rough and nasty, and they were all good fighters, who
only paid “the iron price”, as they called it. And they regularly raided the
coastline to steal and loot and rape and abduct... saltwives! Sandor went cold
to the bone. At the same time, the anger of the Hound was set loose. Nobody
would ever be able to take his Little Bird away from him!
He heard the first man say in a hushed voice: “Right, men, now we know where
the smoke came from. And look at the two horses! Seems as if we've caught two
big fishes. Wonder, if there'll be a tasty wench inside. If that's so – I've
seen the smoke first, so I take her first. Good, everything looks quiet. Let's
surprise them! And afterwards, we can take the animals with us.”
The men crept up to the cabin – and Sandor crept up to them. In a way it was
good that he was wearing no mail, because he was able to move almost
noiselessly. The problem was that he was equally defenceless, and against five
men that was no small thing. So he had to kill the first sodding knave before
they noticed him.
The men's focus was meanwhile on the entrance door, and they were close to the
hut. Now or never! Sandor dashed forwards, struck his sword out – and swung it
at the last man, who was just turning around. Fmmmp! And his ugly head with the
greasy hair was rolling on the ground.
Now, the others had noticed and were lining up to fight him. What they had not
taken into consideration was that a huge direwolf would break free from the
underbrush. Lady was all teeth and claws, and the gentle animal that she
normally was had receded completely, giving in to her wild nature.
There were shocked shouts and gasps, and then, the wolf had ripped out the
first throat. The faces of the three remaining Ironborn reflected utter horror.
On the one hand, there was that horrible beast that seemed to come from a
nightmare, and on the other hand, they had clearly registered who their
opponent was: the infamous, burned Lannister Dog. But – being battle-hardened
warriors – they didn't mean to eat dirt and intended to sell their lives
dearly.
Lady was circling the first man, who had appeared, showed him her bloodied
teeth, and snarled. The two others attacked the Hound.
Sandor stood his ground and let his sword sing. After a moment, he managed to
chop off a sword arm above the elbow, the scoundrel screamed in pain and
collapsed. But the other villain didn't wait for the Hound to strike and came
up at him in a frontal assault. The makeshift shield was able to buffer the
blow, but still the sharp steel of the sword bit into Sandor's side, and pain
erupted in his body. With a grunt, he sank to the earth, helpless, and the
world went dark.
 
 
He could only have been unconscious for a few minutes. When he came back to his
senses he moaned. Seven hells, his side hurt so much!
Suddenly, he realized that a weeping Sansa was kneeling next to him.
“Sandor! Oh Sandor, please don't die!” she cried.
“I'm not so easy to kill”, he rasped with some effort.
He looked around and saw that his last attacker had been trampled to a pulp.
That was Stranger's style of fighting. Lady had seemingly finished her own foe
off. And the man he had injured was dead, too. Sandor stared. His own dagger
stuck out of his chest. The dagger he had given to Sansa.
“When he saw you were unconscious he wanted to kill you with his remaining
hand. I couldn't let him do that.”
Sansa's eyes were unnaturally wide, and it was clear that she had a bad shock.
“Thank you, Little Bird”, Sandor addressed her with a moan, “take Snowflake and
Lady and ride home. Tell the others. They must come and put me on a cart. And
call Cembara.”
“What if there are more of these... criminals?”
“Stranger will guard me. And it will help, if I know you're safe.”
Sansa pressed her trembling fingers on her mouth, so Sandor tried it again.
“It's bloody – ah – important for you to... fulfil your duty. Please. Help me
once more. Go home. Tell the others!”
At last, Sansa nodded mechanically. She gave him a desperate kiss, stood up,
and walked over to Snowflake. Her movements were wooden. Lady was whining, but
followed her mistress. After some tries, the Little Bird finally managed to
mount her horse without help and galloped off as fast as her limited riding
abilities allowed her to do.
When Sandor heard the clatter of the hooves die away, he lost his consciousness
again.
 
 
He couldn't estimate when his men arrived. At some point, he heard distant
noises, and he thought that there were male voices, Falcon and Gendry. He felt
that he was lifted, and he heard the younger smith swear, probably, because his
lord was so big and heavy. Sandor moaned. With joint forces he was put onto a
loading platform that belonged to Aengus's cart – this was at least what the
Hound pieced together later.
As soon as the vehicle started to move, he moaned again, because the vibrations
on the rather uneven ground with its roots across the path caused him pain.
Even so, he passed out again after a while.
Later, he was lifted off the platform again. There were the chirping sounds of
his Little Bird. She was frantic. Next to him, there was also Cembara's calm,
clear voice. With some kind of stretcher he was taken to their rooms and put
onto the bed. His bloodied clothes were removed, and female hands started to
examine him – but Sandor couldn't focus and lost his consciousness again.
He didn't notice that boiled wine was spilled over his wound, and that he was
stitched up. Only later did he realize that his wound had been tended to. When
he woke up again, there was a cold sweat on his brow. Was he getting a fever?
No, no, that was impossible in this situation! He had to be fit! They were in
danger!
Sansa was at a washbowl and preparing a cool, wet cloth for his forehead.
“Little Bird!” Sandor whispered urgently.
His wife spun around.
“Oh, my love, you're awake!”
There was turmoil in her eyes.
“Yes. Sansa. Listen to me. It's absolutely important.”
She nodded fervently.
“The attackers were... Ironborn.”
“Theon's people”, Sansa breathed.
“Whatever”, the Hound rumbled. “We've to go to Casterly Rock. We've got to tell
our liege lord. The men from Pyke may attack elsewhere in the region, too. Or
they might come back here with more men, and we don't have a guard to defend
the keep.”
His wife's eyes grew wide.
“But... you can't travel, you're too ill!”
“Sansa. Haven't you learned anything from your father about lordship? Even I
have in these few weeks with him. I have to help my people. And the Lannisters
as well. Mutual interest, you see?”
His Little Bird was at a loss.
“But how do you want to travel? It's impossible for you right now!”
She placed the wet rag on his brow, and its coolness was soothing.
“Put me on the cart. Simple as that. Take Gendry and Myrcella. The girl must be
safe, too. Stranger and Snowflake. Lady, Sondra-Jayne and you. Tomorrow, at the
first grey of dawn. Order. From the lord.”
The few words had already exhausted him, and Sandor was drifting off into sleep
again. When he awoke, Cembara was at his side, and he had to drink some bitter
herbal infusion.
She berated him: “You're stubborn and unwise, m'lord. Travelling in you
condition won't do you any good. We have already sent Falcon off on Stranger to
Casterly Rock at top speed. As a smith Glendor maybe isn't an accomplished
rider, but he knows enough basics to deal with your courser, if need be.”
The Hound smiled with an effort, and his mouth twitched.
“Good woman. Very good idea. But it's not enough. Just the first step. We'll do
the rest as I've ordered. No discussion.”
The healer sighed and knew when she had to succumb to the stupidity of a
patient.
 
 
Later, Sandor felt Sansa sneak into bed and snuggle up to him. “Myrcella has
taken care of the baby once more. You must rest. Your plan is madness.”
But the Hound shook his head.
“Necessity.”
Then, they kissed, the Little Bird put her arms around him, and they both fell
into an uneasy sleep.
 
 
It was still dark when they were woken by a sleepy Tombry. They washed
superficially and saw to their basic physical needs. Sandor felt embarrassed,
because his wife had to help him with the privy. When he had had that pneumonia
in Riverrun, she had nursed him in so many ways, but there had been someone who
had helped him with the chamber pot. Here, it was impossible for his old, blind
servant to attend to this task, and apart from that, his Sansa seemed
determined to care for him. In a strange way, Sandor mused, this was just as
intimate as a fuck... or even more so. In the inn at the road he had done his
duty, but things were different when he, the strong warrior was suddenly weak
and needed her help. Well. They were really there for each other.
Actually, they were so much more, so much closer than normal noble spouses. He
remembered Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. They loved each other, too. Sansa had
supposedly learned from them what marital affection and devotion could be like.
He might not be very taken with Lady Stark because of her aloofness, but she
was just like any average high-born woman in that respect; she was neither bad
nor dumb, in contrast to so many ladies he had known in Kings Landing. And she
was loyal to her husband and her family, that counted a lot to a dog like him.
And she was capable of deep love, something she had passed on to Sansa. It was
so very different from everything he had experienced about family life.
 
 
An hour later, when the first light could be discerned on the horizon, they
were in the courtyard, and everything was prepared. The Hound had been put on
the cart, under heaps of soft furs to keep him warm. He was holding baby Jayne
in his arms. Gendry would drive the vehicle with the mule. They had also loaded
some provisions and two small tents, because they would be slower than just a
rider with a fast courser, and they'd have to make camp in the evening. Sansa
and Myrcella had to share Snowflake's saddle, and both felt a little strange,
because it meant they couldn't use a ladies' saddle, but with Stranger gone
already there was no choice. Lady was trotting along, and the only thing that
dimmed her enthusiasm was the departure from Moonlight, but that was something
that couldn't be helped.
So they left Clegane Keep. On their way, regular pauses were necessary, though
the Hound would have preferred it to be different. Jayne needed to be looked
after, and Sandor had to pull himself together for that reason. In the evening,
Gendry put the tents up, and the ladies assisted him as best they could. Since
Myrcella's good reputation had to be be upheld, the smith and him shared one
tent, and the women and the baby took the other one. Sandor missed his beloved
wife acutely, but he told himself that it was only for one night, and he was
too ill for really sweet games anyway.
 
 
Finally, they arrived at Casterly Rock. They were already awaited eagerly.
Jaime had been hastening to meet them on the road already. The Kingslayer was
cocky as usual, but there was an underlying seriousness. He tried to approach
Myrcella, but apart from an indifferent greeting the girl didn't react to him
any further.
In order to outplay the tense moment, the Lion jested: “Well, Dog, I must say
that this is most unfair! You've got all the fun with the Ironborn, and I
didn't even get a chance to prove my enhanced fighting abilities.”
Since Sandor was still ill enough to be short-tempered, he just snarled: “Go,
bugger yourself with a hot poker, one-paw!”
“If I should ever choose you as my shield-mate I might try out something
similar, but in the meantime I prefer using my own poker.”
The Hound spat some vulgarities.
When they had exchanged their niceties, Jaime finally rumbled: “By the way. My
Lord Father has just arrived. Overly punctual. So be prepared to... confer with
him.”
Sandor nodded up from his cart.
“I see.”
“OH! And who do we have there!?”
“Our daughter.”
The Kingslayer was visibly dumbfounded and retorted: “Erm, well... Lady
Clegane... I had no clue you were with child when you left a few weeks ago. And
I always thought that pregnancy took nine months...?”
Sansa laughed: “That's Sondra-Jayne. She's a Clegane by blood, to be sure. And
we have adopted her as our own.”
If possible, Jaime was even more puzzled now.
“Well... Lady Clegane... I must say you're very... moderate... with regard to
your husband's... offspring.”
At that, Sandor cut in: “Seven Hells, Gregor sired her. But the mother died.
She's our child now for true.”
“Ah.- - Hope the three Hands will legitimise her without causing any problems
then. ”
Jayne chose that exact moment to wake up from her sleep, to look at the Lion
and to greet him with a yawn.
At once, the Kingslayer's face softened markedly, and he added in a
surprisingly gentle tone: “What a lovely little tot! Brienne will be overjoyed.
You see... she's also with child!”
“Fuck me sideways, you don't say so, One-Paw!? Why didn't you tell us at once?
Congratulations!” Sandor rasped at the fair-haired man who suddenly looked
proud as fuck.
Sansa chirped happily, and the situation would have been perfect, if Myrcella's
look hadn't been so bitter. Shit. She was barely a woman, but now she had to
see that her true father could openly talk about his unborn child, and a lawful
child at that – something Jaime had never done when it came to her and her
brothers. Hopefully, she'd be able to establish a positive relationship towards
her half-sibling in the future.
 
 
Half an hour later, the little trek arrived in the main yard of the Rock. The
fortress was nothing short of a beehive that day. The servants were all busy to
pack away the multiple things their lord and his new wife had carried along
from the capital.
The only one, who looked rather unperturbed, was Brienne; she was towering
above the others in the yard, and for once she didn't wear mail – just breeches
and a boiled leather jerkin.
She greeted the newcomers in her short, but not unfriendly way and stated:
“Lord Clegane, your devotion to inform Lord Lannister is remarkable – but now,
we'll put you straight into Maester Creylen's hands.”
Together with Gendry, she dragged him to the healer. The mousy man was already
awaiting him and uttered: “Right. Your people will be taken care of, don't you
worry, my lord. And I will see to your wound.”
When he removed the bandage, he murmured a little and then said to Sandor: “It
hasn't festered, thank the Heavens. But your idea to travel in your condition
was exceedingly bad.”
The Hound just swore: “Pfft, there are more important things than just me. I
need to talk to Lord Tywin. And there is something else. I have got a baby
daughter now, and she hasn't had any breast milk so far. Can you find a
wetnurse for her?”
Maester Creylen blinked, clearly surprised – but he didn't comment on the
revelation and just said after a moment: “I'll see what I can do.”
 
 
Three or four hours later, the room to the healer's quarters opened, and the
Old Lion entered with powerful paces.
Sandor propped himself up a little bit and rasped: “Lord Lannister, I can't
kneel right now, as you can see, but I've got important information for you.”
Lord Tywin approached him, looked down at him and said: “The vow can wait. You
have proven loyal enough in the past. Jaime has questioned your servant about
the incident with your fight, and I have read his report. Since I detest his
poor left-hand scribbling I want to hear your version now in full length. Do
not omit a single detail.”
So Sandor started and told his liege lord everything he could remember. Lord
Tywin stood there, unmoving, listening intently, a glowering, green-eyed
feline.
After a few minutes, the Hound ended. The Old Lion stood there for a while,
pondering and his jaws working.
Finally, he said: “You have been attacked by five men. So I will give you five
of my own guards to help secure your keep. – Now. You said that your wife's...
direwolf sensed the Ironborn first?”
“Aye.”
“The beast is here at the Rock?”
“Aye, she is. Lady has been here before, and normally, she's not wild at all
and very well-behaved. There is no need to be worried about her presence. She's
not much different from a well-trained destrier.”
Lord Tywin registered the answer without so much as a blink.
“Clegane, you said your wife killed an attacker?”
“Aye, she did. The man was already hurt, as I told you, and she wanted to save
me, because he was still able to sneak up to me after I had been wounded.”
“I will want to talk to your lady wife, too.”
Sandor nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
Lord Tywin inclined his head a little to show that their meeting was over,
turned around and left. Well, their talk had been not a joyful one, as one
might expect, but the simple phrase “you have proven loyal enough”, coming
directly from Lord Lannister's mouth, was more of a praise than any eulogy from
another man.
Sandor recapitulated the conversation, and he came back to the point where
Sansa had killed an enemy. Fuck, he had not even thanked his Little Wife! Yes,
true, he had been wounded and half or completely unconscious most of the time,
but still... She was so delicate, and she had only just recovered from her
afflictions – had the dispatch of a villain triggered off a setback? What did
she feel like? Sandor didn't have a clue, and since his wife was busy helping
their people to prepare their accommodations he couldn't ask her right away.
Damn.
The Hound tried to stand up – but the searing pain made him feel dizzy at once,
and he fell back on the bed. Alarmed by the commotion, Maester Creylen showed
up and criticised his patient sternly for the reckless behaviour.
“Fuck the Seven, what do I care? I want to see my wife!” Sandor snarled at the
healer viciously.
Knowing that Lord Clegane wouldn't give up until he had his will (and until he
hurt himself likely even more) Creylen could only capitulate, ordered a
stretcher and had Sandor taken to his rooms.
 
 
When he arrived, the Hound noticed that Sansa wasn't there. Gendry told him
that she had been called to a meeting with Lord Tywin, and that Myrcella had
carried Sondra-Jayne to an interlocution with a possible wetnurse. Falcon was
already returning with the cart to Clegane Keep, because it was needed there;
and the smith was already accompanied by five soldiers.
But Sandor could only focus on one detail.
“Oh fuck!” he swore loudly.
He would have liked to prepare his Little Wife for the unyielding, powerful
master of Casterly Rock. But now that she was already gone, it couldn't be
helped. Hopefully, the Little Bird didn't chirp too many courteous niceties –
that was something Lord Tywin despised.
Time wore on. Still no sign of Sansa. Grrrr, this was just so unsettling!
Finally, finally, there were sounds outside. Lady's merry yapping was echoing
in the corridor, and there were several animated, female voices. Sandor sighed
and felt utterly relieved. Since the women sounded contented enough, the
meeting with the Old Lion couldn't have gone completely wrong.
The heavy, wooden door opened with a creaking sound, and Sansa and Lady sneaked
in.
“Sandor! Here you are!” the Little Bird chirped happily. “I went to Maester
Creylen, and he said he couldn't keep you in his quarters. Oh, how very, very
good to have you back! How are you? Do you feel better? But first, I need a
kiss!”
Sandor barked his laughter, although he had to stop at once, because his side
hurt.
“Bugger me, whenever I can kiss you, I feel better! Come here, wife!”
 
 
Sansa was eager to obey, and within two shakes of a duck's tail she was on the
bed, kissing him hungrily and opening his mouth with the tip of her tongue.
“What the fuck...”, Sandor wondered, “... oh whoa, look who's in need!”
All of a sudden, his curiosity about the meeting with Lord Lannister moved to
the back of his head, and he intensified the passionate kiss even more. Blimey,
Sansa tasted so unbelievably good! In no time, her hand had sneaked under the
shirt he was wearing, and she let her fingers trail through the dark, curly
hair on his chest.
At some point, the Little Bird giggled into the kiss: “Gods, I thought you're
badly injured!”
Sandor chortled darkly and said: “Aye, I am – but not down there. If we're very
careful we could have a little fun.”
Sansa's eyes beamed.
For a moment, she got off the bed, shooed a slightly confused direwolf out of
the room by telling her: “Go and see if Stranger is all right in the stable,
Lady!” – and hobbled back into bed, all the while opening the laces of her
simple dress and putting off her smallclothes.
Whohoo, she was learning fast with regard to lovemaking! In no time, she had
laid him bare as well – apart from the bandage around his waist, of course.
Sandor's big, calloused hands were on her buttocks now. For a moment, she
tensed, but then, she relaxed again and let him continue. He kneaded her a
little, but gently; then, he moved his fingers upwards and stroked her breasts.
Sansa let out a lustful little whine.
Action had to be taken. So Sandor put his hands around her waist and guided her
towards him. And then, they were one again.
“Keep it slow, it still hurts”, he told Sansa, and his wife nodded.
Of course, it was easier said than done. How were you supposed to last, if an
enthusiastic, absolutely delicious young woman was on top of you, moving up and
down, and kept sighing that you felt wonderful, and that it was simply too good
to be true!?
Even if there was a considerable amount of pain, Sandor peaked after a few
minutes.
Afterwards, Sansa sank on top of him and murmured: “What a pity it's over!”
Sandor realized that his Little Wife was still very aroused and needed her own
relief.
“Let me do something for you! Let me stroke you! I promise you it'll feel
good,” he growled.
Sansa looked up at him and hesitated. Then she nodded slowly.
The Hound let his hand trail over her body, bit by bit moving towards her
sensitive parts. At first, she tensed and grew stiff. Carefully, he massaged
and stroked her on the outside. After some moments, he found her sensitive spot
and started to tease it. Suddenly, Sansa gasped and shuddered. And then she
started slowly to relax once more. Emboldened, Sandor went on and also started
to kiss and suck and nibble at her rosy nipples simultaneously. His Little Bird
started to chirp sweet songs for him like she had done in the cabin in the
woods, just before they had been disturbed by the buggering Ironborn. In the
end, it took him longer than it had done with the mouth, but her release was
powerful and intense, and she moaned so loudly that he feared a guard outside
would be alarmed and would want to look what was going on the room of the
infamous, injured Hound.
 
 
Later, they lay there, both sated and tired. Sansa had put her head on his
chest and seemed to listen to his steady heartbeat.
It was then that Sandor asked languidly: “How did the meeting with Lord Tywin
go?”
Sansa smiled, kissed his chest where her mouth was resting and answered
casually: “Oh, it was good. He's such a nice, dignified elderly man.”
The Hound froze, accidentally swallowed his spit and coughed madly.
“WHAT!?”
No. It was impossible. They couldn't be talking about the same man, could
they!? What did she say? “NICE”?
His Little Wife looked up at him, slightly puzzled.
“Oh yes, my love. What is it?”
Panic rose within Sandor, and he rasped: “Just tell me what happened!”
Baffled by his reaction Sansa started to explain.
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Notes
     Erm... a little warning: It's probably better not to eat or drink
     while reading on. ;-)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Well, I went to his solar, after he had called me. In the corridor I chanced
upon Lady, and she decided to accompany me. We were admitted to the solar. Lord
Tywin was sitting behind his desk, and there were lots of letters and
parchments on it. He looked at us, slid a little backwards with his chair to
face us properly, and ordered us to come closer. I dropped a curtsy like it was
adequate. And you know what Lady is like. She just rushed at him like a flash,
tail wagging madly. A new pair of hands to ruffle her fur, that's what she must
have been thinking. And then, she put her paws on Lord Tywin's shoulders and
licked him happily right across the face, just like she does with you.”
Sandor, fearless as he usually was, uttered a shocked yelp. Oh FUCKFUCKFUCK,
they could prepare their necks for the Justice's longsword!
Sansa gazed at his face and laughed: “Haha, Lord Tywin looked very much like
you when Lady did that! I guess he wasn't accustomed to a direwolf's
affections. So I told him that this was Lady's way of telling him that she
found him an amiable man; that she'd be loyal to him and that she'd always
guard him.”
Sandor felt weak and dizzy. This couldn't be true!
But Sansa chirped on: “Well, other men would have been so afraid of my wolf,
but Lord Lannister wasn't and just asked me to call Lady back to my side. When
she was there, he admitted that he had never seen an escutcheon animal that
came so much to life like my direwolf. He looked as if he couldn't decide
whether to be angry or not – but he was impressed, that much was sure.”
The Hound was surprised that his wife could read the wooden Old Lion so easily,
and he wondered, if her conclusions were correct.
“And then?”
“Oh, he asked me to have a seat and to talk about the ambush with the Ironborn.
But first I handed him a bottle of our good Clegane Mead and explained that it
was meant to be a late wedding gift. And I urged him to have a sip, because I
wanted to know, if a sophisticated man like him would consider it to be good.”
“You did WHAT!? You URGED him!?”
There was sweat on Sandor's forehead now. He guessed that there'd be lots of
torture before their beheading.
“Oh yes, it took a bit of coaxing, and only when I said I'd be miffed, if he
didn't try it he opened the bottle. He said that actually he needed a good swig
now, whatever that meant.”
Sandor groaned.
Sansa smacked his shoulder.
“What? It looked to me as if he's a man who needs to be forced to find his
fortune. I mean, he's as stiff as a stick at first sight, but you should really
give him a second chance! – Anyway, I started to tell him about what had
happened in the wood. Afterwards, Lord Tywin asked me why we had been in that
cabin at all. So I said that we used the famous Clegane honey – but this time
not for brewing mead. And then, the lord threw his head back and laughed.”
“He… WHAT!?!?”
No. They couldn't be talking about the same man. They simply couldn't. Lord
Tywin didn't even know how the word “humour” was spelled – and even less how to
actually laugh!
“Yes, he had a real fit of laughter. Like you when you spotted Lady in
Stranger's box for the first time back at that inn. But back to Lord Tywin. He
asked me what I thought about you. What a strange question! Of course, I told
him that you're a wonderful husband and that I love you more than my own life.
He shook his head like you now, as if he couldn't believe it. So I said that if
he and his lady wife could love each other although nobody could believe it,
the same could be true for us. And I added that we have found out, too, that an
age difference doesn't matter, if you're in love.”
For want of words or an adequate reaction Sandor could only whine. Sansa rolled
her eyes upwards.
“Oh, come on, Sandor! Don't behave so childishly! Everything is fine! Lord
Tywin invited me for dinner. He said I should get to know his wife. And I must
really say that she is a lovely person.”
The Hound would have almost said: “What – that dumb hippo in frills?” But he
was just so upset already that he couldn't muster the strength for any sharp
comment.
“Erm, Sansa... you know that Lord Tywin is dangerous and a killer, don't you?”
His Little Wife looked at him with her round, Tully blue eyes and answered:
“Yes, you're right – but so are you! I... I saw from a small opening in the
cabin door what you did to those horrible men. And... and I'm not dangerous
myself normally, but... I'm a killer now, too.”
“Sansa, you just did what had to be done! And I'm so very grateful that you
saved me.”
The Little Bird looked at him, and nodded hesitantly.
“I know. It's just that it feels appalling. So very dreadful. Back at the keep,
Aengus took me with him when Cembara told me that it looked as if you were not
fatally wounded. Aengus talked with me about his first kill in a fight, and how
horrible it had felt. That helped a lot. And back in the solar I asked Lord
Lannister, if it had been bad for him, too, when he slew his first man.”
Sandor was near choking now. He had thought that Sansa's prevalent innocence
would be diminished when they started to fuck – but THIS was worse than any
unintended flaming pun about sausages and riding!
“And... how did he react?”
“Oh, he looked at me seriously – he's quite a serious man, isn't he? – and said
that taking somebody's life isn't supposed to be pleasant for sure, if you're
in your right mind, and that it is sometimes a simple necessity, so we
shouldn't let ourselves get upset about what has to be done. And that it
usually takes a few killings until it doesn't bother you so very much any
longer. He suddenly reminded me strongly of father when he has to execute a
criminal, and I thanked him for his wise words.”
Sandor simply couldn't believe it. Nobody EVER dared to talk to the Old Lion
like that and lived long enough to tell of it.
“And you said... you ate with him for dinner?”
Sansa beamed at him.
“Yes, and there were also Lady Lollys, Jaime and Brienne. That was fantastic!
First, Lady got a nice, bloody steak. And for us, there were little meat pies,
buttered peas and lots of other tasty things. I swear I didn't shame you and
managed to eat a little bit of everything. After you'd been hurt it was so
difficult again for me to look at any kind of food, but everybody kept an eye
on me, and now, I'm back to normal. Jaime and Brienne were also surprised to
see me eat with a healthy appetite. ”
Sandor guessed that the two had most likely been surprised by... other things
as well.
Sure enough, Sansa went on: “I told Lord and Lady Lannister about how Lady had
stolen the butcher's steaks in Lannisport, and Lady Lollys was absolutely
charmed. At first, it looked as if she'd be afraid of my wolf, but then, she
warmed up and patted her gently. – Ah, and I talked to Lord Tywin about the
attackers in the wood once more. You see, Theon is still in Winterfell, and the
men from Pyke know it well enough. I think they are also quite aware of the
fact that I'm your wife now, and that our home is Clegane Keep. Lord Tywin
asked me what I thought of this, and I said that they must have given Theon up
as an Ironborn, that he must have lost his value for them. Or that they might
want to abduct me to enforce an exchange. Or that it could be part of a bigger
scheme. Most likely a combination of it.”
Sandor was dumbfounded that Sansa would come up with such strategic thoughts on
her own. They had never talked much about politics, and he had assumed that as
a proper little lady she wouldn't be interested in it.
“Did Lord Tywin share your opinion?”
“Oh, he just listened and didn't say much. But he didn't object, and I'm sure
he'd have done so, if he had opposed my theories.”
That assumption was correct indeed.
“Anything else worthwhile telling?”
“Yes, one last thing. Jaime didn't seem to feel comfortable during the dinner,
and I realized that he and his father were still not on a friendly footing. So
I told Lord Tywin about how he and Lady Brienne had been so very brave and had
saved me from that traitorous Ser Ilyn. I really praised them, and talked about
their efficient management of the critical situation, hoping that Lord
Lannister would open up a little and accept Jaime again. I also told him how
proud he could be of his son, because he didn't give up himself after losing
his sword hand, that Jaime was so unshakably determined about learning to fight
with his left hand, and that soon he'd surely best many men with two hands.”
Sandor didn't know what to think any longer, or how to react.
“And what did Lord Tywin do?”
Sansa furrowed her brow, and looked very much like her brother Rickon now.
“I'm not quite sure. There were awkward glances by all of them. They had
flushed faces. That looks nice with their fair hair, I must say. But be that as
it may. Somehow... they suddenly behaved as if they were sitting at the table
naked, if you understand what I mean.”
The Hound understood exactly, more than he would have liked to do.
“Well, and I didn't want to leave Lady Lollys out of the conversation, so I
asked her about House Stokeworth. She brightened up at once and started to tell
me about her family seat and the Crownlands. In return, I related some things
about Winterfell. Oh and I congratulated Lord Tywin about having this beautiful
Stone Garden in his fortress. It's really something no-one else has.”
“I'm sure Lord Tywin really appreciates the Stone Garden.”
“Sandor, you're not pulling my leg now, are you?”
“I'd never do that.”
 
 
It was an absolute relief when there was a knock on the door, and Sansa nearly
jumped into her dress and tossed the Hound his shirt, to admit Myrcella with
baby Jayne.
The lioness smiled broadly at Sandor and said: “Lord Clegane, it is good to see
you recover! And you won't believe it – I think I've found a very nice wetnurse
for Jayne!”
Ah, well, for this day Sandor was certainly beyond believing or not believing
anything.
 
 
Around the hour of the wolf, Sandor was woken by a nightmare. Panting, he
brushed the cold sweat from his brow. He had used to have many nightmares as a
lad; strong fists crashing into his side, or belts with iron stubs that had
ripped his body open until the blood streamed down his back, of his mother's
body dangling down the ceiling, of his sister's and father's bloodied, crumbled
bodies... and naturally of fire that was searing away his face, of pain like he
had not known before and after, of the disgusted people pointing at him, of the
pathetic lie that his bedding had caught a flame and scorched him.
Those dreams had made him drink himself into a sodding stupor so often as a
sworn shield here at the Rock, Lannisport and in Kings Landing. He had needed
the alcohol to be numbed. Strangely enough, Sansa's presence had had a soothing
effect over the last year, and his nightly visions of past horrors had come to
him less often and had been less intense.
The dream tonight, however had been completely different. He had been a boy
again, on the edge of manhood, twelve years old, had run away from his horrible
brother and arrived at Casterly Rock, where he had been allowed to stay. He had
accompanied some soldiers to Lannisport. The men had evicted a tailor, who had
not been able to pay his taxes to the Lannisters as it was required.
Afterwards, the soldiers had visited a low dive to get some piss-poor home-
distilled alcohol that could well make you blind. In those days, he hadn't been
a drunkard yet, had not grasped the dazing effect. So he had left the run-down
tavern through the backdoor to have a decent piss. The backyard had been dark –
and some kind of ragged, greasy, stinking knave with many missing teeth in his
mouth had just been waiting for a drunk victim to rob and to kill him. The only
thing was that Sandor had had all his senses about him, and even aged twelve,
he had been as tall and as strong as some grown men. He had also had a dagger
with him that proved to be longer than the scoundrel's knife. So, Sandor had
just reacted, and before he had known what he was doing, the man had lain face-
down in the dirt.
After a moment of realizing what had happened, what HE had done... Sandor had
retreated a few steps and puked against a wall. On entering the tavern again
the drunk soldiers had jested: “Ya mus' have a bloody big bladder t'stay outta
there s'long. Bladder as fucking big as you, haha!”
That had kindled the Hound's ire, and with his – still boyish voice – he had
rasped: “Hells, I just needed a minute to kill that bloody thug outside that
would have finished you off, drunk as you are!”
At first, the men had laughed, but Sandor's face had made them curious, and two
minutes later, there had been a major commotion at the backdoor. After that,
the people at the Rock had looked at him differently: with apprehensive
respect. That had varnished Sandor's internal horror of killing a man
considerably. He had become known for slaying his first man aged twelve – and
he had never told a living soul how it had come to pass, and neither how sick
it had made him.
In this nightmare, he had relived those moments again and wondered, if Sansa
had similar problems now. Sandor was only relieved that the others had tried to
console her as best they could – and in a way that he himself had not had to
answer her about his first kill. After all, he had never been a man of words.
 
 
The next morning, Jaime came over to visit the Hound. Sansa and Myrcella had
left to attend mass in the sept – and seemingly, the Kingslayer had known that
all to well and had chosen the time to approach Sandor for exactly that reason.
The Lion looked uncharacteristically sheepish, even if he tried to jest.
“Dog! Still not out of your kennel? Thought I'd see you in the training pit
today. Are you getting old and need more time to recover?”
“Do tell me then: why the fuck should I get up, if I have such a lovely wife in
my bed?”
“Coming to talk of Lady Sansa...”
“Aye, I've heard a little bit. Must have been a mightily interesting dinner
yesterday evening.”
“ 'Interesting' doesn't nearly cover it. When I saw you kiss your wife for the
first time I already thought I had a brain damage – but what I witnessed
yesterday evening... that is SO far beyond everything... I would have never,
never, never deemed it possible!
I kept thinking: “Uh-oh, now she's overstretched it!” – But my dear Lord Father
was in such a state of internal bedlam even at the beginning of the dinner that
he was just sitting there and listening and watching. As if he wanted to take
everything in to sort and assess it later. Never in my life have I seen anybody
so... so carefree around father. Maybe apart from mother, Cersei and myself
before mother's death, that is. But afterwards...”
Jaime shook his head and was still utterly confused.
“Kingslayer, what do you think – will we be detained for Sansa's
insubordination?”
The fair-haired man just shrugged his shoulders.
“I don't know anything any longer.” He let out a sigh. “Oh! And who's there
next to you? Is this little Jayne? Hello Jayne!”
“Gawaaah.”
“See, One-paw, she's intelligent. She realizes you're talking to her.”
“Gaaa. Wawaaa-aaa.”
“Can't be the Clegane side then. – Holy Seven, she's cute, Dog. Who would have
ever thought that the Mountain that Rides could produce anything so lovely?”
“Hiwaaaaa.”
And suddenly, the corners of Sondra-Jayne's mouth moved upwards.
The Hound's heart started to pound like a drum.
“Look! Oh look! That's... oh my... her first smile!”
Jaime shot a surprised glance at Sandor.
“What? Really? You're kidding!”
“Yes, yes, I'm telling you! – Hello Jayne! Hello, my little sweet one! Good
girl! Can you smile for us again?”
 
 
When Sansa and Myrcella came back from mass they found two big – normally
battle-hardened –, completely enchanted men stooped over the little girl, eyes
sparkling, and they were actually mimicking baby noises with their dark male
voices. Sansa snorted with laughter, and the men flushed scarlet.
Myrcella didn't find it half as entertaining, what with her natural father
cuddling another child. Her face distorted, she turned around and darted out of
the room with heaving sobs.
“Cella!” Jaime called, got up and ran after his daughter.
“Looks as if the Lions have to sort out some problems. Hope the Kingslayer
won't fuck it up again!” Sandor rasped with his steel-on-stone voice.
In the meantime, Sansa closed the door, which had been left open, and was just
about to say something when the Hound cut in: “But you won't believe what has
happened! Jayne has smiled for the first time!”
“Really?” the Little Bird chirped happily.
Together, they started to play with the baby. At some point, Lady entered, and
when Jayne saw the huge direwolf, she made some more happy, gurgling noises and
smiled again. Sandor could only think that this day was a really good one. He
was even more convinced when they had not been detained by the Old Lion until
dinner. His belief was only shattered to pieces at night.
 
 
“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAHHHHHHAAAAAAAA!”
Sandor was startled from his sleep, and he sat up straight, although it hurt.
The Little Bird was lying next to him, screaming at the top of her lungs and
tossing in bed with violent muscle spasms.
“Sansa!” he called, shocked. “What is it? What's wrong?”
No answer. But only seconds later, a guard in chain-mail and with a torch in
his hand burst into their bedroom.
“What's up?” he demanded to know.
Now, Sandor could see that his wife's eyes were still closed.
“Seven thrice-damned hells, she's suffering from some kind of fit. Run, get
Maester Creylen!”
In the meantime, Jayne had started to wail, Lady was darting into the room and
seemed to be very upset, and in the doorframe, Myrcella could be seen in a
dressing gown; she was aghast like the others.
“Sansa, my love, wake up!”
Sandor shook his wife, patted her cheeks. He was desperate.
From one moment to the next, Sansa stopped screaming, but the tossing and the
cramps didn't stop. Tears were streaming down her face – but she didn't wake
up.
“Myrcella, please, be a good girl and take Jayne away. The baby mustn't see
this.”
What Sandor didn't say aloud was that the Lioness shouldn't see that kind of
misery either. With tight lips the girl took the tot and left, after Sandor had
promised her that she'd be informed of Sansa's state as soon as possible.
Lady, however, would not be sent away, could not leave her mistress. She lay
down in a corner of the room, hair standing on end, and sorrow in her eyes.
A little later, Maester Creylen arrived. He asked the Hound first about the
Little Bird's fit, then started to examine her. He opened her eyes, whose
pupils were rolled upwards. He listened for her pulse and heartbeat. It was too
fast, but strong and regular. The same was true for her breathing. The skin had
turned clammy by now, the twitching muscles knew no peace.
When the healer ended his tests, he was very thoughtful.
Sandor, who had been watching silently, rasped now: “Speak, measter, or has the
lion stolen your tongue!? What's wrong with her?”
The mousy man stroked his chin, pondering, and finally said: “It's strange.
It's unlike the fits I know from other people. Has she ever suffered from the
falling sickness?”
Sandor was shocked.
“NO!”
Maester Creylen nodded: “I see. Hm...I can't really put my finger on it, but it
must have something to do with her head. The problem is that we must make her
brain and her body relax. Otherwise, she might hurt herself, bite her tongue
and the like. Your lady wife must be given a strong sedative, I think. If the
Gods are good, she will not only stop twitching, but also awake tomorrow.”
“You're too insecure for my taste, maester.”
“I know, my lord, but it's no outside gash like the one you received. Illnesses
of the head are very mysterious.”
Sandor was beside himself and sick from his worries for Sansa.
So he snarled to hide his despair: “Then do what you must, potion-brewer!”
The healer stayed calm; obviously, he had quite a bit of experience, not only
with difficult patients, but also with difficult relatives. He produced a phial
with some liquid and let a few drops trickle into her throat; at the same time,
he massaged her neck, so that the Little Bird would swallow correctly.
After five minutes, Sansa's twitching wore off and finally stopped. Her sleep
became peaceful. Sandor breathed deeply. He felt a little relieved, but at the
same time, he was still distressed.
Maester Creylen started to prepare for leaving, having done what he could for
the moment.
So Sandor addressed him: “Can you go and send for my servant Gendry?”
“Of course my lord, I'll see to that – and I'll be back on the morrow.”
“Good.”
 
 
A short while later, there was a knock on the door, and the Hound called out
for the young smith to enter. Gendry came in. Even though he was a serious man
anyway, one could still detect that he looked even graver than usual.
“M'lord? How is the lady?”
“Sleeping peacefully now, as you can see”, Sandor growled. “We'll have to wait
and see, if she's better in the morning. But I have a very strange feeling.
What I want you to do is to tell Myrcella about the present situation, and then
to take Stranger, to ride back to the keep and to collect Cembara. I want to
have her here. Maester Creylen is a good healer, but she might help in a way he
can't. Who knows. I don't want to sit by idly and twiddle my thumbs, asking
myself, if it would be better to have her here.”
“I see, m'lord. I'll be off within the hour.”
“Fine.”
When Gendry had left, Sandor looked towards Lady and rumbled: “Oh Lady, I wish
I could read your thoughts like Sansa does, and I'm asking myself, if you know
more than us humans – what with your special bond towards Sansa.”
The direwolf uttered a tiny whining sound, and suddenly, the Hound asked
himself, if he really wanted to know – and to probably even understand – what
the Little Bird's furry friend might have seen at some point.
Chapter End Notes
     My inspiration for the beginning of the chapter: “A certain kind of
     power is obtained when you see a god waver. Tywin Lannister, for all
     his supremacy, is only a man, and if someone were to tell her this,
     before, she wouldn't have believed it. Witnessing it for herself,
     though - trust begins and ends with ones own vision .”
     http://archiveofourown.org/works/634150
     Great series!
***** Chapter 23 *****
In the morning, Sansa was weeping in her sleep... but she didn't wake up.
Maester Creylen arrived a second time, but was at a loss about what to do. That
was the moment when Sandor freaked out, and yelled and barked at the healer.
The poor man could do nothing else but retreat. When the maester had left,
Sandor broke down and started to cry desperately. And he was fucking, FUCKING
beyond feeling ashamed for his tears.
“Sansa, oh my love!” was all he managed to croak again and again.
 
 
He didn't want to see anybody. Couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. He was relieved
that Myrcella had found that damned wetnurse for baby Jayne. It was downright
impossible for him to take care of the tot. With some effort he managed to feed
his little wife spoon after spoon of honeyed milk.
Sometimes, Sansa just seemed to be asleep, but sometimes, she seemed to be
upset by something, and she started to weep again. Sandor had known many
miserable moments in his life, but this was clearly the situation that
tormented his soul as if he was already burning in all seven hells at once. The
fact that his own wound was healing nicely didn't help one whit.
Once, the Kingslayer had tried to enter, but Sandor had exploded in such a
vicious way that the sodding Lion knew he could either keep away from the Dog's
kennel, or risk his second paw.
 
 
After one or two... or even seven eternities, who knew?, the door to his room
finally opened, and Cembara entered. The tall, bony woman looked exhausted,
which showed that she couldn't have had much more sleep than Sandor.
Without further ado, they started to talk about Sansa's state.
“Has she had any... strange visions of late m'lord?”
“Do you think that that might be her problem?”
“I've never experienced it myself with the Crannogmen, but she might be stuck
in some sort of vision, from what you're telling. Does the maester know she's
got those... visions?”
“No, he doesn't, we've never told him about them – and for good reasons. But
before this bloody misery started, my wife had no unusual dreams or visions, as
far as I know.”
Cembara cocked her head.
“If my theory is true there might be two reasons for her... distressing
situation. First, the object of her vision might be too far away, and she has
lost the way back to her body. Second, it is possible that something has
happened to the object of her vision so that she cannot leave it again.”
Images of Littlefucker in Braavos, of Jon at the Wall, surrounded by Others, of
Sansa's family at Winterfell and of Lord Eddard in Kings Landing popped up
unbidden in Sandor's head.
“Fuck! Fuck! It could mean anything and everything, and we're none the wiser.”
“Have there been any ravens from anywhere of late?”
“Pffft, what do I know? Do you think I'd have cared about these things
lately!?”
The Hound had recovered enough to walk about and strutted out of his room
stiffly for the first time after days. He made directly for the rookery of the
Rock.
When he entered, there was a bent, elderly scribe with the animals; he had blue
veins on his pear-shaped nose, Sandor noticed for no reason at all.
“Clerk, have there been any ravens for the Cleganes over the last days?”
Even only half recovered and weakened from lack of sleep, he was obviously a
fearsome sight to behold. His bloodshot eyes could well play a part in that,
but the Hound couldn't care less. Anyway, the scribe almost pissed himself on
hearing Sandor's snarl.
“Yes, m'lord, yes, there is a messages for your lady wife, and another two
arrived for the Lannisters; those news have already become public. In the first
one, it was announced that Stannis Baratheon has passed away after his
sufferings from Grayscales. The second letter was from the Wall and revealed
that... Joffrey Baratheon was... lost in an attack led by the Others. There are
rumours that he is undead now, too. And that was not all. The Dragon Eggs that
were meant to have turned to stone... they have hatched. The dragons. All three
of them.”
Sandor went cold to the bone. Stannis dead? Joffrey undead? Dragons!? NO! That
was a nightmare. And then, an idea struck him that made him sick: had Sansa
accidentally warged into a dragon!? Even though the Wall was so far away?
He started to tremble. He barely managed to ask: “And the letter for my lady
wife?”
“From Winterfell. Wait... here it is!”
Usually, Sandor wouldn't have opened a letter that was meant for Sansa, but the
given circumstances changed everything. It was Arya, who had written the
letter. She wanted to tell her sister that she was officially betrothed now –
to Syrio Forel. The Braavosi had asked her, and she had accepted. At least one
piece of news that might turn out to be good, but it was too small a kind of
consolation for him.
With heavy strides, he returned to his room. Outside the door, he suddenly
heard Lady's yapping, and it sounded lively.
“Little Bird!?” he whispered and darted into the bedchamber.
And there she was, his Little Wife, and her eyes were open, though red-rimmed.
Lady had hopped onto the bed in sheer joy and was licking her face like mad.
Cembara was sitting by Sansa's side, and breathing heavily.
“Sansa!” Sandor whined, his eyes swimming with tears.
The Little Bird was opening her wings for him, and he stumbled forwards,
crushing her to his chest like mad. They were both weeping. In Sandor's case it
was the combination of sheer relief, exhaustion and love. Soon, however, he
realized that Sansa's tears had nothing to do with relief. She was sobbing on
his shoulder, and she radiated grief.
“My love, oh my love, what is it?” the Hound rasped.
Sansa's jaws started to work, but no sound came out, and she burrowed her face
in the crook of his neck.
“She's too upset to communicate”, Sandor thought.
So he decided to lead the talk.
“Little Bird, what's wrong? Have you had... a vision?”
His wife nodded feebly against his shoulder.
“Something that has happened at the Wall?”
Sansa looked up at him with puffy eyes, but there was no understanding to be
detected in her look.
“No? Not the Wall? Then something about Winterfell?”
Confused, Sansa shook her head.
“Were you somewhere beyond the sea in another country?”
The Little Bird looked even more puzzled now. Fuck the Seven, that meant that
there were some other news ahead, and he wouldn't like them.
“My love, what is it then?”
Sansa tried to talk again, her mouth opened as if it belonged to a fish – but
no word came out. Then, she desperately raised a trembling hand and started to
write letters on his chest. She started with an “f”, and suddenly, Sandor knew
the rest of the word. He was right. A-t-h-e-r.
He went cold to the bone. The second time after the bad news in the rookery.
Lord Eddard. The First Hand of Three. The Warden of the North.
“He's dead?” Sandor breathed with his raspy voice.
Sansa looked at him with so much pain in her eyes – and shrugged, as if she
wasn't quite sure.
“But something has happened to him?”
This time, there was a fervent nod. Oh shit.
“Do you know what has befallen him?”
Again, Sansa tried to talk – and again, she failed spectacularly. So she rose,
stood in front of the bed and suddenly sank to the floor, pretending to be her
father.
The Hound guessed: “He... fell?”
Sansa nodded.
“Was he pushed?”
Another nod, and Sansa was sobbing again.
There were not enough vulgar words for Sandor to express what he was feeling.
So he just grabbed his wife and cradled her against him.
“Do you know who pushed him?”
A shake of her head. Well, it was no flaming wonder. If she had warged into her
father she had only been able to see with Lord Eddard's eyes, and had not been
able to notice what had been going on behind.
Lady had started to lick Sansa's hands; she wanted to console her mistress,
too.
Cembara was still sitting on her chair, and obviously, she was pondering the
new bits of information, too.
“M'lord?”
“Yes, woman?”
“She still has got a shock. That's why she can't talk. She needs rest, then she
will be able to recover soon enough, I'd wager.”
Sansa had heard the healer, but suddenly, the Little Bird became excited again.
She shook her head wildly, grabbed a simple gown, put it on, then took hold of
Lady's collar fur with one hand and of Sandor's calloused fingers with her
other, pulled and made for the door.
“Sweetest wife, what do you think where you're going, for fuck's sake?” the
Hound rumbled in disbelief. But Sansa held on like grim death, so he didn't
fight her. With wobbly strides, his wife went down the corridors, her red hair
billowing in the air, and her skin white – she looked like her own ghost. Only
when they arrived at the Lannister wing did Sandor guess what the Little Bird
was up to.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Then, he whispered urgently into her ear:
“Sansa, NO! You can't do that! You can't report to Lord Tywin. He mustn't know.
He'd find out about the skinchanging.”
Sansa's pupils were still unnaturally wide, but even so, he realized that she
had heard him – and that she didn't give a shit about what he was saying.
Sandor was shocked. This was not the gentle lady he knew – this was the
desperate, but determined woman, who had stabbed an enemy for the sake of love,
for the sake of saving him. Now, she wanted to save her father, if only she
could; and if this meant that she had to reveal am embarassing family secret
she was willing to pay the price. Who was he to forbid her what she was about
to do? If he did she'd only despise him for impeding her actions later.
 
 
Sansa walked on, he followed suit with the direwolf, and finally, they were
stopped by the Old Lion's guard. The Hound declared they needed to talk to Lord
Tywin in an emergency case.
“Lord Lannister is in an important meeting.”
“We know well enough what he's like and that disturbing him will spark his ire!
Go in and tell him it's an extremely urgent matter concerning the realm!”
Lady bared her fangs to support the statement.
The guard paled visibly and went inside. Inside, Lord Tywin's angry voice could
be heard. The Warden of the West was not someone to yell, but nevertheless, his
voice carried far and commanded respect, even fear.
The doors opened, and they were ushered in. The Old Lion had risen to his full
height from his desk, his golden-green eyes mere slits. Next to him, there was
his brother Kevan.
“How dare you interrupt an important meeting in these dire times?” Tywin
snarled.
Sandor stood straight and answered: “We have more bad news. Very bad news.”
“Have you.” It wasn't even a rhetorical question. “I give you two minutes to
declare yourselves.”
Sansa swallowed hard once, twice. Then, she pressed out: “My. Father. –
Attempted. Murder.”
That caught Lord Tywin's attention.
He gritted: “I prefer short and concise statements – but this one was too short
and too concise. And wasn't I told you were ailing and unconscious?”
The Little Bird nodded.
Now, that she had managed to emit a few words, she was able to say a little
more, even if it still caused her many problems: “I've got. The Second Face. –
Visions. Of what is. – I never. Fail. Never. – My father. Was pushed. Out. Of a
window.”
Lord Tywin blinked. For a moment, he clearly didn't know how to react, and it
looked as if he wanted to lash out.
“Clegane, I'm not known to be a humorous man. What is this rubbish?”
Sandor cleared his throat.
“My lord, my lady wife is still suffering from a shock, and she's not able to
make any jokes at the moment. But what she says is true. I've experienced it
over the last year that she sometimes has got visions. She can't look into the
future, but she can bridge distances as far as Kings Landing and see what is
going on there. In this way, we found out that Baelish sent Ser Ilyn to the
Rock, before he arrived here to abduct my wife, for example. If you don't
believe us – ask your son Jaime.”
Lord Tywin bristled at that: “Let's imagine for the fraction of a moment I
believed what you said – why didn't you tell anybody about this skill before?
Especially not me? At ONCE!?”
Sandor felt ill at ease now.
Sansa, however, peeped up with big gulps in between: “It started. A year ago. –
Slowly. – We couldn't tell. Anybody. Until I could. Be sure. I didn't tell. You
something. Wrong. – You deserve. Correctness.”
She started to sway. It was simply all too much for her, and Sandor supported
her at once.
Kevan Lannister commented: “Your wife is seemingly still very ill, Clegane.”
“That's obvious”, Sandor spat back. “But in spite of her health problems she
had to come here at once to tell you what she has found out.”
Lord Tywin retorted coldly: “You have said what you meant to say. Take her back
to bed then. And take the wolf with you.”
Sandor bowed his head and rasped: “My lord.”
Next, they were on the way to their chambers. The Hound had no idea what the
Old Lion might be thinking now, but one thing seemed to be rather clear: He had
not known anything about the attempted murder in Kings Landing – at least not
in this particular situation.
Well, so far they had not been put into a cell. And Sansa's health was his
foremost problem now.
They entered their bedroom. Cembara was still there – and so were Myrcella and
Gendry. The Lannister girl's eyes were red from weeping, too. No wonder. Her
brother, nasty as he had been, had died – or even worse – and her female friend
had been so very ill. That would even knock out an adult... and Myrcella was
certainly no woman grown.
“SANSA!” she cried in relief. “Oh holy Seven, you're really awake!”
She hugged the Little Bird and started to sob.
Sandor growled: “I'm so sorry, Lady Myrcella.”
Sansa looked up at him in surprise, and he told her about Joffrey. Not the
rest. She was still too overwrought anyway. His wife pressed a hand on her
mouth and hugged Myrcella back.
After a while, Cembara stated: “It's been a most... distressing and exhausting
time for all of us. We should all go to bed, I'd say. We need some rest. Lady
Myrcella, I'd advise you to drink some valerian tea. The maester will have
some.”
“Sleep?” the Hound thought.
Was it day or night? He didn't remember. Hadn't noticed. Wait... the torches
had been kindled on their way back from the Old Lion. So it had to be evening.
The young ladies were reluctant, however. Myrcella didn't want to drink
anything that was some sort of medicine, and Sansa declared she had slept too
long and didn't want to sleep again. It was clear that she was afraid of
getting stuck in the limbo of a vision again.
So the Hound addressed her: “Little Bird, if you don't want to rest – you can
wake over my sleep. I must confess I can't stay awake much longer.”
That offer was acceptable for his wife. So after a few minutes of consoling
each other Myrcella left the room, and with her exited Cembara, Gendry, and
even Lady. The direwolf turned once more and whined a little. Sansa went after
her and patted Lady a little. Only then was the animal pacified enough to
leave.
Having finally been left alone by the others Sandor sank onto the mattress.
Sansa sneaked into bed as well and nestled up against him as usual. The Hound
started to relax. His heavy eyelids grew even heavier. Surprisingly, the last
thing he noticed before he dozed off was the deep, peaceful breathing of a
sleeping Little Bird.
 
 
The next morning, Sansa was awake before him and woke him with a little kiss.
His eyes were still crusted and leaden, but he did feel refreshed to a certain
extent.
“Morning”, he yawned. “How are you?”
There was an immediate twinge of sadness in his wife's blue eyes, but they
seemed to have lost that shocked, dazed expression.
“I was with father tonight.”
Sandor sat bolt upright.
“What!? Then... he's alive?”
At the same time he thought: “Then why the fuck doesn't she look happier?”
Sansa nodded.
“He's alive – but he's unconscious most of the time. Which is good. There is so
much pain. So very much pain! Gods, I cant believe how anybody could stand so
much pain! But strangely, as horrible as it is, it only reaches as far as his
tummy. I don't understand. I wonder if his head or his chest is hurt. Once he
opened his eyes. There was some rumbling kind of movement under him, and there
were stars above him.”
That surprised the Hound.
“What – wait! Your father is in the open? Probably being transported like me
after having been injured?”
Sansa agreed. How strange! Fuck, what did that mean? Was he being abducted? Was
he being helped, transported to a safer place? Were his men taking him back to
Winterfell? Even at night? What did it mean that Lord Eddard was being
transported under the cover of darkness? The whole situation had Sandor cursing
like so often. That didn't sound good with regard to his goodfather. Not at
all.
Sansa put her cheek on the Hound's broad chest, and his hands combed through
her hair; he realized that it was soothing for her. But suddenly, she twitched
a little.
“What is it, Little Bird?” he asked at once in alarm.
“Oh, nothing much, really. I just think that my moon blood is upon me. My tummy
starts to feel a bit raw inside.”
“I see.”
He started to massage her lower belly in gentle circles, and under his hands,
Sansa started to relax. Sandor wasn't quite sure, if he should be disappointed
or relieved that his Little Bird hadn't conceived.
Actually, it was a mixture of both. He wanted to have a pup with her, but with
Jayne still demanding so much attention and all the problems popping up around
them, it was most likely better, if they were given more time – especially
since Sansa was still so very young. She'd turn fourteen in a few days. Her
nameday! He had completely forgotten. Oh shit! In spite of having to compensate
her for so many things. Fuck, he'd see to it that this year her nameday would
turn out to be a little better than her last one – even if it would not be as
carefree as his own one back at Clegane Keep.
Sansa moved upwards a little bit, ran her hand through his own, dark hair – she
always tended to mirror gestures – and then kissed him once more. They took
their time and let their tongues play. Shit, he would have liked to console her
in a... far more intensive way. And he wanted to reassure himself that she
was... fully awake again, so to speak. Fuck, couldn't be helped. When their
lips parted again, Sansa rubbed her nose against his hooked, big one.
Then, she spoke up: “We must go and see after Jayne. And after Myrcella, of
course! Gods, the poor one! That story about her brother! How horrible! We must
try to solace her – and Jaime as well. And Lord Lannister.”
The Hound suppressed a snort. Lord Tywin? As if that man was sad about a
grandson he had eradicated from his mind before! But with regard to Myrcella...
and probably Jaime... it was different.
“Let's get up then”, he rasped.
While they were washing and putting on their clothes, he also told his wife
about the other news: the dragons and Arya's betrothal. Sansa listened, her
eyes becoming as big as saucers.
 
 
Half an hour later, they snatched a few bites from the kitchen, not willing to
eat in the big hall. They headed for Myrcella's room, which was in the wing for
the guests, like their own one. So she was still denied her Lannister position
by the Old Lion. What a pity.
Surprisingly, the girl was not in her chamber, but there was a small, slender
woman in her twenties, and with wild, middle brown locks. She had been brest-
feeding baby Jayne, but stopped at once on seeing him and Sansa, and curtsied.
“M'lord, I'm Sandrina, your daughter's wetnurse. I have... lost my own child.
As you see Sondra-Jayne is fine. A hungry girl she is, and really adorable.”
Sandor grunted.
“Right, Sandrina, we can see as much.”
He took the tot in his arms, and at once Jayne started gabbling happily,
clearly recognizing her “father”. Inevitably, he started to smile at her – and
she smiled back! Oh, this was so good! Sansa was grinning now, too, and so was
Sandrina.
The only thing that struck Sandor as odd was that Myrcella would leave the baby
alone in the presence of a woman she didn't know so very well. It could only be
explained with her being grief-stricken and still more a girl than a woman,
having flowered or not. But the wetnurse seemed to be trustworthy; one only had
to see the loving glances she bestowed on Jayne. Well, the woman had only just
lost a baby herself, and it seemed to help her to give her love to another
child.
“Sandrina, where is the Lady Myrcella, do you know?” he asked.
“Yes, m'lord. She's at the sept with her... father... to pray for her lost
brother.”
Sansa and Sandor were both thunderstruck. Myrcella and Jaime? Together? And
Jaime praying? Those were completely new concepts. But...well. Times were
changing anyway, so this was at least a positive development for once. The
Little Bird smiled up at him. She had understood, too, that the Lions seemed to
be sorting out a few of their problems.
They stayed some more minutes with Sondra-Jayne and then left to look after
Lady, Gendry and the horses. As one might expect, they were all to be found in
the stables. The young smith had taken Stranger and Snowflake out successively,
so that the animals got the chance for a bit of movement. A good lad, this
Gendry, Sandor thought to himself. If only late King Robert had been more like
him, he would have been a better monarch.
They stood together, and while Lady got her fur ruffled by the hands of three
people at the same time – well, she was tall enough for that, wasn't she? –
they talked about the present situation. It turned out that the atmosphere at
the keep was tense. Which was no flaming wonder after all that had happened.
Gendry also expressed his relief that at least Myrcella and her father were...
converging in a way; mourning over dead – or even undead – Joffrey had brought
them together somehow. Apart from that, they learned that Cembara was still
sleeping, which was certainly no wonder after the exhausting trip to the Rock.
It was rather a wander that Gendry was already up and about.
“Cembara has planned to return to Clegane Keep today, m'lord, if you don't
mind. You see, she is needed there as well. Aengus has been suffering from
phantom pain again, and Nayla's pregnancy sickness is still bothering her.”
“I see. Of course, she may go home, now that my wife is feeling better.”
 
Suddenly, they were interrupted by a servant, who was approaching them.
“Lord Clegane?” he asked.
“Aye?”
“Lord Lannister is asking you and your lady wife to come and meet him in his
solar.”
Fuck, that was to be expected. The Old Lion was lurking to sink their teeth and
claws into them.
“Right on the way. Let's not make him wait.”
 
 
Lord Tywin was wearing one of his rather unostentatiously cut, but expensive
doublets in his bright gold and red Lannister colours. He was standing in front
of an ornate tapestry and looking at it, his intertwined fingers on his rigid
back. When they entered, he slowly turned around.
“No direwolf today?”
“No, my lord”, Sansa answered, “but we can get her at once, if you want to see
her.”
The Lion paused for a moment, as if to decide what to do and say next. Then, he
came over with a few measured strides.
“You're better today, Lady Clegane?”
“Yes, I am, my lord, thank you for asking.”
“Always the courteous lady”, Sandor thought to himself.
Lord Tywin looked at her intently.
“You're still telling me you've got... visions?”
“Yes, of course, my lord.”
“Tell me every single detail about what you think you have seen in Kings
Landing.”
That order struck Sandor as odd. First of all, it was surprising to him that
the Lion didn't just call her mad. Second – if he chose not to do that... why
the fuck was he even willing to listen to something supernatural? Even asked
her to talk about details? Did he want to make sure what to condemn her of?
The Hound couldn't believe the old Lannister was ready to believe Sansa. That
was so unlike him. But... come to think of it... the Lion had behaved oddly
several times over the last weeks. So, if he was really inclining his ear to
her... what did THAT mean? Did he seek confirmation of things he had heard
about Kings Landing – or didn't he get as much information as he was wont to?
 
 
In the meantime, Sansa had started:
“It was at night. The Council of the Hands had finished its meeting. Father had
stayed behind in the Council Room. He meant to ponder various points they had
argued about. So he walked over to the window to look down at the yard, just to
relax a little bit.”
Now, Sandor understood better. The Council Room really had a window that wasn't
too high to look out – unlike so many other chambers at the Red Keep.
“Lady Clegane”, Lord Tywin cut in, “did your Lord Father see anything special
in the yard?”
“He didn't react as if he did. It was dark already, and he only saw one man
walk across the yard with a torch in his hand. The man entered the keep through
a door directly under my father's window and closed the door again. Ten seconds
or so later, there was suddenly a strong push, and my father fell out of the
window and down into the yard.”
Lord Tywin looked hard at Sansa.
“Didn't your father hear a single sound behind him?”
“No, absolutely nothing. Everything had been completely still.”
The Lion snorted in disbelief.
“The window. Did he fall through the glass, or was the window open?”
The Little Bird furrowed her brow.
“Now, that's strange.”
“Why?”
“The window looked closed – but there were no shards of glass he made contact
with – so it must have been ajar.”
Lord Tywin pressed on: “The man in the yard – did you recognize him? He could
be an eyewitness.”
“Or he could be the villain”, Sandor cut in.
But Sansa shook her head at that: “No, he couldn't have done it. He entered the
building underneath the window, but he couldn't have climbed the steps fast
enough to do this to father. And... I don't know the man, but I could see him
wear a doublet with a sigil. - Oh my, I had completely forgotten I had seen
these things!”
Sansa was gasping now.
“Lady Clegane, did you see any details of the sigil?”
“Hmmm...”, the Little Bird was musing. “It was no sign from the North, or from
the West or the Riverlands, I would have recognized that at once. There was a
green background and a figure on it. I think I saw something like that in a
book Maester Luwin showed me at Winterfell when he was lecturing about the
Reach, but I don't remember the family name.”
It was already dawning on the Hound which house she was talking about, but he
asked nevertheless: “Sansa, what did the man look like?”
“Hmmm... wait... from what I could see, he was an elderly man. Not much hair.
Rather lean. He was walking in a placid, but self-confident way – like someone,
who is very sure of himself and his actions. And he had a sword with him that
looked a little bit like father's Ice.”
Lord Tywin cleared his throat: “You've just described Randyll Tarly, a
bannerman of Highgarden, do you know that?”
Sansa shrugged.
“If you say so – but I don't think he saw anything strange, at least not
outside in the yard, because he didn't look up. He could only have noticed
something within the building later.”
Still, Lord Tywin didn't mean to finish: “Did you notice anything about the
hands that pushed your father? Were they male or female?”
Sansa strained herself again to remember what had happened.
“It was all a blur and over in a split second – but from the angle and the
force that was applied I'd rather go for a man. Still... I can only guess.”
The Lion was still looking at her with unmoving eyes.
“Can you.”
Another one of his non-questions.
“Oh yes, my lord, and I can only guess about what is happening now. Last night
didn't help much.”
“You had another “vision”?”
“I did, I did.” Sansa recounted eagerly what she had seen in her last “dream”.
Again, the Lion was wearing a wooden mask, so to speak, that didn't betray his
reactions. Finally, he uttered the tiniest hint of a growl.
“Right, Lady Clegane. This was my last question to you. Now leave your husband
and me alone for a moment.”
Sansa was surprised, but she curtsied politely with an: “Of course, my lord!” –
and left.
 
 
When they were alone Lord Tywin spoke up: “Your lady wife is an elemental
force, Clegane.”
Since the man's voice was void of any emotion that might tell him whether he
meant it as something positive or negative Sandor answered with a non-
committal: “If you say so, my lord.”
The golden specks in the Lion's eyes were glittering, but that didn't clear up
anything.
“I DO say so. Now, I want to make myself clear: if you and your wife have lied
to me I will consider this as high treason.”
Sandor could only bristle at that: “We have told you the truth! A dog will die
for you, but never lie to you – and it will look you straight in the face.”
Lord Tywin grumbled back: “No wonder Lord Stark decided to marry you to his
daughter. The dutiful dogs all flock together. Even if some dogs try to look
more like wolves at first sight. – And now: leave.”
Sandor bowed, spun on his heels and marched out. Fuck the Seven, what a
straining day!
 
 
At the end of the corridor, he detected Sansa. She was chatting animatedly to
some woman in Lannister colours. Since his little wife had been upset by
relating the events in Kings Landing, it was a good thing that she was being
distracted by somebody else. Sandor approached them casually. But suddenly, he
stopped dead in his tracks. What the fuck!? Lady Lollys?
The Hound couldn't believe his eyes. He only remembered Lord Tywin's bride as
an extremely fat, dumb woman in bad style. But the Lady he was beholding now
didn't fit into that mould any longer. True, she was still overweight, but not
obese.
“She must have lost twenty pounds!” he thought.
Apart from that, she now had something one could call “hairdo” without feeling
ashamed. And the clothing fitted to what the Old Lion had been wearing. Simple
cut, but costly fabric. No more frills and mat colours that had made her even
more pallid than she was. And the Lion's pride even seemed to have rubbed off
on her deportment: She was standing there very straight – and her face was
beaming with a confident smile he had never seen on her before.
Just then, Sansa spotted him and waved him closer. So he walked over and bowed.
“Lady Lannister.”
“Lord Clegane. So we... meet each other again. And now I've got to know your
lovely wife. She's very inspiring.”
Lady Lollys had feared him like so many other women back in the old days in
Kings Landing, and now, she was still guarded, but at least, she was able to
make a few polite – and coherent – comments, which was a miracle in itself.
Next, Sansa peeped up: “My love, do you know what I've just found out? Lady
Lannister hasn't got to know Myrcella yet! Of course, I've told her that she is
a good girl, and that she has inherited all her grandfather's positive traits.”
Sandor had it on the tip of his tongue to say: “Fuck me sideways - positive
traits of whom? The Lion? Which ones? The fair hair?”
Since he had just been threatened be the very same Lion, however, he kept his
mouth shut and had to admit that one might possibly mention Myrcella's
intelligence and tenaciousness. That was certainly something she shared with
the patron of her house.
So he just rasped: “I see.”
And Lady Lollys uttered: “I'll see to it that I'll make her acquaintance soon.
Right. Erm – now... please excuse me, I just wanted to have a short look at my
lord husband.”
So Sandor and Sansa took their leave and returned to their chamber. And it was
about time. The Hound's side had started to hurt again, and later, Maester
Creylen wanted to come over and look at his wound. And at Sansa, of course.
***** Chapter 24 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The next days were extremely difficult. Lord Tywin called them every morning
and asked Sansa in his clipped way, if she had learned anything new, but the
only thing she could offer was that her father was obviously moved on a cart,
that she knew one man, who was tending him, to be a soldier – some Cleytus –
from Winterfell, and that the air her father was breathing was fresh, not
salty. Sometimes, the men were crossing woods, sometimes, one could see the
canopy of the open sky. And her father was still suffering a lot and stayed
unconscious most of the time. Well, at least he seemed to be surrounded by his
own men, and they were likely on the Kings Road north to Winterfell. Still,
Sansa was very upset and sad, as was to be expected.
The strange thing was that there seemed to be no raven from the capital with
information about what was going on. What the fuck had happened to Tyrion then?
Even though the Imp and the Old Lion despised each other the former one would
have written regularly under normal circumstances. And were there no other
spies? What about the other Hands? Even if they didn't like the Lannisters in
particular, they still had to send out word to the realm – after all, it was
their duty. Naturally, ravens could get lost, but still... the silence from the
capital was unsettling.
 
 
But at least one thing was positive in these days: the mourning about Joffrey
brought Myrcella and Jaime closer together, and they started to interact –
though tentatively – in ways they had never done before. As father and
daughter.
Brienne started to suffer from sickness in the mornings. Lady, however, didn't
show any signs of pregnancy, although she had fucked often enough with
Moonlight back at Clegane Keep. Obviously, she hadn't conceived in spite of
this.
 
 
Sandor's mind was busy with another task, however. He was planning Sansa's
nameday celebration. That was no easy task for him, because he had never done
anything like that. First of all, he considered which present he could give
her. To get better ideas, he took Stranger out of the stable and asked Jaime
and Gendry to come along with him to Lannisport. Sansa and Myrcella stayed
behind with Sondra-Jayne, and Brienne wasn't allowed to ride so as not to lose
the unborn child.
When they arrived in town they walked around and had a good look at the
different shops. It was no surprise that Gendry got stuck in a smithy, and that
he, Jaime and the smith were suddenly discussing, if it was possible to make a
metal hand for the Kingslayer's stump.
So Sandor just called over to them that they should meet him in the Golden
Candelabra for a nice ale and something to eat in the afternoon. Off he went on
his own. He would have never expected it, but he found a nice present for Sansa
almost at once: a wonderful, elaborate book with an embossed metal and leather
cover. It was old, very thick and contained “Ryche and Arcane Sagas from the
Northerne Landen”.
As could be expected, it cost Sandor a fortune, which triggered off two
thoughts in Sandor's brain: “Fuck, Falcon is so inventive he must see to it
that he develops something so that books don't have to be copied by hand any
longer. THIS is really too expensive.” And: “The problem is that the fief
around Clegane Keep isn't so very big and won't bring in riches. We do have
fields unlike so many others in the west – but we don't have their sodding
mines. Which means that I have to earn coin in a different way.”
With a sigh, he strolled to the port. For a moment, he considered trading with
a ship – but decided against it. He'd have to invest a fortune to build or buy
a ship, money he couldn't spare. And it was also a very risky business, what
with all the pirates, and even more so now that winter was coming and there
were wild storms on the open seas.
 
 
For a while, Sandor watched an Ibbenese Whaler, smelled the salty air and
listened to the seagulls that were screeching ahead. Then, he turned around and
walked along the docks.
Suddenly, he stopped and addressed an old fisherman: “Good man, do you know why
this tavern here is closed?”
The establishment was called “The Seashell” and had always been packed with
sailors from all over the world. Sandor remembered that he had spent more than
one evening there getting pissed before he had left for Kings Landing with the
Lannisters as a young man.
The greasy, bald fisherman took a blackened short pipe out of a mouth with
equally blackened teeth and answered: “Aye, m'lord. Has been a moon now – y'see
ol' Joe, owner of them tavern, found out he'd bloody lost all his money in some
sort of shady deal. His ol' crone of a wife left 'im, y'see. Only had a
daughter, them two, what doesn't want to run the tavern. An' then ol' Joe took
a good rope an' wound it round a nice, wooden beam, y'know. Now, the tavern is
up for sale, but no-one wants to deal with ol' Joe's ghost, y'see. People can
hear 'im walk around in the house an' wail at night.”
“Ah.”
Sandor nodded darkly in understanding. The common folk was an extremely
superstitious lot, and sailors were the worst in that respect.
Then, he started thinking. So far, he didn't own a gold mine like other western
lords – why not buy a gold mine of a different kind? Of course, a tavern
wouldn't make him rich, but it would at least add to the income of the fief. He
also remembered clearly enough that Littlefucker had bought one brothel after
the other, and THAT had turned out to be increasingly profitable. Taverns were
no brothels, granted, but in some ways it also meant that they were easier to
run. Apart from that, Sansa would accept a tavern business, but certainly no
establishments for the buyable pleasure of the flesh.
Sandor just needed to know, if he could afford the building and if he'd find a
trustworthy employee, who could run the business for him. The first point was
easy to answer. He found out that the price for the tavern was dirt-cheap,
because the superstitious people in town didn't want to buy it.
Nodding to himself contentedly, he made for the graveyard. Before he'd meet
Jaime and Gendry he wanted to have a few quiet moments at Aralene's grave. When
he arrived, he spotted a familiar female form. Lilyrose.
“Young lord! Good day to you!” she greeted him with an astonished little smile
as soon as she had discovered him.
“Good day to you as well”, he rumbled. “How are you?”
“Eking out a living as usual. Thanks to your money the last months have been
easier than the ones before. And what about you? I didn't think I'd meet you
here again.”
“I needed to think a little. Thought I might as well do it here at the grave.
I'm thinking of buying “The Seashell”, you know?”
“You mean the tavern? That's a good idea, if you ask me. I used to have
customers there – though now that I'm getting older customers are getting
scarce.”
It struck Sandor like a flash of lightening, and he counted two and two
together.
“Lilyrose, if I bought “The Seashell” I'd need an innkeeper, who'd run the
business for me. Would you like to do that? You'd have a regular income, and
you could care for your son yourself.”
The harlot's eyes grew big.
“You're offering me... a job? Really? In “The Seashell”?
“You heard me correctly, woman.”
All of a sudden, a sobbing Lilyrose was hugging him tightly.
“Oh, young lord, the Seven bless your generous soul! Gods, of course I'd do
that! I've always dreamed of something like that, but I never had no coin.”
Sandor patted her shoulder a little awkwardly.
“Right, woman, don't get rattled. Let's go and see what there is to do.”
Together, they inspected the building with the daughter of the deceased. There
were rooms upstairs where Lilyrose could live with her son. And there were also
three guest rooms. If she wanted to she could even earn some extra cash once in
a while with her old profession – as long as it didn't interfere with her new
job. The common room was the way Sandor remembered it, and the storage rooms at
the back had been well-kept – they only needed to be refilled with wine barrels
and the like.
So the Hound decided to seal the contract and to really buy the tavern.
 
 
When he arrived at the “Golden Candelabra” he was still in ecstasies about the
purchase. Gendry and Jaime had already arrived and were munching on mutton and
pearl barley. The Hound ordered a big tankard of ale and told them about the
recent developments.
His listeners were dumbfounded, but after a moment, Jaime clapped him on the
back and laughed: “Well, that's what I call business sense! Then let me tell
you that Caleb Graston is still the best merchant of liquors in Lannisport. And
I think I don't need to remind you that the Lannisters will now get even more
taxes from the Cleganes than they did before.
“Bugger yourself with a hot poker, Kingslayer!”
“Your swear words could really be more diversified, Dog, it's getting boring,
you know.”
“Fuck the Seven, if you don't like pokers any longer – take the spit from the
Rock's kitchen!”
 
 
When they returned to the fortress Sandor was still in high spirits. He handed
Gendry Sansa's present so that she wouldn't find it before her nameday. At the
stables, they were greeted by a very happy direwolf.
“Yap!Yap! Yap!” she told them and wagged her tail madly.
“Seems as if I'm not the only one in a good mood”, Sandor thought to himself,
and he attempted a very houndish bark down from Stranger's back.
Suddenly, people around him were laughing heartily, Gendry and the Kingslayer
included, and Lady yapped back merrily.
For a split second, he thought they were laughing about him, like people used
to do in the past, and his face started to darken – until he realized they
found the interaction... funny.
“What's going on here? I want to laugh, too!”
There was a female voice behind them, and Jaime shot back: “Ah, wench, the
“magic D's”, the Dog and the Direwolf, have got a secret language, you know,
and we've just found out about it! Come over, and listen and learn!”
“Bugger your “magic D's”, Kingslayer! WE've still got all our paws and all our
teeth, haven't we, Lady?”
“YAP! YAP!”
“Hound, believe it or not, but I still have got all my teeth.”
“Ask yourself again in ten minutes, if you don't stop blabbering.”
“YAP! YAP!”
More laughter erupted in the yard.
Sandor dismounted and felt strangely accomplished. This way of entertaining
people was in a strange way at least as good as giving them a tough show fight.
One moment later, he heard light, running steps behind him, he turned around
just in time, and the Little Bird flew into his arms. Now, it was him, who was
laughing.
“Missed me?” he growled, and she tweaked his nose good-naturedly: “Of course, I
did! Come in, Jayne is already waiting.”
 
 
Two more days passed by like the wind, and they had the first real snow storm.
Still no news from Kings Landing, Tyrion or Lord Eddard. The telltale way Lord
Tywin was pacing up and down behind his desk was explicit enough. And Sansa
could only tell him in the mornings that her father was still being transported
on a road at night and too sick to take in his surroundings correctly. During
one of these frustrating meetings the Old Lion snarled: “As if it wasn't enough
that my spies on Pyke have fallen silent!”
Sandor gaped. That revelation shocked the Hound quite a lot. The Old Lion
wasn't one to confer major problems with a sodding lowly lord. Granted,
Sandor's position had become much better since marrying into the very noble
Stark family, but still. It meant that Lord Lannister had discussed things
through with his brother Kevan and one or two other people – and hadn't heard
what he needed.
“Clegane! No intelligent comment to offer your liege lord?”
“Whatever I could offer would be a very general speculation. I'd say you'd have
got no need for empty words.”
“A correct assumption. But I might get an answer to some other questions – from
your wife.”
“My Lord?” Sansa peeped up.
“I've had another raven from the Wall. The Lord Commander says that the
recently hatched Dragons can already spit tiny flames. And there is something
very strange about them. They all flock around your bastard brother. They
LISTEN to him. And only to him. Now I ask myself: a Stark lass, who claims to
have visions, and a Stark bastard, who is able to tame dragons – is there a
link? And if so – which one? And do the other Stark children have any...
special skills, too?”
Sansa had paled visibly first, then flushed red a few moments later. She had
known it might come to this, but she didn't flinch.
“I know that my brother Robb and my sister Arya seemed to have some sort of
similar... predispositions like me, but I don't know, if they have developed,
and into which directions. It is a... big taboo in the north to talk about
these things. In contrast to it, talk about the... the marriage bed in front of
a noble maid is abundant.”
Lord Tywin looked sharply at the Little Bird.
“What a stupidity! If you've got particular skills, and you don't use them to
get a benefit from them, you can as well blind your eyes or pull out your
fingernails!”
He shook his head.
“Northmen.”
He mulled things over for a moment.
“What a pity that the Black Crows don't take any wives. Myrcella and that
bastard brother of yours would have made a good couple.”
That statement gave Sandor the creeps, and he remembered how he and the young
Lioness had discussed this topic. He realized that he had to do something for
Myrcella and Gendry, or Lord Tywin would come between them.
“My Lord, your granddaughter”... Tywin hissed at that... “cannot have a Stark
bastard – but what about a Baratheon bastard? A natural son of late King
Robert? There are no legitimate Baratheons left, apart from Lady Shireen, so
one might try to legitimize him at some point, and he could become heir of the
Stormlands. It would mean quite a bit of political juggling, and the young man
would still need a good education, but he's a promising young man.”
Lord Tywin's eyes widened a fraction.
“And which Stag would still marry a Lion after all that has happened? And how
did you come across a PROMISING Baratheon bastard?”
“The Stag in question is already quite taken with the Lion, I can assure you,
but it is all absolutely proper, and he happens to be in my service. He's here.
If you want, you can see him at once.”
Sandor could already see Lord Tywin assess all the implications for the Game of
Thrones, and which problems and advantages it might bring him and his family.
Suddenly, he addressed Sansa: “The Cleganes bring me nothing but surprises
these days, it seems. I don't appreciate surprises much in general, because
they tend to turn out negative. Now, I have heard that tomorrow is your
nameday. There will be a meal in the big hall at night, and I'll have a look at
your Baratheon bastard. Make sure HE is not a negative surprise.”
Sansa nodded eagerly: “Oh yes, my lord! And thank you, my lord!”
 
 
The first rays of daylight tickled Sandor's nose. He opened his eyes and saw
Sansa curled up against him as usual. Mmmmh, he'd never tire of drinking in
that sight. And the best thing was that after some nights with baby Jayne at
their side Sandrina had now taken the girl with her for two nights, so that he
and Sansa could have some private time together.
The Hound grinned and started to get hard. He told himself, however, that today
it was his Little Wife's nameday and that she deserved to be... honoured
accordingly. He lowered his head and kissed her awake. As soon as she realized
what was happening, she opened up to him in the sweetest possible way. Fuck,
how was it possible that she was so willing!? It amazed him again and again
each time.
Slowly, he separated his lips from hers and rumbled: “Happy nameday, Little
Bird!”
“Oh, thank you, my love! – – Ooohhh.”
Under the warm furs, Sandor had pulled down a sleeve of her nightgown and
started to stroke a lovely little teat. When she started to arch into his hand,
he replaced it with his mouth. Sansa gasped. After some moments, he realised
that she reacted more intensely when he did not just flick the tip of his
tongue at her nipple, but when he encircled it – so he happily set to work. His
sweet little wife was really getting wild now, and when he had uncovered her
second breast and started her ministrations there, her hands fisted his hair in
sheer desperation.
After some time, he turned her around, stripped her of her gown completely,
parted the fiery hair, kissed and licked her behind her ears, then down the
nape of her neck and started to wander along her spine. In the meantime, he was
opening the smallclothes he had been sleeping in.
“Sandor! Oh Gods! What are you doing!?”
His hands had started to stroke her buttocks, and he kissed the dimples on the
small of her back.
Then he growled: “Kneel!”
Sansa tried to turn her face and to look at him in surprise, but he just
repeated the order, and Sansa complied.
“Hmmmm, Little Bird, that sight of yours is simply lovely, do you know that?”
“Sandor, what are you doing? Please, come to me!”
The Hound chuckled: “At your service.”
He knelt behind her, stroked her backside again, then let his hand trail deeper
to her womanhood and started to probe her. There was a tiny twitch of
hesitation – but only a minute later, she was asking for more.
Sandor's body wanted to be part of the game as well, but he was still able to
control himself and went on teasing her down there with his one hand while the
other was taking care of her breasts. Oh, this was pure glory! The way she
reacted to him! She was really beside herself already!
He stopped his ministrations, and she actually protested.
“Don't fret, Little Bird, let's take things to the next step!”
He leaned his lower body against hers, put himself into position and started to
push deeper. They both moaned. Blimey, that was good! And she was so very, very
ready for him!
He put his hands around her waist and controlled her erratic movements, slowed
her down. And he thought he had never felt anything so good. Yet, there were
two things that were still on his mind: First, he found he didn't like the
position any longer. At all. Whores had always preferred to avert their faces
from him, so he had preferred it, too. With Sansa it was the other way round:
he wanted to be face to face with her and to see the lust reflected in her
glazed, blue eyes. Second, he realized that in spite of that, he'd inevitably
blow the whole show soon, if they didn't change the setting. It was nothing
short of torture, but he pulled out again.
“Sandor, what...?”
His wife didn't get any further, because he was already flipping her on her
back. Noticing that he was still too close to release, he remembered what he
had done to her in the cabin on the table and decided in favour of that kind of
interlude. Fuck, would his Little Bird prefer circling movements of his tongue
down there as well? He bowed deeper and started to test his theory.
Shit, he was just so right with his assumption! Sansa freaked out under his
caresses, so he changed the rhythm and the motion after a short while, and then
again, because he didn't want her to peak just yet. Damn, his cock was
throbbing and leaking! So he repositioned himself and slid into her again.
Sansa pressed herself against him desperately, but his weight and strength kept
her in check, and curbed the speed of their movements. Even so, she rubbed
herself against him, and they both moaned with each thrust. Sandor had never
had such an extensive act before, that much was clear. They were both sweating.
It didn't matter... only added to the sensation.
And then, finally, Sansa exploded against him, proving the Old Lion's words
that she was really an “elemental force”. The wild spasms around his cock
inevitably sent him over the edge as well, and he grunted and groaned like mad.
In one last effort, he flopped down next to his wife so as not to crush her
again. It took them both minutes until they had recovered enough to interact
coherently again.
Sandor couldn't believe what he had just experienced. Making love with Sansa
was so... natural. Like breathing. Only it felt so unbelievably good as if some
kind of fate had decided to let him enjoy al the happiness at once that he had
lacked over so many years.
And the Little Bird? Her eyes were full of wonder, and there was so much warmth
for him that his stomach somersaulted.
Then, she leaned her cheek against his – the good side this time –, gave him a
tender little kiss and said: “I love you Sandor. You're the best that could
have possibly ever happened to me.”
The Hound had to blink a few times to stop that strange, burning pressure in
the corner of his eyes.
His voice was even rougher than usual when he answered: “I can only say the
same to you. Sansa, I don't even want to imagine what it would have been like
for me – for us! –, if we had not married.”
Sansa smiled: “Then let's imagine something better. For example, how Clegane
Keep will flourish in the future, and how Sondra-Jayne will grow strong and
lovely. The way she's enchanting people around her even now tells me that
she'll able to make her choice from a flock of suitors when she's coming of
age.”
Sandor, however, stopped smiling now.
“What is it, my love?”
“Little Bird, let's better hope she'll be able to have a flock of suitors. She
still has to be legitimized – and who will approve of that, now that your
father doesn't sit the sodding Council of the Three Hands any longer? Outside
our little, cosy nest the name “Clegane” still inspires only fear, disgust, or
even hate.”
Sansa's eyes widened.
“Oh! You're right! – But no, for her sake we won't give up to permit her all
the prospects she deserves, will we?”
The Hound uttered a little snort.
“Sansa, your heart is too good for this world, and I'll be forever grateful to
your father that he facilitated our marriage, do you know that?”
Now, there was even more sadness in the Little Bird's eyes.
“Sandor, I have to tell you something. I had forgotten, because you woke me in
such a lovely way, but... tonight, I visited my father again. And something was
different. Father was conscious for a while.”
“Oh, was he? That's good news!”
Sansa hesitated, and Sandor was alarmed. Something was weighing her down, so
that she could barely speak up again.
“Oh, my love... it's so horrible! He can't... he can't feel his legs any
longer! His back has been broken.”
“Oh. SHIT.”
It was the only thing the Hound could utter.
But Sansa went on: “He woke up when a rider was approaching their little trek
from behind. It was a knight in white armour, but it was partly blackened. And
he was quite an old man. Father addressed him with “Selmy”. I think I saw him
in Winterfell, too, when King Robert visited us.”
“Ser Barristan?”
“Yes... yes! But this is not all. This time, I could see that there was not
only Cleytus from Winterfell with father, but also someone else. It was an
extremely short man with fair hair. I remember him as well from the king's
short visit. It was Tyrion Lannister.”
“What!? Fuck me sideways! The Imp!?”
“Yes. And I've learned even more. They're in the Reach – and they're not
heading for Winterfell, but for Casterly Rock, because it may be far away, but
not as far as the north; and your measter is supposed to treat father.”
“Seven hells, what are you saying!?”
“It's true – and that's not all. Ser Barristan is on his way here, too, and
with his destrier he is much faster than the cart.”
“You're kidding! Barristan is the man, who uncovered the Lannister incest and
ended it – in the very... physical way that you know. Why the fuck should HE of
all men come to the Lion's den?”
“I'm not sure. Ser Barristan and Tyrion were whispering amongst each other; I
think they didn't want to upset father any more than necessary in his
condition. But one thing is clear: something absolutely horrible must have
happened in the capital.”
“Somehow I had an inkling you'd say that bit about King's Landing. We must go
and tell the Old Lion. Up with you, woman!”
 
 
A little while later, they arrived in the Lannister wing. They were admitted to
Lord Tywin's solar at once. The family patriarch was just drawing breath to
greet them, or probably to utter a short congratulation in Sansa's direction
when he noticed that she had urgent news to tell.
So, there was just one clear and concise order: “Speak.”
And that was what the Little Bird did.
At some point, Lord Tywin's jaws started to work.
A little later, the man sat down.
When Sansa had ended, he looked into the hearth fire for a moment.
Suddenly, his fist crashed with a loud BANG! onto the desk, and even Sandor
twitched.
Then, there was silence for a while. When the Hound looked up he realized that
the Lion was staring at Sansa – and his wife was holding the lord's gaze,
seriously, but not defiantly. Fuck, his Little Bird had guts!
Next, Lord Tywin spat: “Right. Let's go through your report again and see, if
some details are still missing.”
 
 
In the end, Lord Lannister decided to send some security guards in the
direction of his youngest son and the Warden of the North. Next, they sent
ravens to Riverrun and Winterfell and wrote into the messages that they had
heard “rumours” that had not been confirmed yet.
When Sandor and his wife left the Lion's solar they felt rather drained. They
went to Sandrina and Sondra-Jayne. At least, those seemed to be happy and
lively, and the baby greeted them with lots of gabbling noises.
“Awwww, hello Jayne! Look, who's here! Tell me, is the pup learning to bark?
Yes?” – And the baby reacted to Sandor's words with the brightest possible
smile. Sansa was laughing now. How easily a child could brighten your mood!
“Sweetest lady wife, I'm as hungry as a direwolf, and I need a damned good
breakfast now, after this dire conference. Let's take Jayne with us down to the
Great Hall and see who's there.”
 
 
When they arrived, it was already quite late for breaking one's fast, but there
were still various people present. Brienne and Jaime were heading for them, and
congratulated Sansa cordially. They even had a present for the Little Bird: a
golden bracelet with little white quartz studs. Sansa chirped her thanks and
was overjoyed.
Next came Lady Lollys.
She said: “This is from my husband and me.”
She handed Sansa a fine goblet with the enamelled inlays of three hounds.
Sandor suspected strongly that this was rather Lady Lollys' than Lord Tywin's
doing, but it was still a surprisingly generous gesture.
Finally, Myrcella and Gendry arrived. Gendry was wearing a big saddlebag and
after their congratulations, he rummaged in it for a moment. At long last, he
produced... a leather pouch with a snowflake and a bird on it that could be
attached to a belt, even a female one.
He said guardedly: “Lady Sansa, this is from the keep's servants for you. We
wanted to express our gratitude for your magnanimity.”
Sandor now had a hard time not to let his mouth hang open. Never in the history
of Clegane Keep had the servants gifted a master or mistress with a present!
But then again, there had never been someone in charge like Sansa. She was
totally worth any present.
Oh. Sansa's cheeks were so rosy now, and her eyes sparkling! The way she was
able to radiate joy was stunning. Gendry handed his master the saddlebag, and
the Hound understood all too well what it meant. Without further ado, he
grabbed into it, produced the precious book he had bought in Lannisport and
rasped: “My love, this is from me for you.”
Sansa's eyes went wide, and without really noticing, she handed baby Jayne to
the next person standing behind her – and then, she flew towards Sandor, flung
her arms around him, and hugged and kissed him so madly that it was absolutely
improper. Even for spouses. And Sandor couldn't do anything against it, since
he was still holding the heavy, expensive book.
“Gawaaaa – ha-ha-ha, wahiiii”, Jayne squealed merrily somewhere behind Sansa's
back, but his Little Bird's auburn plumage didn't allow him to see any more,
and apart from that he was too rapt with those fantastic kisses of hers anyway.
A moment later, the baby had fallen silent, and there were some tiny sucking
noises, as if someone had given her a biscuit. But somehow, the atmosphere had
changed, and Sandor looked up. What he was beholding now almost caused him to
let the book fall at last. The Hound blinked in shock. Either he was getting
off his rocker, or he was hallucinating. Sansa had been distracted and placed
Jayne unknowingly into the hands of a late comer: Lord Tywin's. And there the
Lion was standing, completely thunderstruck, a mightily contented bastard-born
baby girl in his arms – and Jayne was positively sucking on his index finger!
Sandor thought he might have a heart attack at any moment. He knew that the
Lion could be absolutely ruthless, even with toddlers. It was widely known. But
Sondra-Jayne naturally had no clue about that, and she was just about to let go
of the finger – only to credit the Lannister patriarch with her most dazzling
smile.
That was the moment when Lady Lollys started to coo like turtle dove: “Oh
Tywin, look, isn't she a sweet child?”
Lord Lannister looked up at his wife. Now, Sandor noticed that he had never
seen the man with such big pupils before. And then, it happened. Lord Tywin,
who was famous for being the most serious man in Westeros started to smile at
his wife and at the baby. It was a small smile, granted, but it was... genuine.
A flaming wonder! Sandor expected the Lion's mouth to disintegrate from unknown
usage at any second, but it didn't happen.
Then, Lord Tywin handed Sansa the baby back, and purred darkly: “That child
could make the Wall melt.”
Sandor flicked a look towards Jaime – and the Kingslayer's features were
drenched in disbelief as much as his own ones surely had to be.
 
 
When Sansa and the Hound retired after having broken their fast the Little Bird
chirped, looking down at Jayne: “Have you seen Lord Lannister? He'll will be a
great grandfather for Brienne's baby. And who knows, he'll probably become a
father again, too. He and Lady Lollys are really fond of each other. Just as
you've said: there must always be pups in a kennel. Or cubs in a den.” Sandor
only answered with a non-verbal growl.
 
 
Later, the interesting beginning of the day was prolonged, namely by a raven
from Winterfell – just in time for Sansa's nameday. It was Lady Catelyn, who
had written, still oblivious of what had befallen her husband.
She congratulated the Little Bird for her nameday and expressed her hopes that
she was well. Apart from that she related that Robb was a good boy, who
honoured his father by the way he ran the north. Of course, that was absolute
bullshit. A teenage lad couldn't rule such a vast region with the expertise of
his father. He could only hope not to piss against the wind, and even if Sandor
was no big fan of Lady Catelyn, he would have told Robb to listen to his
mother's advice, for she knew far more about the Game of Thrones than him. But
which young, lively, ambitious man, who felt free of his father and powerful
for the first time listened to his mother? To the Hound, it was clear that Lady
Stark was either deluding herself or Sansa. Or both.
Next, the Little Bird's mother mentioned her disappointment with the fact that
Arya's betrothal hadn't gentled the girl one whit. Well. Of course, it
wouldn't! Syrio Forel, this sly man, understood Arya's nature and accepted her
the way she was. A factor that spoke in favour of him.
The other Stark children, Bran and Rickon, seemed to be fine. That was good
news.
Then followed some criticism of Theon. The young man allegedly tended to “kick
over the traces”. Sandor translated this easily into: “He's like an empty
barrel, judging from the amount he can drink, and he whores so much that it's a
wonder his cock hasn't rotted off yet.” Well, it was no wonder. He was a lad
without roots, a youngster, who didn't know, if he was a kraken yet. If anybody
asked the Hound he'd say that the boy was a danger, somebody, who might be
easily influenced by people or circumstances. That Robb and Theon were almost
like brothers – almost, but not quite –, so that Theon would certainly form a
blind spot for the young Wolf, wouldn't make things easier. Normally, it would
be useful to take the Greyjoy lad out of his habitat and to give him a new
place and task. Sandor could speak from experience – he only had to compare
himself back in the old days of Kings Landing with his new life as a lord here
in the west.
The Hound and his wife talked about the letter and its implications, and it was
a complete surprise that Sansa didn't rebuff him for his opinions.
Quite the contrary, she said: “I see what you mean. But you know, Theon isn't
bad. He just doesn't have a wolf for orientation. Or a love that is good for
him. I'm grateful I have both.”
 
 
Later, they rode out, Lady always in their wake. It was so cold that you could
see the breathing in the air, and everything was still white after the snow
storm. Luckily, Snowflake and Stranger were sure-footed horses and didn't mind
the weather.
They made for Lannisport. Sandor showed his wife the tavern he had bought (of
course, it was still closed and deserted). Naturally, he had kept a good eye on
her in the streets, because the quarter with the docks wasn't a good one, but
he simply wanted to show her what he owned now, and apart from himself, Lady
was a good deterrent for any criminal, too.
Sansa couldn't be frightened by the rough sailors outside; she was, in fact,
very interested and wanted to know more, about what the tavern had cost and
what he estimated to earn. That surprised the Hound.
“Fuck, she's really growing up, if she's getting interested in business
affairs!”
Suddenly, the Little Bird turned around, went to the entrance, faced the common
room again and said: “You should paint the entrance door in a bright colour.
Perhaps Clegane yellow.”
“Why, for fuck's sake?”
“Well, you want to attract customers, so a nice, friendly colour is more
inviting.”
Ah, what did he know about the effects of colours? Still, he shrugged. It
wouldn't hurt anybody, so it was likely worth the try.
“And then, the tables should be arranged differently. There must be a straight
path from the entrance to the counter, if you ask me. And do you already have a
musician?”
“A what!? Sansa, believe me, all those drunk sailors in the evenings know how
to chant their bawdy songs, and some of them have concertinas and the like.”
“Yes, I think you're right about the evenings. But when do you want to open?
Only at night? At lunch or in the afternoon, you could also attract some local
fishermen and probably some other people from the quarter. They wouldn't be so
very drunk and appreciate some music. Remember, you've just told me that the
tavern has been closed for a while and that there have been some spooky stories
around about it. So you need to stick out from the crowd, if you want to be
successful. That's what I once heard a merchant say back in Winter Town. – Oh,
and perhaps you don’t want to sell big meals, but you should serve something
plain to nibble on, such as mini onion or garlic rolls or tartelettes. Theon
always prattled on about how he could drink more when his stomach wasn't empty,
so we could apply that bit of information here wisely.”
Sandor was flabbergasted now. The way his Little Bird was developing was just
so astonishing.
“People will soon start to say that the Lannisters have taught the Cleganes how
to shit gold!”
And he, the ugly, scarred Dog could pride himself to have a wife, who was as
clever as she was beautiful! He knew that there were many men who cared more
about their own farts than their wives' opinions, but what had Lord Tywin said?
“If you've got particular skills, and you don't use them to get a benefit from
them, you can as well blind your eyes or pull out your fingernails!”
He was absolutely sure now that the same was true about intelligent wives!
 
 
And the day wasn't over yet. Together, they walked to the “Golden Candelabra”
to get a good meal – but only after they had purchased some nice, bloody steaks
for Lady. Funny as it had been, they didn't want to repeat the scene with the
butcher.
 
When they were all refreshed and fed they sought out Caleb Graston the merchant
of liquors Jaime had recommended to Sandor. The man was of Lord Eddard's age,
portly, and had bushy brown eyebrows like an owl. One could notice at once that
he knew everything about the quality of drinks, and that he had a friendly air,
but that he also knew how to sell his goods at a profitable price and how to
seal a contract. The haggling that ensued made Sansa's ears glow red, but
Sandor was actually having quite a bit of fun. In the end, they had a deal that
was acceptable for both of them, and the bottles and barrels would even be
transported to the tavern.
Contented, they marched over to a bakery, and Sansa got a fancy little lemon
cake. Afterwards, they retired to a dark corner, and Sandor relished the lemony
taste of his Little Bird's lips and tongue. Fuck, they were spouses, but they
behaved as if they were having their first secret date! Was there anything
wrong about them? But if that was the case, it felt too good for the Hound to
care about it.
Chapter End Notes
     In case you're interested... here comes a little drawing of Lady and
     Stranger: http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/maracuyakongeen/55197458/
     35100/35100_900.jpg .
***** Chapter 25 *****
In the afternoon, they returned to Casterly Rock. It was about time to have a
good bath before the official meal in the big hall in the evening.
Unfortunately, the tub was too small for both of them, and Sandor swore loudly.
Even so, they couldn't keep their hands and mouths off each other. Sansa was
meant to bathe first, because she should have the warm water, and her lovely,
long hair would take long to dry and also needed to be draped in some female
way – but as soon as she had peeled off her dress, the Hound's cock stirred, as
if he had not enjoyed a bloody good joust in the morning.
The Little Bird only had to look at him and knew what was going on. With
twinkling eyes she approached him and murmured: “Holy Seven, your appetite is
incredible.”
“It's only fitting for a man of my size.”
Sansa flushed deep red and suggested: “We should probably... have a look at
the... state of your size.”
Sandor threw his head back and barked with glee: “Har , I've spoiled you! Your
septa would get a heart attack on hearing your words.”
His wife was a rich crimson now, but still grinning. So he grabbed her without
further ado, stroked her a little until he felt she was wet for him and claimed
her. When they were finally finished and extremely accomplished the water was
already getting cold – but what the heck did that matter!?
 
 
Later, they walked down to the big hall. Sandor had donned the shirt he had
been given by Sansa for his own nameday, and the Little Bird was wearing a blue
dress with her new bracelet, which made her look very elegant. Even a ruffian
like him could see as much.
Apart from that, the Hound thought that it was almost absurdly improper that he
should be so relaxed today when the world around him was nervous about the
recent developments in the Seven Kingdoms.
Inevitably, he thought: “I guess it must have got something to do with me
fucking regularly nowadays. You can really let off steam and are less
aggressive. No flaming wonder I was so fixated on hacking people to pieces in
the past. Screwing Sansa to the seven heavens is much better in contrast.”
 
 
The evening meal was nothing short of a feast. Seemingly, the family patriarch
felt the need to put on display that the Rock employed some of the finest cooks
in Westeros.
First, there was Chestnut Soup, Leek-and-Pumpkin Soup and a hearty Seafood Stew
to be had. Next, they could choose from Western Fish Tarts, Cheese-and-Onion
Pie and Potted Hare, garnished with mashed swede and cooked girasole. Sandor
was a bit disappointed for Sansa when no lemon cakes were served for dessert,
but – of course – Lord Tywin didn't know about that preference, and his wife
had luckily had her share of that treat in Lannisport in the afternoon, so
Pears Poached in Wine and Plum cream with Nuts and a pinch of exotic Cinnamon
were fine as well.
The best thing of all was that his Little Wife was able to enjoy all those
lovely dishes; if he had not known about her former affliction with regard to
eating he would have never guessed it. And Sansa was in such high spirits now!
For the time being she seemed to have forgotten the problems about her father
and the mysteries of the realm.
To his side, Brienne was wolfing down enormous amounts of food, and she seemed
to have no problems in combining fish tarts with plum cream.
“The effects of pregnancy”, Sandor grinned inwardly, and the corner of his
mouth began to twitch.
Another interesting aspect was that he could see Lord Tywin and Lady Lollys
closely together for the first time. Well, if you didn't count that dance in
Kings Landing some months ago, that was.
The Lion was as serious as people expected him to be, but it was obvious that
the footing with his wife was relaxed, and to the Hound's utter surprise, the
two talked a lot in a low voice about what was going on in the Rock. And even
if Lord Tywin's face was serious, Lady Lollys smiled a lot at her husband – and
those were nothing short of coy, but adoring smiles. It was so very strange.
Back in Kings Landing she had been such an unattractive woman, and moreover,
she hadn't been articulate in the least. At Lord Tywin's side her appearance
had changed in such a positive way! She might not be a beauty or a
sophisticated woman, but she wasn't an ugly duckling any longer.
Interestingly enough, Lady – big as she was! – was crawling under the table and
tried to wangle some juicy pieces off the people she liked. The Lannister
patriarch included. That Lord Tywin shot her some irritated glances didn't
frighten the direwolf at all; she just put her muzzle onto his knees and looked
up at him with charming, begging eyes. Whether it was the recognition that the
sharp wolf's teeth were dangerously close to the precious Lion's balls or some
other impetus – Lady Lollys suddenly handed the animal a morsel of hare under
the table, and the former one sailed off with a triumphant smirk on her furred
face.
 
 
It turned out to be a long evening. Even after they had finished eating, they
all had many conversations, and the Great Hall was buzzing. There were neither
music nor dancing, but Sandor didn't miss that bit at all. Instead, it was some
kind of informal conference about recent developments. Those aspects that were
not generally known naturally couldn't be debated, but there were still many
points that could be taken into consideration, for example, which consequences
the hatching of the dragons could have for the Night's Watch.
At the lower table, Myrcella and Gendry were sitting together, next to a rather
good-humoured Maester Creylen, who seemed to have no taste for a seat closer to
the high-born inhabitants of the Rock. It was a pity, however, that the young
Lioness was placed amongst the common folk, but it was to be expected – and she
didn't seem to be too unhappy about it. From the dais it couldn't be understood
what the couple was talking about, but anybody, who wasn't blind or an oaf
could see two things: first, the smith's resemblance with late King Robert and
second, his serious devotion for the disgraced Lannister girl. Sandor hoped
sincerely that their mutual affection would drive the point home for the Old
Lion that a marriage between them was desirable, but he had no illusions about
the fact that tactics always came first and last for Myrcella's grandfather.
 
 
Before Sansa and Sandor went to bed they had one last look at Sondra-Jayne. The
baby was sleeping peacefully. That was good. Sandrina had turned out to be a
very devoted and trustworthy wetnurse, which took off a load from their
shoulders, especially now that Jayne had been put into her own chamber close
by. After some minutes and some whispered talk with the young woman the spouses
went to their adjacent bedroom.
Finally, they were dog-tired. For a moment, Sandor contemplated seducing Sansa
again when he saw her unlacing her bodice, but decided against it. Apart from
feeling exhausted he didn't want to overdo it, and tomorrow was another day.
But even though the Little Bird's eyes were already a bit heavy, she obviously
didn't want to sleep just yet. Instead, she grabbed the marvellous, ancient
book she had been gifted with.
“Oh, it's just so lovely! It reminds me of Old Nan's stories”, she chirped.
“Let's see what we've got here! – Whoa, that is really an old book! The
language style is out-dated. Look here: “Ðe Leprechaune ðat stole ðe
Wyldlinge's Wyfe.” Haha, I remember that Old Nan threatened Arya with that
story, calling her a wilding at heart, but my sister couldn't be bothered!
Right. What else do we have? Oh, now here's a really creepy one, Bran used to
like it: “The most syncere storye of ðe Nighte's Kynge.” It's supposed to be
true, to really have happened at the Wall in the Age of Heroes. At the
Nightford, to be precise. Do you know about it, Sandor?”
“Nah, I'm not into northern mythology. But tell me!”
Somehow, the Hound was genuinely interested now, although he usually didn't
like any stories.
So Sansa explained: “There was this Lord Commander at the Wall when it was
still young. He was the thirteenth Commander, and his name is forgotten, so he
is just called “Night's King”. He fell in love with a cruel woman and married
her. She had a pallid skin and unearthly blue eyes, and claimed the Commander's
soul. They crowned themselves King and Queen at the Wall and ruled for more
than a decade. It was a time of horror and cruelty, until one of my forefathers
and a wildling managed to defeat the Night's King, and he perished.”
“Fuck me sideways, no wonder that the Crows swear not to have any wives, if
that story is true.”
Sansa smiled, but suddenly, she wrinkled her brow and murmured: “Oh, what's
that here in the book? Listen! “And henceforthe, ðe chyldrene of ðe foreste
gave ðe Nighte's Watch a hundred obsydiane daggeres – whyche is ðe Glass of ðe
Dragones and a mighty weapon in ðe Longest Nighte – every yeare so ðat ðe pale
Otheres would never set a pallyde foot south of ðe Wall againe. And thys was ðe
wylle of ðe Olde Gods as welle, and faces were carved into ðe redde trees, ðat
ðey myghte stand vygyle and warne men of ðe coldest foe on earthe.” Now, that's
mysterious!”
This caused Sandor to laugh.
“Children of the Forest!? What comes next? Fucking grumkins and snarks? But
anyway, it's a good story, not so horribly romantic.”
Sansa scowled at the Hound.
“Sandor, why do you laugh? There ARE some strange things in the world. Think of
the reports from the Wall, of how they are attacked by undead, of the hatching
of dragons... you could even think of the unnatural Stark skills. Remember that
direwolves had not been seen for 200 years in the north when father found
Lady's dead mother. I tell you, something is foul in the Seven Kingdoms. So why
shouldn't there have been any Children of the Forest many centuries in the
past?”
Sandor lifted his huge hands in an appeasing way.
“Peace! I didn't want to mock your skills, believe me! And if you think there's
a grain of truth in all of this I'm not the one to question you.”
The Little Bird was mollified and yawned: “Aww – and I've been overreacting.
It's late. Let's go to sleep.”
“Good idea, woman. Come here, into my arms!”
In less than five heartbeats Sansa had put the book away, snuggled up to the
Hound under the furs, and he put his strong arms around her.
“Mmmm, that's good, Sandor. You're so warm. And... Sandor?”
“What, Little Bird?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
Their goodnight kiss turned out to be sweet. So... so... good...
And with Sansa spread half across his chest the Hound fell asleep.
 
 
The next day, Sandor picked up his usual training. After having been hurt he
needed quite a bit of exercise, because he felt stiff. Jaime turned up as soon
as the Hound was down in the pit. The Kingslayer had forbidden Brienne to
fight, because he feared a miscarriage. After Joffrey's demise it was also the
first training for the mutilated Lannister again, and even if he tried to make
jests as usual, there was still an air of sadness clinging to him.
Notwithstanding, the two men started to slash at each other in mock combat.
A while later, during a short break, Jaime asked, panting: “By the way, Dog,
what is this thing about your wife having visions? I heard it from my Lord
Father. And you didn't tell us a thing!?”
“You're a down-to-earth warrior, One-paw, not a bloody transcendental maester
or a septon – don't you tell me you'd have believed a single, sodding word.
You'd have just spat one of your acid witticisms”, the Hound rasped.
Jaime threw him an odd look.
“Do you know what my dear Lord Father said? “The Hound is a warrior and utterly
lacking creativity. He's good at killing, not at talking. He and the Wolf Girl
are not nearly sly enough for a normal lie. Even less so for a network of
intrigues. If that story had come from anybody else his or her head would be on
a spike already. But from them... it looks as if their story was true.
Unbelievable as it is.” – There you've got it. You're too dumb for cooking up
stories. So... of course, I'd have known you're telling the truth.”
“Gallant as always, the Lannister clan”, Sandor growled.
“Dog, you should be happy my father is thinking along these lines, otherwise
you and Sansa would be dead now. – Although I must admit that he'd never even
lent you an ear, if he wasn't so dependent on those visions.”
“Seven hells – dependent?”
“Well, of course. Without any ravens from Kings Landing. And no spies' reports
from Pyke either, VERY strange coincidence, if you ask me. – By the way, did
Sansa see anything new last night?”
“Nah. She didn't even see her father. She only saw...”
“What, Clegane?”
“Erm. She only saw that a few sausages in the kitchen of the Rock were eaten.
By... a nightly intruder.”
“HERMPH!?”
Sandor let out a mixture of a sigh and a grunt.
“She saw Lady steal some meat. But please. Don't tell the cook. Or your Lord
Father.”
The Kingslayer threw his head back and laughed so loudly that several guards on
the other side of the training yard were looking at them curiously. Sandor
growled in irritation.
 
 
And talking of the fire demon, so to speak, the direwolf appeared. Without
looking left and right she darted towards the Hound, came to a halt, nipped at
Sandor's tabard with the Clegane sigil and tugged energetically.
“Lady, what the fuck do you want?”
There was an urgent whine, deep in the animal's throat.
“Dog, if I'm not a complete oaf she wants you to follow her.”
“Fuck, I can see as much, One-paw. – Right, Lady, then take the lead! Show me!”
Another whine, and the wolf darted off. With the heavy mail it wasn't easy to
run at top speed, but with his long legs Sandor managed to keep a decent pace.
They arrived at the Lannister wing; and just then, a completely upset Little
Bird was sailing into their direction as well. Being so much faster than her
mistress in those hindering skirts Lady seemed to have guessed the direction
and run to fetch Sandor.
“Oh my love! Oh my love!”
Sansa flew into his arms, and she was trembling like mad.
“I went to Sondra-Jayne and played with her a little. She was tired soon and
fell asleep on top of me, and then, she made me doze off as well.”
The Hound understood: “And then, you saw something.”
Sansa nodded and uttered: “We must tell Lord Lannister!”
 
 
The Old Lion was sitting behind his desk as usual, but stood up at once when he
saw the Little Bird's face.
“You're late for a report, Lady Clegane.”
Sansa's voice nearly flipped over: “I just had a little nap. I learned the news
then.”
Lord Tywin's feline eyes bore into hers.
“Which news?”
“Kings Landing and the Red Keep are completely destroyed. In ruins.
Annihilated.”
 
 
Sandor could just stand there, his mouth agape.
Then, Lord Tywin's order cut through the momentary silence: “Repeat that!”
Sansa started to weep: “I didn't hear or understand everything that your son
was relating to my father about what Ser Berristan had told him. First, he
mentioned that Ser Tarly was executed, and then, that there had been some kind
of conflagration. And he said that there was more than one source, and that the
flames were an unnaturally ferocious green. Your son stated in a very
meaningful voice that it was a really wild fire.”
 
 
Now, Sandor could swear that he had never seen the Old Lion in such a state of
shock before. Which was really no wonder, because he himself was feeling very
much the same. His head was dizzy so that he couldn't even start to interpret
the information and think about the implications.
But at least now they knew why there were no ravens from the capital. There was
simply no capital left to send any messages from. And those who might have
survived were certainly scattered and not focussed on sending the news into the
realm.
Oh. Fuck.
 
 
Still, Sansa hat not quite finished: “And it's not all. The Martells and the
Tyrells seem to hold each other responsible for the catastrophe and have
declared war on each other.”
Lord Tywin hissed.
And Sandor guessed he knew what the Old Lion was thinking: “That means the end
of the Seven Kingdoms!”
 
 
Soon, Lord Tywin had summoned a council. Of course, his brother Kevan was
there. To the Hound's surprise, however, he and his wife were allowed to stay,
and Jaime was called to attend the meeting as well. Moreover, there were Ser
Daven with his bushy, wild mane, Ser Damion Lannister and Ser Addam Marbrand,
Jaime's old childhood friend. The latter ones, in their turn, seemed to be
taken aback that the Cleganes were there.
With his voice that seemed to come from out of the grave the Family Patriarch
recounted what he had heard – but without mentioning that his “knowledge” was
based on Sansa's visions. He only referred to some “rumours” again. It suited
Sandor just fine that the Old Lion didn't have the intention to herald the
Little Bird's special skill, even if it didn't become known for simple tactical
reasons.
Be that as it may, the Lannister family was as shocked as those who had heard
the tidings about Kings Landing first.
After Lord Tywin had ended, Ser Damion spoke up: “But it hasn't been confirmed
yet? It's only a rumour? Isn't it too early then to form a strategy?”
Lord Lannister only snapped at that: “It's always necessary to have more than
one strategy up the sleeve!”
Ser Daven uttered next: “True enough. But first, we have to figure out what it
would all mean, if it was true.”
At that, the Kingslayer cut in: “Oh, that's quite clear. No king left. No
Council of Three Hands left. No capital left. That means: no realm left.”
Ser Addam shot a lopsided grin at his old friend that couldn't reach his eyes
in the face of the calamity that had struck Kings Landing.
Lord Tywin only nodded: “That sums it up. Without a central power and with the
Tyrells and the Martells at war, it can only mean that the Seven Kingdoms will
break apart into the entities they were before Aegon the Conqueror. The
Lannisters will be Kings of the Westerlands.”
There was a grave silence. Lord Tywin had been king in all but name for many
years, but an official title was still a completely new level.
Now, Sandor raised his voice for the first time and asked: “What about the
Crownlands then?”
“They could be integrated into the Riverlands – lest the Reach become too big
and influential.”
Kevan looked at his brother in astonishment.
“What!? You'd allow that, Tywin!?”
There was determination in the Old Lion's eyes now.
“Oh, it would come at a price, rest assured. I'm thinking of a Council of the
Kings. It could be held in Riverrun, because it's central in Westeros, and not
at war. In that Council we could make treaties and form alliances – for example
with House Stark.”
Lord Tywin cast an eye at Sansa, who had only been sitting at the table and
listening intently.
Suddenly, the Little Bird looked at the Lannister patriarch as if she was
experiencing a moment of extreme clarity.
Without preamble, she chirped: “You want to win the kings over. The Crownlands
would be a treat for uncle Edmure because you think he's the weakest link, and
he still might have to fight for it against Highgarden, which would bind his
forces. In exchange for your support there you'd want to install a Baratheon in
the Stormlands with his help. A Baratheon you can exercise influence on.”
There was an uproar amongst the men present, before she could go on, and Sandor
looked at his Little Wife as if she'd grown a second head.
“Fuck me sideways, can she read his mind?” he thought.
Disbelief was etched on Lord Tywin's face as if he had been caught with his
pants down. He was breathing heavily.
“Father”, a similarly stunned Jaime asked, “is that true? Do you want to marry
a Lannister to Shireen Baratheon? She's the last survivor and successor in that
line. But whom...” Suddenly, the Kingslayer paled. “You want to marry her to
Tyrion.”
Lord Tywin snorted and addressed Sansa again: “What do you say about that
strategy, Lady Clegane?”
Sandor's heart beat like a drum. Where on earth would this lead?
Sansa seemed to be intimidated and flushed red, because suddenly, everybody was
looking at her.
But Lord Tywin was adamant, and his voice was purring darkly and dangerously
when he stated: “Lady Clegane – I asked you a question.”
The Little Bird coughed, cleared her throat, and then spoke up shyly: “This
kind of marriage could be an option, but it is probably only the second best
idea, because the Lannister influence could be noticed at first sight, so it
wouldn't get much support from the other kings. And surely you don't want to
risk your son to catch Greyscales from Shireen. No, I think you have got
somebody else in mind – and another family connection.”
Sansa looked at Lord Tywin, and he looked back. Obviously, he knew who Sansa
was referring to – and the Little Bird was right with her theory, judging by
the stare she got. And then it struck Sandor. FUCK, that was it! Gendry. Gendry
and later Myrcella. The smith should be legitimised and after a while, he could
marry the young Lioness.
The others in the room, however, had not understood, not even Jaime. Lord Tywin
flicked a short glance at the Hound and then stated: “It looks as if there were
two intelligent people in this room and one who is at least able enough to
follow. What a disappointment that I'm the only Lannister amongst the three in
question. Well. I do hope that the often mentioned Stark honour and the Clegane
loyalty are as great as the intelligence.”
Sandor heard the inherent threat clearly enough and understood it as well as if
cold steel had been held to his neck. His hair was standing on end.
But Sansa only smiled her sweetest, most innocent smile and answered: “My
father only ever rebelled against a king who wasn't worthy of the position, and
only when it couldn't be avoided any longer. Otherwise, my family is full of
integrity. And I'm loyal to my husband, and my husband is loyal to you. And
everybody knows that cats and dogs can get along very well and also feel
affection, if they really get to know each other. It works with Lions as well.
Your son Jaime and your granddaughter Myrcella have already become very dear
friends to us.”
Another grave silence.
Then, Lord Tywin snarled: “You only forgot one thing. There is another
Baratheon bastard, and he has already been legitimized: Edric Storm. It
complicates matters. There are three options for him now. First: We get him
into our hands and influence. Probably by marrying him off to somebody, the
Clegane baby, or somebody from House Lannister more of his age. Second: We make
sure he ends up at the Wall so that he can't have any claims. Third: exitus.
That was everything. You may leave, gentlemen.”
He couldn't have been more pronounced, if he had yelled: “Out! At once!”
When they were all defiling out of the Council Room obediently, the Old Lion
took hold of Sansa's arm, which immediately intensified Sandor's ire, that had
already started to boil after the suggestion of marrying Edric Storm and
Sondra-Jayne.
The Lannister patriarch growled: “Lady Clegane. There's a difference between
intelligence and cleverness. Do you know?”
Sansa smiled up shakily at the tall, elderly man and answered: “Oh yes! Sure I
know. You should get to know my little sister Arya. She's just SO clever. She
actually drives me mad, because she's downright sly.”
Lord Tywin shook his head and warned Sansa: “Just a piece of advise. A clever
man doesn't reveal to his enemy he knows something.”
Suddenly, the Little Bird uttered some laughter that sounded strangely
metallic: “Then it's good we've become friends recently. I mean – you really
DID point out you're intelligent in the meeting, didn't you?”
Sandor had never seen Lord Tywin with his mouth agape, and he himself was close
to a heart attack. Fuck, was his Little Wife suicidal!?!?
And then, it happened. The Old Lion threw his head back and laughed. “Hear us
roar”, Sandor remembered the Lannister motto and immediately felt as if someone
had walked over his grave. Retreating heads whipped back into their direction
in utter shock.
After a moment, Lord Tywin addressed the Hound: “Well, Clegane. When I learned
you had developed some sense of humour I couldn't believe it. Now, I start to
understand.”
 
 
When they were back in their room, Sandor crushed his wife to his chest
desperately and croaked: “Sansa! You're mad! You can't talk to Lord Lannister
like that!”
The Little Bird looked up at him with loving eyes, but also puzzled.
“But Sandor, this was what the council meeting was all about. He needed honest,
good advice, so I gave him what I could, even if I'm only a young woman. And I
know that as a leader you sometimes have to make hard decisions, but we must
make sure that he doesn't have to choose the most ruthless options. Lord Tywin
has got this tendency of forgetting benevolence as a political means.”
The Hound barked a disbelieving roar of laughter: “You? Only a young woman?
Pah, you just bested all the men present with your wit – myself included. Now,
Lord Tywin thinks you might get dangerous for him and his family easily. Which
makes him acutely dangerous for us!”
Sansa nuzzled his chest with her nose and answered: “Oh Sandor, don't panic!
I've told him we're loyal as long as he doesn't behave like a mad tyrant, and
he's neither blind nor stupid; he knows I was telling the truth. And when his
youngest son is back he's got somebody else around him who is very intelligent.
I heard him talk when I warged into father. He's intelligent AND clever AND
sophisticated.”
“Sansa, the Old Lion IS a tyrant. And he absolutely hates Tyrion. He holds him
responsible for killing his first wife while she was giving birth to the Imp.
Moreover, Tywin detests his deformity; he can't stand anything less than
perfection. And finally, he condemns his son's passion for whores. And Tyrion
hates him back with the same ferocity.”
The Little Bird looked up with her Tully blue eyes and breathed: “Oh my! That's
a murky situation. What a pity!”
On hearing that Sandor took his wife's chin so that she had to face him and
growled: “And you'll keep your hands out of that family swamp, or you'll be
sucked in!”
Sansa smiled, stood on her toes and gave him a melting kiss. That didn't help
to relieve the Hound one whit.
 
 
There was another duty that had to be fulfilled: he had to talk to Gendry about
his heritage. So Sandor sought him out in the stables. Of course, the lad was
taking care of the horses again. Stranger's and Snowflake's growing winter
pelts were shining and glistening. What a good young man the Baratheon bastard
was!
It turned out that Gendry didn't have a single clue about his father. His
mother had been a blonde worker in an alehouse, that was all he knew, and he
remembered that somebody unknown had paid the fee for him to become an
apprentice of some Tobho Mott, a smith in Kings Landing. Sandor remembered that
name. Good man, good business where a warrior could get everything he needed –
from a horseshoe for the destrier till a complete set of mail.
“Why did you leave then?”
Gendry's face darkened.
“I'd have liked to stay, m'lord. Master Tobho was good to me, even proud of my
skills, somehow. Shortly after the King had died I was sent away to the Wall
with this Black Crow called Yoren. But I didn't want to go to the Wall. I
didn't like the men, who were sent to the Wall along with me. Scoundrels and
criminals of the lowest sort. So I left. I'm only sorry I lost my bull's helmet
when I ran away. It was a fine piece of work, you should have seen it m'lord. I
did it all myself.”
Sandor breathed deeply. For someone as lumbering with regard to talking as him
this was no easy task. Better to get over with it.
So the Hound started to explain things in plain, simple words. “Have you ever
seen our late King Robert? Do you know what he looked like?”
Of course, Gendry hadn't. When Sandor talked on the young man's face closed up
and became a mask. When he had finished talking about the smith's parentage,
there was no outward reaction from the young man. The Hound could only guess
what was going on behind that brow and decided not to talk about any future
plans for him.
So he just said: “I had guessed it at once, because of your tell-tale looks,
but only when I came with you to the Rock I was reconfirmed. Now... I've never
done and talked about such a thing before, and I don't have a flaming idea how
to handle this, but if you need...”
“Thank you, m'lord”, Gendry cut in. “May... I... leave... now? Please. M'lord.”
Sandor sighed. “Yes, of course. Here, take this stag. Just in case you want to
get pissed tonight.”
The young man looked at the coin in the outstretched hand – then turned around
and walked away stiffly. Ouch. Seven hells, hopefully the lad didn't do
anything stupid!
***** Chapter 26 *****
The next day, it turned out that Gendry had a black eye, one guard a broken
nose and a stonemason's apprentice was missing a tooth. To distract the young
man, Sandor punished him by assigning him to do lots of extra work in the
stable. The Hound sighed inwardly. At least, Gendry had not run away. The only
surprising aspect was that Gendry was capable of participating in a decent
brawl. So far, he had never shown much aggressiveness.
 
 
Apart from that, Jaime had his big day: the smith whom he had bargained with in
Lannisport arrived at the Rock, and he brought him two artificial hands. One
for everyday use made of steel – and one made of gold. So the cocky Kingslayer
couldn't refrain from demonstrating that the Lannisters were still rich enough
to indulge in that kind of splendour.
Brienne's comment was a shake of her head and a harrumph: “If you put that cold
hand on in private I'll show you what a cold shoulder is.”
Jaime only smirked at that and stated he knew lots of methods of warming up a
wench again, which left his sturdy wife with flaming red cheeks.
 
 
Sansa didn't dream of her father again, although she tried. Instead, she
accidentally warged into her uncle Edmure again, who was just in the process of
fondling some loose woman once more. As a consequence, the Little Bird awoke
with a yelp that also rose Sandor, who was immediately wide awake and in a
state of alarm. But Sansa only threw herself at him and heatedly demanded to be
caressed by her husband, so as to forget the embarrassing warging experience –
and the Hound was extremely willing to oblige, of course. Yet... after the rude
awakening his body didn't respond properly; so he had to distract his wife by
kissing and stroking her, which got out of hand soon enough, but damn him, it
was simply too sweet a song when she bucked against him while moaning throatily
and too flaming exquisite to feel her release with his mouth, so he couldn't
keep his lips and teeth and tongue under control.
When Sansa fell asleep right afterwards Sandor promised himself they'd have a
proper fuck in the morning that would please them both even more. What he
couldn't know then was that he simply wouldn't get the opportunity...
 
 
DONGDONGDONGDONGDONG – OBOOOOOOO! DONGDONGDONGDONGDONG – OBOOOOOOO!
DONGDONGDONGDONGDONG – OBOOOOOOO!
There were bells AND horns resounding in the fortress at the break of down –
whichever tool could be gotten for a proper alarm.
Sansa and Sandor shot upwards in their beds, and before the Little Bird had got
her wits back to ask what was going on the Hound was already half dressed,
slipping on his boots and and girding his sword.
“What the fuck do I know!?” he answered to her question. And: “Must be
something bloody urgent, however.”
He pressed a fleeting kiss on Sansa's crown of her head, opened the chamber
door, found a nervous Lady there and growled: “YOU! Be a good wolf now and keep
your mistress safe until I'm back!”
Off he stormed to the stables to get Stranger, and then into the main yard,
where the Old Lion was already sitting on his destrier Goldstorm and shouting
commands at the soldiers that were running around and gathering.
Just then, the Kingslayer was approaching Sandor at the double with a stern
face.
“Hound! Just in time for the spectacle.”
“What on earth is going on here ?” the Hound barked back.
“Ironborn afloat at Lannisport.”
Sandor breathed in sharply and the memory of his fight with the kraken
scoundrels at the cabin washed over him.
“FUCK!”
“Just my line of thinking. Let's go!”
Within two more minutes the company left the Rock and made for Lannisport. From
above, they had a strange view. Right in front of the harbour there were
several Lannister ships lined up neatly in the water. Farther outside on the
sea there was... exactly ONE longship with a kraken on the main sail, or so it
seemed from the distance, and it was just floating – not coming closer. Now,
that was really strange!
 
 
When they arrived, the City Watch admitted them at once, only to close the
gates behind them again. A middle-aged, lean, fair-haired guard with more grey
than golden hair named Ser Joremy Lannett greeted them. Sandor remembered the
man. A rather capable fellow, in spite of being a knight. Rumour had it that he
had a taste for other men, but the Hound couldn't care less about the gossip.
It was aptitude that counted for him.
Lord Tywin just demanded: “Status report?”
Ser Joremy cleared his throat and stated: “The ship with the Ironborn turned up
just before the break of dawn. There are no other Krakens around, as far as we
can tell. The ship is just waiting. It looks as if they've got no intention to
attack. They've even hoisted a flag with the Seven-Pointed Star.”
The Kingslayer cut in then: “But why? They've got their Drowned God! Does it
mean they want to... negotiate?”
At that moment, Ser Addam Marbrand, who had accompanied them, too, spoke up:
“If you ask me this all reeks of a trap! The Ironborn don't sow; they only ever
pay the iron price – they don't haggle like fisherwomen.”
Sandor could only second the man.
Then, Lord Tywin declared: “If a man from Pyke wants to attack this is most
likely what he'll do. It may be strange, but those people over there seem to be
interested in communication. – Lannett, Clegane, get aboard a ship and see what
they want!”
Sandor was thunderstruck. Him? On a ship? On a diplomatic errand?
He scratched his head, then shrugged. An order was an order.
Ser Joremy led the way. And when they reached the water, they dismounted. Next,
they took a little shallop to the flagship, told the captain about the task at
hand and started to glide towards the kraken ship.
Again, Sandor asked himself why the fuck it was HIM of all people who had been
ordered to do this job. The wheels in his head started to move. Aye, he had
risen in status, so he could speak for Lord Tywin. At the same time, he was no
crucial figure. He was known to be a survivor – but if he died, it wouldn't be
a family tragedy. Plus... oh FUCK , if he died during a mission Sansa – who had
proven to be of much use and who was of most noble Stark descent – could be
married to a Lannister. The Imp, for example. A cold shudder crept down his
spine. He simply HAD to survive.
 
 
It didn't take them long to get into earshot of the Kraken ship. And then,
Sandor found out that there was another good reason to send him aboard the
ship: his loud (though unpleasant) voice.
“Oi!” he boomed. “Ironborn! I'm Sandor Clegane, and I'm talking for Tywin, Lord
of Lannister. Who's in command, and what do you want?”
There was an immediate answer: “This is the Black Wind from Pyke. I'm
Grimtongue, and I'm speaking for Asha Greyjoy. We have come in peace and we've
got VERY important news for your Lion Lord. And we ask for political asylum.”
Sandor and the people around him were downright flabbergasted. Ser Joremy
gulped: “Asha Greyjoy? Isn't that old Balon's daughter? What does SHE want
here? And why political asylum?”
One thing was clear for the Hound: “We can't decide this on our own. We have to
tell Lord Tywin.”
Ser Joremy nodded: “Absolutely. This is not our choice to make.”
So Sandor roared back: “Hope you're not in a hurry. We have to discuss this
with Lord Lannister first.”
The man called Grimtongue hollered in return: “Only to be expected. We'll
wait.”
 
 
“WHAT does she want?”
Lord Tywin was incredulous.
Sandor explained: “She's offering information in exchange for guest right.”
The Old Lion's jaws worked. Then, he spat: “Tell this octopus woman that she
has to obey to the following orders. First: They all have to enter the shallop
one after the other. Unarmed, of course. And they have to be shipped over while
our men take their longboat. Second: The Greyjoy woman must have DAMNED good
information for me to satisfy my standards. Third: She and her men will remain
“honoured guests” at the Rock, which means that they're neither allowed to move
freely nor to leave the fortress. And they're forbidden to send any ravens.
Only THEN will they be given guest right.”
“Right, my lord”, Sandor growled. “I've understood.”
He thought to himself that those orders were extremely wise, if you granted the
Ironborn asylum. And Lord Tywin had a loophole: he could always listen to Asha
Greyjoy's news, then tell her they were trivial and send her away again.
Two hours later, it had all gone off without a hitch, and Sandor told himself
that that was actually quite unbelievable. He had seen Asha Greyjoy debark – a
surprisingly young and agile young woman. Somehow, with her proud gait and her
short, dark hair she reminded him of Arya. Her men were grumbling while they
were being led towards the Rock, but there was no rebellion in the air.
When they had arrived Lord Tywin pointed at a barn.
“The men will stay there, until I make a new choice. Asha Greyjoy will follow
me into my solar. And prepare a room for her in the guest wing.”
 
 
Sandor was just happy to be back unharmed. He led Stranger to the stable and
took good care of the horse himself. Then, he went back to his chamber. As it
seemed his presence wouldn't be needed by the Old Lion for a while.
He had barely opened the door to his room, when a madly flapping Little Bird
flew at him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so wildly that he
was almost choked. In the background, Lady was yapping happily.
“Sans...”
“You're back!” his wife gasped in between kisses. “You're back!”
“Whoa, what's that? Why... she was worrying about me!” it dawned upon Sandor.
That was a completely new situation for him. In the past, he had always walked
into battle, and no-one would have given a damned shit, if he had not returned.
So he happily kissed Sansa back and embraced her. But this was seemingly not
enough for her to ascertain herself that he was fine, for she even rubbed
herself against him in sheer relief.
“Whoops, now that's a reaction after my taste”, the Hound thought. Then, he
remembered how after a battle he had sometimes headed for a brothel to cool
down the bloodlust and to celebrate his survival. Only this time, he had not
even raised his sword!
So he growled with a dark grin that made the corner of his mouth twitch: “Well,
I should ride out with the soldiers more often, if I'm greeted back like that.”
“Don't you dare, Sandor! I was so much afraid, I thought it was tearing me
apart!”
That silenced the Hound and moved him more than he could say – so he kept
embracing the Little Bird and kissing her in the sweetest possible way.
After some more minutes, however, he sighed: “And now – if you can let me be
for just a while – I'd like to go to the big hall. I didn't have any breakfast,
and my stomach is flinging swear words at me.”
Sansa laughed at that and retorted: “Oh yes, I can hear it snarl. From the way
I know you it must have something to do with Seven Hells.”
“YOU!”
Giggling, the Little Bird flew out into the corridor, her direwolf at her side,
and they were still in high spirits and a playful mood when they started making
short work of a late breakfast.
 
 
Towards the evening, they heard the news. Brienne and Jaime came over to
Sondry-Janye's room where Sandor and Sansa were enjoying their time with the
baby, and Lady was lying there, too, with her muzzle on her paws. Brienne sat
down and was allowed to hold Jayne on her lap. The big woman's blue eyes
brightened up at once – but a few moments later, they were all solemn again,
because the news were serious as well.
The Kingslayer started with a sigh: “Well, that octopus woman has really earned
her guest right?”
“Has she?”, Sandor growled.
Jaime nodded.
“Yes, indeed. The first thing we learned is that Balon is dead.”
The Hound whistled, though it came out rather gnarled between his partly-burnt
lips.
“The second point was that there was a Kingsmoot to choose a new leader for
Pyke. With Theon still in Winterfell he is no suitable heir, so somebody else
had to be voted. Asha Greyjoy claims she spoke up on her own behalf, crazy as
that may sound, but she's a fierce woman, and her father had given her command
of various ships lately, so she did have some influence. Her uncle Victarion
wanted to become the new leader as well, and he got lots of support. But the
one who was finally chosen was a late comer and a complete shock for Asha
Greyjoy?”
“Speak, for fuck's sake – who was it?”
“Her other uncle.”
“Which uncle? Aeron Damphair? Took him for a religious man, I did. Thought him
to be a sodding priest of the Drowned God, from all that I've heard.”
“I was talking about Euron Greyjoy.”
The Hound's eyes went wide.
Then, he swore: “What are you – the Crow's Eye? THAT monster? When did he
return from his banishment?”
Jaime snorted: “Just in time for the vote at the Kingsmoot.”
There was a moment's silence, and then, Sandor snarled sarcastically: “What a
coincidence.”
“You name it.”
 
 
In the evening, when they were in bed, Sansa suggled herself up at the Hound at
once and put her arms around his neck. For a while they simply kissed, and ran
their hands through each other's hair.
Then, Sansa murmured: “These days are so horribly tense. I can't help myself, I
feel as if I can't relax any longer. First my unconsciousness, then all these
bad news, and I can feel my father come closer, but progress is so slow on that
cart. Gods, I wish we'd learn something positive soon. And I hope that Arya's
betrothal goes well.”
Sandor sighed, and pulled a little, so that Sansa was lying flush atop him, her
head on his shoulder.
“I know what you mean. Do you know what my brain tells me? We should have a
food fuck to distract each other and enjoy ourselves. And do you know what my
cock says? Bugger that! Not in the mood for nothing. It's unnerving.”
Sansa uttered a little giggle, grew serious again and answered: “I feel exactly
the same. Is that normal between spouses?”
“Fuck, what do I know? Haven't been married before – but... well... I don't
know. I guess we just shouldn't fret over it.”
The Little Bird smiled at Sandor and said: “Yes, you're right. Do you know that
you're a lovely husband?”
The Hound chuckled darkly.
“Me? The Others take me, if anybody had foretold me one and a half years ago
any woman might ever say that to me I'd have crushed him to a pulp. And
afterwards, I'd have drunk myself into oblivion.”
Sansa furrowed her brow.
“So much has happened. So much is happening. And winter is coming.”
“Aye, Little Bird, winter is coming.”
 
 
During the night they were once woken by a loose, rattling window shutter
somewhere near in the guest wing.
“Another snow storm, I guess.”
And Sansa yawned: “Then let me just stay close to you. You're nice and snug and
warm under the furs.”
“Oh, I'm the absolutely last one to object to that idea.”
There was a little whine from the corner of the room.
“No, Lady, you'll NOT come into bed. Accept it once and for all that you're a
direwolf, a wild, big, furred monster. I've already told you so before. You
should be outside, hunting. Or at least keeping Stranger's company.”
That shut up the animal. Lady obviously preferred to stay with her mistress and
didn't make another sound.
 
 
In the morning, there was fortunately no emergency call from any horns or
bells. Since Sansa didn't remember any dream or warging experience and there
was no other immediate duty they could take things slow and stay in bed a
little longer. Only Lady was sent away for a piss, since the animal was already
getting nervous.
When she had left, Sandor slipped back drowsily under the furs and embraced his
Little Bird again. All in all, he felt rather refreshed, in spite of having
been woken by the thrice-damned shutter. Sansa moved upwards and started to
kiss him languidly. Oh yesss, this was sososo good, he'd never tire of her
wonderful, rosy lips!
But obviously, the kiss they were sharing still wasn't enough for his wife; she
moved her head a little downwards and licked over his Adam's apple. Next, she
dived into the opening of his shirt and nibbled on his collarbone.
“Little Bird, what do you think you're doing?”
She looked up, blushed crimson, but held his gaze and answered faithfully:
“Tasting my husband.”
Sandor's heartbeat increased, and he growled: “But we don't have any lemon
marmalade here.”
Sansa giggled and answered: “Now, that would be a combination! Two bitter-sweet
treats at a time.”
That caused the Hound to bark his laughter: “Says someone who didn't know a
sausage metaphor some weeks ago!”
In return, Sansa cuffed him playfully – and mumbled: “Well, since you're
talking of food all the time – let's try this giant appetizer in my bed!”
And she started to nibble on him again.
Sandor thought he must have misheard; the little lady he had got to know a year
back in the past would have never ever said anything like that!
Now, his wife's hand wandered under his shirt, trailed through the dark hair on
his chest – and then pushed up the fabric so that she could admire the criss-
cross of scars on his torso. She started to kiss his shoulders, his upper
tummy... and suddenly made for one of his nipples.
Sandor gasped. Fuck, what was that!?
Her lips, that were swollen from kissing, started to nibble there as well, and
a moment later, her pink little tongue set to work. The Hound moaned and arched
into her mouth. Holy crap, now these were really reversed role allocations! In
the past, he had always tried not to feel too much, because “feeling” had
usually equalled “pain”. Moreover, he had always seen himself as a block of
hard muscles and scars, nothing more. His interactions with whores had done
nothing to change that attitude. But with Sansa, it was so utterly different!
She unerringly found soft spots on him he hadn't known they existed.
After a while, Sansa switched to the other nipple to caress it as well, and he
thought he'd go cuckoo with arousal. His chest was heaving, and he was fisting
his Little Bird's auburn plumage. She looked up at him for a moment with dazed
eyes – and then kissed her way down his body.
Fuck the Seven, would she...?
Her head disappeared under the furs, and her hands opened the laces of his
breeches. His breath hitched in his throat. Then, her tender little fingers
started to stroke him lightly, and he moaned again. Unlike the evening before,
Sandor had no problems with his physical reactions now.
He felt a warm breeze on his cock and knew her lovely mouth was close.
“Little Bird!” he pleaded roughly.
And then she gave him a chaste little kiss on his tip. He bucked and gasped.
Fuck, that was torture!
Next, Sansa probed his length with her lips and the tip of her tongue. She took
her time, being curious as well as a little shy.
Sandor pressed the back of his had into the pillow, and his mouth twitched like
mad; his hands were gripping into the mattress. Further down, he was getting
really red and swollen. Finally, he couldn't stand it any more, and he guided
her head with his hands. Sansa was a little hesitant, probably fearing she
might bite him accidentally. But blimey, what she offered him was pure bliss!
She didn't have to do much more anyway, because the Hound felt himself tighten
already and rolled to the side where he spilled himself.
Shit, he remembered how Lilyrose had done this to him when he had been an
adolescent; but in spite of Sansa being untrained in this respect her caresses
were SO infinitely better!
 
 
As soon as he had recovered a little, he flipped his wife on her back and paid
her back. Since he knew her body and her preferences better now he soon managed
to take her to a lovely plateau where she could enjoy the view, so to speak.
Under his mouth the Little Bird was writhing and chirping, and her little hands
were fisting the dark strands of his hair. She couldn't help herself and was
bucking wildly, so he put his hands around her waist and kept her in check.
He felt her coming closer to sweet oblivion and decided that it was still too
early after the way she had tormented him, so he moved a little away and
nuzzled her inner thighs with his lips and her curly pubic hair with his nose.
Well, well, if he had not been completely spent her wonderful, female scent
would have made him ready for a proper joust. As it was, Sansa started first to
protest and then to beg and to plead for her release. Her womanhood was so wet
he thought he wanted to drown in her juices.
Sandor felt he needed this more than anything, needed her lust, her joy, her
ecstasy, her bliss – and it was all reserved for him. For HIM. For the ugly,
scarred dog no-one had ever cared to pet. He teased Sansa with his tongue
again, and further up she was weeping, because she didn't know how to cope with
her arousal and tension any longer.
Sandor drew a loving circle around her glistening pearl, just the way she liked
it, then another, just into the opposite direction – and next, the Little Bird
exploded so forcefully that they would have been catapulted out of bed, if he
had not been so heavy and strong. The echo of her screams were bouncing off the
walls.
Suddenly, there was a rattle on the latch of the locked door, and Sandor
congratulated himself that he had secured it after letting Lady out.
“Lord Clegane? What's going on there? Everything all right?” a guard's voice
called.
The Hound looked at the Little Bird, who was still in higher spheres and didn't
even realize that they were being disturbed.
Darkly, he chuckled: “Aye, everything is fine here. Just playing our own
version of “Come into my Castle”.
Outside, there was a slightly embarrassed: “Oh. Oh. Erm. I see. Sorry for
disturbing.”
So the Hound growled: “Better abscond, or I'll unsheathe a different kind of
sword.”
Heavy footfalls in the corridor told him that there would be no further
disturbance.
Her face still flushed red with arousal, Sansa finally looked at him with hazy
eyes.
“Gods... what... oh my... oh Sandor!”
The Hound smirked and rasped under his breath: “Ahhh! Somebody coming back to
her senses?”
He licked his lips like Lady did after having eaten a delicious morsel of
flesh.
The Little Bird giggled feebly, put her still trembling arms around his next
and sobbed overjoyed: “Oh, I love you so much!”
Sandor was so moved by her tenderness that he couldn't even feel accomplished
any longer. What lingered, however, was that unbelievable feeling of absolute
happiness.
 
 
The rest of the morning passed in a comparatively relaxed atmosphere. There
wasn't much to be seen or heard of the Ironborn; they seemed to keep to
themselves for the time being. All the better for them!
The Hound and the Little Bird broke their fast, spent some time with Sondra-
Jayne, had a chat with Brienne and Jaime, who was showing off his golden hand
like the cocky man he was, and while Sansa and Myrcella went to the sept to
pray for Lord Eddard Sandor headed for the training pit.
When he came back, drenched in sweat, he came across Gendry, whose eye was now
rainbow-coloured. The young man looked as sullen and morose as ever, or even
worse. Sandor didn't like it and concluded that the lad needed a change to
cheer him up.
“Gendry, good to see you. I've got some important messages for Aengus, and I
need you to deliver them to Clegane Keep. You can take Snowflake, she'll be
happy about the movement.”
“As it pleases m'lord”, Gendry murmured.
Sandor sighed inwardly. At least, the orders for his castellan at the keep were
no pretext. He needed to establish a regular payment for Caleb Graston's
liquors and for Lilyrose as his publican and employee at “The Seashell” in
Lannisport.
 
 
The late afternoon, however, became interesting again. When it was darkening
already, because the sky with thick with grey, heavy clouds and likely more
snowfall ahead, a very exhausted Ser Barristan arrived at Casterly Rock. The
formerly clean-shaven old knight had grown a long white beard since Sandor had
seen him last. The man was greeted in a formal way. After uncovering the affair
between Cersei and her twin brother as well as mutilating Jaime and beheading
the Lioness, Ser Barristan the Bold wouldn't and couldn't be greeted cordially
at the Rock.
Actually, the Kingslayer approached the Hound and spat: “I don't want to see
his face, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to see mine. Will you go to my
Lord Father's solar when he's called in for his report? You've got a good
argument since he'll know some details about your wife's father.”
Sandor bethought himself.
“Aye, I'll do that. And I can offer him a guest room in “The Seashell”, if he
doesn't want to stay at the Rock. Might be bloody better for both sides.”
“Hound, you're worth your weight in gold. Has the tavern opened yet?”
Sandor shrugged.
“Should have yesterday. Only the day was so very “busy” because of the Ironborn
that I simply forgot it. But I haven't heard of any problems so far, which
means everything should be all right.”
 
 
Without further ado the Hound made for the Old Lion's quarters and just arrived
in time to be admitted to the crucial meeting with the former head of the
Kingsguard.
Lord Tywin's face was as icy as Ser Barristan's.
The Lannister patriarch spoke up: “I am surprised YOU came here.”
The old knight answered: “That is, because I had no other choice. The Council
of the Hands doesn't exist any longer, there is no government left in Kings
Landing, and the capital and the Red Keep have been destroyed by Wildfire.”
There was a moment's silence. Of course, Sandor and Lord Tywin had expected
these news – but to hear them aloud by an eyewitness was still a different
matter.
The Old Lion cleared his throat and ordered: “Tell me more about the downfall
of the Council.”
Ser Barristan was markedly surprised that their shock wasn't bigger.
“Did anybody bother to send you a raven?”
“There were rumours. And now, I want to hear some details.”
The knight shifted uneasily.
“Well. A “downfall” it certainly was in the truest sense of the word. Lord
Eddard Stark was pushed out of the Council Window by Ser Randyll Tarly. He was
seen on the spot, arrested and executed at once. In the meantime, Lord Stark,
who was injured very badly and likely to die at any moment, disappeared from
Kings Landing. The Dornish reproached the Tyrells and claimed that since Tarly
had been a bannerman from Highgarden it was clear that they had set the scene
to get rid of the First Hand of Three. Mace Tyrell objected in his typical,
passionate way and reproached the Martells with having set a trap so that it
looked as if it was the Tyrell's doing. Within a day they declared war on each
other and moved out of the capital to regroup their forces at Sunspear and
Highgarden. As soon as they'd left the Red Keep there were several horrible
fires, both in the fortress and in Kings Landing. I was just aboard a ship in
Blackwater Bay, and luckily, it didn't burn there, but I could watch the
catastrophe unfold ashore. There were ghastly, unearthly green flames higher
than the Titan of Braavos, and I have only ever heard of Wildfire to be so
ferocious and deadly; and I have heard many horrified screams in my long life,
I can tell you, but never will I forget those shrieks from the burning people.”
Sandor felt horribly sick and had to force bile down again that was rising in
his throat.
Lord Tywin seemed to be more composed.
He asked: “Then why did you come here and didn't make for Riverrun or
Winterfell or the Vale?”
Ser Barristan snorted: “I knew I had to inform a man capable of ruling. Lysa
Arryn in the Vale is a mentally and emotionally unstable hag, excuse my words
please, but it's the truth. Robb Stark and Edmure Tully have only recently come
to power and are inexperienced. Apart from that, a party with Margaery Tyrell
is already on its way to Riverrun, or further up the Kingsroad, to go and meet
Robb Stark at Winterfell for the wedding. I must say that I didn't want to
cross those peoples' ways. Even less than yours.”
Interestingly enough Lord Tywin didn't get angry about the knight's words; Ser
Barristan was just outspoken about his dislike, and there was no need to
pretend anything else.
The Old Lion simply breathed deeply, thoughtful, and then inquired: “What was
the journey like?”
“Bleak, of course, to say the least. At the beginning I met some surviving
refugees, but they were not even a quarter as numerous as I would have hoped.
First, I didn't even have a horse, but I managed to take one that had somehow
escaped the Red Keep's stables; it was still wearing the saddle and a
saddlecloth with the Baratheon stag when I caught it in the turmoil – I can
only guess that its former owner had become a living torch.”
Sandor's sickness was nauseating now.
Fortunately, Ser Barristan didn't dwell on the fire any longer when he went on:
“With the horse things became at least a little easier. And on my way here I
also found out what had happened to Lord Stark. Your son, Lord Tyrion, had
called some men together and had taken Lord Eddard out of the Red Keep in
secret. Must have known and used some hidden passageways and the like. Even
before the fire he had realized that disaster was in the air, and he decided to
leave the capital. I met the little party on the road at night when I was
looking for shelter. Lord Tyrion said he had expected to bring you Lord
Eddard's corpse, but the Warden of the North was still alive, though very ill.”
“In which way was he injured?” Sandor wanted to know now in spite of what Sansa
had predicted.
Ser Barristan looked at him and stated: “He has broken his back.”
Seven hells, so those dire news were confirmed as well! Unbidden memories of
Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn dancing happily in Kings Landing came to Sandor's
mind – and now, the Warden of the North couldn't even feel his legs any longer.
Much less use them. The Hound crashed his fist into the wall.
At once, Lord Tywin rebuked him: “Will you stop damaging the plastering in my
solar!? Lashing out doesn't heal your father-in-law!”
The Hound stopped, although frustration was still coursing through his veins.
“I'm sorry, my lord.”
“And I hate false apologies. Don't say such a thing when I can still see your
fists twitch! One more stupidity, and you can leave!”
Fuck, the Lion was in a really foul mood now!
Turning to Ser Barristan once more, Lord Tywin asked: “When do you expect
Tyrion back at Casterly Rock?”
The knight stroked his white beard.
“If all goes well in approximately seven days.”
“I see”, Lord Tywin was musing. “What will you do in the future? Of course, you
will not stay here.”
Ser Barristan nodded gravely. “Indeed, of course not. As it looks, my vow for
the Kingsguard has come to an end – for obvious reasons. So I will accompany
Lord Eddard to Winterfell, no matter whether he'll be dead or alive then.
Probably, the northmen can make use of me, or perhaps I'll go to the Wall.”
The Old Lion nodded.
“Reasonable options. Now, you may leave. A guest room will be prepared for
you.”
At that moment, Sandor spoke up: “I can offer Ser Barristan accommodation in
Lannisport at my own expense. It would be less straining, I think.”
Lord Tywin blinked.
“Can you? Hm. There's truth in your words. Ser Barristan, you've heard Lord
Clegane. Will you accept his offer?”
“Yes. Thank you. Lord Clegane.”
***** Chapter 27 *****
After the meeting, Sandor introduced Ser Barristan to the Little Bird. The old
knight's hard face softened considerably.
“My dear Lady Clegane”, he said, “your father often talked about you, and now I
understand his pride. You are just as lovely as your mother, if I may say so!”
Sansa chirped her courtesies. When Ser Barristan recounted his meeting with her
father tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and finally oozed out. It was
pain as much as relief that the knight had really seen him alive.
Afterwards, Sandor guided the ageing warrior to Lannisport and further to “The
Seashell”. There, Lilyrose greeted them with a friendly smile.
“Young Lord Clegane! How nice to see you, m'lord! So you want to see how
business is going? Look, the first customers have arrived! It's not as busy yet
as it used to be, but that's no wonder after them spooky stories. I think I
have solved part of the mystery. One pair of rusty door hinges caused a really
gruesome sound each time the door flapped in the wind.”
“Good to hear that we've got no wight or something like that in the backyard.
Now, woman, here I've got a personal guest. This is Ser Barristan Selmy. He'll
stay for a while. Please allocate him a room and see to it that he gets
everything that is needed.”
Lilyrose nodded eagerly.
“Yes, m'lord, of course, m'lord. One of the guest rooms has already been
rented, but there's still space enough!”
Sandor was content and just about to leave Ser Barristan and the publican when
the backdoor flew open, and a five-year-old boy with a runny nose and fair –
though dirty – hair dashed in, running after a spitting cat with a tail that
was bushy from anger, and the lad was crowing happily. Fzzzz! And the little
rascal was out of the front door before anyone could so much as blink.
Lilyrose coughed embarrassedly.
“Well, m'lord, that was my son.”
Sandor chuckled darkly.
“Of Lannister descent I'd wager, considering the hair colour and the affinity
for pet lions.”
Lilyrose's cheeks were a slight pink now.
“Right”, the Hound rasped. “Keep up the good initial work, woman. I'll be back
as soon as time allows.”
The publican nodded again, and Sandor left the tavern. Outside, he could see
the boy running down the street and he thought to himself that it was good that
the little one could stay with his mother, instead of being sent away to
Clegane Keep.
The Hound also thought of Sondra-Jayne and the pups he'd hopefully have one day
with Sansa, and with a twitching smile, he returned to the Rock.
 
 
The next day was a strenuous one again. The first unnerving thing was a major
brawl amongst the Ironborn. They wanted to be allowed outside and to train in
the yard, but that was denied. Which meant that they started to spar with the
guards by using their fists. The soldiers from the Rock were effective, and
they were clad in mail and bore swords, but the men from Pyke were able
fighters, and some had wrangled swords off the guards at the very beginning of
the fight.
The Hound didn't like it one bit, but after he had been called on the spot he,
Ser Addam Marbrand and the Kingslayer found themselves hacking at some
Ironborn, and before it was was over, he had impaled a man with his sword and
split another one's head. In good time, the revolting men were disarmed.
Unfortunately, Jaime had been wounded in the fight and was bleeding from a gash
in his side, but it wasn't as bad as the blow Sandor had received at the cabin
on his land. For someone, who was still in the process of learning to fight
with the left hand the Kingslayer had done more than a decent job. Still,
Maester Creylen would have a bit of work, and Brienne, who had been kept away
from the fight because of her pregnancy, would have to live with some more
patchwork-look on her cocky husband.
Finally, Lord Tywin and Ser Kevan appeared in their impressive Lannister mail
with their snarling escutcheon animals on it.
The Old Lion spat: “Who started this pandemonium?”
Four bound Ironborn agitators were singled out and tossed into the mud in front
of the Lannister Patriarch. Lord Tywin nodded at Ser Addam, who understood the
order, raised his sword and beheaded the first man.
“Lord Clegane?”
Sandor knew that it was his turn now. So he followed Ser Addam's example and
chopped off the next head. Jaime was in no position to kill the third man since
he was injured, so his uncle Kevan took over. The last man was executed by Lord
Tywin himself with such a mighty blow that it sent the head rolling through the
dirt like a misshaped ball, and red droplets showered the closest kraken
fighters. But it still wasn't over.
The Old Lion addressed the remaining men from Pyke: “You sought asylum – is
this the way how you honour your guest right? By attacking the hosts? I will
not tolerate such insubordination. – Soldiers: feed the dead men to the lions
under the Rock. Make our remaining “guests” watch. The octopus woman included.
And if anyone of them so much as balls a fist you'll feed him or her to the
lions as well. Alive.”
The Hound breathed heavily. Well, Lord Tywin certainly understood how to drive
a message home.
Sandor went to the bathhouse, because he didn't want to confront Sansa with his
body, mail and sword covered in blood. Apart from that, he had to cool down. So
he just sent his wife a message that he was fine, and that there was no need to
worry.
After he had cleaned himself, he thought that he needed some different kind of
exercise. So he decided to ride out. Stranger would be grateful.
 
 
The clouds in the sky were hanging deep, leaden with snow, but the cold, salty
air from the sea helped to clean his mind. He rode a little inland, and since
the street was not too slippery, he allowed himself and his horse to break into
a gallop. Some time later, he slowed down again.
Then, the first fat snowflakes were starting to fall, and he was engulfed in
white wafts within a minute. Swearing under his breath, he wanted to turn
around when his eye suddenly caught a movement in the wintry shower. From afar,
it looked like the shape of a rider, but something about him was extraordinary.
Sandor became curious and waited.
His eyes went wide. The man was wearing black clothes, the black clothes of the
Night's Watch. A flock of equally black birds was hovering above him (ravens?)
– and he wasn't riding a horse. No. The man was riding an... elk.
Seven hells, was he getting barmy now? An elk?
Sandor stared in the direction of the apparition. It was coming closer. And
then he saw clearly that he had been right. The fact that it was no mistake on
his part, however, didn't help one whit to feel better in the face of this
curiosity.
So he called out: “Oi there, foreigner! Where are you bound? And what a
peculiar kind of mount!”
The man came closer. He had a broad back and was tall and muscled; moreover, he
was wearing a scarf so that apart from a pair of black eyes nothing could be
seen of his face.
The man spoke up in answer: “I've been sent to become a Watcher of the Wolves.
Are you the man who is the Master of the Stranger?”
Sandor snorted, puzzled: “Other people usually call me “Hound”, but aye, in a
literal way, I'm Stranger's master. See, this is my horse, and it's his name.”
He patted his foul-tempered black courser.
“And what is your name, foreigner? Your statement was utterly mysterious. And
you look like a Black Crow from the Night's Watch.”
The man was composed and answered: “You may call me Coldhands of the North.”
“Aha. Coldhands. And why don't you want to give me your real name? I wonder, if
it has a somewhat more poetic ring than “Hound”. And what for fuck's sake do
you mean with “Watcher of the Wolves”?”
The rider on the elk was still calm, in spite of Sandor's apparent growing
distrust. The Hound sensed that something was wrong about the man; he didn't
know what it was, but his hairs were standing on end.
In the meantime he got his answer: “Coldhands has been my real name for many
years now. I don't remember any other. And I think that since you are the
Master of the Stranger you will listen to me. I have been appointed to watch
over the direwolves south of the Wall. And I'm the emissary of the Children of
the Forest.”
Now, Sandor's mouth was hanging open, letting snowflakes in. What the shit was
this?
“You're kidding!?”
He didn't even get an answer.
The next moment, Sandor realized what was unsettling him about the man – apart
from riding an Elk and attracting a flock of ravens, that was. The foreigner
smelled of death. There was a slightly rotten odour clinging to him, even out
here in the fresh, cold air. And there was something else. He himself was
emitting little white puffs due to his breathing. No mist whatsoever was rising
from Coldhand's nose and mouth.
The Hound felt nauseated and he barked: “Let me see your face! I want to know
who I'm talking to.”
The elk-rider retorted: “You don't want to see that, I assure you. Amongst the
two of us you are the beauty.”
That made Sandor snarl: “Fuck me sideways, I've seen enough gruesome things in
my life! You won't teach me fear!”
The man named Coldhands sighed and removed his scarf. The Hound's eyes bulged.
The emissary from the North put the scarf back into place.
“Not a nice sight. I told you.”
Sandor could only breathe: “WHAT are you? A wight?”
Coldhands cocked his head. “I'm not a monster of the Others. I told you – I'm a
servant of the Children of the Forest. And they want to keep the southern
direwolves safe. They are very upset. They were promised a broken child and its
wolf to save the world, but it has become clear that this child won't come. The
future lies in the dark now, even for the Children of the Forest, and they fear
it might be the darkness of the Longest Night. The Night without an end.”
Sandor, who felt colder than any time before in his life, suddenly wanted to be
very close to a fire – for the first time ever since his face had been melted
away on a brazier by his monstrous brother.
He croaked: “You are speaking in riddles.”
“That's because our existence is one big mystery.”
“'Existence'. Good choice of words. 'Life' wouldn't cover it in your case.”
Coldhands inclined his head in acceptance, and Sandor felt really sick.
“What now?” the Hound growled.
The other man shrugged.
“I will watch, and I will be close in case of need. The Wolfdog layout will be
a focal point of fate. So you will get all the help I can give you. Little as
that is. Return and cherish the strength of the North.”
Sandor thought of how he had said “You won't teach me fear!” only moments ago.
Now, he had to admit to himself he had been completely wrong. With knees and
hands that felt like jelly he made Stranger turn around and headed back for
Casterly Rock. The figure on the elk behind him grew smaller and was soon
swallowed up by the heavy snowfall.
 
 
When Sandor arrived back at the Rock, he passed his horse on to Gendry, who had
returned from Clegane Keep, went in, sought out his Little Bird and threw his
arms around her.
“My love, what is it?”
Sansa had seen at once by the look in his eyes that something wasn't the way it
should be.
The Hound cleared his throat and growled lowly: “I.. I've just learned that the
Children of the Forest do exist.”
His wife looked up at him with her big, blue eyes, then said: “Sit down and
tell me.”
Sandor obliged, took a seat, Sansa sat on his lap, put her arms around him and
her cheek on his broad chest. After a moment's hesitation, the Hound started to
talk, first about the upheaval of the Ironborn and then of his encounter with
the creepy elk-rider.
When he finally fell silent, Sansa was looking up at him as if her heart wanted
to hop out of her heaving chest.
She gave him a heavy, long kiss on the mouth, cupped his cheek and uttered:
“You're so very brave! I'd have been so very afraid I'd have forgotten myself!
And what about his face? In which way is it blemished?”
Sandor looked away and murmured with his scraping voice: “I'm no eloquent man.
For me, there is simply no way to describe it. Let it be, Sansa. And if you
ever meet him – DON'T ask him to show it to you. For your own sake.”
The Little Bird gave a little squeak and wanted to know: “Do you think he is a
danger? He sounded as if he had positive intentions.”
“Might be he has, and might even be he's honest about them – but somebody like
HIM is a danger by definition, if you ask me. I fear we'll come across him
again in the future sooner or later. I hope it'll be later.”
 
 
After the horrors of this day, Sandor was happy that nothing dangerous happened
immediately again. He, Gendry, Lady and Sansa returned to Clegane Keep for two
days, because Aengus had sent word via Gendry that he'd prefer to talk to his
lord personally. It could only be a brief stay, because Lord Eddard was
expected at Casterly Rock soon, but since the fief had not experienced any
further attack from the Ironborn they wanted to go home for a short while. The
only sad thing was that they'd have to leave Sondra-Jayne, but they didn't want
to travel with the baby in the cold, if it could be avoided, and Sandrina would
take care of her well, they knew. Myrcella and Brienne promised to look after
the baby as well, and even cocky Jaime, wounded as he was, assured he'd have an
eye on the little tot.
Small wonder that Sansa was overjoyed and chirping all the way back home. Lady
was equally happy and running to and fro like mad. The men were rather taciturn
in contrast, but not in a negative way, and it was only to be expected since
they were serious men in general.
When they arrived at the yard of the keep Lady darted off like a flash, and a
few seconds later her merry wolfish yapping and a jubilant whine from Moonlight
could be heard from the stables, which caused all the humans to laugh.
“Sounds like a happy reunion”, Sandor stated.
A moment later, Falcon emerged from the smithy, and it was then that Gendry's
initial smile broadened. After some minutes, they were surrounded by the
household staff, and they were all in high spirits. Old, blind Tombry was
suffering from a cold, so that his nose was as red as a soldering iron, but
otherwise everybody was fine. Nayla's belly was growing, and the woman had
overcome her morning sickness, while Aengus Cronhold in his chair-on-wheels had
everyone under his benevolent, but also competent thumb.
Soon, Sandor and his castellan retreated for an exchange of information. They
found out that they could send some Clegane mead to “The Seashell” in King's
landing. The women in the tenants' village had started to use straw from the
harvest to braid it into beautiful decorations that could be exported and sold.
Even if admittedly it would not bring in very much. Many were busy weaving
baskets or carving wood when they didn't have to see to their everyday duties,
which were fewer, now that the corn and fruit and vegetables had been brought
in.
With regard to the Clegane budget it was clear that the amount of money had
been reduced after all the necessary reparations, but there was still enough
coin left, especially for the case that they needed to buy extra food because
of a long winter.
In exchange Sandor talked about many things in Lannisport and Casterly Rock,
and Aengus wanted to know something about this and that person he remembered,
of course. When the castellan heard that his lord and Ser Joremy Lannett, who
was also an old acquaintance, had been on the same ship to meet the Ironborn,
Aengus's old soldier's instincts kicked in, and he wanted asked for many
details.
 
 
They had supper in the kitchen as usual, together with Ayella, Cembara and the
little boys. The lads clung to Sansa and Gendry and wanted to know everything
about Lannisport and Casterly Rock, which they considered to be the navel of
the world and the ultimate destiny for any adventurer. Or little boy.
At some point, the back door was opened by a huge paw, and Lady and Moonlight
entered. At once, Ayella stood up, closed the door and gave the animals their
meat and two big bones. There were happy munching sounds coming from the
feeding bowls, and some time later, Lady cast herself onto a big rag in a
corner, Moonlight followed her, lay down as well and burrowed his muzzle in the
direwolf's soft fur. It was the sweetest possible sight, and the humans at the
table shot each other glances – well with the exception of Tombry, of course –
and grinned.
 
 
After supper, a bath in the big tub in their rooms was prepared. Sansa and
Sandor were both looking forward to it; finally, they'd be able to share the
water again. They were both dog tired and dirty after the trip on horseback
from Casterly Rock to Clegane Keep. Especially Sansa, who was still not the
best rider, had some sore muscles.
So they stripped, sank into the hot water, and the Little Bird snuggled up to
the Hound at once. Further down his body there was a feeble echo of an
erection. They rubbed their lower parts a little against each other, and after
some minutes, Sandor was at least hard enough so that his wife could slide down
on him. He growled contentedly when she did so; however, they only made some
small movements, because they were so weary. The good thing about this was that
it allowed them to enjoy their absolute proximity even more consciously. Apart
from their heavy breathing, they were silent.
 
 
After a while, Sandor murmured: “Right, Little Bird, we're – hhh – clean enough
now. Let's move over to the bed. We still have “Lady Rysaya's Romances” there
on the shelf.”
Sansa muttered: “The book? Aren't we having it romantic right now ourselves?
Mmmmhm.”
The Hound smiled into his wife's wet, auburn tresses: “We do, but we could have
it even more... interesting.”
The Little Bird uttered the tiniest giggle.
“Deal.”
She moved off of him with a slightly disappointed sigh. Next, they got out of
the tub and rubbed each other dry. Sandor's cock had softened for a moment, but
when he sat down on the bed, leaned his upper body against the headboard and
took the salacious book into his big, calloused hands, his member stiffened
again.
He said with his raspy voice: “Come here, Sansa, straddle my lap and lean your
back against my chest. Then, we can have a good look at the pages together
while having some fun. I'm sure you'll like it.”
His Little Wife looked at him with wide, blue eyes and stammered: “You mean...
at the same time?”
Sandor grinned wickedly, and his mouth twitched.
“Yes. We'll have to keep it slow so that we're still able to talk about the
pictures. And you must read no less than the first chapter to me.”
Sansa goggled, and she was still really sceptic when she came to sit on his lap
with a gasp. Sandor uttered a happy little growl.
“Oh, hello there; you feel good, wife. Now, lean against me. – Hhh. – Yes,
good. Take the book and open it. Now... hhh... show me which one of the
pictures you don't know so far you like best.”
Sansa flipped obediently through the pages with trembling hands while the Hound
cupped her little teats and stroked them slowly. Suddenly, she stopped,
puzzled.
“Oh, my love! – Ah. – What's that? The woman is holding – ah – a whip?”
Sandor chuckled darkly, and the reverberations were so damned good where they
were joined!
“You see – mhhh – some people are aroused by pain and by being dominated, even
hit – ah – by a whip.”
Sansa forgot to move and turned her face back to her husband.
“WHAT?”
Sandor had to laugh again.
“I told you about different tastes.”
Then he dipped his head and lightly bit the nape of her neck while his
fingernails scraped over her nipples.
“AH!”
“See what I mean? Let's look at the next picture.”
Sandor turned the page and suddenly, Sansa giggled like mad, which made the
Hound cringe from arousal.
“On a horse!? No! Oh Gods, – hhhhhhh – I can't believe it! Must be interesting
– hhhh –, but Stranger would be scandalized!”
Now, they were both laughing, which made control increasingly difficult.
So Sandor rumbled: “Ah fuck, forget the book – hhhh – now! Let's – ahhh – turn
you around. We can – mmmhhh – read tomorrow!”
Sansa was only too willing to obey. Sandor still tried to take things as slow
as possible, but their need and lust was rising, and when the Little Bird
started to moan loudly and to pulsate around him because of her peak he
released as well. Afterwards, they were so exhausted that they fell asleep
within the minute and found their well-deserved peace.
 
 
The next morning, they had another lovely, arousing interlude, and Sansa
learned from the erotic pictures in the book about threesome games with either
two men and two women, something that Sandor – possessive as he was – couldn't
appreciate.
“You're mine! Mine! I will share you with no-one!” he grumbled, and showed her
with lots of passion what he meant.
 
 
Later, they washed and dressed carefully. They meant to visit the peasants'
village. Who knew when they could return to Clegane Keep? So when they were
there they had to show themselves to the people; the tenants should know that
the lord and lady cared.
At the stables, they heard the happy sounds of the direwolf and Moonlight.
Apparently, the blind dog was finding his own measure of joy with Lady.
“But she's not in heat!”Sansa mouthed towards her husband, and Sandor grinned:
“Doesn't seem to hamper them in the least.”
The Little Bird giggled and said: “Then let's leave them to themselves. By the
way, honestly I don't understand it any longer. I was taught this was a duty,
and I'd just have do to what my husband wants, to lie back and to obey. True,
mother once said that there was some happiness in the duty, if you had a caring
husband... but I was NEVER prepared for this. That it is normal and beautiful
and highly enjoyable. That it is nothing to hush up. Then why on earth do
people do that? Hush it up, I mean. Tell children, especially girls, something
like this? And why does they Faith support this?”
Sandor looked at her awkwardly.
He rasped: “Seven hells, and that question is coming from a clever girl like
you? What do you think? It has to do with power. The power of one noble house
about another, the man over the woman... and sometimes the other way round. You
know yourself how few marriages have got anything to do with love or at least
sympathy! Imagine we had never met and you had to touch a different husband
like me – the Kingslayer, Ser Addam Marbrand or one of your northern lords.
With a bit of luck you might learn not to feel disgusted, but that's it. Now
imagine you had to endure somebody like Ser Ilyn Payne. Or even worse: my
brother. You'd faithfully support any religion then that castigates fucking.
You simply couldn't develop a normal attitude towards lovemaking – and you'd
probably pass that attitude on to your children.”
Sansa looked into the distance, and there was sadness in her eyes.
“It's such a pity, Sandor. That power seems to be more important than love.
I'll be forever grateful that at least WE got a chance. And there are some
people around us who have also found some happiness. Let's hope that they pass
on the positive effects to their children.”
“Aye, you're bloody right there. Before I met you I didn't know what love was,
and I would have derided this relationship, if I hadn't been involved. I was so
angry and bitter. My sole real ecstasy was killing someone in battle. Only now
do I know that showing you the Little Death is so much better.”
Sansa furrowed her brow: “Little Death?”
Sandor chuckled: “You're amazing, little wife. Try to figure it out yourself. –
And talking about death... let's see, if Stranger is in a sociable mood today.”
 
 
In the end, it turned out to be a rather relaxing day. There were some showers
with sleet, true, but otherwise, they couldn't complain. After Gregor's bloody
rule of terror, the tenants were still overly subservient and shy, even after
more than a year; their fear had simply been ingrained too deeply, but in a
cautious way they had started to become willing to communicate with their lord
and lady. The harvest feast had broken the ice, and they could detect a slight
improvement now. Sansa's kindness and beauty were very helpful here; Sandor
wasn't prone to any form of self-deception in that context. They heard about a
healed broken leg, two pregnancies, the death of an old man and the return of
two former peasants with their families.
In his childhood Sandor had never been prepared for this. His family had
received knighthood only the generation before, so his grandfather and his
father had always fostered their connections with other noblemen and had always
looked down on the common folk. The Lannisters were no different, so the Hound
had never got to know a different attitude.
With Sansa it was strangely different now. Through her he had risen in status,
and she was from the noblest houses in Westeros. In spite of that, she took the
smallfolk seriously and was interested in their affairs, something he still
didn't quite understand, because he had never been a philanthropist; but he
understood that those people had their own worth.
When they returned to Clegane Keep and were dismounting in the yard, Lady
emerged from the stables, jigged around Stranger affectionately, then put her
paws on Sansa's shoulders, licked her mistress, and suddenly, the Little Bird
stumbled under the animal's weight, fell with her bottom into the half-frozen
dirt and had a girlish fit of laughter.
Sandor rasped with his widest, twitching grin: “Do you know, sometimes it's so
very strange, Sansa.”
“What do you mean, my love? – Lady, please, haha, no, nooooo! Gods, I'm getting
dirty all over! Please, let me go! Ksh! Ksh! Hahahaha!”
Sandor's smile grew more serious now.
“Oh, you see, Little Bird, I often forget that you're so young. Sometimes you
sound like a wise woman, sometimes like an experienced politician, you killed
when it was necessary, when we're alone you're a seductress – and all of a
sudden, there is a flash of innocent childishness. I wonder how you cope with
that. And I hope you're happy.”
Sansa finally managed to fend off her direwolf, patted Lady while she was
standing up and gave her husband a warm smile herself.
“Oh, I AM happy! So happy. I sometimes can't believe it. And the reason is that
I've got you. I'm learning from you every day. You help me to find my way
around. Without you I think I would still have lots of problems with the
warging. I wonder, in which way I'm influenced when I enter another person or
animal. Entering a male body always shows me the differences of your sex.
Surely, the memories also affect the mind when I'm awake again. I can still
understand your lust better, because I know what YOU feel. I have known pain
ever since I entered my father's injured body. Before, I sometimes visited him
in Kings Landing and heard quite a bit of political talk I would usually have
never heard, being a woman barely grown. And when I return, I can always come
back to you and your love. You are my lighthouse.”
With those words she put her arms around Sandor, pressed her cheek against his
chest and inhaled deeply.
“Me? A lighthouse?” Sandor growled gruffly, although he was deeply touched.
“Must have something to do with my size then. Oh, and don't breathe too deeply,
I'm sweaty from today's ride.”
Sansa grinned and mumbled against his chest: “You! Admit it, you're only
looking for a reason to have a bath with me.”
And Sandor barked his laughter: “Fuck the Seven – guilty of charge, Little
Bird, guilty of charge.”
 
 
Around midnight, Sansa awoke with a yelp.
The Hound stirred at her side.
“What is it, woman? Did you warg into your stupid uncle Edmure again?”
The Little Bird shook her head energetically, rubbed her mouth with the back of
her hand and demanded: “Kiss me!”
Surprised, Sandor obeyed, and Sansa kissed him wildly for several minutes, and
she felt rather upset – at least that much he could tell.
“What the fuck was that?” the Hound wanted to know when she was finally willing
to part lips with him again.
He couldn't really see her crimson cheeks, but her voice was thick with
embarrassment when she answered: “I just needed your taste after my
skinchanging.”
At that Sandor snarled: “Aye, and what the fuck did you experience?”
Sansa squirmed and writhed.
“Gods, I feel so ashamed, and I didn't mean to go there... Please, you must
believe me!”
“Bugger that, out with it!”
“I... oh Gods... I've just kissed...”
“WHOM?”
“I... I... – Lady Lollys.”
Sandor's eyes bulged, and when he understood the implications he felt sick.
“You warged into Lord Tywin!?”
Sansa uttered a mewling sound.
“I swear, I wanted to run with Lady, but she is... I think she's together with
Moonlight again.”
“You can't warg into your direwolf when she's fucking, but you can enter Lord
Tywin when he's with his wife?”
The Little Bird chirped desperately then: “NO! It wasn't like that! Lord Tywin
was still in his solar and reading a letter, and Lady Lollys just came over to
ask him when he'd come to bed. Lord Tywin told her he had a bit of a headache –
that was my presence, I guess – and he gave her a peck on the mouth. It was
harmless enough.”
Sandor breathed deeply and still didn't like this at all.
After a moment, eh rasped unpropitiously: “Ah. Now do tell me. What is it like
to be the sodding Old Lion?”
“Oh Sandor, that's unfair, what should I say? I mean, he feels like a man does,
and he was very self-confident and concentrated, and when I entered him he was
just starting to read a letter.”
“You had a look into his correspondence?”
The Hound could feel his wife nod in the darkness.
“Yes. It was a letter from his sister.”
“Lady Genna Frey?”
“Exactly! She was complaining about uncle Edmure, and she called him a bad lord
for the Freys and for the West. She also said that it was all becoming worse,
because old Ser Walder Frey had passed away and that his son Stevron, his heir,
is too affable for her taste. Since she wants to strengthen the ties between
the Freys and the Lannisters she suggests a marriage between Tyrion and a Frey
woman. In her letter Lady Genna stated that the people at the Twins look like
weasels anyway, so Tyrion's looks wouldn't make it much worse for any
offspring. – Sandor, why do you chuckle? That's so rude!”
The Hound growled: “Ah for fuck's sake! Rude – aye, but not really wrong, to be
sure. I'm more worried about how Lord Tywin will likely try to gain more
influence in the Riverlands. And did Lord Lannister say anything about that
idea?”
“He... he said: “Lions, direwolves, dogs, krakens – and now a weasel? And in a
year or two the first dwarf weasel? We should open a public menagerie! Would
earn us a nice sum of extra money. Only we don't have any dragons.” – That was
his comment right before Lady Lollys entered.”
“See, I told you he hates his younger son. Actually, he despises nearly
everyone.”
“He has been alone for twice my age – I cannot even fathom what that must have
been like for him. I've heard he loved his first wife. Now, if I imagine I lost
you and lived alone for more than thirty years after – Gods, I'd be bitter and
hard, too! If I survived it at all. He must be really strong to survive the
loss of a wife and to finally find a new love. When Lady Lollys entered I could
feel his heartbeat quicken. Even I was surprised to see how deeply he cares for
his wife – he shows less than ten per cent of his affection for her in public.”
“And I tell you that I don't like it that you entered him in the first place.”
Now, Sansa was getting angry.
“I didn't choose it! How often do I have to tell you!”
On hearing that, Sandor snarled back: “And I for my part can see that his
“amiable” temper is already rubbing off on you! And it doesn't become you at
all!”
“Look at your own temper, Sandor Clegane, and tell me who is the “amiable” one
here! Gods, was it only this afternoon that I told you I could always come back
to you and that you were my lighthouse? I have to ask myself now, if I have to
change that opinion!”
It was then that the Hound barked: “Go, ask yourself what you want! I never
applied for the job as a lighthouse! I'm a dog, no more, no less. And now, the
dog needs to sleep in his own hut.”
Without further ado, Sandor grabbed some furs and moved over to the adjoining
room where they usually only bathed. In that night, the four-poster bed there
was used for being slept in for the first time. Although, in fact, the Hound
didn't get much sleep and turned and tossed. The way he missed Sansa's body at
his side was acute. It hurt. Yet, he was upset, and he couldn't go back. Didn't
know if he'd still be welcome, if he tried. He wasn't someone to return to any
longer. She had said as much. So it was questionable whether HE was allowed to
come back to HER.
***** Chapter 28 *****
The morning was bleak. The weather, the – hopefully temporary – farewell from
Clegane Keep, Stranger's especially nasty temper, the sad whining between Lady
and Moonlight and the foul atmosphere between the spouses...
They rode all day, mostly in silence. Even taciturn Gendry, who was coming back
to Casterly Rock with them, started to feel uncomfortable. During a brief pause
Sandor walked over to Sansa's palfrey. There was no sign of pregnancy yet, but
it was nothing unusual.
Suddenly, he rasped at the Baratheon bastard: “If she's carrying a foal and you
still need it when it's born, it'll be yours, Gendry.”
The young man looked up at him from his seating position and the morsel of
cheese he was chewing on.
“My own horse?” he stuttered, unbelieving.
Sandor attempted a half-smile, but it only ended in a horrible twitch.
“Aye, lad, your own horse. A man should have his own horse, especially one who
likes horses as much as you do. You even like Stranger, for whatever reason.
The foal would be of good breed. Like you.”
Gendry snorted.
“I'm a bastard. Whoever my father was. M'lord.”
Sandor cleared his throat.
“On my word, I wasn't really talking of your father.”
The smith's apprentice looked at the Hound with wide eyes, but didn't didn't
point at the issue again.
Instead, he stated: “I'd be grateful forever, if I could have Stranger's and
Snowflake's foal, M'lord.”
“Well, let's better hope our horse here has conceived.”
Sandor patted Snowflake's neck.
Only then did it occur to him that the Little Bird had not said a single word
about the topic.
“Sansa, I should have asked. Do you support the offer?”
His wife looked at him seriously; her eyes were strangely veiled and her voice
sounded distant when she answered: “You may do as you please, Sandor, and
Gendry is truly good with horses. I would entrust him with a foal, too.”
The Hound's heart knotted. There was a divide between his wife and himself now
– and he didn't know how to bridge the gap. When he had first heard of Sansa's
warging skills he had accepted them without a second thought. He was different
from others, and so was his wife – that was all it had meant to him. But now,
things were different. This was not about visiting him for a good wank in Kings
Landing, it was not about discovering important news, and neither was it about
stealing a sausage while running with a direwolf. No.
It was all about the Little Bird learning songs from other animals. From
himself, Sansa had learned about lust. From her father she had learned about
being upright. What had she learned from Ser Ilyn Payne? Perhaps the killing
instinct. Would she have been able to stab the Ironborn at the cabin before her
abduction of late King Robert's justice? Who knew. And what was Lord Tywin
teaching her? Politics? Tactics? The Game of Thrones? Ruthlessness? Had she
visited him before, and that had sparked off her sense for business? He cursed;
it was too much for him, simple as that.
After another long silence Sandor growled: “Right, let's get back on our way
again. Anybody who still needs a piss, or can we start at once?”
His blunt words caused Gendry to clear his throat; seemingly, he felt
uncomfortable to speak about that in front of a lady.
“Erm, I'm back in a minute.”
Sansa had just turned a dark shade of pink, shook her head and came over to
Snowflake.
When Sandor put his hands around her waist to help her mount the horse, he
suddenly held her close and murmured into her auburn hair: “Whatever we have to
sort out between us – I hope you know I'll always love you!”
Sansa sighed.
“Yes, I know. And I hope you know that my feelings will always be the same for
you.”
Their short interaction didn't help to solve the problem, but it soothed the
pain.
And then, Sandor turned around and saw that Lady was trying to cuddle Stranger
again.
There was a stifled giggle from Sansa: “Oh look, she's trying to cheer him up!”
The Hound snorted: “With the opposite effect, as it seems.”
The horse was positively looking at his master in a way that could only mean:
“If you tell anybody about this, I'll trample you on the battlefield first
before I trample the enemy!”
Sandor chuckled darkly: “Pfft, who do you want to deceive, horse? We all know
you actually like her, and the people and animals at the Rock have seen you
together. You've got more misdirected pride and pigheadedness inside of you
than even me!”
Sansa was giggling again.
“What, woman?”
“I'm just imagining you with a pig's snout.”
That even caused Sandor to bark a short gale of laughter, and Stranger was
throwing daggers at him with his eyes. Mounting the courser after that turned
out to be difficult: Sandor was trampled on the foot, so that the laughter
turned into howling and swearing.
“Aaaaah! Seven hells of shit, I'll turn you into horse hash, I tell you, you
damned foul beast of a poxy hellion!”
 
 
When they finally arrived at Casterly Rock, Sandor limped over to Maester
Creylen and got himself a salve for his bruises.
The healer looked at him and murmured: “Seems as if you need your boots mended
– but be happy that they were there, or it would have been worse for yourself.
You'll get two black nails on your toes. At least, nothing is broken.”
With a very grumpy “thank you” Sandor left the mousy man again.
 
 
Later, he addressed Gendry: “Tomorrow, I've got a task for you. The maester has
done quite a bit for us over the last months. Take Stranger – hopefully he's in
a much better mood then – and ride to Lannisport. Try to see, if you can buy
something useful for him. Here you've got some coin. You can keep the change.
Use it for yourself! Go to a good tailor and get yourself some decent new
clothes. And when I say “decent” I mean a doublet and trousers that you can
wear at an official occasion. I'm a sodding lord at the Rock now, and I might
need you when the Old Lion holds a reception and the like. Right. And before
you return from your errands you ride over to “The Seashell” for a quick check.
Ask Lilyrose, if everything is all right.”
Gendry curled his nose.
“Doublet? For me? Me at receptions!? – Oh, m'lord, that's nothing for me.
Perhaps you should employ a squire...”
“Gendry, for fuck's sake, you have to be able to stay around noblemen, whether
you bloody like it or not. You have to make Lord Tywin believe you are worthy
of Myrcella, you know.”
Gendry blinked and grew even more sullen in an instant.
“M'lord, I ask you, how could I ever hope to make a good impression on Lord
Tywin?”
Sandor rumbled low in his chest: “You are of tactical value for him, believe it
or not. You've got a real chance, if you try to adapt and to do your very best
and learn.”
Gendry looked even more morose now.
“M'lord, I know a fair deal about smithing, and I'm not bad at it – but I'm not
intelligent. I've got no refined taste.”
“In that respect you're your father's son then – and he ruled the Seven
Kingdoms for many years. And what do you think about me? I wasn't raised to
become a lord. My intelligence? My taste? Bugger that, I don't excel there
either. Can't give a speech, just growl some coarse words. My only streak of
good taste ever was to fall in love with my wife.
Gendry looked at Sandor sceptically.
So Sandor rasped: “What do you want? If you don't try you'll have lost Myrcella
already. Do YOU want to have her, or do you want to lose her to some unknown
half brother, who has got the sheer luck of having been legitimized already?”
Gendry straightened in shock.
“I've got a half brother?”
Sandor stopped dead. Oh fuck, he hadn't thought of it before the words left his
ugly, scarred mouth; but it was true, Gendry and Edric Storm were half
brothers!
The Hound cleared his throat: “Actually, you've got more half silblings than
you can count. King Robert sired so many b... children – and all over Westeros.
He was a really... lusty man.”
Gendry's jaws worked heavily.
“But that was... irresponsible! How could he do something like that?”
“He wasn't a bastard. So he didn't know what it means to be one. And he didn't
think about these things. He was the king, his marriage was horrible, and he
thought he deserved the fun. But don't think of him too badly. Almost all the
sodding noblemen are like that. They think they're honourable because they're
sodding lords and knights. That's why I never became a ser. The problem is: you
can't escape the system forever. You can only seek to give your very best and
not to be corrupted completely. And once in a while you may get your will. The
Game of Thrones can lift you up or put you down. Or both. Your participation is
the entrance fee for a chance to win lovely Myrcella's hand.”
Gendry looked away and spat: “BAH!”
“Aye. I know very well what you mean.”
The dark-haired smith murmured: “If only I didn't... feel so much for her.”
The Hound clapped him lightly on the back and growled: “Then, we'll see what we
can do for the both of you.” And he thought of what Sansa had said about
“benevolence as a political means”. Fuck, he didn't do it for tactics, he did
it, because the boy and the girl deserved each other!
 
 
Next, Sandor marched over to Sondra-Jayne's room. The baby was already in high
spirits, because Sansa, Lady, Sandrina, Myrcella and Brienne were there and
playing with her. Sandor greeted the women and took the tot into his arms. When
Jayne recognized him she crowed happily, and he thought his heart would melt
into a puddle.
“Gwaaaa-wawawa-hawaaa.”
“Yes, Jayne, look, we're all back. That's fine, isn't it? And we have missed
you so much!”
“Gwii-hiii-mawaa-aa!”
But then, the girl's face contorted a little.
Sandor sniffed.
“Phew, girl, you haven't forgotten how to shit properly in the two days we were
away! Bah, and it looks as if you've developed a new aroma. You sure you're not
rotting on the inside?”
Sansa giggled in embarrassment.
“Dearest Lord Clegane! You can't talk like that!”
“Pah! The Others take my balls the day I stop speaking my mind! – Now, Jayne,
let's see what we can do about that stench!”
Brienne followed Sandor's next actions wide-eyed.
“Lord Clegane, but what... you're swaddling her yourself!?”
The Hound snorted: “If I can fling a two-handed sword in battle I think I can
handle a dirty nappy, too!”
Brienne had to chuckle then: “That line of argumentation sounds encouraging for
me, being a sword fighter myself! But I can already hear Jaime's weak excuses:
“Ah, wench, you see, I've got only one hand, that's too delicate a task, you
know.” – Yes, yes, but TWO metal hands for showing off and posing as if he was
sent straight from the Gods!”
From behind them there was a dark voice in a mocking tone now: “Who's talking
about me?”
Tall, sturdy Brienne flushed deep red in shame.
However, the Kingslayer's smug grin about catching his wife making taunting
comments at once turned into an open-hanging mouth: he had spotted Sandor
swaddling baby Jayne.
“HOUND!?”
“One-paw! What is it?”
“Erm. Erm. I think my brain damage is just worsening.”
“Pah, you've married a giant woman, who likes to wear mail and to wield a
sword. What's this in comparison? – Lady Brienne, no offence meant.”
The Kingslayer ran his left hand through his golden hair.
“Well, Dog, one thing is sure: with you life is never boring.”
“Let me return the “compliment”, Lannister: with your loose mouth life is
always so unnerving!”
Jaime chuckled, turned around to face his daughter and Sansa and stated: “By
the way, a messenger has just arrived with good news. Uncle Tyrion and Lord
Stark will arrive on the morrow.”
“Uncle Tyrion!” Myrcella squealed happily.
“Father!” Sansa cried.
“Fuck, One-paw, and you're only telling us now!?” Sandor snarled.
And Jaime shot back: “Ha! If I hadn't been distracted by a giant, scarred, male
wetnurse I'd have spilled it out at once!”
The next moment, the Little Bird was hanging on the Hound's neck and chirping
excitedly: “Oh, my love, we must take the horses in the morning and ride
towards them! Please!”
Sandor nodded into Sansa's auburn plumage.
“Aye, we can do that, of course. And I somehow believe you won't be able to
sleep tonight.”
His Little Wife was weeping now and crushed herself to him even more. The
Hound's big calloused hands combed through her hair, which seemed to soothe
her.
After a moment, Jaime coughed and said: “If you don't mind I'll ride with you
in the morning. I'm looking forward to seeing my brother again, too. And now,
I'll leave you to your private matters. Erm – Myrcella, Brienne, would you
accompany me to the Great Hall for dinner?”
The tall woman shrugged: “Of course. I'm so hungry I could eat complete pig's
roast on my own. And I've heard there'll be sweet milk rice with plums. And
onions stuffed with garlic.”
“Wench, if you do that to me, you'll sleep alone tonight!”
 
 
Sansa barely managed to eat anything that evening, but at least, she forced
down a roll, lest to fall victim to her former affliction again. But she was so
very nervous and excited that not even a calming herbal infusion from Maester
Creylen helped to make her tired.
Realizing that they'd find little sleep in this night, Sandor addressed a topic
he considered important, and he hoped to distract his wife: “Little Bird, I
have told Gendry he must have new, good clothes to impress the Old Lion.”
“That's a great idea, my love.”
“Aye, and now I've been thinking. Gendry will need a tabard with a sigil to
look even more formidable. You're so competent at doing needlework – could you
prepare something for him?”
Sansa's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
“Oh yes, of course! How very mindful of you! But – what should the sigil look
like? Should it show the Baratheon stag?”
Sandor scratched his had: “Now, that's a damned good question. I don't think he
can use the same emblem before he is legitimized.”
The Little Bird mused: “Then he must wear something different. Has he said what
he wants?”
“Nah. And to be honest neither he nor me is creative enough to cook up a good
idea. You're into decorations – perhaps you know which images could be used?”
Sansa bethought herself.
“Hm. He's a smith and proud of his profession. But he's also a Baratheon, and
people should be reminded in a subtle way. So these topics should be combined.”
“Aye, you're right, I guess.”
“Then what about a smith's hammer, where the wooden handle morphs into an
antler?”
Sandor's eyes went wide.
“Fuck me sideways, that's great!”
“Do you mean that literally?”
“What?”
“The first part of your sentence.”
The Hound needed a second to understand, and then he grinned: “You're learning
fast about salacious puns. – Do you want to...?”
Sansa became serious again and sighed: “In general – yes. Only... tonight I
don't think I could really enjoy this. Not after yesterday, and not until
father has arrived.”
Sandor had stopped grinning as well: “I know. And I can understand it. I guess
we'll need a bit of time to sort things out. We'll talk about it again when we
know more about your father's state, that's the most important thing now.”
The Little Bird accepted his embrace, and Sandor's hands stroked his wife's
back gently. Around the hour of the wolf they finally fell asleep.
 
 
When they mounted their horses the next day it was snowing heavily.
“Just the right weather to meet the Warden of the North”, Sandor growled. Jaime
wasn't enthusiastic either, even though they had experienced their share of
snow and cold as soldiers during their campaigns. Sansa, however, the delicate
lass, who had been offered to stay at the Rock, was chirping excitedly and
couldn't wait to leave. Lady was running to and fro equally.
“Northern breed”, the Kingslayer mumbled and shook his head.
Sandor just kicked Stranger's flanks, and off they went.
About three hours later, they discovered the little trek on the road. There was
a cart with a makeshift roof to keep the snow from its passenger; it was driven
by a young lad. Wasn't that... ah, yes, right, that was Podrick Payne, the
Imp's squire. How the lad had grown! Around the wagon there were several horses
with Goldcloaks, a Northman – Sansa had named him Cleytus, Sandor remembered –,
another fighter, who looked like a sellsword, and finally, there was... Tyrion
Lannister. The halfman. On a corresponding halfhorse: a pony that was suited
for his small body.
Sansa started to fidget on Snowflake. If the ground had not been frozen she
would have galloped at top speed. It was Jaime Lannister, however, who took the
lead.
He called out to the Imp: “Brother!” and cantered over.
Tyrion flashed one of his wry grins and shouted back: “Ha! And who do we have
here? Is this my most estimated Goldilock of a sibling? You flatter me by
welcoming me with an escort, Jaime!”
The Kingslayer laughed, and then, they had reached the weary travellers. Sansa
was fidgeting even more now.
Tyrion looked up at her from his pony, seemingly struck with amazement.
“Oh all the Seven Gods and Heavens together! Is this the Lady Clegane? I
wouldn't recognize you, if it wasn't for the... scarred companion at your side.
What a ravishing beauty you have become!”
“Sansa?”, there was a feeble male voice from the cart.
“Father!” the Little Bird yelled and even forgot to greet the Imp adequately.
With her palfrey she dashed to the wagon's side.
Sandor rumbled: “Well, Imp, you'll forgive my wife, I hope; she's been
completely beside herself from sorrow for Lord Stark for a while now.”
Tyrion shot him a wry smile.
“Ah, Hound, I fear I may not understand her as well as I should – not having a
father like her. Yet, I will try not to be too heart-broken by her neglecting
me.”
At that moment, there was a loud sob from the Little Bird, and Sandor snarled:
“You bloody better keep your lewd looks to yourself. And now, I leave you to
your brother. His welcome will be friendlier.”
With that, he moved to Sansa's side. The tarpaulin had been removed enough to
reveal Lord Eddard's face. Sandor was at once deeply shocked. Pain had carved
new lines into the man's face. He had lost weight as well – and the hair that
shown only little grey when the Hound had left the capital was so silvery now
that any Targaryen would have been jealous!
The Little Bird was just crawling onto the cart and crushed herself to her
father's chest.
“Sansa! Oh Sansa! Oh my sweet girl!”
Lord Eddard was smiling sadly and weeping from joy.
“Oh father! I know what has happened to you! Oh, I wish I could have helped!”
“Hush, Sansa, don't grieve. At least, I survived, and I'm able to see you
again!”
After some touching minutes, Lord Eddard finally looked up.
“Clegane! So you've come, too. I'm happy to see you. I must say you were right.
About the Council of the Hands. About going to the capital in the first place.”
Sandor growled: “I'm sad I was so right about so many things. I wish it had
been different.”
“At least you've kept a good eye on my daughter. It soothes my heart.”
“I did what I could, Lord Stark. – Now, perhaps you want to greet... Jaime
Lannister as well...?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“KINGSLAYER!” Sandor hollered, and Lord Eddard chuckled, even if it was obvious
that it hurt him: “Gods, I've actually missed that blunt bark of yours. Still
not mincing your words.”
“Never.”
“Lord Stark?” The one-pawed Lion had arrived as well.
“Jaime Lannister. I must confess I wouldn't have thought so, but I'm relieved
to see you again.”
“Well, this is probably just, because you're relieved you can still see at all.
– Ah, shit, I'm sorry, my mouth was faster than my brain again.”
Lord Eddard wasn't angry, quite the contrary, he chuckled wryly again.
“There may be a bit of truth in it. But you're also the brother of the man who
saved my life. And you and your wife saved Sansa, and I'll be grateful for that
until the end of my days. By the way, I've heard that Lady Brienne is with
child? Congratulations!”
It was the first time that Sandor saw embarrassment reflected on the
Kingslayer's face.
“You're most generous and benevolent, Lord Stark.”
The Warden of the North sighed.
“Those were the exact character traits that cost me my health. But thank you
for your friendly words nevertheless.”
Sandor cut in: “Right, now we'll leave Sansa at your side and give you a bit of
peace. – Little Bird, I'll take Snowflake's reins, and you can accompany your
father to the Rock.”
“Thank you so much, Sandor!”
The Hound rode back to the others, taking Jaime with him. He looked around. The
Goldcloaks were all known to him, at least fleetingly. Sansa had recognized the
man named Cleytus. But...
“And your name is?” he asked the sellsword.
The other gave him a smirk: “Bronn. I serve Lord Tyrion. He has promised me
good coin. And from the way you look I guess you're the infamous Hound?”
“Now infamous Lord Clegane.”
The man called Bronn grinned.
“OH! A LORD! Fuck, but you're still holding your cock when you're taking a piss
and not sitting down in the privy like a dodderer?”
“The 'dodderer' will beat you to a pulp in the training yard!”
Bronn rubbed his hands. “Fine! I mean to put your words to the test.”
***** Chapter 29 *****
With the cart in tow they were slower than they had been on the way to the
meeting; after four hours, they finally reached Casterly Rock. People had
gathered in the main yard. Even Kevan and Tywin Lannister were present in their
ornate armour. Sandor knew well enough that this was happening to honour the
Warden of the North – not the blasted Imp.
The Old Lion walked over to the cart. Sansa climbed off the vehicle and
smoothed her skirts. The family patriarchs looked at each other gravely.
Then, Lord Tywin said: “Lord Stark. Be welcome at Casterly Rock. Things have
changed a lot since we saw each other at Kings Landing the last time. Maester
Creylen will take care of you in a moment. And whenever it is convenient to you
I would like to confer with you about the recent developments.”
“I understand, Lord Lannister. I'm grateful for the friendly welcome and your
willingness to offer me help. I know that our families haven't been friends for
a while. But it seems that one of the few positive recent developments is that
we're getting on a more friendly footing. It started with my daughter marrying
Lord Clegane and it showed when your elder son saved Sansa. But the most
outstanding proof of our new friendship was when your son Tyrion saved my life
by risking his own one. He has shown much valour and the heart of a Lion.”
There was a little twitch on Lord Tywin's cheek, and he answered: “I see. Now
we leave you to our most capable maester. I hope he'll be able to ease your
pain.”
Both men nodded, then the Old Lion turned around and walked away. When he
passed the Imp he spoke up: “Meet my in my solar after dinner.”
“I'm most delighted to see you again, too. Father.”
Lord Tywin flashed his youngest son a short look and walked on.
In the meantime, two strong servants were putting a groaning Lord Eddard onto a
stretcher and carried him off to the healing quarters. Sansa was at his side,
but Lady stayed with the Hound and gave off a little whine. He patted her.
“Impressive animal, that one.” Sandor turned and faced Bronn the Sellsword.
The Hound growled: “Aye. Lady is a direwolf. Perhaps Lord Eddard has told you.
And normally, she is peaceful – but if somebody threatens her pack he is
doomed.”
Bronn nodded; he had understood the implied threat well enough. He came a
little closer and let the animal sniff at his hands. The wolf was a little
sceptic, and then licked the hand hesitantly.
Bronn patted her and stated: “She's too trusting, if she's willing to accept
me.”
“That's her tactics.”
“I see. Now. Talking of 'Lady' – are there any nice women around here? I feel
I'd like to have a little fun after all this stress and travelling. And I'll
get Lord Tyrion's payment soon. A Lion always pays his debts.”
“You'll have to see, if you can charm the usual randy kitchen wenches, I'd say.
In Lannisport, there are also other places where you can seek your sodding
diversion.”
“Not very well-informed, I gather?”
“I've got my wife.”
“And that is enough? I mean, even with her glorious looks...”
Sandor bared his teeth, and Bronn held up his hands.
“Never mind. LORD Clegane. Have a nice day.”


Towards the evening, Sandor headed for the healing quarters after having had a
training session. He had wanted to give Sansa and her father some privacy, and
he had also waited for Gendry's return from Lannisport.
On arriving, the young smith had sought him out at once.
“M'lord, I'm back. Here I've got a new, big leather bag for Maester Creylen. It
has many pockets, which is good for medical utensils, I believe. I also managed
to purchase a little book for him. I hope the vendor didn't lie to me, but it's
supposed to be a treatise about Pentoshi healing potions. Herbs from Pentos for
the potions may be difficult to come by here, but Lord Lannister can afford
expensive medicine.”
Sandor raised his brow: “Couldn't you read the title, or why are you so unsure
about having been tricked?”
Gendry was a little embarrassed now and scratched his muscular neck.
“Erm. I only now a few words and numbers. Just what I needed to know for the
bookkeeping in Tobho Mott's smithy, and he had only started to teach me about
that when I was sent away.”
Sandor breathed deeply. Fuck the Seven, that deficiency had to be remedied
soon. Gendry didn't have to be able to read philosophical texts, but like
himself, he had to be able to read and write messages and reports.
“I see. And what about the clothes and “The Seashell”?”
“Oh, the tavern is fine, M'lord. Lilyrose has already contacted the supplier
for alcohol again, because there were enough customers. And she gave me some
food for lunch.”
The young man suddenly blushed.
“Did she give you something else? The way you look it might have been her
body.”
Gendry's cheeks were crimson now as if he was a noble maid.
“Uh. Oh. Errr. She... actually tried... and... she seemed to like me... and...
Gods! For a moment... but I didn't... I swear...”
Sandor clapped the young man on the back. “No need to explain. Lilyrose can be
very persuasive.”
Gendry was stammering worse now than even Tyrion's squire Podrick: “But
really... M'lord... I didn't... I only...”
“Oh, no need to panic, you don't have to answer me about these details. I'd
rather know, if and when your new clothes are ready.”
The young man was thankful for the change of topic.
“They'll be finished by the end of next week. And there was even a bit of coin
left for a pair of compatible shoes.”
“Fair enough. Oh, and before I forget it: Sansa will embroider a tabard for
you. Would you like a smith's hammer and an antler as your personal emblem?”
Gendry's eyes went wide.
“You're not jesting, m'lord, are you?”
“Seven hells, no! We want you to be able to impress the Lion, remember.”
“Oh. Thank you. M'lord.”


Now that Sandor was walking towards the healing quarters he felt tense. When he
arrived, he first singled out the mousy Creylen and gave him the book and the
leather bag. The maester was amazed.
“Lord Clegane! How very friendly and thoughtful of you! Oh! And “The Twenty
Most Powerful Potions from Pentos” – that volume is a rarity. I heard about it
in Oldtown, but never managed to buy a copy. I knew that the bookseller in
Lannisport has a weakness for rare books, but this is outstanding! Thank you so
much!”
“Right. And now enough prattling. How is Lord Stark?”
“Ah, yes. Well. It is a blessing in disguise, one might say.”
“You mean that his back got broken, but he didn't die?”
“That as well, but things are more complex. You see, I've seen a few people
with a broken back over so many years. Most didn't live long after their
mutilation, but I still managed to gather some information. Something is
special about Lord Stark's case. True enough, he can't feel his legs, and the
rattling of the cart has certainly not helped to recover, but it is peculiar
that he still has got control over his... digestion.”
“Errr – what do you mean? That he can still control pissing and shitting?”
Maester Creylen cleared his throat.
“I wouldn't have used those words, but, in fact, that is it.”
Sandor nodded.
“Well, that's good for his personal feeling of dignity.”
“I'm not quite sure, but I think it could mean even more. It might be possible
that his back was badly hurt, and he will certainly suffer from bad long-term
effects... but perhaps he'll be able to feel his legs again in a while, and to
move them a little. It's only a guess, and perhaps it's a stray arrow in the
fog, but I think we should make sure that we move his legs for him carefully so
that he doesn't lose too much muscular power. It'll do him good anyway, and if
there is a minimum of feeling and power left in those legs they'll respond
after a while.”
The Hound was deeply astonished: “Now that's in interesting theory; so let's
hope for the best. What are your next measures then?”
The healer cocked his head: “First of all, we must see what we can do about the
Lord's pains, preferably without causing an addiction to any sedatives.”
Sandor nodded his understanding.
“Can I go over now?”
“Yes, but don't stay long and don't stress him. Your wife will have to leave
soon, too. It was an exhausting day for His Lordship.”
“Aye. I'm anything but a maester, but even I can see as much.”


Silver-haired Lord Eddard looked exhausted on his bed, but also happy to have
finally arrived and to be reunited with his daughter. In Sansa's blue eyes one
could see a mix of happiness and sadness, which was only understandable.
When Lord Stark detected his son-in-law he waved him closer. “Sandor, come
here! I must say Maester Creylen is a match for our dear Maester Luwin.”
The Hound rasped: “Aye, that he is. Which is no wonder, given that Lord
Lannister wouldn't employ anybody else but a most capable man.”
“That is right, Sandor. No wonder that Robert had only someone like Pycelle
left, when we already had the best measters in the Realm. Come to think of it,
I believe Pycelle to be dead, like so many others. I don't think he could
escape the wildfire catastrophe. Well. But where there is death there is also
life. When did you two want to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Sandor asked, puzzled, and Sansa looked just as confused.
Lord Eddard smiled at his daughter.
“You can't hide that secret from me. You're just so much like your mother.
You've got the Glow, too. When is the baby due?”
Sandor's jaw sagged and nearly crushed on the floor.
“What the fuck!?!? Which baby?”
Sansa was thunderstruck, too.
“But...”, she stuttered, “I'm not... not with child! Well... last moon I...
wasn't.”
Then, her face lightened up. “Oh, but probably it's because of Sondra-Jayne!
Let me tell you...”
And then she recounted how they had come to adopt the little tot. They had sent
word with a raven, but that specific letter had never reached Lord Eddard, so
he could only listen with amazement. The Warden of the North grew serious
again. He wasn't overjoyed about the fact that a girl sired by the Mountain
that Rides should become legitimized and, therefore, the first-born, probably
even the heir – but at the same time, he seemed to accept that Sandor wanted to
be a replacement for her natural father.
Sansa, however, stayed enthusiastic.
“Tomorrow, I'll bring Jayne along, you'll love her, she's so sweet! And Lady
will want to see you, too, I'm sure.”
Lord Eddard smiled.
“Yes, that will be fine. And now... please don't be angry with me, Sansa,
Sandor, but I feel I need some rest now.”
The Little Bird nodded her understanding, chirped some loving words, Sandor
bowed a little, and off they went. They had barely left the healing quarters
when his wife spun around, hugged Sandor tightly and started to sob into his
chest. The Hound understood well enough. Before he had got to know her he
wouldn't have known anything about how to console a grieving woman, but now,
after more than a year with her he just embraced her, too, combed with his big
hands through her hair, and let her shed her tears.
After some minutes, his thumb stroked a salty drop away, and he growled: “What
do you think Sansa, could your father be right? Could you be with child? And
what the fuck did he think he was seeing? The Glow? What on earth did he mean?
Your family really has some very strange skills. 'Visions', an attraction to
direwolves, and now recognizing pregnancy...”
The Little Bird looked up at him with puffy eyes and sniffled: “Well, it is
possible, as you well know. My... my... moon blood should start in two or three
days, if I have counted correctly. Only... it's not... so regular. I... I asked
Maester Creylen about it, and he said that at a young age it was common that
the first times didn't follow... a perfect pattern. And... he also said that
some women don't have a regular cycle anyway. So we just have to wait and see
and shouldn't worry.”
The Hound took Sansa's chin so that she kept gazing up at him and murmured with
his steel-on-stone voice: “Fuck, I'm not a patient man. Perhaps we could go and
increase the chances for a good reason that you don't get your moon blood for
the next nine months?”
Sansa smacked him lightly on his chest, wagged her finger and answered with an
emerging grin: “You're absolutely improper, my dear Lord Clegane!”
“How often have I told you already, Little Bird? It's not improper for a man to
fuck his own wife!”
They retreated to their room, and for the remainder of the afternoon, they
“increased their chances.”


Half an hour before dinner, they went over to Sondra-Jayne and Sandrina.
Everything was fine and they had a relaxing time with the little girl.
Sandor mused: “When Lord Tywin has been proclaimed King of the West he can
legitimize Jayne. I hope that this will make things easier.”
Sansa nodded seriously and retorted: “Let's hope for the best. If he doesn't
oblige I'll put Jayne into his arms again and send Lady into his direction.
Then, he'll stand no chance.”
The Hound threw his head back and barked his laughter.
“Little Bird, you've got particularly innovative techniques of torturing a man,
I must admit.”
Sansa blushed fiercely, and Sandor remembered what they had been doing in bed
shortly before, and that it had been the sweetest possible torture for them
both. He granted her a lewd grin, which made her flush even redder so that
Sandrina couldn't mistake the allusions as well and then suggested mockingly:
“Right. Let's go down. I'm starving. Hmmmm... now how is that possible?”
Sandrina had averted her face and was rummaging in the chest for Jayne's
swaddling.
The Little Bird really had a 'glow' now, the Hound decided and felt mightily
contented.
She croaked: “Yes, let's go down. There will be a welcome feast for father,
Tyrion, and his men.”
Sandor thought to himself: “No, there won't. There will be a sodding feast to
display some Lannister splendour, nothing else.”
Even so, they got up and made their way to the great hall.


Whatever the motivation: the evening was lovely. For the Hound, that was. There
was plenty of delicious food, and Sansa was in bright spirits – that was what
counted for Sandor. Her father had arrived, and even if he was so very ill, he
was at least still alive, and a lot of tension had left his Little Wife. Jaime
and Brienne were sitting next to her, and they chatted animatedly. Friends.
What a strange concept for Lions.
On the other side of the table were Tyrion, Ser Addam Marbrand, Kevan and Asha.
The Imp was already drunk, in a foul mood and surprisingly taciturn during the
feast. Something was amiss with him, but Sandor couldn't care less about the
Halfman's mental state. Most likely the meeting with his dear Lord Father had
been even more unloving than usual.
Addam was in a better mood and talked to Jaime and him about the state of the
training weapons in the armoury. Kevan was sitting closest to his brother and
pondering and brooding, very much like his sibling actually, but at least
trying to make some conversation with Lady Lollys from time to time. Asha was
just sitting there, rigid and taut and quiet, and looked as much in place as an
arrow in a wound. Sandor really didn't know how to assess her.
“Like a weird mix of Arya and Brienne somehow”, he couldn't help but think.
Well, as long as the octopus woman didn't cause any further problems Sandor
didn't care. His thoughts returned to Sansa. Was her father right? Was she with
child? Lord Eddard had spoken of a “Glow”, but Sandor simply didn't know what
to make of it, because his Little Wife was always radiant for him.
He remembered what they had been doing in the late afternoon, and at once he
felt he wanted back to bed. Well. They WOULD be back to bed later, so he told
himself he could hold out here for a little while. Still, he could only marvel
at how self-confident Sansa was becoming when they were together, and the way
she showed him that she wanted this with him. And partly even how. Just then,
she demonstrated him, too, what she needed. A few musicians had entered, and
she took his hand, obviously wanting to dance.
She was already up and pulling at his arm when there was a dark, feline voice
across the table: “Lady Clegane, what is it?”
Sansa beamed at Lord Tywin and chirped: “Oh, nothing, I'm just looking forward.
What will we start with? A Tarantella, a Marinera?” Lady Lollys rose as well
now, a big smile on her face: “Oh, yes, dancing! Oh, my Lord Husband, what will
we have first?”
The Old Lion looked as if he had bitten into a lemon. Everybody could see that
he had not thought of dancing at all, only of some background music, mist
likely, but now, he couldn't say no.
“Marinera”, he spat. “Tarantella next. But we won't have much dancing tonight.”
Sansa clapped her hands in sheer joy, and Lady Lollys looked just as happy.
Sandor rolled his eyes and earned a smirk from Jaime. The Kingslayer thought
that with his male wife and the lack of a hand he'd be in a nice position to
watch and make nasty comments – but suddenly, the cocky man found he was
completely wrong: Brienne grabbed him, stated with a look at his golden metal
fingers: “You DO have a second hand tonight!”, and just pulled her surprised
husband to where Sandor, Sansa and various other pairs were lining up for
dancing.
Addam Marbrand felt obliged to ask Asha Greyjoy for a dance, but she declined
tersely, so he went further down the table and asked Myrcella, making quite a
bit of a point there. There girl beamed at him and rose. Sandor made a mental
note that Gendry had to be taught how to dance.
The Old Lion and his wife had to start, of course. They were holding white
handkerchiefs for the Marinera, as it was necessary, and stood a little apart
at the beginning. The dance represented courtship, so at first, there was some
distance that was soon bridged.
Sandor growled inwardly. You could say what you wanted, but there was no
denying that even if Tywin was cold and erect the family patriarch possessed a
grace in his movements that belied his distaste for diversion as well as his
age. And strangely enough, Lady Lollys, who had never displayed the tiniest
streak of elegance in Kings Landing was capable of dancing passably now, and
there was pride in her bright smile. The Hound was strangely moved. Every
onlooker could clearly see that there was a bond between the two of them,
incredible as it was.
Then, it was time for the other dancers to start. Sandor was nervous and tried
not to make an utter fool of himself. He wasn't used to the Marinera,
especially the quick taps with the toe-cap that were demanded at some point
rendered him rather helpless. Sansa, however, couldn't be bothered – she looked
at him as if she was allowed to watch the movements of a god instead of some
wooden hobbling.
In an instant when they were close and almost touching she whispered at him:
“Gods, I want to see those movements with you naked.”
Sandor lost his rhythm and had to make haste to tune in again.
After the end, he rasped to Sansa: “What did you mean with those words? Did you
mean I should make a complete fool of myself?”
The Little Bird chirped back into his good ear: “And why would you be a fool?
You may not be so practised, but Gods, I can't believe how somebody with your
height can move so swiftly and gracefully. I'm thinking the same when I see you
fighting. And I'd really like to see your muscles play. That would make me melt
into a puddle.”
Sandor had never been praised for his physique by a woman, had never been the
object of such romantic yearning. He had known he had a powerful, impressive
body, but certainly no-one had desired his looks. He felt as if a carpet was
pulled away from under his feet. It was one thing to feel loved, and that was
the absolutely best thing, of course, but for someone who had always been an
ugly dog, it was an incredible feeling that someone found him attractive. Aye,
love must have made Sansa flaming blind, but Sandor would certainly not
complain.
“Hound, what do you think? Would you mind switching partners?” a brisk voice
pealed from behind.
It was the Kingslayer, who had obviously warmed up to dancing in spite of his
handicap. Fuck!
“Jaime! Yes, let's dance! And don't be afraid, Sandor will return Brienne safe
and sound.”
The cocky Lion laughed and mocked: “Oh, I should rather say that you don't have
to be afraid, because my sweet wench is the one who will return your husband
safe and sound.”
Sandor growled: “Remind me that next time you need a limb shortening I should
aim for a foot.”
Sansa put her hands on her hips.
“That was not funny. And neither polite.”
The Hound sighed: “No. It wasn't.”
Jaime shot him a wry grin: “Never mind. The Lion needs to play with his victims
and the Dog has to bark at times. And now let's go.”
Sandor turned to Brienne. For once, she was wearing a simple blue dress,
because of the occasion, and it matched her eyes, so that the combination
didn't make her look embarrassing.
“My lady.”
Interestingly enough dancing with the tall woman was easier than he thought.
They were both of one height, and that made it easier to adapt. Brienne was in
a rather agreeable mood and said with a shrug: “His behaviour really makes one
want to punch out his brain at times. But it makes things easier, if you know
that it's all show, and his heart as soft as a pudding underneath.”
Sandor shot back: “Which behaviour? Which brain?”
Brienne gave off a snorting, very unladylike laugh, and when Sandor pictured
the Kingslayer as a bowl of yellow pudding, he had to chuckle as well. After
the music had ended, Brienne flitted back to her husband at once. Now, it was
Addam Marbrand, who wanted to dance with Sansa, and Sandor faced Myrcella. In
Kings Landing, the girl would have been afraid of him, but after their time at
Clegane Keep she didn't mind a dance with him. Interestingly enough, the Old
Lion and his oldest son exchanged their wives now for the next piece, and it
looked as if finally Jaime had found favour with his sire again, at least to a
minimal extent.
The last dance for the evening was meant to be a polka. Lord Tywin excused
himself at once – that was too rustic for him.
Sandor, who was still curious and really wanted to know more, walked over to
Asha Greyjoy and rumbled: “You shouldn't show the others you're afraid of them
by not dancing.”
The octopus woman bristled.
Just then, the Hound noticed something going on at his side: His Little Bird
had approached drunk Tyrion and was chirping at him: “You haven't danced
either.”
The Imp spat back: “I can't even walk properly, then why should and how could I
dance?”
Sandor wanted to gut the Halfman for his rough answer, but Sansa didn't seem to
care.
“Oh, a Polka is just wild hopping, you can do that.”
Both Sandor and the Imp were thunderstruck when she pulled at Tyrion's arm and
dragged him to the dance-floor. What the fuck...!?
Just then, Asha Greyjoy spoke up: “I've changed my mind. Come.”
Sandor found that it was strange. The Ironborn woman didn't say a word while
they were dancing, and if he had considered himself a wooden block, she was
certainly a stone. Sansa trying her best with the Imp was a sight he didn't
like at all; it would only have been worse, if she had danced with Lord Tywin.
But no sooner had the music ended that she thanked Tyrion politely, which
caused the Imp finally to smile for the first time this evening, then turned
around and flew into Sandor's arms like the Little Bird she was.
Tyrion waddled over to them.
“I do have the definite feeling that I'm jealous of you, Dog. Your lady wife is
a sunbeam from the Seven Heavens.”
“And I have the distinct feeling that I want to crush you to a pulp, Imp. Since
when are you an adept of the Faith of the Seven?”
“In contrast to you I do believe in the Gods. Only I don't like them. I believe
there must be some gods with a sodding kind of humour, if they allow the
existence of such beauties like the two of us. Or the fact that a woman like
Lady Sansa should fall in love with a dog like you.”
Sandor snarled: “Say another word, and your gods can only laugh about one
“beauty” any longer in a moment.”
“Sandor, what on earth did they do into your drink tonight? First, you growl at
Jaime and now at Lord Tyrion!”
The Imp chuckled darkly: “What do you expect, Lady Sansa? You must surely know
by now that he is a...”
“NO, he is not!” Sansa hissed, spinning around. “He is the most wonderful
person!”
At once, Sandor felt elated, proud, possessive, in love and smug all at once.
Tyrion looked up at the Little Bird with amazement, and his ugly face split
into a an ironic smile moments later.
“Lady Sansa, you're being inconsistent. You berate your husband and defend him
the next moment.”
“That's what a marriage is about. Knowing someone's goodness as well as the
flaws, and to adore the former and to try to correct the latter. But I guess I
shouldn't be angry with you – you know nothing about marriage, and you're
drunk.”
Suddenly, the Imp's face changed. His grin turned into a sad smile, and Sandor
had never seen so much pain the Halfman's face, just as if there was a fresh,
raw wound.
“You're quite right, Lady Sansa, if only you knew how much. – Clegane, I can
only congratulate you to have found such a wonderful wife. And love. – And now,
I need more wine.”
Sansa took the Imp's hand for a moment.
“Lord Tyrion, there is surely someone for everybody. I'm sure you'll find a
love, too, at some point.”
The Halfman's mismatched eyes grew wide. Then he smiled sadly again, patted her
hand and said warmly: “I don't think so, but you're a sweet and gentle soul,
Lady Clegane, to be so nice towards someone like me. You've just made a friend,
you know, of little importance as it may be. And now off to your husband again.
I want to keep my guts a little while longer.”
That was indeed a good idea, if ever the blasted Imp had one. Sansa nodded at
Tyrion, turned towards himself at once with a smile, took his arm and chirped:
“Let's go over to the hearth-fire! I can spot Jaime and Brienne over there!”
Yes, and the Old Lion, Lady Lollys, Kevan and Ser Addam, a nice Lions'
gathering, for fuck's sake. And fire. Sandor shuddered inwardly, but still, he
moved over.
The Lannisters were talking about the future, Lord Tywin's proclamation as king
and the crowning ceremony. They assumed that it would take a month to prepare
everything, and Lord Eddard would probably have recovered enough to attend the
festivities as an honoured guest before travelling to Riverrun and further to
the North.
Lady Lollys was just sneaking an arm around her husband's waist in an
affectionate manner, cooing: “And the marriage will be one day later then.
These will really be days of celebrating!”
Sandor was shocked, and not only because Lord Tywin allowed a caress in public.
Gendry and Myrcella were supposed to marry so soon!? He had always thought that
that was supposed to happen even after the Kings' Council! Well, then they
really had to speed up and to drill a lot into the lad's head.
But now... come to think of it... Why were Brienne and Jaime throwing such
strange looks at each other? Something was definitely wrong, the Hound felt it
in his core.
Finally, the Kingslayer spoke up: “You shouldn't have dealt with him in this
way, father.”
Suddenly, Lord Tywin stiffened, and his jaws worked.
Seething, he spat: “The cub tries to tell the top lion what he should do!? Pah!
I tell you, he always wanted a responsible task and position, and now I'm
giving him one!”
Jaime shot back: “You're sending him to the Seven Hells, and you know it,
father!”
Lord Tywin's green-golden eyes were like molten metal.
“He's a survivor. That's what can be said about him, if nothing else. He wants
to stay alive long enough to profane my grave.”
What the fuck...!? The weren't talking about Gendry and Myrcella, they were
talking about Tyrion! Tyrion and whom? Surely the Old Lion didn't want to carry
on with any incestuous relationships and give him to Myrcella. Was Lord Tywin
toying with Shireen Baratheon again? There were not so many other good matches
left for him.
The family patriarch droned on: “They have both accepted. What do you want? If
he really manages to conquer Pyke for her and to defeat the Crow's Eye, the
Westerlands have got one problem less, and Tyrion has got a title of his own.”
Seven thrice-damned hells! Suddenly, it all fell into place for Sandor. Tyrion
was supposed to marry Asha Greyjoy. In the strangest possible way it made
sense. Lady Asha had come here to seek an ally to defeat and to expel her
monstrous uncle Euron. The Westerlands had always suffered from attacks from
the Ironborn, and Lord Tywin wanted to get rid of that problem. And by marrying
the Imp off to that woman, he would also get rid of hisyoungest son – and true
enough, the Halfman would indeed have a fine position, if he was successful.
IF. Pyke was certainly not as picturesque as Highgarden, but the Imp could
probably live with that. No wonder that he had been drunk tonight, and Lady
Asha as taught as a bowstring.
Damn, what a night!
***** Chapter 30 *****
Later in their bedroom, Sansa, who had also understood the Old Lion's words,
lay nestled in the Hound's arms and murmured: “I've got a bad conscience,
really. I didn't know about that arrangement, or I wouldn't have said a word
about marriage to him.”
“Little Bird, don't be upset. You didn't hurt the Imp on purpose, and he's
intelligent enough to know it.”
Sandor kissed his wife, and Sansa threw her arms around him and pressed her
body flush against his as if they had not made love in the afternoon. In no
time, she had cast all political thoughts of the evening aside and was with her
hands on his private parts. A handful of minutes later, her mouth was
accompanying her hands. Sandor moaned. Fuck, how could she like to touch him so
very much!? And she was learning fast. Which meant she became better and better
at torturing him. When his twitches told her he was close to release she
changed her caresses, and he moaned in frustration, swearing to herself he
would pay her back likewise.
It turned out to be a glorious night. They simply couldn't keep their hands and
mouths off each other. Blimey, the Little Bird felt and tasted too good! And
her sweet songs for him were just so very lovely to listen to. After they had
allayed their most urgent needs, they started the process all over again, but
slower this time, and they both watched him pulling out, his manhood glistening
wetly in the moon- and candlelight, and gliding back into her again and again.
Sandor loved it that Sansa didn't avert her eyes, and even found the sight of
being entered arousing. He also thought that her little teats had grown since
their first encounter; her body was really female now, mature for her age, and
he loved it.
Time was going on, and still their moans filled the bedroom. They were really
improving, prolonging the act and sampling the pleasures of their lovemaking.
Usually, they didn't peak at quite the same time, but it didn't really disturb
Sandor, because when one of them was still in need, they often kindled each
other's flames again in this way.
 
 
The next morning, Sansa's moon blood started. The Little Bird looked up at her
husband, and there was a tear in the corner of her eyes.
“Father was wrong”, she murmured, depressed, and curled into a ball because of
a severe cramp.
Sandor was sad, too, but also a bit worried, because she was bleeding quite
heavily and there was more pain than the last two times he remembered. To be
sure he went to Maester Creylen, whispered into his ear (or at least as close
as he would get to whispering with his harsh voice), and when the healer had
gone, the Hound walked over to his father-in-law.
Lord Eddard was already awake and smiled at his visitor. He was not alone.
“So many guests this morning! Look, Lady has found her way here as well. The
maester didn't want to admit her to the healing quarters, but her bared fangs
were quite convincing.”
Sandor chuckled and ruffled the direwolf's fur. Then, he started to tell Lord
Stark about what he had learned the evening before.
The Warden of the North shook his head, deep in thought and said: “Well, the
Game of Thrones never stops. By the way, have ravens been sent away to
Winterfell about my safe arrival here?”
“Yes, and to Riverrun and the Wall as well.”
“Ah, that's good. And now – where's my daughter?”
“Still abed. But I'm sure she'll visit you later, and she'll bring baby Jayne
along, too, I'm sure.”
They talked a little, and Sandor revealed Gendry's identity, which was met with
interest, though not with surprise, since they all had known Robert's
womanising. After a while, the Hound excused himself and went back to his room.
Maester Creylen was still there, and Sansa was weeping.
“Seven Hells! What is it?” Sandor demanded to know at once.
The mousy healer cleared his throat.
“Lord Clegane, I'm very sorry to tell you that your wife had... conceived, but
the... the fruit of the womb wouldn't... lodge itself. It was at a very early
stadium, two or three weeks perhaps.”
Sandor felt as if a mailed fist had hit his stomach. He went numb on the
inside. They had lost a pup...
But then, he remembered the crippled foetus that Nymeria had lost, and if this
spark of life had not been meant to live, at least it happened before they had
been looking forward to it and before a miscarriage could become far more
dangerous for Sansa. Still, it was an icy comfort. The Hound sat down on the
edge of the bed and took the Little Bird's wing gingerly.
Measter Creylen coughed and went on: “Lord Clegane, your wife is strong; you
needn't worry for the future. There is one more thing, however. It would be
advisable, if you tried to avoid a conception for the next two moons. That will
make the next pregnancy safer, though there is no guarantee, of course.”
Sandor could only rasp: “I see.”
“Here I've got some herbs for an infusion. It will strengthen you and ease the
physical pain, Lady Clegane.”
Sansa sniffled: “Thank you, Maester Creylen.”
The healer bowed and left. When he had disappeared the Little Bird started to
sob wildly. Sandor felt helpless and raw inside, and could only hug her
tightly.
 
 
It was good as well as painful that they had Sondra-Jayne. She showed them what
could have been, but also cheered them up with her happy smiles and baby talk
at the same time.
Lord Stark couldn't help it and loved her as soon as le laid his eyes on her.
When they placed the girl on his chest, and Jayne crowed and grabbed into the
mutilated man's beard there was a smile in his eyes that told them he had
forgotten his handicap for a moment. As soon as he heard, however, that Sansa
had lost a baby, his eyes were full of grief, and he cradled his daughter next
to Jayne.
“Life is like a whiff”, he murmured, swallowed, and then said: “Sansa, I... I
should tell you something. In case I won't live to tell about it. It's... hard
to say, you know. But Robert and most Baratheons are dead now, so I hope it'll
be safe. It's about Jon. You know... I'm... not his father.”
“WHAT!?!?” Sandor and his wife gasped in unison and Sansa added: “But he looks
exactly like you!”
Lord Stark swallowed again.
“Yes, and for good reason. He IS half a Stark, you know. On his mother's side,
though. His mother was... your aunt. Lyanna. She died on giving birth to him.
And Jon's father... was... Rhaegar Targaryen.”
“You're kidding!” Sandor blurted out.
Lord Stark gave off a little snort, but couldn't look into their eyes.
“As if I could make jokes about this.”
“But...”, Sansa stammered, “why... why did you never say a word?”
“I gave my sister that promise on her death bed. And Robert wouldn't have taken
kindly to any Targaryen offspring. As much as he was my friend, he would likely
have had Jon killed. It had to stay a secret. Until now.”
The Hound rubbed his scarred face with his hand.
“Whohoo, now that's some really spectacular news. Seems to be a damned good
time for spectacular news these days.”
Lord Eddard smiled sadly: “That's the understatement of the year.”
“Aye, might be.”
 
 
Sandor needed some movement. In the years past, he had always sought a tavern
brawl or something comparable to let off steam. Now, however, that wasn't
possible any longer, what with him being a lord and carrying responsibility.
Fuck, they could all go and bugger themselves with a hot poker! Only... he had
no choice now. He was ugly enough; for Sansa, he didn't want to risk losing
some teeth, unlikely as it was with his strength, size and ferocity.
Since there were no other options, he took Stranger out of the stables and made
for a ride. It was snowing heavily again, and the stable-boy was foolhardy
enough to advise him not to leave the Rock in this weather. So Sandor started
his Houndish show programme and snarled at the boy in his foulest way, so that
when he was mounting the lad was trembling and shaking like a leaf and his face
looked like curdled milk.
Off Sandor galloped, but all too soon, he had to slow down, because vision was
bad, and the snow- and frost-caked street was slippery enough. Hound and Horse
were both brooding in the disgusting weather, and there was the belated insight
that the damned stable-boy had been in the right of uttering a warning.
Suddenly, Sandor thought: “The last time I was out in this weather I met this
disgusting undead monster, Coldhands. Wonder if he's up and about here now.”
But he was alone. He rode on through the silence of the falling snowflakes and
mused about everything that had happened. The Halfman's betrothal to the
octopus woman – well, he didn't feel much compassion for them since he had
never been the Imp's friend, but from a political point of view, it was still
interesting. Gendry's preparation for a noble life... and for Myrcella. The
schemes of the Old Lion. “The Seashell” in Lannisport with Ser Barristan as the
Hound's very special guest. Lord Stark's attempted murder. The complete
destruction of Kings Landing.
And then, Sandor's thoughts started to oscillate around Sansa. The effects of
warging and the loss of their pup. Fuck the Seven, it was all so damned
difficult to come to terms with!
Suddenly, a flock of ravens flew by, and the birds came strangely close to his
head.
“What the fuck...!? YOU, up there, I'll stuff your beaks with your own black
tail feathers!” he roared at the winged creatures.
As it turned out, however, the black birds had flown so deep for a reason: they
seemed to have spied him out. For somebody. For no ten minutes later, a big
shadow astride an elk crystallized out of the snowflakes.
“So it's you again?” Sandor growled.
“Yes. This meeting is necessary.”
“Is it.”
“The Children of the Forest have prayed to the Old Gods that your wife should
lose her child.”
For a second, the Hound sat frozen in shock – but then he bellowed, seething in
fury: “WHAT!?!?!?!?”
Coldhands was unperturbed, undead mummed being that he was, and answered: “They
saw that your wife's baby would have had your brother's size and character and
would have torn your wife apart during childbirth. She wouldn't have survived.
There wasn't a shadow of a doubt.”
Sandor's shock multiplied.
After a long moment, he rasped, aggressive and helpless at the same time: “The
Children of the Forest know the future? Then what about any future pups?
Perhaps your... masters are friendly enough to console us with some good news.”
Coldhands was immovable and gazed at the huge non-knight on his black courser.
“Only few things are sure about the future. Often, there are certain chances,
likelihoods. What I just told you was one of the few exceptions. Yes, you will
have children. Probably a son of simple smiles, who won't achieve great deeds,
but who will be lovely nevertheless. And there are three more twinkling stars
in the sky, of which two might survive. But before the first birth there is
little doubt that your wife will bleed out another spark of life.”
Sandor snarled: “Oh, how very fantastic! A second miscarriage, a copy of Hodor,
a dead toddler and possibly, possibly two normal children, but who knows? For
crying out loud! And what else do the sodding Children of the Forest know, hm?
That Lord Tywin will behead me in the end? Or Sansa?”
Coldhands cocked his head.
“There are no details about the how or when, but you and your wife will perish
at exactly the same moment.”
“Wow. What flaming glorious prospects. And how do you know what the Children of
the Forest think and know?”
“Humans would name it “magic” I assume.”
Sandor growled and didn't know what to say to that, since the very existence of
the elk rider was a proof of magic.
“Lord Clegane, there is one more thing you should know: the girl you adopted
was originally not meant to live before fate took a surprising turn and brought
you and your wife together. But now that there will be no broken child, who
could head for the north, your adopted daughter will be the sunbeam for mankind
instead. The ray that will brighten any darkness. No evil can touch her. And
the day she flowers she will be able to bring peace to lost souls.”
There was an unmistakable yearning in the eyes of the undead man, and cold
shivers were running down Sandor's back.
“Oh, I can bring peace to your lost soul at any time. Just you ask nicely.”
Coldhands uttered a strange sound that might pass as a sigh.
“It is not the right time for that. Not yet. Now, I'll leave you to your
thoughts. There is a lot you have to digest.”
“Aye, and I don't want to see you again, that much I know already.”
“That is not for us to decide, I'd say.”
The mummed elk rider nodded a goodbye, turned around and trotted off into the
snowstorm.
Sandor sat there on Stranger for two, three long minutes, his heart colder than
the temperature around him. Then, he bowed to the side and vomited onto the
street.
He would not tell the Little Bird. He wouldn't. Couldn't.
 
 
Three hours later, he arrived back at the Rock. His teeth were rattling, but it
was only partly due to the cold. Stiffly, he dismounted and entered the stable.
“Sandor! Sandor! Oh my love, where in the name of the Seven have you been?”
Confused, the Hound looked up.
“Little Bird?”
It dawned on him that Sansa had already been so worried about his absence that
she had been waiting in the stables! In her condition! Immediately, Sandor
berated himself for causing her so much agony.
At the same time, his Little Wife threw herself into his arms and sobbed.
Sandor hugged her in a tight embrace and rasped: “Fuck the Seven, I shouldn't
have left. I shouldn't. I shouldn't.”
Something in his voice caused Sansa to look up.
And in spite of her own pain she must have seen something strange in his
expression, for she breathed: “Gods! Oh Gods! What is it, love?”
The same moment, Sandor realized that his cheeks were wet, and his eyes were
burning from unbidden tears leaking out.
“We... we lost a pup”, he growled.
Raw grief could be seen in his Little Bird's features.
“Yes”, she said, sounding so very bleak. But then, she spoke up again: “I know
what happened to me. But what has happened to YOU? Normally, when you ride out
it helps to soothe you. It didn't work this time. You look like... like a
wight, or like a ghost, sort of. WHAT has gone wrong, I ask you?”
Oh FUCK. Sansa was too sensitive for her own good.
Sandor was desperate. He couldn't lie to her. But he couldn't tell her either.
So he did the only thing that was left for him to do: he stole from her
embrace, took Stranger's reins, put the courser into his box and snarled at his
wife: “Bleeding Seven, that's my own problem, for fuck's sake!”
He turned his back on the Little Bird and started to unsaddle and to groom
Stranger. When he was finished he wanted to head for the stable's entrance –
only to face Sansa. She was still standing there in front of the box. She had
just fallen silent, not left – only in his own grief his normally sharp senses
had left him, so that he had not noticed.
And now his wife wasn't alone any longer. Lady was looming at her side – and
the direwolf's fangs were bare. Sandor was shocked. Never before had the wolf
threatened him.
In a strangely flat voice Sansa stated: “You will tell me what is going on.”
Sandor threw his large hands into the air.
“Sansa, you don't want to know about it, really, you don't. I asked some stupid
questions nobody should ask, because they were questions nobody should know the
answers to. But I DID get some answers. And I can't pass them on to you.
They're too horrible. If I don't want to tell you it's because I love you and
it would be too horrible to cause you pain, pain that may well crush you.”
Suddenly, Sansa snorted, a tear dripping down her sweet little nose.
“And since when are you a man to keep a harsh truth from somebody? – Oh, and
before I forget: that truth IS already crushing me and causing me pain, even
without knowing it – because it's crushing YOU. I have never seen you so
crestfallen, not even in Winterfell in that cell when you had... had...
accidentally... taken my... maidenhood. And don't forget: I know you so much
better than other wives know their husbands, and you know why; now, if I know
one thing about you then it is that it will do us even more harm, if you don't
share your sorrow with me.”
By now, Sandor's massive shoulders were shaking. Ever since his sister's death
he had not wept like that. Fuck, he couldn't go anywhere at the moment and seen
be others; he could only be happy that he had scared off the stable-boy so
thoroughly that the lad didn't show so much as his skinny arse.
The Hound was so very distressed he didn't know what to do. Then, he noticed
that one of the boxes next to stranger was not occupied, but there was a big
heap of fresh, packed hay in it. So he grabbed Sansa's hands, pulled her into
the box, sat down on the hay and positioned his little wife on his lap. Lady
trotted into the box as well and laid herself down next to them, while the play
of her erect ears told Sandor she was still alert. Good girl. Good protector.
The Little Bird buried her pale face on his shoulder, and he thought it was
good to have her like this: it would be easier for to speak into her silky
auburn tresses, and if he didn't have to see her Tully blue eyes. He had never
been a good speaker, never known gentle any words. Why the fuck did he have to
talk so much lately? To peasants, to employees, to Gendry, even to the Lions –
and now he had to broach the most horrible topic to Sansa, the love of his
life.
He rasped a sigh. Swallowed. Swallowed again, so that the Little Bird handed
him a handkerchief to dab at his tears. In one incredible effort he threw
himself over the cliff and related what had happened.
 
 
Sansa was quiet for a long time when he had ended. Sandor was still weeping,
cursed himself to be a flaming sissy, and crushed the Bird to his chest again.
“Fuck, please speak to me!”
Sansa tilted her head and looked him in the eyes. To his surprise she looked
more thoughtful than anything else.
And then, she said something that nearly shook him out of his boots: “It's
dreadful, yes, you're right, the mere thought of what is likely to happen is
so, SO dolorous, it nearly splits my heart apart... only... it could still be
so much worse.”
“What!? Are you crazy? What do you mean?”
“You see... I can barely say what the prospect of losing more children means to
me; it's so devastating, maddening. But still we may have children together –
and healthy or not, I'd love them all. I could never be like... a man we both
know, and despise a child for being... less than perfect. It would still be our
child. How could I not love a child that is yours? And it's likely that I'll
survive some births and will be allowed to be at your side for a while. Thtat's
more than other couples are granted.
And Jayne! It sounds as if she'll grow into a wonderful, an extraordinary, a
blessed woman! To be honest, one can already see the first signs, and I can
well believe what this Coldhands has said. She's already radiating so much
goodness! And the thing about us perishing at the same moment... whatever it
means, it means we don't have to mourn for one another. I couldn't survive
without you. I simply couldn't. From what I know about you, it would be the
same, if it was the other way round. And in the future visions there was no
word of us becoming estranged for a whatever reason. There was no word of a
horrible illness that would befall either of us. I remember my grandfather in
Riverrun just before he died and how the illness ate him up, like a fire demon.
Watching you suffer would break me. So yes, if – IF – all those visions come
true, we'll face very sad moments, but as long as we have each other we'll
manage. We'll keep each other from breaking.”
Sandor's eyes were dark and round. He hadn't seen it from this point of view
yet. Fuck, and with a few words Sansa was able... well, not to mend matters,
but to soften the sharp edges of his internal horror; and that in spite of the
state of mourning she was still in! How on earth was it possible that this
delicate young woman was so incredibly strong and wise? So absolutely
wonderful? And what had he done to deserve her love?
Sandor couldn't say much; there was such a lump in his throat. He just kissed
her and tried to convey his feelings to her in this way.
All the while, Lady had been quiet at their side. Then, the direwolf heard
Stranger snort, got slowly up as if she wanted to check that the humans had
really sorted out their problems and finally walked over to her black friend.
The Hound murmured: “Your wolf has shown me her fangs for the first time, do
you know that?”
Sansa answered: “Yes, I believe so. Lady has been acting a little strangely
during the last hours in general.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm not sure, but I think she's close to getting into heat again.”
“Oh fuck, hasn't she learned that my foul-tempered horse is the wrong one to
approach?”
Sansa actually uttered a tiny giggle.
“That combination would make fine pups. Imagine their hooves and temper and
their muzzles and fangs and fuzzy tails.”
Now, even Sandor could bark a little laugh again: “Har, seven hells, that would
be a fine mix. The most interesting beasts south of the Wall.”
They made some more jests at the animals' expense, and in the end, Sandor had
composed himself enough to return with Sansa to the living quarters of the
keep.
 
 
The next morning, Lady was gone.
***** Chapter 31 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The vigil had seen her leave through the main gate around... well... the hour
of the wolf, and still there was no sign of Lady coming back. Sansa, however,
wasn't so very worried.
She told Sandor: “I was with her last night. She's fine, it's only just like I
thought. She's getting into heat, and by now, she has learned what that means –
and she's on her way to Clegane Keep. She doesn't want to mate with the dogs
here at the Rock.”
Sandor shook his head in surprise: “She's really in love with our sweet
Moonlight, isn't she?”
Sansa smiled: “She's been picking up the way I love you I surmise. The best
human Hound for me, and the best doggish Hound for her.”
Sandor laughed and at the same time, he was somewhat relieved that they were
able to laugh again, even if they were still sad.
Still, they were absolutely thunderstruck when Lady turned up again three days
later: she was carrying a long, thin branch in her mouth, at least on one end.
On the other was... Moonlight! She was leading the blind dog! Everybody who saw
it at the Rock stood rooted to the spot, gaping in disbelief.
Sansa was melting into a puddle and cried and welcomed and patted and hugged
the dog, who looked positively embarrassed, as if he wanted to say: “Why do you
make such a fuss about a dog like me?”
And Sandor could only growl in surprised puzzlement: “Mental note to myself.
Never separate Lady and Moonlight again.” The direwolf, who had heard his
words, yapped her vigorous affirmation as if she had understood every single
word.
 

 
 
More things were settled during these weeks. First of all, Maester Creylen
decided on Lord Eddard's treatment. It was decided that Sandor's father-in-law
should get a mix of various pain relievers, a different one for each day of a
sennight. Not all of them were equally effective, but the mousy healer wanted
to make sure that the Warden of the North wouldn't get addicted to one of the
substances, and apart from that the medicines had different side effects. When
Lord Eddard took the milk of the poppy, he'd feel almost no pain any more,
which was a short-term relief, but he'd also sleep much, and his brain would be
befuddled. There were days when he took a Lysene herbal concoction, which was
rather effective with regard to pain as well, but it made you nervous, so it
should always follow the day of the milk of the poppy as a counterbalance;
there was also a potion that was rather light, so Lord Stark would feel more
pain, but his brain and his emotional state wouldn't be affected much, and he'd
be able to go on ruling in the north once he returned home. And so on and so
forth.
Another aspect of the treatment was that Lord Eddard's lower muscles shouldn't
atrophy. So Maester Creylen ordered a kind of a “training plan” when somebody
should move and limber his legs. And they also found someone who was more than
willing to take over this duty: Brienne.
The tall, unalluring woman had been forbidden by the Kingslayer to train in the
yard due to her pregnancy. Brienne, however, felt fit and lively and was
literally craving for some physical movement. Besides, she was strong enough to
deal with Lord Stark's body – and if the arrangement was a little improper,
nobody really cared. Ned Stark only growled: “If people are used to seeing her
fighting like a knight anyway this is harmless in contrast – and apart from
that she's tough like a bear woman from the Mormont family, and those women
have always been a gain for the north, so I'm the last one to object to Lady
Brienne's presence.
 
 
Sondra-Jayne had an infection, which cost Sansa and Sandor two nights' sleep,
because they wanted to have the tot at their side. Luckily, the baby recovered
fast.
Apart from that, they didn't find much peace at night anyway. The miscarriage
and the predictions for the future probably didn't break them, but it did weigh
them down and make them morose. Sansa cried several times while Sandor resorted
to brooding. That the could stay close and console each other helped a lot.
 
 
The Lannisters were extremely busy, as one might expect. They were preparing
Lord Tywin's proclamation and coronation ceremony. Moreover, the wedding
between the Imp and the octopus woman as well as the conquest of Pyke were
being planned. Tyrion, Asha, the Old Lion and his brother Kevan spent a lot of
time together.
Jaime told Sandor and Sansa about the outcome, because even if he usually
wasn't present himself he still had a good insight into what was going on
behind closed doors.
“Hound”, he chuckled once, “ you won't believe it. The arguments between my
dear brother and his fiancée are unmatched. They're so intense and on such a
level of sly cunningness they could unhinge Westeros if they ever chose to
share an opinion, which they don't. Interesting though – they do seem to share
something else.”
“And that is?” Sandor growled.
“Oh, their bed.”
“WHAT!?!?”
Jamie smirked as cockily as he could be and rumbled: “Seems to be their way of
letting off steam. I have heard that fights can be... stimulating – and I'm not
only referring to the battlefield. Anyway, they seem to have decided that since
they're going to marry they can start into passion at once. Father is already
wringing his hands, cursing himself he ever supported the idea of their wedding
in the first place. This morning they even came out of Tyrion's bedroom
TOGTHER, and in such a state of disarray that they looked as if they had
enjoyed a tumble until moments before. Father was seething, Asha shrugged her
shoulders and Tyrion looked as smug as if he already was the master of Pyke.
Unbelievable.”
 
 
Well, apart from screwing his future wife and scheming and plotting with the
other Lions the blasted Imp also did something really productive: He taught
Gendry. You could say what you wanted, but the Halfman was more than apt for
the task.
The Baratheon bastard probably wasn't the brightest card in the deck when it
came to figures, sums and letters, but he was doing his best, and the Imp
actually said about him: “Ah, he is much more competent than my beloved brother
in that respect, and he is no shallow, fat, consistently horny drunkard like
his sire, but serious and thoughtful, so we don't have to fear much. He'll
manage and prove to be a fine husband for Myrcella.”
And when Gendry wasn't getting his lessons from the Imp he was instructed in
courtly behaviour by Sansa. She also practised dancing with him. Interestingly,
the normally sullen young smith was most keen on learning how to move his feet
in rhythm with the music: he had watched Myrcella being swirled around by
others, and he wanted to take over this role himself now.
 
 
The probably best recent development for Sandor was the presence of the
sellsword named Bronn. The man was as shady as one could ever think, but his
real worth lay in the training pit. He was no arrogant fop of a knight who
pissed his breeches in fear as soon as he was sent against the Hound. No. This
Bronn was a capable fighter, without any frills and straight to the point. His
moves didn't look splendid, no – but they were deadly, if you were not as good
a warrior as the Hound. Sandor was happy that for now they seemed to be on the
same side.
 
 
In Lannisport, “The Seashell” was developing nicely. Lilyrose was doing a
particularly good job, and she had lots of old... acquaintances, who came to
the tavern regularly, not for intimate reasons any longer, but for drinking and
enjoying a nice time with cards and throwing the dice and having a friendly
chat.
It didn't mean, however, that Lilyrose had become ascetic with regard to
fucking, as Sandor found out soon enough. Now that the Kingsguard didn't exist
any longer and neither did the vows connected to it Barristan Selmy seemingly
wanted to spend his declining years having some fun, and he had started to
enjoy the innkeeper's presence.
He admitted candidly as much to Sandor when he went to visit Lord Stark. The
Hound was surprised, but didn't care overly whether the old knight was still
capable of a shag or not. The more important point was that Ser Barristan had a
long talk with Lord Eddard, and there and then it was decided that the former
Commander of the Kingsguard would be highly welcome to pledge his allegiance to
Winterfell.
 
 
Naturally, Lannisport and Casterly Rock weren't a solitary island, and news
from the Seven Kingdoms and beyond arrived bit by bit – or raven by raven.
Tommen was developing nicely at the Quiet Isle, and one had to be an oaf not to
believe that Lord Tywin wasn't thinking of how to use the child to the family's
advantage. Once, the Old Lion was heard murmuring the boy could either be used
for a marriage alliance, or probably he could be groomed for becoming a High
Septon. Now that King's Landing was gone the Quiet Isle turned out to be the
new religious centre of the Faith of the Seven, so Tommen seemed to be just in
the right place for a religious task in the future.
 
 
The war of Rose and Sunspear between the Houses Tyrell and Martell was still
waged fiercely since winter had not reached the south yet, and would normally
never reach Dorne. The battles and skirmishes that had occurred so far,
however, had not revealed a clear winner. From the point of view of a
Westerlander that was a welcome situation, because it meant that the other two
royal houses were paring down each other's power and influence in Westeros.
 
 
A very interesting piece of news that relieved Sandor mightily came from beyond
the sea, from Braavos, to be precise. Obviously, the Iron Bank wasn't amused at
all to learn that the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms was no more, because it had
been one of the Bank's greatest debtors. The one who had to pay for this
development was the local representative from Kings Landing, as it seemed: a
certain Measter of the Coin, formerly known as Mockingbird, or, to be more
precise, Lord Petyr Baelish, was found face down with a knife between his
shoulder blades in a canal in Braavos. Sandor was pretty sure that – with the
possible exception of his wife Lysa Arryn – nobody was sorry about the slimy
bugger's demise.
 
 
Sandor also rode over to Clegane Keep to see, if everything was still alright.
Though he didn't like it one bit, he left Sansa at the Rock for four days – but
he was convinced that his Little Bird should spend some more time with her
mutilated father. At night, she would warg into his body and be with him
anyway. With a wry grin Sandor thought that if anybody else had ever wanted to
enter his body by skinchanging it would have felt like some form of rape – with
Sansa, however, it was different. He wanted to be as close to her as possible,
so her warging into him felt natural, even right for him, now that he knew what
his wife was doing. Apart from that... if she warged into him she didn't enter
somebody else, and that was absolutely preferable.
 
 
When the Hound arrived at his family seat, it was good to come back home,
something he would have never believed possible in former years. Aengus
Cronhold, Falcon, Ayella, blind Tombry and the others welcomed him warmly, and
it turned out that a handful of new people had turned up on the fief in his
absence. Falcon had taken an apprentice, because they all knew that Gendry
would never work as a smith at the keep again. All in all, Sandor was very
content with the recent developments, and he told one-armed Glendor he should
construct a new chair-on-wheels – this time for Lord Eddard. Sandor also asked
Falcon, if he couldn't develop something that would allow it to copy books
faster and more conveniently so that Sansa – and others – might profit from it.
The handicapped smith was thrilled at once, even if he couldn't read and write
himself.
He stated enthusiastically: “Oh yes, m'lord, I'll try my very best! Just
imagine, if we could make the copying of books faster and cheaper; you could
make a fortune selling books to Oldtown and other learned places!”
That was something Sandor had also considered, and he nodded his support.
 
 
A few days later, he arrived back at Casterly Rock and burst into a sodding
hubbub of spectacular news that had arrived from Winterfell with the latest
raven.
Robb Stark had arbitrarily ended his betrothal to Margaery Tyrell, and had
neither conferred with his sire nor listened to his mother, Lady Catelyn. As it
was, Lady Margaery had already been on the way to the north, but without having
achieved anything she had to return to her home.
In an impromptu coup, Robb had married Wylla Manderly from White Harbour – and
staged a double marriage, for Arya and Syrio Forel had been joined in the
Godswood alongside with the oldest Stark son. Sandor's scarred mouth was
literally hanging open when a madly-chirping Little Bird flew into his arms to
welcome him back, and she started to tell him what had transpired.
“Can you believe it? They're both married now! Robb and Arya!”
Ah, well, he certainly granted them a happy marriage – but the problem was now
that House Stark had made a formidable foe by rejecting and disappointing the
Tyrells. The Hound knew that Roses had thorns that might sting very
unpleasantly. Really, the damned young wolf had been extremely unwise to show
such a lack of diplomacy. But then again, Sandor could remember how passionate
Robb had been... and boiling blood extinguished any measured decision. Fuck,
one could only hope that the backfiring effect of this rashness would fall out
moderate!
To his surprise Lord Stark was seething with anger when he heard of the latest
act of his eldest son; Sandor had actually never seen the Warden of the North
loose his countenance so thoroughly!
“How on earth could he do such a thing!? White Harbour is most loyal to our
house already, it doesn't bring us much of an advantage. On the contrary! He
disobeys openly! He spits on me! He weakens my – OUR – position and and shames
and mars the family! Doesn't he have a head on his shoulders? Does he want to
lose it? By the Old Gods, this is disgraceful! – And Arya? She's still too
young to marry! She's still a child!”
Lord Eddard was so very angry, he was frothing at the mouth. Sandor thought
that before the attempted murder his father-in-law would have never lost
control like this, serious northern cool man that he used to be, but the the
year in Kings Landing as the First Hand of Three as well as the illness with
its constant pain and the crippling had seemingly affected the Old Wolf's
nerves to a certain extent and had made him thin-skinned.
Sandor tried to appease Lord Stark: “Seven hells, we don't know the details
yet. Robb seems to have been convinced the Tyrells are responsible for you
getting crippled. Perhaps he learned something we've got no knowledge of so
far. I mean, Randyll Tarly was seen close to you when you were pushed out of
the window; he was even beheaded, because people believed him to by guilty. And
Tarly was a staunch, loyal bannerman of the flaming Roses in Highgarden. Now,
let's talk about Arya – could be possible that Syrio had to swear like me he'd
not consummate the marriage so soon. The milk has been spilled anyway, so we
have to wait and see.”
Lord Stark was still rumbling lowly, but just then, Sansa appeared with Sondra-
Jayne in her arms, and the happy baby bubbling distracted them for a while. And
later, the were distracted again – by a raven from Jon at the Wall, and the
news in there were very meaningful, too.
 
 
Jon had written a long letter. First, he thanked them for the provisions that
had been sent north. There had been more and better food from the west than
from the Riverlands and the Vale together. Only Winterfell itself and its
bannermen equalled the western generosity, and there had been nothing from
Highgarden, the Stormlands, or from Dorne. Lord Eddard thought that the western
contribution to the supply of the Nights Watch was a good sign for the
relationship between both soon-to-be kingdoms as well.
He also said to Sandor: “If you and Sansa had not married I'm pretty sure that
we'd all be worse off. Many bad things have happened, true enough, but a few
good things as well.”
At that, the Hound showed his widest grin, so that the burned corner of his
mouth twitched, and agreed: “Aye, we'd be worse off. I at least would, there is
no doubt about that. I would still be the sodding royal Dog, and nothing more,
Sansa would be betrothed to a lousy little bugger of a prince, and I couldn't
do a single thing and would drink myself to death. Only your back wouldn't be
broken.”
Sansa, who had been playing gently with Sondra-Jayne's fingers, looked at her
husband and shot him a warm glance, but for once, she didn't utter a single
chirping sound, only listened.
Suddenly, Lord Eddard smiled, and it was so genuine that it surprised Sandor
since such a positive expression had always been a rare thing with the Warden
of the North – and even more so since the dire events in Kings Landing.
“Sansa, girl, I think I'm getting tired. Would you take Jayne back to her
rooms? But she must visit me tomorrow again!”
“Oh, yes father, of course!”
“Just give me a moment to recover, and then, we'll have a short look at the
rest of Jon's letter before I have a nap, if you don't mind.”
“That's fine, father! I'll be back in a few minutes!”
When Sansa and the baby had left, Sandor growled: “Now, dearest father-in-law,
what did you want to tell me in secret?”
Lord Stark looked downright conspirational now, and beckoned him closer.
“You won't believe it. I don't quite believe it myself. Yesterday evening my
right big toe – it itched!”
“You don't say so! Really?”
“Yes! I think I'm getting some feeling back in my legs. And not only there, if
you know what I mean.”
Sandor barked a raspy ripple of laughter: “Aye, I understand. The old pack
leader is readying himself to have some more wolf pups. No wonder thenyou
didn't want to say that in front of Sansa.”
Sandor still felt awkward when it came to touching other people, apart from his
wife, but he did clap Lord Stark lightly on the shoulder in an encouraging way.
They laughed together. But suddenly, Sandor's mood fell, and he became serious
within a heartbeat.
Even without knowing of Coldhand's predictions, Lord Eddard understood well
enough that he was thinking of the miscarriage.
He grabbed Sandor's forearm and rumbled: “You have found so much happiness with
Sansa already – and you will find more. I'm convinced of that.”
The Hound was somehow embarrassed and touched by the fact that a man who had a
broken back needed to cheer him up and outplayed it by clearing his throat and
making a bawdy joke: “Aha, if you say so – let's make a bet for a big barrel of
the finest Dornish Red about who of us will have a pup first from now on...”
The sparkle of merriment returned into Lord Stark's eyes.
“Deal!”
A moment later, Sansa returned, and in the face of what they had just been
joking about both men suddenly blushed.
At once, the Little Bird grew suspicious, put her hands onto her hips and
scolded: “What is going on here, gentlemen? I've got the very strange feeling
you're hiding something from me. And your red faces form a very telling
contrast to your hair colours.”
Sandor rasped: “Ah... Sansa, your father and I, we've just been very...
peccable. We've made a bet that... he'll be fit soon... and I fear... I might
lose a good barrel of wine.”
Lord Stark coughed and flushed even redder.
The Little Bird looked at the two bashful men and chirped: “I better don't ask
what your criteria for “being fit” were.”
That earned her two vigorous nods.
“And I guess you wouldn't want to tell me, would you?”
Two equally vigorous shakes with the heads.
Sansa sighed: “By the Old Gods and the New, then let's get back to Jon's
letter.”
The men sighed in relief in unison and returned to the news from the Wall.
“So what does it say here?” Lord Stark started.
 
 
“The three dragons are developing nicely. They can fly and spit little flames
and they have approximately the size of a deer now. There is a black one, I
have called him Cornarys, he is the biggest and fiercest one. The other ones
are females (at least we think so, because they are smaller and more filigree),
and one is green – Toceria – and the other one white – Glandya. Strangely
enough, they still only listen to me, and that has given me a completely new
position. I am the official “Dragonkeeper” now. My friend Samwell Tarly, who is
a very learned man, is digging in the old books to find out more things about
dragons.
He is also trying to find out information about the Others and their undead
minions, the wights. That matter is actually even more pressing than the
dragons. There have been many attacks by the wights, and we cannot send out any
rangers after nightfall any longer. We lost no less than seven men from Castle
Black to them during the last moon. They tried to come at us as soon as they
were dead, turning into blue-eyed monsters themselves, and we had to attack
them with fire and dragonglass – those are the only effective weapons against
them as far as we know.
Fortunately, our dragons' little flames have already been of good use for the
production of dragonglass! And they have also flown against the wights and
annihilated several reanimated corpses, but, of course, that is nowhere near
enough.
Countless wildlings have arrived from beyond the Wall and the Lord Commander
was able to man the towers along the Wall with them. The situation here is
still very tense. The Black Brothers don't trust them, which is understandable,
and the wildlings do not trust us either, which is no surprise either. But they
do respect me, because of my special bond to both Ghost and my new scaly
“pets”. They have started to call me “Father of Dragons” reverently, which is
embarrassing for me, even more so, because a man of the Night's Watch is meant
to be no-one's father. Some of my brothers dislike the situation strongly, and
I can only hope that the Lord Commander will rein them in like he has always
done in the past.
What causes us lots of worries is that the wights, who seemed to be like
puppets on a string, have started to formate. They have established a hierarchy
and you will not like the next piece of information: their leader is someone we
all know. No, it is not uncle Benjen, thank the Gods. But it is someone who
thought himself to be predestined to be a leader when he was alive: it is the
former prince Joffrey. He has been seen, with his throat and belly torn open,
intestines visible and icy eyes of an unearthly blue hue. And the biggest
problem is that he was craven when he was alive, but now, he is not. He is just
as deadly as the other wights – plus he somehow manages to orchestrate their
advances. How he does it we do not know, for wights do not talk, but somehow
the other corpses obey to some soundless orders. Never before has there been
anything so creepy, and I have seen quite a few creepy things since I have
arrived at the Wall.
Talking about arrivals; somebody has turned up here, and she's causing quite a
bit of havoc. It is a priestess of the so-called Red God R'hllor. She keeps
telling everyone who wants or who does not want to hear it I was “Azor Ahai
reborn”, some kind of saviour. Never before have I heard so much rubbish from a
single mouth. She tries to tell everyone that fire was “the purest death” – and
the problem is that some people, who have seen wights burn to their final death
have started to believe in her prattling. Well, I am sure that Sandor Clegane
will have a very different opinion on that specific topic, and I have told her
so. On hearing it, the Red Priestess nearly fainted from joy and breathed
something about R'hllor's glorious herald. I have rarely laughed so heartily in
my life, knowing full well that Sandor Clegane is not into religious affairs at
all. If he ever intends to have an interesting chat, though, he's kindly
invited to visit the Wall and meet this woman, Melisandre. By the way, Ghost
and the dragons detest her, so I take it as a good piece of advice to be wary
of her.
Still, she knows a few tricks, that much I have to admit, and has helped to
drive the wights back several times with her own fires. She has also told me
about the Valyrian order “Dracarys” that makes the dragons spit fire on
command. We will have to see what will come of this.”
 
 
Jon's letter ended with questions about Lord Stark's, Sansa's and Sandor's
well-being and warm words for Lady as well.
Chapter End Notes
     Another little drawing. :-) http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/
     maracuyakongeen/55197458/33015/33015_600.jpg
***** Chapter 32 *****
Chapter Notes
     Oops, I gave you a wrong link at the end of the last chapter. I
     apologise - and now, you'll see the right picture, because I've
     changed the link. :-)
They told Jaime Lannister first about what was going on at the Wall. When the
one-handed Lion heard of Joffrey's fate he broke down. It was as if a mighty
blow had crushed all the flaming cockiness out of him and left a trembling
shell behind. Sure, it had not been possible for him to be the father for
Joffrey he should have been by procreation, but there had been some sort of
bond nevertheless; and bad as it had already been to know him dead it was far
worse for the Kingslayer to know his son had turned into an ultimate undead
monster.
The second one Sansa and Sandor talked to was the Imp. Cynical as Tyrion was he
was also shocked about his nephew's fate. Since his brother was so gutted that
he couldn't even talk the Imp promised to inform Myrcella and to console the
little Lioness. Still, there was also something that thrilled the Halfman: the
dragons. Tyrion was obsessed with those horrible fire-spitting creatures and
had read everything about them one could lay hands on in Westeros. The Imp
promised to send Jon a tract with all the most important things he knew about
dragon-keeping to Jon Snow before he left for Pyke; and the Imp also pointed
out he wanted to go and see the animals as soon as his personal situation
allowed it.
Lord Eddard took it on himself to talk to Lord Tywin. The two had a long and –
as one could expect – very serious discussion about the implications for
Westeros. They both reached the conclusion that a strong north was of paramount
importance now. It was also in Lord Lannister's interest to have a stable
relationship with the Starks. So it was merely four hours later that a raven
with a letter left Casterly Rock. In its message Lord Eddard declared himself
the rightful King of the North. It wasn't a very elegant solution, because his
coronation still had to wait until he was back home – but in these days facts
were more important than style.
Sandor could understand it well enough. His father-in-law also needed a strong
position, because Robb had weakened it with his arbitrary rejection of Margaery
Tyrell and the sudden marriages, one of whom the young wolf, the designated
crown prince, had not even asked for approval. It was as sure as twelve silver
stags buy a gold dragon that there would still be a violent clash between Lord
Stark and his son... and the Hound wasn't sure, if Lord Eddard didn't intend to
exclude Robb from the succession to the throne and name Bran heir instead.
 
 
Some days later, good news arrived from Clegane Keep in the form of Falcon: the
one-armed smith was delivering a new chair-on-wheels. He was admitted to Lord
Stark at once, who could not restrain his joy and praised the mutilated
employee for his outstanding idea and skills.
From that day on, Lord Eddard got better; sitting in his chair he could be
pushed out to the Stone Garden and enjoy the cold, salty winter air.
“You get a feeling of home out here in the snow”, Lord Stark said to Sansa and
Sandor.
At first, Maester Creylen doubted whether these excursions were good for his
patient's fragile health, but soon enough he gave up his qualms. It was already
becoming clear that – judging by the speed he was recovering – Eddard Stark
would be able to attend Lord Tywin's impending coronation and Tyrion's
marriage.
Sandor felt a strange streak of pride when he realized Lord Stark's
tenaciousness. To some extent he had already seen it in Arya, in a gentler, but
just as strong form in Sansa, and now he could see it in the girls' sire.
When he tried to vocalize his impression one evening in their bedroom to the
Little Bird, adding that he didn't know why he felt proud for something that
had nothing to do with himself as a person, or with what he himself had done,
she smiled, embraced him and said: “It actually shows a lot about you as a
person. It shows you consider yourself to be part of my family now.”
Sansa's smile widened, and she added: “Arya would dub it 'pride of the pack' I
think.”
And the Hound barked his laughter, and he rumbled: “Aye, that sounds just like
her. And I guess that I'm big and rough and wild enough to run with a pack of
wolves, even direwolves.”
On hearing that the Little Bird teased him: “Ha! In fact, you're wilder than
Lady!”
Sandor laughed again and growled with a mock-dangerous voice: “Should I
probably show you some of my wildness?”
Sansa squealed merrily, and the next moment the Hound was chasing her through
the bedroom like a carefree boy. Two minutes later, he was flipping a wriggling
and laughing Little Bird on their bed, and sure enough, things got out of hand.
Sansa had stopped bleeding, but Sandor held himself back, knowing he wouldn't
sleep with her again just yet; still they had hands and mouths, and his wife
was as enthusiastic as always when he used them on her, and they ended up
trying out what Sansa had described as a “tendril” in “Lady Rysaya's Romances”.
Later, he thought that if this was a “tendril” he would likely turn into a
passionate gardener, treasuring and cultivating that sweet little plant that
opened her petals for him... and then, he berated himself for becoming so
bloody poetic...
 
 
And then, it was five days before the coronation. A raven from Riverrun
arrived, in which Edmure fucking Tully declared himself King of the Riverlands.
He also invited the regents of the other Kingdoms in Westeros to Riverrun for a
Council of the Kings. Tywin Lannister and Eddard Stark had already expected
this step, since messages had been sent back and forth in advance. Edmure's
coronation would be an adequate and dignified opening ceremony for the Council
of the Kings, and at the same time the designated new King of the Riverlands
was expected for a visit to attend Lord Tywin's coronation. And the Imp's
wedding as well. Sandor's father-in-law was already looking forward to meeting
his wife's brother. An attitude that the Hound certainly didn't share.
Sandor decided to have a look at “The Seashell” in Lannisport, to visit Ser
Barristan, who mostly kept to himself, to go to the graveyard where Aralene had
found her final rest, and to see what was going on in the city in general.
Sansa and Gendry were coming along for their own purposes. The two wanted to go
to the stationer where books were sold as well and where the medical volume for
Maester Creylen had been purchased. The Baratheon bastard was getting more and
more interested in his schooling, and Sandor could only think that this was not
a trait he had inherited from his sodding sire. The former smith also had to
pick up a new collection of clothes and shoes, which Lord Lannister had ordered
for him at a local tailor. Since the Old Lion had decided he wanted to include
Gendry into the Game of Thrones and to give him to Myrcella, he was also
willing to invest some money into this “project”. Gendry's new sigil – the
smith's hammer that morphed into in antler – looked fine on him, Sandor had
already seen it on the doublet he himself had paid for the young man.
Lady was accompanying them as well. As much as the direwolf was in love with
Moonlight she neither forgot her mistress nor her friend Stranger. Sandor
looked at his wife's pet: it still didn't show clearly, but he was sure that
Lady was pregnant. After all, he had a very good instinct when it came to four-
pawed, furred animals. The Hound had to admit inwardly that he was absolutely
thrilled with Lady and Moonlight having pups. The gentle, blind dog had
captured many hearts at the Rock, especially Lady Brienne's and Lady Lollys's.
Once, Moonlight had accidentally trotted into Lord Tywin's way, causing the
tall, proud man to stumble and swear – but where the Old Lion would normally
have sent the animal back to Clegane Keep or have it killed right away, he just
looked at the direwolf, who had an apologetic air, and rumbled: “Ah, for crying
out loud, I guess that as long as this cur is around the wolf won't throw
herself at me quite as often.”
At once, a happily-wagging Lady had been at his side, prodding the lord's hands
with her muzzle.
Lord Tywin had thrown a strange glance at Sandor and announced: “Hound! I tell
you: something is foul in in the realms of Westeros, if a direwolf that should
not even exist – at least not south of the Wall – starts to thank a Lannister.
Mark my words.”
 
 
In Lannisport, people were starting to decorate the streets and houses in
Lannister colours, and various little stages were put up in different places:
jugglers, musicians, acrobats and actors would entertain the crowd during the
festivities after the coronation. Lord Tywin had decided that there should be
quite an amount of free beer.
Sansa was chattering and chirping excitedly, but of course she knew that the
greatest and best attractions would be performed in the presence of the new
king and queen.
Soon enough, Sandor left his wife and Gendry, and they agreed upon meeting at a
new, fine bakery where you could also sit down and eat a sweet treat and drink
some tea or juice. The Hound figured that his Little Wife would love to indulge
in some fresh lemon cakes, if they could be got.
On parting, he pulled his cloak a little closer: slowly but surely the cold was
creeping into his bones. Well, at least it wasn't snowing, and here in
Lannisport it was unlikely he'd come across this undead creature that named
itself Coldhands.
Sandor directed Stranger to “The Seashell”. Inside, it was warm, and numerous
guests were already present and nursing a morning pint – although it was still
very early! Lilyrose greeted him from behind the counter, and she seemed to be
an altered person: never before had he seen her so... lively. Although her
features were plain as before she was radiant and overflowing with vigour so
you'd turn your head when she came into a room.
“M'lord Clegane,” she greeted him happily and curtsied. “How very nice to see
you.”
Sandor smiled: “I can only return the compliment. Nice to see you indeed. And
as I can see business is working just fine.”
Lilyrose nodded: “Oh yes, it is! I've decided to offer breakfast for the
sailors and dock workers. The oven in kitchen is good enough and I know how to
make some decent onion and herb rolls; oh, and I can also serve creamy porridge
with honey, jus' if somebody's got a sweet tooth. Y'see I... know... a miller,
and he offers me flour at a good price.”
Sandor laughed in amazement: “My dear Lilyrose, you really know more than one
trade.”
Suddenly, he paused, cocked the eyebrow that wasn't scorched and asked: “Erm,
Lily... are you with child?”
The innkeeper's eyes grew wide.
“How d'you know, m'lord? I've only known it for half a moon myself!”
Sandor chuckled: “Ah, my goodfather would say you've got 'the glow'.”
“The what?”
“Never mind. Who's the father? Do you know? The miller? Ser Barristan?... Erm.
Gendry?”
Lilyrose giggled like a girl: “Nah, that's not possible. You won't tell
anybody, m'lord? Please?”
“No, I promise.”
“Well, then – it's Caleb Graston, the merchant of liquors. When he came here
the first time, because he wanted to see where his goods went he remembered me
from a... meeting some years ago, and he was so very charming, so we renewed
our... acquaintance. It was only once, but it was enough.”
Suddenly, Sandor became serious, and Lilyrose inquired: “What is it, m'lord?
Did I say something wrong?”
“No, you didn't. It's just that my wife lost a baby recently.”
The publican's hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, I'm so sorry! Wait a moment, I'll give you a herbal infusion that I always
drink on a daily basis when I'm with child. It's good for a woman's strength
and you're not so sick in the morning. Old family recipe! Got it from me mum,
and she got it from hers.”
Sandor was touched.
“That's lovely. And now – is Ser Barristan upstairs?”
“He's out training somewhere, I think with some goldcloak named Ser Joremy.
Guess you'll know him, he's in a good position, from what I've heard, only I
can't give you no details 'cause Ser Joremy is – now how'd you say it? – no
connoisseur of women, if y'get my meaning. Anyway, Ser Barristan should be back
soon, he's been out for a while. Can I offer you something in the meantime?”
Sandor certainly didn't mind a snack, and mere minutes later he could attest
that Lilyrose's rolls were as delicious as she had claimed.
 
 
Half an hour later, Ser Barristan arrived back, and they sat down at a table in
a quiet corner of the taproom. They talked about the many things that had
happened in the past. Though the two men had been no close friends in the old
days under King Robert in Kings Landing they did appreciate each other as
skilled fighters. And now, they seemed to get on better than in the past, for
whatever reason.
“Of course, I'll attend the Lannister coronation and the Imp's wedding, but
I'll keep in the background. After what I have witnessed with this golden-
haired rat Cersei and the Kingslayer makes me cringe and want the Lions never
to rise again. No man should see what I've seen and be forced to do what I have
done. Never will I forget King Robert's face when we entered the room and
saw... and saw the siblings... together. If I had not been so shocked I would
have retched against the next wall. And the way my sword met the Lions' hand
and head and severed the flesh and bone... I had thought I had seen all kinds
of despicable things on the battlefield, but somehow... this had a different
quality. And if you ask me... with his last breath King Robert should have
given the Kingslayer's death warrant, instead of pardoning him.”
That caused the Hound to rumble: “ You see, I can fully understand you're wroth
with him, but I'm actually relieved that our One-Paw is still alive. Without
him Sansa would be most likely dead now.”
And then, Sandor related to the old commander of the King's Guard what Ser Ilyn
Payne had about to do to the Little Bird.
Next, he added: “When it comes to the sodding Kingslayer himself – he's a
changed man, I swear. As if he's been released from Cersei's spell. Oh, he's
still too arrogant for his own good, but... It's more camouflage than anything
else. He's... how shall I say it... devoted now. To his wife Brienne, to the
way he tries to learn sword-fighting with his left hand – and he's still
suffering a lot. Every single day.
On the one hand, there is the phantom pain where the right hand has been
chopped of. He tries not to show it, but it's causing him a great deal of
anguish, especially when the weather changes. I have seen the scarred flesh of
his stump twitch where the nerves have been cut.
On the other hand, there is the grief about his children. One can see that he
would have loved to be a father, and that he had never been allowed to fulfil
this role; that he is separated and rejected by Tommen is eating him up. With
Myrcella things have become better, but it can never be a really normal
relationship, and he bloody well knows it. And then Joffrey. You could say what
you wanted, the Kingslayer had mourned like any father would when he had heard
of his son's death – and when he learned that his natural son had turned into
an undead monster beyond the Wall his heart broke.
I tell you: executing him would have been the easy way. Too easy, in my humble
opinion. And he would have never been able to make up for his sins. No. If you
ask me, King Robert had a unique fit of wisdom on his deathbed.”
“Mhmmmm...”, Ser Barristan rumbled, deep in thought. “Haven't seen it from this
angle before. You've got a point there.”
The old knight gave Sandor an intensive look.
“Hound, from what I've just learned and the way you've presented the case I'm
asking myself who has changed more: the Kingslayer or you. Seems as if you've
gained some wisdom yourself. Had you been in my place back in that room with
King Robert, Prince Joffrey's Dog would have only slashed with his sword left
and right like a whirlwind and not even given our late monarch the chance to
decide to pardon the traitorous Lion.”
Sandor nodded: “Aye, you're right. I still know how to kill well enough, if
need be, and as always no-one can withstand me in the training yard... but my
lovely wife has gentled my all-encompassing rage a little. And once it started
to recede there was more room for thinking.”
Ser Barristan smiled thinly.
“Yes, your Lady Sansa is a wonderful young woman. The one who's got her heart
must be truly blessed. Oh, and if I may speak openly, there's another reason
why you're able to think more and better: you seem to drink much less. Is that
a glass of milk in front of you?”
Sandor rasped his steel-on-stone laughter: “Aye, no morning pint. And you're
right. In hindsight I think I was on the edge of getting really ill when I got
to know Sansa. Another year or two, and I would have been as useless as that
drunkard Ser Dontos in King's Landing.”
“I remember him. Poor fool. Must have died along with the capital.”
 
 
They were just about to talk some more when the door of the tavern opened and
in came a man Sandor had come to know recently. It was this rugged sellsword,
Bronn. When the rough fighter discovered him and Ser Barristan in their corner,
he sauntered over, a smug grin on his face, and greeted the Hound with a scanty
bow.
“Hello! Who do we have here? And at this early hour!? Lord Clegane? Didn't
expect you to ever come into a beer hole like this any longer.”
Sandor ground out in his deepest snarl: “This is MY 'beer hole'.”
“Aaaaah, I see!”
Without even asking the insolent sellsword grabbed an empty chair from the next
table and slumped down back to front so he could slouch against the backrest.
“Haven't had your daily training session yet?” Sandor threatened.
Bronn only laughed: “Not yet, but back at the Rock I'm always at the service.
Just now I'd prefer a good ale and to break my fast. I've had a long and merry
night here in Lannisport, you see, and I've been told that you can get some
decent food and a good pint here.”
Sandor was just about to bark that the sellsword could have his breakfast at
another table... when the strangest thing happened.
“M'lord, welcome in “The Seashell”. What can I do for you?”
Lilyrose had approached the table from behind.
Bronn turned around to give his order with a smirk.
He looked at the innkeeper.
His jaw sagged slightly.
His eyes became a bit glassy.
Sandor had once seen how Old Lord Darton had had a stroke during a feast in
Kings Landing – that had looked somehow similar. But wasn't this Bronn a little
too young and too fit for a stroke?
What came out next of the sellsword's hard mouth was so extraordinary that
Sandor had to fight a fit of laughter: “My lady, I've been told about the
delicious breakfast here, but it must be eclipsed by your presence.”
Lilyrose giggled like a girl and answered: “M'lord, I'm no lady, really I'm
not, but I can bring you a nice breakfast for sure, if you want to.”
“Yes. Please.”
It sounded as if the sellsword had just said “please” for the very first time
in his adult life. Sandor finally realized what was happening, and now, he
really had to fight back his laughter – even more so when Ser Barristan uttered
a low growl at who he had classified to be a serious rival for the innkeeper's
affection. That was the moment when the Hound opted for the most elegant
sokution – at least the most elegant one for him.
He knocked lightly on the table with his huge hands, rose and rumbled: “Right.
Ser Barristan. Bronn. I've got some more appointments this morning and I'll
leave you to your breakfast now. Only make sure to keep my furniture and my
publican in one piece. A tavern brawl over a woman is less than half as much
fun when you own the bar in question.”
And with those words he stalked out of “The Seashell”. Fuck the Seven, was he
getting too soft that he avoided a fight? No. Not really. Had Bronn looked at
Sansa like he had looked at Lilyrose he would be dead now. So dead even that it
would be impossible to revive him as a wight. And the Hound wouldn't have given
a damn about any piece of furniture in the process.
With a deep sigh, Sandor made for the graveyard. And while he was standing at
Aralene's grave he also thought of the star child he had had with Sansa and
that had had no chance to live. He also thought of Brienne's and Lilyrose's
unborn babies. And even of Lady's. Suddenly, he crashed his fists into a nearby
tree until his knuckles were bleeding. Two children he had not been able to get
to know! TWO! And most likely, he'd be denied to get to know a third one.
Fuck, he had been talking about how the flaming Kingslayer would have liked to
be a father. He himself would have loved to be a father, too! He had not known
it before Sansa, but now he knew. He knew it very well. Seven thrice-damned
flaming hells of shit! Sandor went to his knees next to Aralene's grave, rocked
himself and forcefully plucked up the weeds that were growing there with his
calloused hands. It took an hour or even more, until he had calmed down enough
to leave the graveyard again, and when he did, he didn't care one wit that his
fingernails were dirty from the earth and that his breeches were green from the
grass near the kneecaps.
 
 
One day later, Edmure fucking Tully arrived at Casterly Rock to the booming
sounds of a salute being fired. He was accompanied by a large entourage, as
befitted a designated king. The red-haired leader of Riverrun proudly trotted
into the main yard where he was already awaited by Lord Tywin and his
househould, as well as by Lord Eddard and his daughter and son-in-law.
When Edmure dismounted full of verve the Hound could only think that maybe
kingship made you more arrogant, but not more capable. His lip curled in a
silent snarl. Suddenly, he felt Sansa's reprimanding elbow in his stomach
although she was looking right at her uncle with a smile.
“Fuck, she really knows how to see things from the corner of her eyes!” Sandor
mused.
The mutual greetings between the Lannisters and Edmure were very dignified and
solemn. When the unnerving Trout turned to Lord Stark, the reception was a
cordial one though one could see how shocked Edmure was to see his goodbrother
so changed – silver-haired and confined to a chair. Next, Sansa embraced her
uncle affectionately.
Finally, Lord Tully faced the Hound; his jaw set and he merely said: “Clegane.”
Sandor inclined his head slightly and acknowledged the impending kingship by
answering: “Your Grace.”
He did it for the Little Bird, otherwise he would have cared more about his own
farts than about being polite to this sodding figure.
 
 
Later, there was a long meeting between the future kings.
Lord Eddard, who was very exhausted when he re-emerged from the Council Room,
told Sansa: “Your dear mother will arrive in Riverrun for the Big Council of
the Kings. She is already preparing to leave Winterfell. There only have
some... things to be settled until she can depart. Winter is there, as you well
know. Edmure has received a raven with news; it looks as if Arya and her
husband will come along with her.
“Ooohh, how very good!” Sansa beamed; and while Sandor didn't care so much
about meeting his Little Wife's mother he realized he was looking forward to
meeting her hellion of a sister. And Syrio as well.
 
 
The coronation itself was a nothing more than a boring blur for Sandor. It
contained all the necessary things to bug him: pomp in gold and crimson,
Lannisters in the focal point, the sept, a septon, mass, masses of stinking
'holy' herbs as well as stinking masses...
Sansa next to him was rapt and overjoyed, of course. She loved this kind of
splendour. The only noteworthy moment for Sandor was when pregnant Brienne was
so dizzy by all the smells that she collapsed and had to be carried away. For a
split second Sandor wished he could be pregnant, too – until he saw Lord... no,
King Tywin's icy stare. Whoops. The Old Lion obviously took the breakdown of
his daughter-in-law personally. So the Hound sighed inwardly and tried to let
the praying and singing go into one ear and out of the other unprocessed by his
brain.
Later, the big feast was more to his liking. True enough, first they had to get
over with the stupid kneeling in front of the new monarch, but afterwards
things got better. Lots of ale, Dornish Red, strongwine, the finest menu and
delicacies from even beyond the Seven Kingdoms....Sandor had his fill of food,
but drank moderately. He had simply come to prefer to be intoxicated by Sansa
rather than by booze. Musicians and artists of many sorts presented their songs
and feats and acrobatics; there was a snake woman who could bend her lithe body
as if she had no bones within her, and even if it didn't arouse the Hound he
still enjoyed to watch what was going on.
Later on, the tables were put to the sides, and the dancing started. Slowly but
surely Sandor was getting accustomed to dancing, and he didn't feel as wooden
as he used to. And when Sansa looked up at him with sparkling eyes, he started
to smile so widely that the burned corner of his lip twitched again, and he
knew he was the luckiest sod in the hall. He noticed how many men looked at his
Little Bird with adoration – or probably less noble motives – and at once he
started to glower at them in the most possessive manner.
An hour later or so Lord Stark excused himself. He had tried to last as long as
possible, but now, he was absolutely worn out.
So Sansa said to Sandor with a smile: “I can guide him back to his bed. I need
to go to the privy anyway after all the good food and drinking. Give me some
fifteen, twenty minutes, and then, I'll be back for another dance.”
The Hound lifted his wife's chin with one big hand and gave her a kiss.
“Fine. Off you go. I'll try and see if I can chat with Jaime and Brienne. They
haven't been dancing at all. Brienne is still a little pale around her freckled
nose, and the Kingslayer still hasn't recovered from the news about his undead
shitstain of a natural son.”
Sansa nodded eagerly and answered: “Oh yes, that's a good idea!”
With those words she turned and pushed her father in his chair-on-wheels out of
the hall. Sandor wheeled around and sought out the cocky one-handed Lion and
his lady. If only he had known how things would develop next...!
 
 
Jaime was still in a deplorable mood. So Sandor's way of showing his sympathy
consisted of silently sharing and downing a goblet of Arbor Gold (instead of
the Dornish Red he usually preferred). The Kingslayer understood the intention
well enough and welcomed the joint silence. Brienne was next to them, but had
turned around to converse with Ser Addam Marbrand in a quiet voice. Sandor
liked that the woman didn't have a high-pitched, quacking voice like so many
unnerving, shallow high-born women, but a solid contralto – and when she wasn't
bellowing across the training yard, but talking to someone she liked, it was
surprisingly warm. Sansa's voice was higher, though luckily it was sweet, not
metallic, again in contrast to many others – and come to think of it, her
timbre sounded more mature than when he had first laid eyes on her in
Winterfell.
It was good that the Little Bird got along with Lady Brienne well, though
recently things had become more strained, what with the tall, freckled woman's
visible pregancy and Sansa's own miscarriage. So both women had focused on
Sondra-Jayne as often as they could, because this was a point where they could
meet and share positive feelings and thoughts. To Sandor's surprise Jaime
adored the toddler as well from the very first moment and was coming round
every day to play with her – not caring one whit when Lord... King Tywin
reprimanded his eldest son for pampering “a foreign bastard child like a
fussing woman”. One could already guess to what extremes the one-handed
Lannister would go when his own child was born. Seemingly, he felt the need to
catch up with being a father like Sandor himself did with enjoying his love for
Sansa to the full.
Right now, the Kingslayer was just listening to Brienne's voice, and his eyes
were overcast. When he noticed the Hound was looking at him, Jaime smiled at
him in a way that was not his usual daft smirk, but a clear love declaration
for his wife. Sandor had to grin himself then so that his mouth twitched,
because he only had to think of his Little Bird, and he understood all too
well.
It was strange, but the two men really didn't need to talk much to grasp what
the other one wanted to say. When Sandor had arrived at Casterly Rock first as
a youngster the Kingslayer had been the only one, who had not pestered him in
one way or another, but they had never become close friends. Circumstances and
social status simply hadn't allowed it. They had only openly acknowledged each
other's capability of killing foes on the battlefield.
Apart from that, as a sworn shield Sandor had become a good observer and had
realized what had been going on between Queen Cersei and her brother. It had
repelled him as much as the end of the blasted Imp's first marriage when the
young wife had been raped by lots of Lannister soldiers and Tyrion himself and
had been sent away to the Seven Hells afterwards. Bah!
He still remembered how people had brought in his sister's raped and mutilated
dead body back at Clegane Keep when he was a child, and that picture had seared
itself into his brain like the pain after having been burned by abominable
Gregor. So it was no wonder that he had never liked the flaming Imp. Or that he
had befriended Jaime. Or had been on amicable terms with Myrcella.
But now... somehow... everything was different. Sandor thought of Sansa again.
Then of pitiable crippled Lord Eddard. The Little Bird should be back soon.
 
 
Suddenly, he had a strange feeling. He couldn't lay his finger on it, but his
instincts sprang into action. His hair stood on end, even if he didn't have a
clue why. Sansa!?!?
“Hound, what is it?” he heard Jaime ask.
Sandor barely managed to put his goblet on a protrusion – his hands were
already shaking.
“Little Bird calling. Danger”, that was all he managed to grind out before
spinning on his heels and dashing out of the Great Hall with his long strides.
He noticed faintly that Jaime was a few paces behind him, but he was really
like a hound on a hunt now, his focus only on his target. Suddenly, he felt a
ripple of fear run up and down his spine, and he realized he was picking up
Sansa's feelings because of her warging skills. Sandor had always been a cold-
blooded warrior, but now he almost – almost! – balked in panic.
“SANSA!” he gasped, terror in his raspy voice, while he was running at top
speed.
He was a short distance from the healing quarters now. The rooms here were
mostly occupied by recent short-term guests, who had come for the coronation.
Without thinking twice or even the slightest sign of hesitation the Hound
headed for a closed door in the corridor, didn't even bother with the door
handle, and with a titanic crash of his huge, brawny body he all but unhinged
the massive wooden door and made it go to splinters. He couldn't care less
about the damage he was causing. And what Sandor saw in the room before him
then caused his eyes to bulge, the vein on his forehead to swell... and to
unleash the beast within him.
 
 
The man was drunk. That much was immediately clear, from the way he swayed when
he turned around to face the intruder as well as his bleary-red eyes with
pupils like needles. An insidious rodent. Short, lean, mean. His breeches were
down to his ankles; his cock, surrounded by dirty, brownish, wiry hair, was
limp from too much booze, too flaccid for using, at least that was what the
Hound hoped; still, those abominable bollocks and member were big for a man his
size. Bleeding scratches were on one facial cheek and more on one arse cheek.
And Sansa was sprawled on the cold flagstone floor, her previously beautiful
festive gown she had had made extra for the coronation a jumbled mass of scraps
around her, the auburn hair partly spilling free out of her hairnet. Her
breasts were bare, and so were her private parts, and she was as white as a
linen and sobbing, snot running out of her nose, and her lip bleeding where she
must have been hit. As soon as the man shifted his focus away from her, she sat
up, trembling madly, and tried to get up.
For a split second, it felt as if a door opened under Sandor's feet that led
straight to the fiery pits of the Seven Hells and threatened to swallow him
alive. But then, something within his head clicked shut. He roared as if he
were a burning demon Hellhound himself, grabbing the short, ceremonial sword he
was wearing and that was normally not used for fighting – but a blade it did
have, and besides, Sandor would have scratched out the man with a blunt spoon,
if necessary.
There were red streaks in front of Sandor's eyes, and the only thing he knew
was that he had to slash, wanted to slash at that rodent man.
So he did.
And again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again. Again.
Blood spattered and pooled on the flagstones. And brain and half-digested shit
from the intestines hanging out and all sorts other kinds of grime. Not enough.
Not even close. Again. Again. And another slash.
Three strong hands and a stump grabbed him from behind. The Hound bellowed his
hatred.
“Enough! Enough! He's dead. Twenty times over. STOP IT!”
Sandor roared again and balked. Then, he realized he knew that voice.
“STOP IT! I'M TELLING YOU!”
Another voice he knew. Male. Both male. Kingslayer. The one-pawed Lion. Yes.
And... Addam Marbrand. Ever so slowly the rage of the Hellhound dissipated. He
gasped for air, lungs and heart pumping like mad and stopped squirming and
fighting against the grips that held him. The strangest, icy coldness was
spreading inside of him.
At a distance, he heard Jaime order: “Here! Brienne, let's put that cloak
around her. And now: take her away. To OUR suite. Bathe her, soothe her,
console her – whatever you can do.”
Suddenly, Sandor's brain started to work again and to process what he was
hearing and what it meant.
His head snapped around. “Sansa! Sansa! What is it!? Oh my Little Bird,
what...?”
He tried to reach out for his wife. Her more than half-naked form had been
wrapped in a cloak... and she flinched from his touch with a little shriek, her
Tully-blue eyes so very wide!
The next moment, Jaime's face was in front of the Hound's scorched one while
Ser Addam was still holding him back.
“Sandor, listen to me, this is an order!”
He uttered a raw, bitter, scoffing sound.
“SANDOR, you WILL listen to me! You've got a shock. Both of you have. Brienne
is taking good care of Sansa now. She will help clean her. And you'll clean
yourself.”
“BUGGER THAT! I'll be with my wife. I have to take care of her, for fuck's
sake, One-Paw”, he finally ground out.
“Ah, are we finally back to recognizing the people around you”, the Lion
retorted and suddenly grabbed into Sandor's hair.
“Fuck, what...?”
But Jaime already had what he wanted and held it up to show him: “Do you want
to come before Sansa's eyes with bone splinters in your hair? I tell you: you
will clean yourself first. And then we'll see how you both feel.”
Sandor's heart started to bleed as if somebody had wrenched the tip of a spear
from a wound, and he went to his knees. In the corridor he suddenly heard some
frenzied wolfish whining. Obviously, Lady had been called by some kind of
warging effect like the Hound, and now, she was running after her mistress.
Above his head, Sandor could hear Jaime say to Ser Addam: “I think he won't
become aggressive again. Best go, tell... the king.”
The other one answered: “Hopefully, people won't start gossiping about this
being a bad omen on his coronation day.”
“Superstitious folk. Oh, and judging from this tabard here the dead man must've
been a damned Frey. Must've come with the other Riverlanders. I tell you – all
weasel and bollocks, these men, and no brains, if you don't count lewd cunning.
Bah.”
Ser Addam cleared his throat: “Right, I'm off to tell... King Tywin.”
Sandor heard all of their words, but his head only circled around the words
“Riverlander” and “Frey”. After some more moments, he looked about himself.
Whoops, he had really made short work of that man! Severed head and limbs, open
belly, chopped-off pieces of flesh and intestines here and there, cut bones
showing in the amorphous mass of muscles and congealing blood here and there,
especially the backbone at the neck... And the male private parts... they were
hacked to mush, nothing less... Fuck, he had been more thorough than even on
the battlefield!
Sandor turned around, found a chamber pot and vomited.
“Know exactly what you mean”, the Kingslayer said next to him. “I've seen lots
of your... craft in the past, but THIS is kind of a masterpiece, if you ask
me.”
“Shut your bleeding face, One-Paw!”
“Only if you come along and start washing. My dearest father will call you
soon, and he'll be in no better mood, if you're still in this condition.”
“Bugger that!”
Jaime sighed.
“Think of Sansa, Sandor!”
That shut the Hound up, he got to his feet, and stalked out of the room. For a
fleeting moment, it occurred to him that he felt dead inside – and that
probably White Walkers were not so very different from the state he was in...
 
 
The Kingslayer had been totally right. No sooner had he taken a bath in the
bathhouse and gotten himself clean breeches and donned a fresh tunic when he
was summoned to meet King Tywin in the Council Room.
When the Hound entered the Lannister King was standing with the back to him,
very erect as usual, the fingers of his hands entwined on his back, and looking
out of a panorama window. Sandor composed himself and stood straight like the
soldier he was, waiting for the Old Lion's judgement. The silence weighed
heavily on him and stretched on and on.
Finally, he couldn't take it any longer and rasped: “Your Grace, if you want to
condemn me – do it.”
Only then did the new King of the Westerlands turn around. His face was stony,
though it did not necessarily mean anything since this was his normal
expression. The Lion's feline green eyes scanned him, pierced him.
“Clegane, you will have to pay for the damage you've done.”
Sandor swallowed.
“Aye, Your Grace.”
A moment's silence.
Then: “You will drop the money to restore the broken door within the next
days.”
King Tywin turned around again and fell silent once again.
Sandor was confused: “Your Grace, isn't there... anything more you wish to
say?”
The monarch snapped while still staring through the window glass: “I thought
you intelligent enough to know the effects of what you've done. Or do I have to
tell you like a wetnurse does a lackwit of a child?”
“No, Your Grace – but perhaps there are some more... decisions you've made?”
“Do you know what I'm watching? Out there in the light of the burning torches
the surviving Freys are preparing to leave. Neither do they want to stay where
one of their men has been butchered nor are they welcome as guests here in my
castle any longer. – You should have arrested that disgusting man in the room
and passed him on to my jurisdiction. NOT lynch him. The outcome would have
been equally lethal – but YOU chose to undermine MY POWER.”
“I hope you know that that was not my intention.”
“I give a damn about your intention – what counts is that that was what you
did. I should punish you severely for your deed.”
“'Should', Your Grace?”
Finally, King Tywin turned around again and faced the Hound.
“In fact, I would have done the same for my wife. It is no excuse, but an
explanation. So I signed a post-mortem death warrant for the Frey man. And you
are lucky that King Edmure is related to your Lady Wife – he spoke in favour of
you. Otherwise, your punishment would necessarily have had to be harsh to keep
up the good relations to the Riverlands.”
WHAT THE FUCK!?
Sandor thought he must have misheard. The fishy Trout had supported him? That
was downright impossible! And – just in case this incredible piece of
information was true – it meant he was indebted to sodding Edmure! Oh. Shit.
Couldn't he be imprisoned for a week or so instead? But no, he had to get to
Sansa as soon as possible now.
So he just rasped: “I see, Your Grace.”
“One more thing: King Eddard hasn't been told so far, due to his state of
health. My brother Kevan will inform him tomorrow.”
Sandor nodded his support and dared to ask: “Am I allowed to retire for the
night and to look after my wife, Your Grace?”
“You are.”
Sandor bowed and was about to retreat when King Tywin spoke up again:
“Clegane.”
“Your Grace?”
“If anybody ever lays a hand on my wife in my absence I'll put the thug's fate
into your capable hands. I'd only ask you to make him suffer more before the
end. You have become too lenient lately.”
Sandor would have almost answered: “So have you.” However, he only nodded...
although when he left the Council Room he thought he was missing a piece of his
tongue, because he had bitten on it so heavily to hold back his words.
 
 
It wasn't far to Jaime's and Brienne's suite, where Sansa had been put for the
moment. When Sandor knocked the large, freckled woman opened at once to let him
enter – and from the serious look in her blue eyes he knew instantaneously that
his Little Wife was in no good condition. His heart was in his throat. Lady was
in a corner of the room, but not close to her mistress, unlike one would expect
her to be. Her eyes were as full of sorrow as Brienne's. That was telling.
Sansa lay on her side on the big four-poster bed with the knees nearly under
her chin and her arms slung around them. She was wearing a simple grey gown. A
Stark colour. And she didn't react in any way to him entering.
So he strode over to the bed and knelt down before it.
“Sansa, Little Bird”, he rasped – only to trigger off a mewling sound as if she
were a helpless kitten to be drowned any moment. She curled even more into a
ball and hid her face behind her knees, muscles tightening and starting to
tremble.
Sandor's eyes widened in shock. Oh seven hells! If this was possible at all her
reaction now was worse than the one on their first, misled encounter back in
Winterfell!
He could hear Brienne approach him from behind.
She murmured: “Your Lady Wife has been like this ever since we got her out of
that room. It was nearly impossible to bathe and to clothe her, she even
screamed when the maids touched her skin. And from the moment we put her to bed
she's been paralysed. Maester Creylen has already been here and has tried his
very best, but he couldn't do much, and she didn't let him touch her. So he
gave me some milk of the poppy. He said she should take it when you have seen
her, so that she may relax. He hopes that a night's sleep will do a lot to set
things right.”
Numbed, Sandor nodded.
“I... see...”
“She'll sleep here tonight, and I'll rest at her side. Jaime has already
consented to it.”
“Ah. Has he. Well...”
The Hound shrugged. He wanted to be with his wife, not leave her with somebody
else – only the Little Bird didn't want to be with him! She just wanted to be
left in peace. So – even if it went against his very core – he gave in and
shrugged.
With a painful, harsh wisper he uttered: “I love you, Sansa.”
No outward reaction. As if she had not heard him.
Silently, he rose to his feet, every muscle in his body leaden.
Brienne spoke up again: “Go, look after little Sondra-Jayne. Jaime is waiting
there for you.”
“Right. Yes. Jayne. You're absolutely right. Jayne! I'll have a look at her. At
once.”
Sandor had been so overwhelmed by the recent buggering events and worries that
for a while he had forgotten his sweet little daughter!
It was as if a fist of shame and self-loathing was punching him with a mailed
fist right into his stomach. Fuck! Fuck! He was useless! He hadn't come in time
to spare Sansa her ordeal, had fucked up King Tywin's coronation feast,
couldn't console his Little Bird, and now, he had even forgotten his baby. What
a poor example of a husband, bannerman and father he was!
With a stony face and another look at the bed and his afflicted wife he parted
and marched stiffly over to Sondra-Jayne's room. The girl was sleeping
peacefully, her waking wetnurse with a worried look on her face at her side.
The woman stood up and curtsied when her employer entered. And like Brienne had
said, Jaime was sitting there, too, pondering while he was rocking the cradle.
“Sandrina, leave us alone for a moment”, Sandor growled.
The young woman curtsied again and left.
The Kingslayer cleared his throat: “Maester Creylen is pretty sure that... this
Frey man... he did not really do it, you know?”
“Fuck, that's a cold comfort, One-Paw, and no mistake.”
“I know. And... Clegane... I shouldn't have seen your wife like that... I only
wanted to help.”
“Fuck, is that garbled prattling meant to be some sort of apology? From the
golden, cocky Kingslayer?”
Jaime sighed, a little frustrated: “You can understand them in whichever way
you like, Hound.”
Sandor rumbled something unintelligible, took Jayne out of her little baby bed
and cradled her against his chest. She made a contented little bubbling sound –
and slumbered happily on. Her warm touch was strangely soothing for Sandor.
“Where will you sleep tonight?”
The Lion shrugged.
“There are enough rooms in the Lannister wing, don't you worry about that.”
“What about sharing a flagon in my room?”
“Only one?”
The Hound showed a bitter grin.
“You've got your bright moments.”
“To hear that from your scorched mouth is a bit of a flaming wonder, I must
say.”
“I didn't talk of many moments. Or even regular ones.”
“What a relief to hear you're still the unearthly gallant Hound. By the way –
you were more than a Hound back in that room with the Frey man. More like a
direwolf gone berserk.”
“Well. You could argue that I AM a direwolf by marriage.”
Jaime sighed.
“Yes, I guess that's true. Now, let's get us some wine. Arbor Gold, if you
please. I've had enough of the colour red today.”
“As long as I don't get flaming pissed alone. But just let me hold my girl for
another minute.”
“Sure. My, she's such a lovely little thing. If mine and Brienne's child is a
boy him and your daughter could make a fine match.”
Sandor cocked his eyebrow.
“You'd marry your son to a sodding Clegane bastard?”
“I'd say she'll be legitimised soon. And if she stays as amiable as she is
she'll have more suitors than you can imagine right now.”
“I don't know. Robert and Eddard were friends, and they tried to make a
marriage alliance. It would have never led to a good ending.”
Being reminded of Joffrey's betrothal Jaime went rigid, and his own pain crept
back into his eyes.
“Well, I guess we'll have to wait and see” he murmured. “There will still run a
lot of water down the Trident, until that topic will have to be addressed
again. Now. Let's go get us some wine.”
“Aye. Let's go.”
 
 
In the morning, he was woken by an urgent hammering on his chamber door that
caused his head to pound painfully.
“Heck, what...?” he swore and sat up on his bed.
Next to him someone stirred. And it was not his Little Bird.
“Kingslayer?” he croaked.
Aye. It was the cocky, golden-haired Lannister, who had fallen asleep where he
had fallen backwards in his booze, legs hanging down.
The Lion groaned: “Fuck, that was no comfortable position to pass out in.”
“Lord Clegane?” a voice called from outside. It sounded as if it belonged to a
servant. An upset servant.
“What?” the Hound bellowed back.
“The Lady Brienne asks you to come to the Lannister wing.”
On hearing this, Jaime pouted: “What, she asks YOU to come and not me? I guess
I have to teach her some manners about how to treat a husband.”
Sandor, however, didn't listen. Tousled and reeking of alcohol as he was he
stormed out of his room.
Little Bird. LITTLE BIRD!
***** Chapter 33 *****
Mere minutes later, he had arrived at Lady Brienne's room. The tall woman had
already been waiting for his heavy steps and opened before Sandor could knock.
She greeted him with a look that was – if possible at all – even more worried
than the evening before and the words: “It's like last time, I think.”
“What do you mean, woman? Speak clearly!” the Hound seethed and dashed past her
into the room. Sansa was lying on the bed. Asleep. Or so it looked.
Behind him Lady Brienne spoke: “She doesn't wake up. Like last time when she
was unconscious for some days.”
“WHAT!?”
“Maester Creylen has just confirmed it. Didn't you meet him in the corridor?”
“Corridor? What corridor? WHAT DO I CARE!? My arse! ”
With few long strides he was at the bed.
“Sansa! Sansa, my love! Wake up! Please wake up!”
He patted he cheek. Patted it more heavily. Shook her by the shoulder.
Nothing. She lay like dead. Even her breathing was shallow.
The Hound puffed heavily, fists clenching and unclenching. His head was
swimming. Oh pleasepleaseplease, not again, NOT AGAIN!
For a minute or an eternity – whatever! – he couldn't say a word.
Then, he grated out: “We'll take her to our room.”
“Do you think it's wise to move her?”
“Fuck, what do I know? But I can't leave her here. She belongs to my side.
Jaime, who had arrived, too, was shocked by the recent developments as well and
offered his help at once.
“Slayer, with your one paw you're the least adequate person to carry a
stretcher.”
“I know, Hound – but I'll get you one now in the first place.”
“Do that.”
 
 
An hour later, Sansa was in their own room, and she was neither better nor
worse – and then, Lord... King Eddard arrived in his chair-on-wheels. So he had
been told about the recent happenings and developments. When he saw his
daughter in such a deplorable state, his eyes filled with grief, and with a
trembling hand he stroked Sansa's cheek lightly.
“Oh my girl... oh my girl...!” he kept murmuring, and more than one tear was
streaming down his cheeks.
Sandor felt really flaming bad for it, but the fact that he wasn't alone with
his sorrow this time... ah... it didn't truly alleviate the pain, but it
felt... kind of helpful that he wasn't alone with it.
“Sansa was like this when you fell out of the window and you were unconscious.
She didn't wake up for days. I only hope that there is no second Stark who has
fallen out of a window.”
His father-in-law looked up at him, and there was nothing short of utter horror
in his dark eyes.
“I wouldn't survive a shock like that!”
“Then it's better something different that keeps her from waking up – and that
we'll better get her back soon.”
“I'll pray for it to the Old Gods with all my might.”
“Whatever you see fit.”
 
 
About four to five hours later a raven arrived. It was a raven with a message.
And the beast had three eyes. It landed directly on a bedpost in front of
Sandor and cawed. With a feeling of premonition Sandor thought that even he
himself had a nicer voice than this black-winged animal.
 
 
The Hound unfolded the little parchment and read:
“What is this madnesse? What has transpyred? Ðe Olde Gods have fallen silent –
ðere are only ðe voice of One Tree and one furðer voice left – ðe latter one
where it should never be. Bring your wyfe out in ðe snow, I beseech you, lest
she not be lost. Coldehands.”
 
 
Sandor went cold to the bone. What the fuck was going on here!? And he
certainly didn't feel inclined in the least to meet the undead man – and even
far less to present Sansa to him in her state!
He read the message again. Hesitated. That writing style – he had read it
before, but where?
And then, he remembered: Oh yes, it was the book with the northern stories he
had given to Sansa as a present! Whoa. If Coldhands wrote like that he had to
be damn old. Centuries!
A moment later, his heart clenched.
“... ðere is only ...one furðer voice left... where it should never be ....
lest she not be lost.”
FUCK! OH SEVEN HELLS OF SHIT!
This damned Coldhands obviously had a clue what had happened to the Little Bird
– and it affected him. And he thought he could probably help.
 
 
Sandor stormed out of the room. A short while later, he had sought out the
stable-boy, who was so very afraid of the Hound, and who had been on the way to
the blasted Imp's wedding.
“YOU! Harness a strong horse to a cart. And then, I need you in the castle to
help me carry someone.”
“But M'lord! The marriage...”, the lad stammered.
“For fucks sake! No-one will miss a simple stable-boy – and just in case, you
can choose: should I put you to death now or Lord Tywin later? WELL?”
The young man swallowed and dashed back into the stables.
When the horse and the cart were in the yard, it was basically deserted,
because the others had all gone to the wedding. Sandor couldn't care less. He
grabbed his helper's arm, entered Maester Creylen's healing quarters – which
were deserted, too – took a stretcher and made for his room.
“But... m'lord... you can't take...”
“FUCK THE SEVEN! You won't grow old with your loose mouth around high-born!
What do you think? That I want to steal all those things?”
“No, m'lord.”
Panting, they both arrived at Sansa's side. Sandor laid her on the stretcher as
gently as he could and wrapped her in warm blankets and furs. Then, they
carried her down, down, to the cart where they positioned her on the cargo
aread.
The Hound could see the big question marks in the lad's eyes, but he kept
quiet. Better for him. He himself was in a murderous mood.
He jumped onto the cart's trestle, took the reins and wanted to start.
Suddenly, Lady, who had left their room a while earlier, came out of the
stables, Moonlight behind her.
“Want to warm your mistress? Then up with you onto the cart”, Sandor rasped and
gestured. The huge direwolf seemed to understand, jumped and nestled against
Sansa.
The stable-boy gaped, but still didn't make a sound. Sandor chirruped, and off
they went. It had started to snow heavily again – so heavily indeed that they
were barely able to see anything.
At the entrance gate they were stopped by a sentry.
“What do you think where you're going? It's Lord Tyrion's wedding today! And
what's that? But... you can't... the snow... she's unconscious!”
The Hound sounded like the embodiment of the Stranger when he answered: “First:
The Imp doesn't give a shit, if I attend his wedding. Second: Either we come
back, and we're both awake, or we both won't come back. And YOU will not stop
me. You might have heard what happened to this Frey man the other day.”
The sentry's face became ashen, and he mumbled: “Ah, well, you want OUT, not
IN, so you won't pose a threat to anyone here now, I guess.”
“Intelligent man.”
Sandor chirruped again, and they left Casterly Rock.
 
 
After half an hour, he got nervous. No sign of this damned Coldhands so far.
Hopefully, he'd meet them soon. This weather was really not good for an ill,
delicate woman such as the Little Bird.
More minutes went by. And more still.
Finally, finally, he could make out the shape of the sodding elk rider.
Coldhands approached them. His eyes were hard as flint.
“I'm relieved you brought her here. What on earth happened?”
“Can you help her?”
“You tell me first, that will make an answer easier for me.”
So Sandor started with what had happened at the end of the coronation feast.
A waft of the undead man's stale smell hit him, and he felt uncomfortable. Lady
seemed to think the same, for she bared her teeth. But then, she stopped dead,
clearly confused, and whined, looking from Sansa to Coldhands.
The elk rider rumbled: “That makes things clearer to me. You know your wife is
a warg.”
It wasn't meant as a question, but still, Sandor nodded and rasped: “Aye, of
course.”
“Obviously, after that sexual assault and the excessive brutality she witnessed
from you right after she was so shocked that she didn't know how to process it
and decided she rather wanted to be dead, so she didn't have to feel mortal
pain and grief any longer.”
“What. Do. You. Mean?”
“Your wife has warged into me.”
 
 
There were statements that could not really be commented on in a productive or
helpful way. This was certainly one. Sandor was sitting there on the cart, in
the middle of a snow storm, an undead rider on an elk in front of him, his
unconscious wife with her direwolf behind him and he could only goggle. His
brain refused to process the new pieces of information for a long moment while
Coldhands was simply waiting for a reaction. After a minute or so he managed to
utter the tiniest “shit”.
“Lord Clegane, we should try to send your wife back. She couldn't return
herself, because my existence is... bound by some intense magic. What is worse
– so far, she has never even TRIED to return.”
Sandor felt so very cold – and it had nothing to do with the weather.
“If need be – SHOVE her back! Do whatever you think possible to give me my
Little Bird back.”
Coldhands sat still for another moment. Then, he dismounted his elk, approached
the cart and clambered onto the loading area. At once, Lady growled and snarled
– only to look confused afterwards and to whine questioningly again. Seemingly
she somehow sensed that a part of Sansa was hidden in the heap of dead flesh in
front of her.
Coldhands knelt and took the Little Bird's wing. Everything revolted within
Sandor. He didn't mind to touch a dead body – as long as that body was REALLY
dead. But this here... he felt sick. And yet, he didn't make an objection. The
thought of her conscience WITHIN this man was far worse.
Everything was really quiet now. Only the elk and the horse in front of the
cart made little movements while waiting. No lightening, no magical sparks...
whatever was going on... it was unspectacular. Sandor was shaking from inner
nervousness.
After about ten minutes, Coldhands suddenly stood up, got off the cart and
said: “She's back where she belongs. It was very difficult, though. But now, I
can finally hear the Old Gods again as well, so it was good for both of us.
What I could not alleviate was the shock that she was suffering from when she
came to me. So treat her with caution. And I don't know what her stay inside of
me has done to her. This has never happened before. For good reason. Let us
hope that any kind of effect is either not negative or not permanent.”
“Aye.”
Coldhands mounted his elk again.
“It was difficult to let her go.”
Sandor's intestines were broiling and knotted on hearing that.
“Pah! On my behalf you can go bugger yourself with a hot poker. Better take
your bleeding elk and be off!”
The undead man looked at him, head slightly askew, but it was no gesture of
submission. Then, he mounted. Nothing showed whether Colhands was affronted or
not.
When he took up the reins he just said: “Your daughter, she –”
“WHAT ABOUT MY BABY GIRL!?” the Hound cut in, bellowing.
“She will be your daughter soon.”
“What the fuck does that mean!?”
“See to your wife. She is waking up.”
“What?!”
And it was true. Sansa was stirring.
“Oh, my Little Bird!” he whispered and moved over to her side. So did Lady, who
had kept her distance from the undead man. In the background, Sandor noticed
the elk trot off, but he didn't care about the animal and its rider any longer,
his vocus having shifted to his wife instantly.
And then, Sansa opened her eyes. Sandor's scarred face was just about to light
up... when he noticed that something was wrong. His wife's Tully blue eyes were
strangely expressionless.
“Sansa?” he whispered, fearing she might not recognize him.
She looked at him and said flatly: “It's cold, Sandor. We should return to the
Rock.”
The Hound's heart beat like a drum. His Little Bird did recognize him – but she
looked at him with... indifference. There was no warmth or love in her eyes.
Sandor simply couldn't believe it, tried to take her hand – but she actually
flinched back from him! And from Lady as well. He looked at his wife in shock.
Then, Sansa stated callously: “What have you expected? That man tried to rape
me. I watched you go mad and butcher him to hash like a berserk, with utter
bloodlust in your eyes. It all made me want to leave, made me want to not feel
pain and grief again. And there was an acceptable vessel that could ensure
these things. I've felt magic living death. I could hear the Old Gods while
Coldhands couldn't. In that respect, I was his moon that eclipsed the sun for a
while. Do you think I'd open my eyes and be a sweet little forest lass? Just
take me back to the Rock, will you?”
Sandor's heart cracked. What a misery! He had been so happy with Sansa for a
while. Of course, it hadn't been meant to be. Not for an ugly, brutish Dog like
him. An ugly, brutish Dog that had learned to love so deeply...
“Aye. I'll take you back”, he croaked in a low voice.
And then, he thought that surely not even Lord Eddard with his broken back
could have felt as much pain as he was feeling now. Lady whined as if she was
suffering, too. Then, the direwolf jumped off the cart and dashed back to the
fortress. She obviously wanted to be consoled by Moonlight as soon as possible.
But there was no consolation for Sandor.
 
 
They returned in silence. What should Sandor have said after all? When they
passed the sentry the man stared at Sansa, paralysed. Luckily for him, he
didn't ask a single question. In the snowy main yard, they could hear music
from the feast. Everywhere in the castle people high and low were celebrating.
Not because they liked the Imp or his new kraken wife, no. Just for the sake of
celebrating.
Sandor, however, didn't care. The thrice-damned stable-boy wasn't there, and
neither was any other servant; they were all inside. So he had no choice, but
to take care of the cart and horse himself, and he told Sansa so, not knowing
how to put his words.
The Little Bird nodded and said: “My legs are still a little wobbly, but I'll
manage to reach our room. If I meet a servant I'll have him or her pull me a
bath. I'm filthy.”
“Aye, do something for yourself.”
Sansa turned around matter-of-factly and walked away with slow, careful steps.
Lady and Moonlight came out of the stable and wanted to accompany her, but when
his wife didn't even spare them a look Lady lagged behind, then sat down, and
Moonlight whined. They were both at a loss. Just like the Hound.
He was standing next to the cart, and as soon as he was alone in the snow, he
pressed his forehead against the cold wood and thrashed his fists against it.
That earned him a splinter, but it didn't matter.
 
 
Half an hour later, he returned to their room. Sansa had indeed been lucky:
though he didn't see a servant right then and there, there was a tub with hot
water, and the Little Bird was sitting in it and scrubbing her skin like mad.
She didn't even look up to meet his eyes.
Sandor still didn't know what to say. He had been treated with contempt,
hatred, fear... he had even got to know some glimpses of respect lately, and
Sansa had given him love. What he had never experienced, however, was
indifference and he flaming didn't know how to cope with it.
“Let me hand you the towel”, he said when the Little Bird looked around,
because she wanted to leave the tub.
“If you don't look at me”, Sansa retorted.
“What!?” Sandor rasped. “Sansa, you're exaggerating; I've known your body for
months now. There is nothing I don't know, and I love you, and you're my wife,
for fuck's sake!”
“I don't want you to –”
“HERE! Take your thrice-damned towel. I'm out in the hall. I still have to give
the blasted Imp our present.”
Sandor threw the cloth at her, wheeled around and strode off to the
festivities. No war campaign had ever left him so desperate.
Down in the hall he met Lord... King Stark. Swiftly, he walked over to him and
told his father-in-law what had happened. The expression on the elder man's
face shifted from hopeful to pallid.
“She did not even let Lady near her?”
“No.”
“By the Old Gods, that's a bad sign.”
“No need to tell me. And now... if you let me... I still have a duty to perform
and to give Tyrion his present.”
With those words he made his way a few seats towards the middle of the dais,
where the Imp and Lady Asha resided. They were just sharing a goblet of white
wine and conversing about something. No shy bride for the Halfman, which was
certainly the best for the woman in question. Ah, then again, what did it
matter to the Hound?
Tyrion noticed him, started to grin and was just about to start a smug “D...”
when he noticed Sandor's face, and whatever he saw there caused to swallow the
acid comment he had meant to say.
The Hound bowed and rasped: “Lord Tyrion, Lady Asha, since it was impossible
earlier on I'll congratulate now. May your marriage be a happy one. And here –
a present from House Clegane.”
He handed the two a bottle of Clegane Mead and an ornate book of the history of
shipbuilding and navigation. Asha smiled curtly, but rather sincerely, and
thanked him politely enough.
Suddenly, the Imp grabbed his hand and he murmured: “Is your wife worse?”
Instead of answering, Sandor shot him a steely glance that said “yes” clearly
enough.
By then, they had King Tywin's attention, because on this day, he was forced to
sit next to his unloved son.
So Sandor was forced to say: “She's woken up, but she's not in a good
condition.”
At that, Tyrion interrupted: “Ah – seemingly well enough to attend the feast.”
“WHAT?”
Sandor spun around – and true enough: there she was. Sansa was wearing a normal
gown with front laces, so she had been able to dress herself, and her festive
gown was torn anyway. Her still damp hair was fashioned in a braid that had
been curled into a tight bun, covered by a hairnet. Just then, others, who had
heard of her sad fate, saw her, too, and rushed towards her.
Sodding Edmure was just addressing her and trying to take her arm, when she
flinched back and interrupted him: “Don't.”
Edmure stopped dead in his tracks, and so did the others.
King Eddard rolled forward and asked: “Oh my girl, how are you?”
Sansa curtsied in front of him like some wife of a bannerman and uttered
flatly: “I'm fine, Father. I'd just like to... keep my distance. If it pleases
Your Grace.”
The King of the North had never been addressed so formally by any of his
children, and it left him open-mouthed for a moment, until he was able to
answer: “Yes. I understand. But... it's good to see you awake again.”
Sansa just bowed her head, accepting the statement without being joyful
herself.
At that moment, King Tywin had seemingly had enough, rose and ordered quietly:
“Clegane – you and your wife: follow me into the Council Room.”
And off the Old Lion walked.
Therefore, Sandor approached his wife and told her to come along. She showed no
outward reaction, but when he stalked away, she followed him.
A moment later, they were alone with King Tywin in the Council Room. Sandor
bowed again, and Sansa curtsied. When the Hound flicked his eyes from the
Lannister patriarch to his wife he shivered, since for the first time ever
Tywin's eyes looked warmer than Sansa's.
“Lady Clegane, I heard you were attacked and unconscious afterwards.”
“That is true, Your Grace. I only woke up less than two hours ago.”
“Then, you have recovered surprisingly swiftly.”
Sansa was silent – there seemed to be no need for her to answer that statement,
which irritated the Lion. This was not the chirping young woman he was
accustomed to. He looked at her carefully and now seemed to grasp that her
affliction was rather a mental than a physical one.
“Did you have any... visions while you were unconscious?”
“I had a direct connection to the Old Gods.”
Green-golden feline eyes widened slightly, and it was obvious that the Lion
King was considering whether Sansa had gone cuckoo.
“And did they tell you anything... important?”
“You sired twins yesterday evening – on the evening of your coronation.”
Both men present froze. King Tywin blinked.
“WHAT!?”
“The tendency for twins is in your blood. Like other things. You will have a
son and a daughter. But unlike your first twins.”
Sandor could hear Coldhands' voice clearly in Sansa's words, and he started to
shiver.
Steely, the Old Lion asked: “Unlike in which way? Will they have dark hair?”
Sansa was still emotionless. Your daughter will have your fighting abilities
and your mental fierceness and strength. Your looks as well. But Lady Lollys'
gestures. Your son will inherit your Lady Wife's eyes and hair, but your
intelligence and tactical thinking.”
Both men relaxed a little, and Lord Tywin said: “With Lady Brienne I already
have one warrior woman too many in my fortress, but that can be managed. What
you say about a possible son – it would make him an adequate heir.”
And then, Sansa blasted everything to pieces.
“Your Grace – he'll have Lord Tyrion's size and a preference for men. But your
wife will likely survive the birth and give you more children.”
King Tywin's features became even sharper than usual, his face a little pallid
at first, then it reddened quickly. His chest started to heave, his lip curled
upward, showing his teeth and his fists started to clench.
Next, he strutted to the door, wrenched it open violently and called: “Guards!
Take these two into custody. And put them into different cells.”
***** Chapter 34 *****
They were put into adjoining rooms – or rather cages, because they weren't so
much more; there were only walls at the backside. The two of them were deep
down in the entrails of the Rock, separated by iron bars, but still able to
talk to each other. Sandor threw himself on a pallet. The stench here was as
horrible as it had been when he had tortured Ser Ilyn. The stones were grimy
and sweating and cold, the straw dirty, and there were rats. Every bloody inch
a 'proper' prison, just like always.
After a long while of silence the Hound rasped: “Is this what you wanted,
Sansa?”
His Little Wife was lying on her pallet now, too, her hands behind her head and
calm on the outside.
“He asked, I answered.”
Sandor exploded: “Fuck, did you have to tell him the nasty details? We can be
happy that our heads are still on our shoulders! Though this may still change
later on! Damn. I ask you - is this what Coldhands meant with us perishing at
the same time?”
“Who knows.”
Sansa sounded as if she didn't care one whit. Sandor wept inwardly. When he
looked up again, the Little Bird was fast asleep.
 
 
Time oozed by. Day after day. At least that was what the Hound guessed. Here in
the dark, one could only estimate the course of time by the meals they were
served. He himself was nearly going rabid, from lack of training, from being
shown the cold shoulder by his beloved wife... and especially because he was
thinking of Sondra-Jayne. Was their little tot well? Did Sandrina still take
care of her?
Sansa, however, was strangely calm and even... relaxed down here. As if this
bleak, deadly atmosphere soothed her. One night, she was bitten by a rat, but
instead of fainting like a proper lady, she only uttered a sound of pain, took
off her shoe and thrashed the hard heel forcefully onto the rat's backbone. The
rodent squeaked and died. Sansa took the animal by the tail and flung it out of
her cell. She was so changed.
And she didn't talk to the Hound, unless he asked something, which happened
rarely enough, because he had no words left in him – only grief. Finally, the
Little Bird got her moon blood again. Sandor felt sick: if everything had gone
differently they would have been able to make love again now. These days,
however, he would have been contented with the faintest smile.
From what he could notice Sansa didn't warg at all during this time, and one
day, she confirmed his impression. She did have nightmares, though. When she
was asleep she started to thrash and to whine. Even if it was a negative sign,
it was yet the first one that showed him she was somehow still alive, human and
able to feel.
One day, he remembered something that had been buried in his mind because of
all the other impressive things that had happened.
“Sansa, when you were with... with Coldhands... did you find out who he is, or
how old?”
“His memory of his first life has been erased, but he remembers many a winter
from his second one.”
“I got a message from him that was written an a very old-fashioned language. Do
you think he may have died centuries ago?”
“I'm sure of that. He remembers news of Aegon the Conqueror and the rise of
Ancient Valyria, and he had been long dead then.”
Sandor's jaw dropped.
“But then... he must be far more than 5300 years old!”
“Obviously.”
That was something that Sandor had to digest.
“Did you get to know any details about his... second life?”
“No. I was too consumed with listening to the Old Gods to pay him any
attention.”
“The Old Gods? What the fuck do you want to tell me? That you found proof they
exist?”
“They sound like the rustling of leaves – only it's a language. But I was never
meant to hear them. It was... too much for a living soul, I think. I only
managed to pick up few things. Nothing about us; it was a blind angle.”
It wasn't much, but at least they were talking again, so Sandor wanted to know:
“What did you learn then? Apart from the thing with Lord Tywin's offspring?”
“Jaime's and Brienne's child will be a son, and he'll be as good-looking as his
father, as intelligent as Tyrion or Tywin, and as friendly and upright as Lady
Brienne.”
Sandor paused for a moment.
Then, he growled: “Sounds too good to be true, if you ask me. Especially since
he'll be a Lannister. But be that as it may. While you were unconscious I had a
talk with the Kingslayer. It was hypothetical, just to distract me from your...
state, and we talked about the possibility of marrying his son and Sondra-
Jayne.”
“Don't harvest the honey that hasn't been collected yet.”
“Could be a Clegane saying.”
Sansa fell silent for a moment.
Then, she said: “I'm so tired again. Let me sleep for a while, Sandor.”
“Can I give you a good-night-kiss?”
He simply felt the need to ask. Being a man who hadn't known any tenderness
before Sansa he was starving now.
Sansa looked at his twitching mouth, or at least as much as she could see in
the sparse light of their cells. There were only two torches burning in this
corridor.
The Little Bird shook her head slightly. It was still too much for her – but
for the first time since she had awoken again she looked as if she was sorry.
As if she was missing him at least a tiny little bit.
 
 
Finally, their stocky, grubby jailer arrived. He normally only used to appear
with two helpers, who brought them food or carried the buckets with their
faesces away. This day, however, he was alone, and he was playing with his ring
of keys.
“Them high-born are always lucky”, he mumbled to himself.
Then, he opened their cells and said: “Ya can go, m'lord, m'lady.”
No more, no less.
Sandor was already up, walked over to Sansa and rasped: “Well, Little Bird –
stand up and follow me, or I'll have to drag you by the arm.”
So his wife rose, lacking the enthusiasm to be set free one would normally
expect. Together, they walked to their room. They hadn't been told what their
status was, didn't know what had happened in the meantime – nothing. So the
only thing they could do was to wash themselves first. The servant Sandor
stopped to get some bathing water wrinkled his nose and looked at them in
disgust – but he did as he was bid.
Their room was untouched and had turned a little dusty. When the servant
returned with the first two pails of hot water, Sandor snarled: “How many days
have passed since Lord Tyrion's wedding?”
That earned him another strange look from the servant.
“About a moon, m'lord.”
The Hound sucked in the air sharply. So they both had been kept smouldering in
the dungeons for quite a while!
“Anything important that has happened in the meantime?”
“Lord Tyrion and his new wife left the Rock to conquer Pyke with some ships
yesterday.”
“I see.”
“And in two days, King Tywin and his entourage will leave for Riverrun, for the
Council of Kings. King Edmure has already left to prepare everything.”
“What about King Stark?”
“He... is still here. He has been feeling a little out of sorts lately...”
“I'm getting your point.”
Of course, his goodfather was beside himself because of his daughter. Most
likely, it was his influence and doing that they had been released and given
back their freedom. You simply couldn't well keep somebody locked away, if you
intended to form alliances with the respective family. Not even King Tywin.
 
 
Half an hour later, Sansa had washed and rinsed and cleaned herself from all
the grime in her cell. She was thorough, but not enthusiastic, unlike she had
used to be. When she had left the tub Sandor took over. It was strange and
painful not to be able to exchange some pleasantries, even if the bathtub was
too small for a joint bath anyway. From the corner of his eyes he saw his
wife's wonderful body, but he told himself that at the moment it was only a
shell – however beautiful to look at.
As soon as he was presentable himself he announced: “Let's have a look at
Sondra-Jayne.”
“Yes, do that. I'll wait.”
The Hound goggled.
“What!? You don't want to see her? You haven't seen her for a month!”
Sansa shrugged.
“She'll grow strong and be special, didn't Coldhands tell you so? No need to be
overly worried.”
Sandor exploded: “You may not feel much of anything any more, but you do
remember your fucking Tully blood and the Tully words “Family, Duty, Honour”,
don't you? Now, I will coin a nice Clegane motto extra for you: “Strength means
nothing without Loyalty and Devotion”. And I've never bossed you around, but
now – as your husband – I order you to heed those mottoes. You WILL accompany
me to OUR daughter and take care of her as best you can, understood!?”
The Hound knew how horribly his scarred face contorted when he was angry like
that. The dark and red burned flesh and fissures and cracks wrinkled in some
and stretched taut in other places, causing the corner of his mouth to twitch
once more. Sansa looked right through him – not in disgust or fear like so many
others, but because his words didn't affect her much. Incredible as it was. But
at least she DID stand up silently after a moment. Obeyed him indifferently. No
more, no less. For a split second, Sandor thought it might have been be a
mercy, if the Little Bird had died. This here was probably as painful for him
as the matter with undead Joffrey for Jaime – or even worse, considering the
depth of their mutual bond and the physical presence of his wife.
 
 
They walked over to Jayne's room. When they opened the door Sandrina was there
with the baby and just in the process of feeding her. The woman looked up,
first in surprise, then in relief and happiness, and she bowed as well as she
could while sitting and having the girl on her breast.
“Lord and Lady Clegane! You're back! How very good!”
Sandor growled: “Sandrina, it's so very good to see you again – and it eases my
heart to see my daughter so well.”
The wetnurse smiled broadly: “Oh yes, she's always so hungry! Only she has
missed you so very much over the last month. The little one hardly ever smiled.
But all your friends and associates came here to look after her. Especially
King Eddard. And only this morning, he was here with King Tywin for a moment,
can you believe it!? And King Tywin left a document over there, on that chest.
He didn't say much, and I can't read and write, but King Eddard told me later
that it says Jayne has been legitimized as your daughter.”
Sandor's heart started to beat faster. Jayne! His daughter! His daughter in
earnest now! Oh, this was the first bit of good news ever since he had found
that horrible Frey man assaulting Sansa. And the next moment was even better.
Jayne had heard her father's steel-on-stone voice and recognized it. At once,
she stopped drinking, tried to move her head to the side and greeted him with a
joyful: “WAAAWAAAWAA!”
The Hound's face had been deadly serious for over a month, and now, he could
finally start to smile again. He took the baby, cradled her tenderly against
his chest, relished the warmth of her little body that seeped through his tunic
and inhaled her sweet baby scent.
“IWAA! Waawaaaiwaa!”
“Oh my little pup, do you remember your daddy? Yes? And you've missed me? Oh,
but I'm back now. WE're back now. See? Your mummy is here, too!”
Sandor turned Jayne around, so she could see Sansa. At once, the little girl
smiled, flounced and babbled: “Imaaa – wawawawaaaaa!”
Sandrina commented contentedly: “She's talkative, isn't she?”
“Aye.”
And suddenly, Sandor remembered two things: the scene when Sansa had surprised
the Old Lion by putting the tot into his arms and the one when Coldhands had
told him that one day Jayne would turn into some kind of saviour, who could
bring peace to undead creatures like him. Those reminiscences somehow fused,
reacted... and he came up with an idea. With all the Houndish swiftness he
could muster, he pressed Jayne into Sansa's arms, before the Little Bird had a
chance to escape.
His wife flinched, but she didn't let Jayne fall, that was the most important
thing. At once, Jayne cawed happily, managed to grasp a strand of auburn hair
and to pull on it.
“Wi-wai-wa. WAWAWAWA.”
Out of some unknown impulse, Sandor encouraged his daughter: “Not wawawa – say
'ma-mi', say mummy!”
Jayne uttered a baby giggle. Then, she spotted something behind Sansa, just
where the door was opening a little ruggedly; she shook her pudgy arms and her
little body merrily and babbled: “Lalalala – La-wi- La-wi.”
Sandor looked up and saw the direwolf sitting in the doorframe. The animal was
hesitant, even if she had known how to open the door. Her mistress and her
mistress's mate had disappeared for a long while, and the bond between human
and animal had been interrupted. So no running and jumping and whining and
licking at the moment. But something else surprised Sandor, and his eyes turned
big and round, and he breathed: “Jayne! Fuck! She's just said her first word!
She has said “Lady”! Did you hear that, Sansa!? Oh, my sweet girl!”
The Little Bird answered matter-of-factly: “She said 'lala' and 'lawi', not
'Lady'.”
After a tiny pause, she added: “But... I guess... it was close.”
And then, Sansa smiled for the first time after more than a month.
For Sandor, it was as if the sun was rising for the first time after the Long
Night.
 
 
The family reunion became perfect when Lady dared to enter; barely two minutes
later, there was a slight squeak and rattle coming closer, and King Eddard
rolled into the room.
“Sansa! Oh my girl! And Sandor!”
It turned out to be the first time then that the Hound actually hugged another
man. Sansa was still holding Jayne and keeping her distance. But she inclined
her head and said gingerly: “Father.”
Somehow, her behaviour and tone reminded the Hound of a bad sunburn after a few
days: when flakes of old skin were coming off the body and the skin underneath
was still rosy, thin and sensitive.
Instead of pain and grief new love flared up for his wife. Fuck, it was no
wonder that she had been so strange. She was not even fifteen yet, and she had
experienced two sexual attacks already, and it hardly mattered that the first
situation had been a misunderstanding: it had left scars, even if Sansa had
been exceptionally strong, had held herself straight and even managed to
flourish. Those scars had been torn open again, and that was even worse than a
new wound, because it wouldn't – couldn't! – heal so easily. And then the
unbelievable episode with warging into Coldhands. Only a person as strong as a
direwolf would survive that and not wack out completely.
He had to be patient with his Little Bird, just like the blasted elk rider had
said.
So he meant to distract King Eddard and rasped: “Dearest goodfather! Will you
tell us what has happened over the last month? And is it true? Jayne has been
legitimised? I haven't had a single chance to look at the document yet.”
The King of the North confirmed everything. He also told them about Tyrion's
departure and about the preparations to leave the Rock for Riverrun.
 
 
“King Tywin has been strangely... brooding this last month. He didn't want to
release the two of you, no matter how much I pressed him. Neither did he tell
anybody what had happened between the three of you that had led to the
imprisonment.
Today, he met me and told me that Lady Lollys is pregnant, but it isn't
official yet. He rumbled something about extinguishing the foe, not the
messenger, whatever that meant. And then, he suddenly turned and gave the order
to set you free. But he told me that you should be sent to Riverrun and
accompany me to Winterfell. He doesn't want to meet you for a year and a day
from now on at minimum. You are supposed to leave with the entourage in two
days from now, but you are must travel at the very end, so as not to come in
his way.”
Sandor nodded his assent. A bit of a distance towards the Old Lion was the best
thing one could wish for.
But there were still some questions left open.
“So Kevan will rule the Rock in King Tywin's absence I guess? And how did it
come to pass that he legalized Jayne?”
“To your first question: no, Kevan will travel with him and function as his
Hand. Jaime and Brienne will take over here for a while. Brienne is too far
gone in her pregnancy to travel anyway, and Jaime wouldn't be welcome at the
Council of the Kings after his... incest and... high treason. He may have
become sort of a friend to you here, and he may have become a better man, but
others won't care about that.
To your second question: I gave King Tywin Randyll Tarly's Valyrian sword as a
present for his coronation. It had been secured for me after my fall out of the
window and Tarly's execution, and it was taken out of King's Landing alongside
with me. Since I've still got Ice – this Bronn has a good eye for fine swords
and took both of them along with me – I handed the other blade to King Tywin.
He was so deeply contented that he asked me, if I had a wish for a present for
my own coronation. And guess what I asked him to do.”
King Eddard smiled, looked at Jayne, and Sandor was so deeply touched that he
had a lump in his throat.
“I see. And... how will you travel to Riverrun?”
“I could have been given a Lannister cart for the voyage, but Edmure left me a
big one when he departed from here.”
Sandor bethought himself for a moment.
“Erm...”
“What is it, Sandor?”
“Do you think there is some space left in the cart?”
“Probably. I don't have many things that made it up from King's Landing, even
if I was given some clothes here. This chair-on-wheels will take some space,
but otherwise... Why do you ask?”
“Do you think you could transport... a blind dog?”
“You want to take Moonlight with you?”
“I want to take Lady with us – and since she won't go anywhere without her
mate...”
At that, the direwolf yapped loudly, as if to make a point.
King Eddard had to utter one of his rare laughs: “By the Old Gods! I'm
surrounded by lunatics! But, well, I actually like Moonlight, too, and he could
entertain me.”
Lady wagged her tail frantically and licked King Eddard's hands, who patted her
cordially.
 
 
The remaining time until the departure from Casterly Rock was very busy. Sandor
contacted the Kingslayer, who promised to send a messenger to Clegane Keep with
some last instructions for Aengus Cronhold. Jaime also asked him: “Fuck, what
happened so that you were both imprisoned?”
But Sandor only shook his head and didn't say a word.
Apart from that, he rode to Lannisport. He wouldn't be there for more than a
year, so he wanted to prepare “The Seashell” and Lilyrose as best he could –
and he wanted to visit Aralene's grave one last time.
The publican made a sad face when he told her about his prolonged absence.
“Oh, what a pity! But I'll do what I can to keep the business going. I'll miss
you, young Clegane. And Ser Barristan. He's packing, too. And this Bronn has
already left. He went with Lord Tyrion to Pyke.”
“Aye, I'd thought as much. But I don't think you'll be completely lonely.
There's still Caleb Graston, right?”
Lilyrose laughed: “Maybe. A reasonable man. And more than that. I'll try to get
a decent prize for his wine barrels anyway.”
Sandor smiled lightly, but Lilyrose looked at him sharply.
“You're in a grey mood. Problems?”
“Aye.” The Hound sighed. “Private matters. Lily... you are... experienced in
many ways. Have you ever been... assaulted by a man?”
The publican's eyes went round.
“Oh. Well. Why, yes, of course. Sadly, that is normal in my past kind of
business. Drunk customers are often... rough. And some like to be cruel.”
Sandor was reminded of his brother and felt sick. He had never thought much of
those darker aspects of whoring, even if he knew they existed.
Lilyrose looked up at him and muttered: “I've told you before – you were one of
my better customers. And now I can choose a lover freely for the first time in
my life. Thanks to you.”
She put a protective hand on her belly, and Sandor could only think that there
were more strong wolves than he had thought – wolves without a sigil.
“How did you... manage, Lily? I mean, how could you do that and still be strong
for your boy and gentle towards other people?”
The half grizzled woman looked out of a window thoughtfully, swallowed hard and
answered: “First Aralene an' then me boy – they were the ones, who made me
endure. Often, I looked at the water in the harbour and wanted to... didn't
know how to go on. Didn't want to go on. There were days when I chose to go
hungry... and not to serve some men. I simply couldn't go with some o'them, and
I gave me children the last morsels of food I had. After some... encounters I
felt so... dirty. But I never did so with you. And now... you have given me
dignity. You put your trust in me. You gave me room for choices, for my own
business ideas. When you've got the feeling that you can DO something, that
your opinion is important, that you've got some worth, it makes you happy.”
Sandor was touched. He took the publican's soft, round chin and lifted it so
that she had to look up at him.
“Lily, you've never had a maester's schooling, but you're wiser than some of
those buggers. I'll remember your words.”
 
 
In spite of those helpful statements, however, it was still cumbersome to
handle the Little Bird. Fuck, she was still so extremely remote! At night, she
slept lying on her back, with her hands clasped on her chest. Sandor had seen
statues in the crypts of Winterfell that looked like that. No curling into him
like she had been wont to do.
Yet, luckily there were a few signs that she was coming out of her shell. She
let Lady and Moonlight lick her hands, and she swaddled Jayne once and shot her
daughter a small smile while doing it.
When they were saying goodbye to Brienne and the Kingslayer, she managed to say
with a genuine tone: “The Old Gods will watch over you, and your son will unite
the best of both of you.”
The future parents looked at her in surprise, and when Sansa explained she had
seen it in her dreams they both beamed and were full of pride and joy. Brienne
took the Little Bird's wing, and Sansa flinched a little, but didn't withdraw
her hand, while the big, freckled warrior woman stated: “The Gods bless you.
You are something special, and I'm sure you'll have children, too.”
“I already have one, Brienne.”
It was this calm, steadfast statement that told Sandor that his Little Bird
would recover.
 
 
When they finally left Casterly Rock Sandor had very mixed feelings. They had
experienced good as well as bad things there, had met good and bad people. To
his surprise he felt he'd miss the Kingslayer and Brienne – and Clegane Keep
with its inhabitants. That was new to him. At the same time, he was pretty sure
that a change of place would be very helpful for Sansa's recovery.
She was riding next to him, and although she wasn't such a good rider she
didn't want to join the other ladies, who were travelling to Riverrun. She was
sore in the evening, but she didn't complain. Sandor thought that he was
content to have her next to him, and though they didn't talk much, their
silence wasn't as strained as it had been in the cells.
Sandrina had decided to come along to Riverrun and to Winterfell: “I always
wanted to see a little more of the realm than just Lannisport, and I love your
daughter so much.”
“What about... your... husband? Won't he be against it?”
Sandrina blushed.
“I don't have a husband. I was... betrothed, but the man turned out to be a
drunkard, and I wanted to end the betrothal. He then thought I wouldn't do it,
if I got pregnant. So... he made sure... But I still left him. I'd rather have
starved than be at his whim. And now, I can work for you and come with you to
Riverrun.”
Sandor had sighed inwardly on hearing this. Another wolf without a sigil.
 
 
Normally, the trip to Riverrun wasn't supposed to take so very long, even if
they couldn't travel fast with a complete entourage. Neither did people expect
any greater problems since lots of Goldcloaks were caring about their safety.
Still, the blasted voyage wasn't anything but eventful. First of all, the
weather was extremely foul: cold, windy, snowy – in short: freezing to the
bone. King Eddard didn't get along with the travelling conditions well: the
cart was rattling his body and even though a bit of pain had become a constant
consort for him – in spite of his medication – it became much worse. Moonlight
was worth his weight in gold, because he kept the mutilated King of the North
good company.
Only the morning before they arrived in Riverrun the cart became even more
packed than it had already been with Eddard, his chair-on-wheels and the blind
dog. During the night Lady, who had become round and heavy from pregnancy, had
crept under the furs of the cart... and had given birth to two pups! One was
male, the other female. A third one had been dead, but the other two ones were
– though rather small – healthy. They had Moonlight's ears, but a wolf's
muzzle, which looked funny. And simply adorable.
Seven hells, even Sandor himself was enchanted by their tiny whining sounds or
the way the blind little things were sucking on her mother's teats. And Sansa?
She didn't chirp like she would have done before her horrible experience with
the Frey man – but she did smile, and there was a happy sparkle in her eyes. In
the face of so much animal baby sweetness, she was finally realising again what
life was worth.
As one might expect, Lady wasn't overjoyed when Lord Eddard was put onto the
cart, because she wanted to have some peace with her pups, but it couldn't be
helped. It was only when Moonlight – who seemed to have somehow understood that
he had become a father and was proud as fuck – jumped off the cart and was
guided by Sandor with a leash and a steady, careful hand so he wouldn't get
under Stranger's hooves that there was enough space for king, direwolf and
pups.
“Any ideas for some pup names?” Sandor growled with a side glance at his wife.
Sansa's answer was prompt and concise: “Pearl and Winter Sparrow.”
“Could we shorten the second name to Wispa? In the long run, it'll be easier.”
Sansa showed one of her recent tiny smiles.
“Sounds reasonable. And the full name can be reserved for those moments when he
doesn't behave and we have to scold him.”
Then, Sandor shot his Little Bird a wry grin and noticed that her humour was
slowly coming back.
 
 
Finally, they arrived in Riverrun. Sandor and Sansa were given a room far away
from both sodding Edmure as well as King Tywin, but close to Sandrina's little
chamber, and at once the wetnurse offered to take Sondra-Jayne and put the
cradle next to her own cot. The Hound was contented with the arrangement though
he wanted to have their daughter with them at least during the first few nights
or so – at least until the Council of the Kings started and they would be very
occupied. Moonlight, Lady and the pups were put into the stables – and already
an attraction. But Lady made it quite clear that she wouldn't let foreign
people come close to her little ones by showing her fangs and snarling in a way
that could not be misunderstood.
As soon as they had settled down a little bit they heard that the entourage
from Winterfell was expected soon as well. Sansa didn't show much of a
reaction, but when Sandor asked her, if she was looking forward to seeing her
family again she answered: “Yes, I do. I'm only wondering, if Mother and Robb
have changed as much as I have.”
The Hound took his Little Bird's wing, and by now, she was relaxed enough not
to flinch from the touch. After a moment, he took her hand, turned it around
and placed a kiss on her palm. It was the first kiss after all those horrible,
lonely weeks.
“I miss you”, he whispered.
Sansa raised her hand and stroked him over his dark, lank hair lightly. The
caress, tiny as it was, meant everything to him, and he leaned towards her. He
could feel that his wife was still extremely careful – as if she could still
see the Hound freaking out, going rabid and butcher the thrice-damned bugger of
a Frey man. Probably, it WAS what she was seeing... but she was trying to
overcome the past horrors.
Sandor's heart pounded like mad, and he was craving for her touch. Very slowly,
her hand moved further and started to trail his facial scars, the cracks, the
fissures. He didn't feel so much there, and this was probably why she touched
him there.
And sure enough, Sansa murmured: “My soul is a bit like your scorched skin.”
Sandor rasped: “At the moment, perhaps, but not quite. My ugly scars won't
become any better any more. But your soul is still recovering.”
And then, he closed his eyes in pure bliss: the Little Bird was trailing his
lips with her index finger now.
“I... I had forgotten how... soft your lips are. The unburned part”, Sansa
whispered.
Sandor was panting, but didn't move, fearing that the tiniest twitch would
scare her away.
“You want me to kiss you, don't you, Sandor?”
It almost sounded like a little chirp.
The Hound gulped. It was a little like it had been when he had first fallen in
love with her. And he couldn't make a sound. Ah, he knew it only too well: he
had never been an eloquent man.
Now, Sansa cupped his face with both hands... brought her own one closer...
Shit, one level lower his cock was hardening. Of course it was! He hadn't had
her for so long... The fact that she wasn't ready yet simply didn't count for
his member.
Oh.
Oh my.
Sansa rubbed her little nose lightly against his big, hooked one. Fuck, he was
addicted to her caresses! And he had missed her so very, very much.
The Hound's eyes were closed in delight.
“You smell... good, Sandor.”
Sansa sounded as if it was a surprise for her. Fuck, probably it was – for how
could she like his stench after all the travelling? He still needed a hot bath
to clean...
Her divine mouth sank down on his. Slowy. Very shyly. His brain went blank.
It was such a sweet shock, and the memories of her taste and the lust he used
to share with her became so vivid again! It was too much for him. Simple as
that. With a deep, grating groan he released into his breeches. Like a green
boy having his first wet dream. Thrice-damned seven hells!
The next moment, Sansa tore away from him and looked at him with wide eyes full
of confusion.
“Sandor? I remember you always liked my touches, but... you didn't use to be
QUITE so sensitive.”
Sandor huffed and rasped indignantly: “Bleeding stranger, I guess it has
something to do with my involuntary abstinence when it comes to fucking.
Anyway. Now, I have an even better reason for a nice, hot bath bath.”
The romantic moment was over, and the Hound was angry about it – but he was
convinced that there would be more instances like this one, and soon. That was
what he was still telling himself when he was soaking in the hot, steaming
water in the bathtub.
 
 
In the evening, there was a welcome feast, and Gendry had a fair chance of
showing that he had learned how to dance properly. His beloved Myrcella had
been left at the Rock, because other people shouldn't see them together too
soon. Especially not before late King Robert's bastard had been legitimised.
Luckily, Gendry did well enough, and soon the exceptionally serious young lad
was besieged by young women, who wanted to leave an impression on him.
King Tywin only participated in the initial dance. Then, he retreated to the
dais and his place of honour again and resumed conferring with King Eddard.
Lady Lollys was sitting next to her husband. She looked as if she'd have liked
to dance some more, but felt the necessity to restrain herself – either due to
her (still not official) pregnancy or because she didn't want to go on, if the
Old Lion didn't want to. Most likely it was a mixture of both.
Sansa, who had always loved to dance, made no attempt to participate, and when
sodding Edmure asked her she even declined politely. Sandor was relieved he
didn't have to prove his oh so meagre dancing abilities, but it unsettled him:
first, because it was such a strange difference to what he had gotten used to
during feasts, and second, because the last big feast – King Tywin's coronation
– had ended in such a catastrophe.
The fact that here, in Riverrun, there were various flaming Freys around didn't
help him at all to relax. He felt more than one hateful look on his person, but
he was accustomed to that; the only thing that mattered for him was Sansa's
safety.
***** Chapter 35 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Two days later, the party from Winterfell arrived. The Hound was surprised at
how big it was. And there was no Lady Catelyn, which was a surprise. She had
been left behind to rule Winterfell. But there were Robb and his new wife
Wylla, a really young woman who had dyed her hair a weird garish green – which
didn't become her at all, Sandor found, but he kept his mouth shut.
Theon was there, too. Somebody else Sandor didn't feel urged to meet. Back in
Winterfell, he hadn't had much contact with the young man.
Things got much better, when he recognized a short, slender form rushing
towards him and embracing him fiercely.
“Sandor!” Arya laughed, and Sandor was surprised and happy that his wild little
goodsister was so overjoyed to meet him.
“Easy, lass!” he laughed and saw Syrio Forel approach him with a smile.
But before they could exchange any words there was a major pandemonium in the
background with lots of howling and barking and whining: Nymeria and Greywind,
Arya's and Robb's direwolves, had detected Lady and Moonlight and the pups,
Nymeria heavy and round from pregnancy herself, and it was such a happy reunion
that all the people around had to laugh.
Sansa was livelier than Sandor had seen her in a long time. She accepted a hug
from Robb. Arya eyed her curiously, and since the sisters had never been very
close they greeted each other awkwardly, but when the Little Bird showed Arya a
little, genuine smile the latter one relaxed visibly. Towards the Braavosi and
Robb's new wife Sansa was polite, as could be expected of a Lady. Theon fell to
his knees in front of her and praised her loveliness in a buoyant mirth Sandor
had often seen in late fat King Robert. Bah. Shallow, exaggerating bugger. In
the past, the Little Bird would have chirped and laughed at the young man's
pranks – but now, she just smiled lightly and patted him on the shoulders. In a
way, the Hound was contented that Sansa wasn't as air-headed as this blasted
fop.
 
The merry mood didn't last very long, though.
First, Sandor noticed at once that Arya and Syrio didn't seem to be very close.
In fact, they were further apart than the time the Hound had seen them last. So
obviously marriage had not turned out well for them, which was a bloody pity.
Surely, one detail or another would be revealed later on.
Second, even in the yard Sandor had seen that his father-in-law didn't smile
openly, in contrast to what might have been expected by the Elder Wolf. Ah,
true enough, Lady Catelyn hadn't come with the entourage, so he was obviously
disappointed. But somehow the Hound felt that there was still more to it.
When the weary travellers were ushered to their guest rooms King Eddard
ordered: “Robb, Sansa, Sandor – meet me in my suite in one hour!”
 
 
When they gathered one hour later and hat all taken a seat around a table, his
goodfather started without much of an introduction: “Robb – why did you end the
betrothal to Margaery Tyrell and marry Wylla Manderly?”
The young man cleared his throat: “Ah, yes. Well, first of all it looks as if
the Tyrells wanted to assassinate you. We all heard that one of their bannermen
was executed for his murder attempt.”
“Randyll Tarly was seen around, but he wasn't caught red-handed. He was blamed
and punished for the deed, yes, but there is no valid proof he actually did it,
and probably he was just convenient for the one who carried out the murder
attempt in truth.”
Robb shrugged and said: “Well, we don't know, and the Tyrell's are at least
under suspicion. Be that as it may. But there is another reason why I married
Wylla. We have fallen in love with each other when the Manderlys came over for
a visit to Winterfell.”
Eddard looked out of the window, breathed in and out deeply and retorted: “I
can understand you fell in love. Such is the way with young people, and Wylla
is of noble descent. I can also understand that you wanted to be together with
her. BUT. What I cannot understand is that you did this without asking
permission. I'm your king now. Your mother is your queen then. And I know from
her letters via raven that she was against your rash policy. You didn't listen
to her advice. I can only repeat: You didn't ask your king for permission in a
matter that was – and still is! – vital for the realm. By offending the Tyrells
you brought harm to the north. And you did it high-handedly. You also
undermined royal authority.”
Robb was shocked.
“But father, I didn't even know, if you'd survive! Your were fatally ill!”
“Yes, I was, and you didn't wait until the situation was cleared up. You were
as rash as thoughtless.”
The Young Wolf looked positively as if he had been struck by his father.
But King Eddard hadn't quite finished yet.
“Another thing, son. Why is Theon here?”
Robb seemed confused.
“Theon? Well, he's been accompanying me. And next, he wants to travel on to the
west and help secure Pyke with his sister. He wants to overthrow his horrible
uncle as well, and it would be good for Winterfell to have a better
relationship to the Iron Islands through Theon.”
When Sandor heard those words he came to the conclusion that sodding Edmure was
actually competent in comparison to Robb. And King Eddard was clearly thinking
the same.
“Have you lost your mind, son? How can you be so naïve!?”
The Young Wolf recoiled from these words.
“WHAT, Father?”
“So you don't have a clue? Have you forgotten that Theon is our ward? And for
good reasons? Have you forgotten that he must stay in Winterfell? If you let
him return nothing good will come of it! He has been alienated from his people.
They'll only accept him, if he proves he's still Ironborn. And what could that
be? How about raiding the Westerlands? Sandor's home, for example? Ask Sansa
and Sandor – they have already made their experiences with the Kraken men!”
Robb looked mortified.
“Theon would never allow something like that! We are like brothers!”
“Ask Sandor a thing or two about brotherly love, then.”
At that moment, the Hound spoke up: “Aye, I can only support your father. Theon
doesn't really know who he is – he's torn between two cultures. Wherever he
feels he might show his worth he'll try to do so at all costs. And if this is
on the Iron Islands he'll turn his back on Winterfell. He should have been
given a decent task a while ago; that would have given him other ideas than
whoring and drinking.”
Sansa's eyes widened a little, and Robb snarled at Sandor: “How dare you speak
in front of my sister?”
“And you yourself? People who live in glass houses should not throw stones. How
dare you treat your father and king?” the hound bellowed back.
His father-in-law then raised a hand, and everybody fell silent.
“Robb”, King Eddard said gravely, “you always were a good boy. Now, you are a
good warrior I'd say. You'll be a good husband, I hope. And I love you. But you
have behaved hot-headedly twice. You haven't thought things through twice, but
acted on a whim. You haven't listened to good advice twice. You decided things
on your own twice – although it wasn't your right to do so without asking your
king for permission. And you have jeopardised the Kingdom's safety twice. Those
are grave cases we're talking about, mind you. Your decisions lack the wisdom
you need for ruling, for kingship. And even if it pains my heart I cannot want
somebody on the throne who isn't apt for the task. Robert was a good man, a
good friend and a good comrade, but he was a bad king, from all I've learned,
and he didn't bring the realm much good.”
Robb was panting now.
“What. Do. You. Want. To. Say. Father?”
King Eddard looked sad and upset, but he answered nevertheless: “You'll have a
title and a castle – but I fear you won't be king after my death.”
“WHAT? I'M YOUR ELDEST SON! YOUR HEIR!”
King Eddard answered in a flat voice: “Yes, you are my eldest son, and I love
you, as I said. But, no, you're not the heir to the title any longer. Bran will
be my successor – and in case I die before he comes of age, Sansa will be
interim ruler – until Bran is old enough.”
Robb went white like the snow at the Wall.
“What?” he breathed.
King Eddard looked to the side: “I'm truly sorry. You are worthy in many other
ways.”
Sandor was flabbergasted. So the Elder Wolf had learned a thing or two about
politics in King's Landing after all. He himself had already thought that Robb
was too hotheaded to be a sovereign, and the way he had got to know Bran, the
boy would probably really be more apt for the task. It was a hard decision, at
least hard for someone as honourable and empathetic as his father-in-law;
Lord... King Tywin would have done the same – without hesitation and without
any remorse.
Robb spoke up again, deeply hurt: “Father! I've made two decisions you don't
support. You say you love me. But you still push me into gutter! How can you do
that, I ask you? HOW?”
King Eddard sighed: “I love you as your father. As your king I have to decide
what is best for the realm. Sometimes, these two positions don't fit together.”
Robb was getting angry now, so angry that tears were running down his bearded
cheeks.
“Well. FATHER. Let me summarise. Just in case you die tomorrow – Sansa will
rule? But Sansa is a Clegane now! Should a Clegane rule in Winterfell? And
remember – the Hound signed a treaty that made sure he had no claim to our
ancestral seat; and all of a sudden you want to take all the power and fling it
into his scorched face? Do I have to remind you how I found him in Sansa's
room? What he was doing to her? And such a beast of a man should rule, after
taking all the rights from your own son?”
Sandor's muscles tensed, and anger flared up in him. In the past he would have
exploded, bellowed and gutted the lad. The last year, however, had changed him
enough so that he only scowled at him with eyes as hard as flint and kept his
mouth shut.
Roob stooped over his father, and the Hound silently grabbed for his sword –
but then, the unbelievable happened: King Eddard put his hands on his arm rest,
pushed... and with a mighty effort he stood up, until he was more than eye
level with his son.
Everybody's eyes went wide.
“THESE WORDS”, the Elder Wolf panted, “show me that my decision was right. You
don't listen. You didn't understand what I was telling you. And what is even
worse a quality for a king: you are vindictive. Yes, Sandor made a bad mistake
back in Winterfell. But he didn't do it on purpose – and ever since he has
proven his worth again and again. He gave me good counsel in King's Landing,
and he supported Arya. Without him I wouldn't have lasted three moons. When he
returned to Casterly Rock and Clegane Keep he saved Sansa's life more than
once, and just in case YOU have forgotten: You are not only my son, but Sansa
is also my daughter, and she and Clegane love each other.”
King Eddard fell back into his chair-on-wheels.
“PAH! You were still nearly assassinated, and you're crippled for life. Arya?
The Hound supported her? He supported an unworthy, unhappy marriage, that's
what he did! And he saved Sansa's life? If he hadn't disgraced her and taken
her away in the first place she wouldn't have encountered these dangers! And if
you tell me that Sansa loves this scarred brute it doesn't speak for her common
sense or her aptitude to rule in Winterfell.”
“ROBB! You're forgetting yourself!” Eddard boomed.
“Oh yes, am I? So what? Does it still matter? I don't think so. I mean: I can't
fall from grace again, can I? And fuck, I've got a goddamned good reason to be
angry now. Don't you deny me my disappointment and my anger. YOUR GRACE.”
With those words Robb spun on his heels and stormed out of the room.
When he had left there was silence for a moment.
Then, it was Sansa who found her voice again first: “He'll neither relent nor
give up his grudge. What a pity. He was always my favourite brother. And he
wanted so much to do things right.”
She sounded like Coldhands once more.
The Little Bird's father looked crestfallen and took her wing. He needed her
touch now since Catelyn wasn't there. Sansa allowed it.
 
 
An hour later, they returned to their own room, silent and thoughtful. There
was meant to be a welcome feast for the northerners in the evening. Obviously,
the mood would be dimmed a lot. Still, they had to make themselves presentable.
So Sandor growled: “I'm sorry, Little Bird, I truly am. Now. I'll order you a
bath, and we'll see how things are...”
Fffffpsh – and his wife had sailed into his arms with rustling skirts, clung to
him and started to sob wildly. It was the first time that she was weeping since
the attack of the Frey man. And now, she was having a real breakdown. As if all
the dams had broken and everything that had been withheld was spilling out.
For Sandor, it was a real shock to have her warm body flush against his own all
of a sudden. He could only put his arms around her and cradle her to his chest
while making some soothing noises.
At first, she was just weeping, weeping, weeping, and the Hound wondered how
one single person could produce so many tears.
But – just as unforeseeable as her embrace – her mood changed again, and she
became aggressive like a wolf. Suddenly, Sansa clawed at his tunic and ripped
it apart. Next, she crushed her mouth onto his with a wild snarl and all but
bit him, while her fingernails were raking over his back. It was as if she
wanted to give all the roughness back that she had endured during the Weasel
assault.
At first, Sandor was distraught by his Little Wife's behaviour... but then, he
caught fire. He hadn't been close to her for sososo long, and now, his need
soared into the sky like Dragonfire. He only hoped that Sansa wouldn't draw
back at some point.
But no. She didn't. Never before had the Hound seen her so wild. It was
maddening. Before he knew what was going on, she had laid the rest of him bare,
and his clothes were beyond repair.
“Little B...”, he gasped, but couldn't even finish, because Sansa's mouth
ground down on his again. Down – because due to her ferocity he had already
sunk back onto the mattress. His wife didn't bother with putting off her own
clothes. She just mounted him, straddled him and started to gallop in a way
that echoed the despair that had to be swirling within her.
Sansa exploded against him before he could even think of his own climax. Her
muscles contorted, and she howled in ecstasy. Next, more tears leaked down her
cheeks – and after a moment, she started the whole process all over again,
until Sandor peaked himself, and that, in its turn made her come a second time.
Finally, she sank down on him, then slipped to his side. He put his arms around
her, giving her the shelter she suddenly needed, and at long last, she curled
into him like she had done in the past, nuzzled her nose in his chest hair and
behaved as if she wanted to creep into his body.
“I didn't think you'd come back to me like a winter storm”, Sandor murmured
with his steel-on-stone voice.
“Neither did I. But you are as warm as a pool in Winterfell. How could I stay
frozen with you around? And I won't allow neither a Frey nor the Stranger to
put me down any longer. I'll let neither of them win.”
“That's my Little Bird.”
Sandor kissed the crown of her auburn hair. He knew it wasn't completely over
yet, but now they were on the winning side. And then, they were both trembling
from the sheer intensity of what they had experienced.
 
 
They had fallen asleep for a while, and when they woke up again there was no
time for a bath left. In the past, Sansa would have been distressed because of
that, but now, she just shrugged her shoulders. Sandor had put on some new
clothes soon and offered to brush her hair then. In his huge hands the fragile
brush looked ridiculous, but he couldn't care less.
Sansa started to hum, and after a while she said: “I can feel Lady again.”
Sandor cocked an eyebrow.
“What do you mean? Did you warg while having a nap? Is that the reason why you
were so wild in bed?”
“I didn't warg, no. But I feel I could do it again. Before, I didn't feel her
presence. Nor anybody else's. Now, however... And perhaps the fact that I could
feel her wild nature... yes, maybe it did influence my... lust.”
Sansa blushed a little, and Sandor grinned.
“Oh, I didn't mind. Bloody contenting, your wild side.”
The red colour crept down his wife's neck, which was simply charming and made
the Hound grin even more, until his mouth was twitching.
 
 
Later, at the feast, Robb, his wife Wylla and Theon were missing. Of course,
the Riverlanders and the Westermen noticed and asked what had transpired, but
neither King Eddard nor Sansa nor the Hound said a thing. There had been a
raven to Winterfell, declaring the new line of succession; for the moment, this
had to be enough.
At least, Arya and Syrio were present in the great hall. They didn't know what
had happened either and were just as curious as the rest. Notwithstanding, they
ate and drank and had their fill. As long as they didn't have to interact
everything was fine.
As soon as the mood was a little more relaxed because of the alcohol that had
been consumed, King Tywin stood up and brought out a toast on Edmure as their
host. Then, the Old Lion announced that his wife had conceived on their
coronation day and that he hoped that the King of the Riverlands would enjoy a
good future and good prospects, too. There were hoorays from the people around,
and Lady Lollys looked happy. From her reaction Sandor could tell that Tywin
hadn't told her anything of Sansa's prophecy.
Another goblet of wine later, Sandor rose and walked over to sodding Edmure.
“Your Grace?”
The red-haired man looked up, a little surprised.
“Hmmm? Oh, Clegane, what is it?”
“I wanted to ask, if I'm allowed to train in Riverrun's training yard this
time.”
Edmure was already more than a little merry with wine and answered: “Oh, yes,
yes, whatever. Just go ahead.”
“And... Your Grace...”
“What else?”
“I wanted to... thank you for supporting me in front of King Tywin at Casterly
Rock.”
Sandor felt most uncomfortable to utter these words, but he felt they needed to
be said.
The man furrowed his brow and answered: “You defended my niece.”
It was all the answer that was needed to explain things.
Sandor bowed lightly and returned to his wife.
 
 
He had switched from wine to ale and was downing a tankard when – out of the
blue – Sansa murmured into his good ear: “Uncle Edmure has a thing with that
serving maid over there. I saw it one night some months ago.”
Sandor smiled: “Ah, well, he's not married, so he may find his pleasures with a
wench. Though I'd guess he'll have to marry soon to sire an heir.”
“By the way, Coldhands may be as dead a doornail, but he's so full of magic
that he kept on having erections while I was with him. But he has no seed, of
course.”
Sandor had just been in the process of taking a swig of beer, and within an
instant the ale was shooting out of his nose, and he was coughing and panting.
“WHAT!?”
Some people started to look into their direction, and on seeing her husband in
such a state Sansa suddenly giggled like she would have done before the Weasel
assault.
She murmured under her breath: “Well, what do you think? You can't be angry
with him, can you? The poor man has led this kind of existence for centuries on
end, and suddenly, he's got a living soul within him. A female soul at that. Of
course, he had to react. I mean, old traditions die hard, don't they?”
“Fuck the Seven, I wonder, if he died WHILE he was hard. At least, whatever
made short work of his face didn't get as far as his cock.”
And then, the Little Bird blushed madly – and had a laughing fit that was so
bad and unladylike that everyone around them started to stare and to ask, if
everything was all right. While Sandor had been angry with Coldhands first he
now couldn't help but laugh as well. And to see Sansa guffaw so wildly again
gladdened his heart.
 
 
A little later, Sansa whispered to him (still hiccuping): “I think it was rude
to laugh about this.”
“Fuck, I can't think about that now. I can only think that you're better,
Little Bird. – Right, and now, I need to take a piss. All the wine and the beer
– it's washing right through my bowels. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
Sandor got up, swaying lightly, and walked off to the next privy. When he came
out and wanted to return to the feast Arya was coming in his direction – either
for the same purpose, or to meet him. As he found out it was both.
“Dearest sod of a goodsister, does your bladder pain you, too?”
“You're not the only one who's had some ale. And... can you wait for me here?
I... need to talk to somebody.”
“Aye. I thought so. Just take your time, I'll be waiting.”
Some minutes later, Arya was at his side again.
“What is it, little she-wolf?” Sandor asked in a gruff, but affectionate way.
“It's Syrio.”
“Aye, I've guessed as much – it's quite obvious, you see. But you should give
me some helpful details – until now, the whole thing is still too vague for
me.”
Arya pouted, and her voice was angry and disappointed when she answered: “Syrio
doesn't heed my wishes, my needs.”
Now, THAT was surprising.
Sandor looked up and down his sister-in-law and scratched his head in
confusion.
“Erm. I don't really get it. Judging by the trousers you're wearing he doesn't
make you wear dresses. Has he forbidden you to fight or to train?”
Arya shook her head.
“Then what, Arya?”
“He doesn't want to bed me.”
That caused Sandor to choke a second time that evening.
Coughing, he said: “What's the problem? Do you have different... preferences?
Or does he have any... physical problems.”
Arya snorted: “I once caught him using his hands in the stables, so no, that's
no problem – as long as I'm not included in the game. And I don't even know
what his preferences are. Or mine. We've never consummated our marriage.”
Oooops.
“Has he... ever told you why?”
“Sure. Whoa, he's so stubborn and so stupid! He keeps telling me that I'm too
young. He says that if not for Robb's order for a double marriage he'd only
have married me after I had flowered.”
Slowly but surely, Sandor felt the need to strangle Eddard's eldest son.
“Did Syrio sign a contract like me that says that the marriage should only
be... consummated after the flowering?”
“Yes, but I've told him again and again that no-one could prove it, if we did
it or not, because I'm no maiden anyway, and everybody knows about it. But no,
he intends to stay true to his word. In Winterfell, we don't even have the same
bedroom.”
“I see.”
Fuck, what should he say now? He felt reminded of the talk he had had with
Myrcella back in Clegane Keep. And he didn't feel any more confortable about
the topic now.
“Tell me, Arya, do you really want to... touch him intimately?”
“Why... yes, of course! What the hell do you think why I'm so angry? It's
always been so lovely to kiss him, and I know what a candle feels like – so
what's the problem?”
Sandor secretly suspected that Arya certainly felt drawn towards her husband
and that she liked him very much, probably also loved him already – only she
was still so very young that part of what she claimed to be “lust” was her dire
need to be treated respectfully, since her Lady Mother had never accepted her
the way she was, which in its turn led Arya to think she had to be treated like
an adult. And that included to be bedded.
The good question was now: what could he do? How could he help and still keep
the couple's esteem?
Well, Arya was someone who preferred honesty under all circumstances – so even,
if it wasn't common to talk about intimacies he decided to tell his wild little
goodsister about some aspects of his marriage with Sansa. Perhaps the alcohol
was loosening his tongue as well.
“You can keep a secret, Arya, can't you?”
“Of course I can!”
“Then I'll tell you about my own problems, and perhaps you'll understand Syrio
better afterwards, too.”
“You've got problems with Sansa?”
Arya's eyes became big and round.
Sandor then described in general terms how difficult things had been for him at
first. How he had waited, how he had often thought Sansa was too young, how
he'd feared he might harm her, especially after the way they had been joined in
marriage. He also told Arya about the miscarriage of their baby and his bad
conscience, his thoughts that Sansa's age had played a role in it, because she
wasn't fully grown yet.
On hearing this, the little she-wolf became very serious.
“Do you think Syrio might feel and think the same?”
“I'm pretty sure there are some parallels. He's a good man, from everything
I've learned about him. And the way he's behaving... I'd say it's a sign of his
love and respect for you, actually.”
Arya was looking miserable now.
“And I didn't understand him. I suspected some other selfish reasons. I
feared... there might be another woman, even if I never found any sign of it. –
Sandor, thank you so very for about telling me about all these things. I'll
keep them a secret, you can count on me.”
Suddenly, the little hellion of a Stark smiled slightly.
“What, Arya?”
“Sansa's rubbing off on you, you know? You're talking much better now than a
year ago.”
Sandor cuffed her lightly, and Arya laughed.
Then she said: “I'll see, if Syrio and me can sort things out!”
Back was her typical, wild energy, and off she sprinted back to the feast.
The Hound could only shake his had with a grin and returned to the banquet
himself.
Sansa shot him a worried look and said: “Sandor! I was already worried you had
passed out drunk somewhere and a Frey had found you!”
“Nah, Little Bird, I just had a chat with your sister. And a very... successful
one, as it seems.”
“What do you mean?”
They both looked into Arya's and Syrio's direction – and they could see that
the young she-wolf was leaning towards her surprised husband with eyes full of
adoration, as if the little Braavosi was the only man in the world, and
pressing herself so close that she was nearly sitting on his lap.
“Oh”, Sansa marvelled and smiled.
“Sweet little lovebirds, if you asked me”, Sandor chuckled.
“Very sweet indeed”, Sansa answered mischievously and suggested: “Perhaps we
should check on our own lovebird status?”
“Ha! You've already checked it twice today, if I remember correctly. You must
be very insecure about our status then?”
“Very insecure indeed.”
So when the tables were put aside for the musicians and the dancing after the
meal had ended Sansa and Sandor excused themselves and meant to find their very
own rhythm to a very different kind of music...
 
 
The next morning brought a real shock.
Chapter End Notes
     We're heading for the end: the next chapter will be the last one. :-)
***** Chapter 36 *****
Chapter Notes
     Here we go! The last chapter!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Lady Wylla was found wailing in her room with Greywind at her side – but Robb
and Theon had gone. Disappeared.
It turned out that the Young Wolf and his wife had had a major row the day
before, after he had been disinherited by his father. He had wanted to leave
with her, saying he didn't hold a grudge against Bran, but that he couldn't go
back to the north as long as his father was alive. And Wylla had made it quite
clear that she belonged into the north, with her family and with his as well.
So Robb and Theon had gone and left her the direwolf. Robb had said he'd only
come back... once Bran was the ruler in the north.
Wylla knew she should have told the others to hold her husband back, but she
hadn't had the power to react. She hadn't wanted to give him away when she was
convinced he would be punished.
Lord Eddard breathed in shock and disbelief: “He married you, risked so much
for you – and now, he leaves you so easily?”
Wylla shook her green-haired head: “It wasn't easy for him. Don't judge him too
harshly. Please. Another man would have forced me to come along with him.”
Sandor cut in: “Seven hells, another man could have accepted his father's
decision. Just a petty idea of mine.”
King Eddard clenched his hands into fists, then tried to relax, took Wylla's
hand and said: “I'm so sorry about it all. Please, be sure that we'll do
everything to... to take care of you. Robb will be given his own castle, that
was what I promised him yesterday – and you can decide then, if you want to
live there, or in Winterfell... or if you want to go back to White Harbour with
an ample life annuity.”
Wylla was weeping again and shaking her head: “I... I don't know yet. Do I have
to decide... now?”
“Oh no, my dear, take your time.”
 
 
After this dire revelation, Sandor took his wife aside in a corridor and rasped
into her ear: “I'm really of a mind to pursue your stupid brother and to
throttle him. Well, Little Bird, as I can see it you'll have a task in the near
future. I'd wager that this Wylla might need a female friend.”
“Yes, Sandor, you're quite right. Poor Wylla. I simply don't understand it.
Robb was always the big brother I looked up to – but now...”
“See, I was always the unloved baby brother, and I learned at an early age that
life isn't a song. Robb will only learn it now – if he's capable of learning at
all.”
Sansa sighed: “What do you think? Where have they gone?”
“Theon wanted to travel to Pyke. That would be one option, but I think it's
unlikely now. First, soldiers will be sent down that route to catch them,
because it's the most obvious choice. Otherwise... well, the north is closed to
him. The Reach as well after having ended his betrothal with Margaery Tyrell.
Might be the two go into hiding and try to reach Dorne or Pentos. Though the
young man is a northerner and wouldn't like the hot climate. Norvos or Braavos
would be more suitable, or even Ibben. But since the two are not the brightest
cards in the deck they probably don't think about what is suitable for them.”
Sansa let out another heavy sigh.
 
 
Neither Robb nor Theon were found over the next two days. The most spectacular
thing was that Nymeria was having her pups – three wild, dark bundles of fur
that looked very much like Little Rickon's wolf Shaggydog.
“Incestuous little pups – we should give them to the Kingslayer as a present,
that would be suitable”, Sandor commented with a sardonic smile, and Sansa
cuffed his arm for the rude comment.
 
 
Finally, the party from the Vale arrived. The representative, however, was
neither Lysa nor Robert Arryn. The men were led by an impressive elderly
knight, Yohn Royce, or Bronze John, as everyone called him due to his bronze
armour. Sandor remembered him to be a cunning fighter from various tournaments.
The man was certainly a more reasonable, but at the same time more difficult
chief negotiator than half-deranged Lysa or sickly Robert would have been.
Bronze Yohn greeted the others and told them that at this time of the year it
was extremely difficult to travel; they had been hampered by snow and beset by
the wild Mountain Clans living on the borders of the Vale. Apart from that Lady
Lysa still seemed to be mourning for her beloved dead Littlefucker, which only
proved that the bloody hag was more than a little loopy.
 
 
Three days later, the last participants of the Council of Kings arrived, this
time from the Stormlands: Lord Selwyn of Tarth, Brienne's father, also called
“Evenstar” accompanied Shireen Baratheon. The daughter of deceased Stannis
Baratheon was disfigured by Grayscales, the very same illness that had killed
her father, but had spared her own life. Like Lady Lysa Lady Selyse, Stannis's
widow, was still mourning, and hadn't wanted to travel to Riverrun.
Sandor commented into Sansa's ear: “But she didn't mind to send her daughter
away. Now that's what I call motherly feelings. She's always been a sour,
disagreeable crone, and she's turned fanatic with regard to the Faith of the
Seven.”
Sansa whispered back: “Ah, then I guess she wouldn't be amused, if she ever
heard your horse's name.”
Sandor chuckled and thought to himself that he liked this new flippant and very
outspoken side of Sansa; it was very entertaining indeed. Now, you could see
better that his wife and the wild little She-Wolf were from the same kennel.
 
 
Edmure had declared himself king before, but now, at the beginning of the
Council of Kings, the coronation took finally place as well. Sandor switched
his ears and eyes off in the sept like he had done during the Old Lion's
coronation. His thoughts wandered back to his sweet recent experiences with
Sansa – until he got the Little Bird's elbow into his stomach. She had
obviously noticed the bulge in his breeches and realized which kind of absent-
mindedness he was enjoying.
So he emptied his head. With the result that she tackled him with her arm a
second time a bit later.
“You can't snore during the coronation!” she reprimanded him quietly, and he
growled back under his breath: “I wasn't snoring – I was snarling, because the
sodding septon is an arrogant bugger.”
“And I thought you a herald of honesty.”
“What? He IS an arrogant bugger!”
There was an angry “PSST” from behind, and their hushed conversation ended.
Desperate, Sandor thought of a new topic he could ponder about.
Politics. Yes, that was good!
So what could he start with? First, he thought of the Imp and his new Kraken
wife – but that aspect didn't hold much potential. Either they would win
against Euron Greyjoy or not. There wasn't much to discuss about it. The only
important thing was here whether Clegane Keep would be safer in the future or
not.
Next, Sandor's mind drifted to the north, to the Wall. King Eddard had sent a
raven to Jon, telling him the truth about the lad's heritage. The message had
been written in a secret code that was only used between Winterfell and Castle
Black – so even if somebody shot down the raven, or the animal lost the message
for another reason no-one who found the paper could read it. Well, if the
possible finder could read at all. Anyway, so far there had been no reaction
from the Black Crows and no news about the latest development of the dragons.
Seven hells – dragons! The mere idea still gave Sandor the creeps. It would be
interesting to see what the north was still holding in store for them, not
least of all because of the wights and the Others.
What might Coldhands think of other undead creatures? Ah, fuck, he didn't want
to be reminded of him! Only the Hound couldn't avoid his own mental blabbering.
And that caused him once more to consider the man's incredible age. In case
Sansa was right he could come from as far back as the Age of Heroes! If Sandor
ever met him again he'd ask him about his first memories as a wandering corpse.
In any case that was better than asking the undead man about the future.
Suddenly, there was Sansa's delicate little hand at his jerkin, and she was
pulling him down. Oh fuck, he had to kneel at this moment. He had forgotten for
an instance. At long last, mass was coming to an end. What a relief! If the
deputy septon had swung his damned vessel with incense one more time he'd have
slowly strangled him with the metal chain from which the stinking pot was
dangling.
 
 
After that, things were very relaxing for Sandor. First, there was the feast
with good food and drink, and Sansa was tipsy in the end – in contrast to
himself. He didn't want to drink too much alcohol at Riverrun, because there
were quite a few Freys around, a factor which kept him on guard. The Little
Bird, however, was simply charming and chirping animatedly with Lady Wylla, who
had gotten herself a little drunk, too; in the case of the green-haired lass it
was naturally because she was in such a morose mood after she had been left by
her good-for-nothing husband. So it was really no big wonder she felt the need
to get decently pissed.
Arya was around, too, and like Sansa she seemed to have decided to cheer up
Lady Wylla. For that reason she crammed up all the obnoxious anecdotes from
Winterfell, Riverrun and King's Landing that she knew.
Where in the past Sansa would have wrinkled her brow in distaste at these
unladylike tales his Little Bird wasn't offended now. Well, having lived with
him for more than a year and gotten accustomed to his own vulgar language she
wasn't shocked easily any longer.
After a while, Syrio joined them and wanted to know what they were talking
about.
Arya answered nonchalantly: “Oh, nothing important. I'm just telling Lady Wylla
about all the little stories you weren't interested in, for example the one
when last time Hodor was naked in the Godswood and he wanted to piss a triangle
into the snow.”
Syrio put his face into his hand and moaned: “Ah, Clegane! Why could he not
warn this man of the young She-Wolf when he first thought aloud of marrying
her?”
Arya laughed then, grabbed his hand and exclaimed merrily: “Because in that
case the She-Wolf wouldn't be dancing with this man now! And Sandor wanted to
make sure I wouldn't dance with him again so the dirty work would be left to
you!”
The Hound chuckled darkly. It was good to see that the couple's interaction had
improved so much within such a short time.
 
 
Apart from the feast, it was good to see that Sandrina was enjoying herself in
her new surroundings. Sondra-Jayne was fine, too, and Sansa and he spent long
hours with her. When Sansa once approached her uncle with the tot and the
sentence: “Look, this is our daughter!”, and Eddard smiled and wanted to hold
the little one for a moment, too, Edmure had no chance but to like Jayne as
well. Even if she wasn't Sansa's natural child.
The political leaders, however, weren't seen often. Most of the time they were
congregating behind thick walls and closed doors and haggling over the future
of their respective kingsdoms. Since Sandor wasn't one of them he had lots of
time to train with the Blackfish, Syrio and Arya.
Of course, Arya had to roister in the training yard with a vicious grin:
“Sandor is the biggest and strongest one here. At him with joined forces!”
And Sandor hollered back good-naturedly: “Ha! And who's the one with the
loosest tongue?”
 
 
Gendry joined them, too, and Sandor saw to it that the lad trained hard and
well. Even more so when the first major decision was reached: Gendry was
legitimised as late King Robert's son. That was a real achievement for the
former smith, and the Hound could see that all of a sudden, a marriage with
Myrcella was a real option for him. The decision hat not been an easy one,
though. King Tywin had been the one who had proposed the legitimisation, but
the others had been wary statesmen.
King Eddard was hesitant, because he could see no immediate advantage in the
whole affair. It was only when Sansa told him once again after a meeting – she
had already done so at the Rock – that Gendry on an extremely friendly footing
with the Clagenes that stubborn Ned was willing to give in.
Sodding Edmure had been completely against it – but when King Tywin bribed him
with the Crownlands, which would be integrated into the Riverlands, the red-
haired Tully man changed his opinion. Bronze Yohn Royce was sceptical, but
there was no immediate danger for the Vale going along with the decision, so he
grudgingly accepted it.
The greatest resistance came from the Evenstar, which was no surprise. Of
course, Selwyn of Tarth wanted to make sure that Shireen Baratheon would have a
good future – and he didn't want a military Baratheon scramble for the
Dragonstone and the Stormlands. It was King Eddard, who made things easier:
Princess Shireen was probably disfigured by Grayscales, but she wasn't
contagious any longer, and she was a sweet, amiable and intelligent girl – so
he was willing to betroth her to Bran as the future monarch of Winterfell. Even
then, Lord Selwyn wasn't contented yet, because it still left the question open
who would rule in the Stormlands. After all, there was Robert's legitimised
bastard Edric, too, who was residing at Storm's End and was tutored by Lord
Stannis's former Hand Lord Davos Seaworth, the so-called “Onion Knight”.
The next day, however, Lord Selwyn suddenly accepted the legitimisation... even
though he was making an extremely sour face when the negotiators were leaving
the council room late in the evening.
Sandor murmured at his wife when he saw this: “Fuck, King Tywin had the
Evenstar at his balls. Brienne is married to Jaime after all, and a well-placed
threat about her well-being here and there and whooops! does the poor man have
to change his opinion.”
At least, Shireen got along with her half-cousin Gendry very well. They had
both never had many close relatives, so they flocked together, and within a few
days the young lad was more protective of and especially loving towards her
than her own grouchy mother would ever be.
 
 
Gendry also befriended Arya, and they'd often sit and talk about the making and
quality of certain weapons – and all of a sudden, Syrio became very alert. The
young man was so much closer in age to the She-Wolf than him and also handsome
enough. And Arya furthered that jealousy, although in fact she had no unseemly
intentions with the former smith; she just did it to be sure of her husband's
true feelings.
 
 
Sandor could only shake his head over all these big and little games and was
just happy that things were taking a good direction with Sansa. Sondra-Jayne,
the many little direwolf pups, Lady Wylla's need for support and his own sweet
nightly ministrations helped her to recover more and more from the Weasel
assault and the warging shock.
One day, she was even relaxed and carefree enough to participate in a large
snowball fight. Some stable-boy had started it with a friend, and no sooner had
Arya seen what was going on than she was in the midst of it, luring Wylla and
Sansa into the game as well.
When Syrio stepped into the yard and criticised the youngsters: “What in the
name of...” – FMMPP! He got a big snowball right into his face, and Arya was
having the fun of her life.
Then, Syrio looked angry at first, but in the face of so much laughter, he
couldn't stay serious. He scooped up some snow himself, pressed it into a ball
and and announced: “Well then, what do we say to the God of Death?”
“Not today!” Arya called back, Syrio started to chase her to hit her with his
snowball, and the wild little hellion was crawing like a madwoman.
Greywind, who had been extremely depressed ever since his master had left, was
livelier again, ran around and jumped, and even caught some snowballs on the
fly. That, in its turn called Moonlight forward, who had left the furred
mothers and their pups in the stable for once, and even if he didn't understand
the concept of the game, because he couldn't see, he wasn't deterred at all,
and soon the yard resounded from happy yapping and whining.
Sandor grinned at the spectaculum from a safe distance – or at least he thought
it was safe. Until Sansa sneaked up from behind like a shadow cat, jumped,
clung onto his back and shoved a handful of snow into his collar. The Hound
yelled blue murder, and before he could blink twice he was into the game as
well. Fuck, as a child he had never been able to enjoy a snow fight as much as
this one! Neither sadistic Gregor nor the children and young men at Casterly
Rock had been good companions in this game. Which was probably the reason why
he completely lost it now, and when he and the Little Bird returned to their
room, half wet, half frozen, he could only put his arms around her waist, throw
her onto the bed and make wild love to her until they were both warm again.
 
 
The negotiations of the Council wore on. Late at night, King Eddard used to
tell Sandor and the Little Bird what had been talked about, and which decisions
had been made, even if the Elder Wolf was completely exhausted and his back
hurt like mad. Luckily, Maester Creylen had found a good medication for the
poor man at the Rock – otherwise he wouldn't have been able to follow the talks
even half as well.
The Hound found the political contents as boring as complicated, and he was
happy that he himself didn't have to participate in the unnerving Council. The
results, however, affected all of them, so he listened well. Sansa luckily
shared his attitude.
 
 
Until now, one single currency had been used in Westeros: coppers, silver stags
and gold dragons. Now, however, Lord Tywin announced he wanted to have his own
money, also due to the gold mines he possessed. He wanted to have coppers,
silver rocks and gold lions. On hearing that, Bronze Yohn Royce chimed in and
announced that the Vale was so fertile and productive that he wanted to have a
proper currency for his kingdom, too. He suggested a copper, silver and gold
Florin. The Evenstar then teased him that a Florin was a better name for the
Roses from Highgarden, so Bronze Yohn growled angrily and swiftly changed the
currency to Valorin. King Eddard, King Edmure and Lord Selwyn of Tarth decided
to keep the present currency, because it kept financial transactions between
the kingdoms less complicated – plus in the midst of winter they felt they'd
have better things to do than to coin new money.
The question was also, if there should be a free trade zone. At once, Bronze
Yohn Royce blocked the idea and levied an export rate on crops since they had
enough agricultural products in the Vale to sell something to less fertile
regions. The Old Lion picked up the idea for metal and metal goods from the
Westerlands. Once again, only Winterfell, Riverrun and the Stormlands could
reach a decision amongst each other for trade without any tariff walls.
 
 
This was the status when the first raven arrived with devastating news. Pyke
had been conquered. Euron Greyjoy had been killed. His brother Victarion as
well. So far so good – but the price that had been paid for this triumph was
immense. Both Asha and Tyrion had been killed in the most ferocious attack as
well, because blue-lipped, monstrous Euron had used some dark magic in defense.
When King Tywin learned of this his face became ashen.
He murmured an agonized “Joanna...” in memory of his deceased first wife.
Then, his jaw set, his face became as hard as the Rock itself, and he went on
as if he had not just learned he had lost a son, declaring Pyke as “Iron
Colony” and new part of the Westerlands.
To make sure that the Ironborn would never rise again, he ordered to have all
the local women captured and to scatter them across Westeros, if possible to
marry them off, or to send the saltwives, who had been abducted by the Kraken
men from everywhere, back home. The dangerous warriors should be sold off as
slaves to the free cities, the less hostile men – if there were any – could be
sent to the Wall. Only the old and the sick Ironborn were allowed to stay, but
the land and all the weapons would be taken away from them. Apart from that,
Westermen should settle on the Iron Islands and be freed from any kind of taxes
to the Rock for thirty years as a reward for their pioneer work.
No more word of the dead Imp.
Sandor thought of his own beloved Sondra-Jayne and didn't get it – but then
again, he had never arrogated to himself to understand the Lion. Or to even
want to do that.
Sansa was sad when she got to know what had happened, and at once, she wrote a
letter of sympathy to the Kingslayer.
Neither she nor Sandor, however, offered King Tywin their condolences. The Old
Lion noticed this, seemingly because it was an exception from the emotional
cant and bigotry around him, and for the first time since he had sent the
Cleganes to the Rock's dungeons the Lannister patriarch addressed them directly
in a corridor: “No sopping words of consolation for a mourning father?”
Sandor just asked back: “Do you want any, Your Grace?”
King Tywin's feline green-golden eyes were hard as flint.
“I hope you'll expect the same honesty from my side, if it ever comes to that.
And now – off with you!”
 
 
Two days later, another raven arrived – from a completely different direction,
though... and if this was possible the news were even more dramatic than the
ones from Pyke.
The letter was from Storm's End... but it was from nobody who would have been
expected to have written it; neither from Edric Storm nor his guardian Ser
Davos Seaworth, the so-called Onion Knight. No.
It was an official message from a young man. He called himself... Aegon
Targaryen VI, and he had conquered Storm's End! No news about either Edric or
the Onion, but this mysterious Aegon declared himself king of the Seven
Kingdoms! Now, this was simply completely unbelievable. When the Council of
Kings learned these news it was as if someone had dropped a bomb of all-
consuming green Wildfire into their midst. Especially the Evenstar ran rampant
after he had heard what had happened in the Stormlands, his home country.
Sandor was only grateful that he and Sansa were told everything second-hand by
his father-in-law. Although it didn't lessen his shock.
King Eddard asked him when the Hound had started to process the information:
“What do you think about the whole affair?”
It was a little like when they had both resided in King's Landing, and he had
counselled the First Hand of Three. And it didn't feel any better.
Sandor growled: “Our good Targaryen King is rather late in the Game of Thrones,
if you ask me. King's Landing is gone, the Seven Kingdoms are gone. If he wants
to call himself King of Westeros now, he'll have to fight seven wars.
Remarkable as the sack of Storm's End is – he doesn't have the surprise effect
on his side any longer. And something HE doesn't know – he's not the only
Targaryen left. And the second Targaryen would have a better claim, because he
can actually prove his heritage: Jon's got your word, which counts more than
anybody else's, he's got three fearsome dragons... AND he can control them! If
this Aegon really wants to conquer the north he'll get his arse roasted before
he can even say 'dragon shit'.”
King Eddard sighed: “If only I knew what Jon is thinking about his heritage.
That would make things easier. I'm still waiting for a message from the Wall.”
“Speaking of heritage – I wonder what happened to Edric Storm. If he's dead or
alive. Whether he or Gendry... or this blasted Targaryen lad will keep a hold
on the Stormlands.”
Sansa, who had just been listening quietly throughout the conversation,
suddenly spoke up: “Father, please try to make sure that Myrcella Lannister can
still marry Gendry. They're so much in love. See to it that King Tywin doesn't
give him up because of this Aegon.”
Her father then smiled at her: “You've got such a good heart. Well. I'll see
what we can do, in spite of the new political complications. But I cannot make
any promises.”
 
 
As it turned out later that Sansa needn't have feared about Gendry. The Old
Lion still wanted to have a good grip on what was left of the Seven Kingdoms –
and he wanted the former smith as his very special puppet in the Stormlands.
Apart from that, he realized well enough that this alleged Targaryen was a
threat for the Westerlands, too.
So King Tywin's reaction to the changed situation was to knight Gendry, and
with Edric Storm disappeared, the Evenstar was ready to support Gendry as heir
to the Stormlands. It was a sheer political necessity to react in this way, if
they didn't want to accept the Targaryen claim. Then, the Lannister patriarch
announced the betrothal between the Gendry and Myrcella to seal the alliance
with the Stormlands.
It all happened so fast that Sandor's head was spinning. But it left him
grinning inwardly: the oh so proud Old Lion accepted a man as his
granddaughter's fiancé who had come from the most run-down parts of King's
Landing. Well, if that wasn't a humorous twist!
 
 
Some days later, new and less official rumours reached Riverrun. As it looked,
Edric Storm and the Onion Knight had been killed in the attack on Storm's End
by an overeager soldier after the fortress had been taken successfully. Aegon
VI had executed the man, because he didn't want to look like a tyrant and a
slayer of children.
That left King Tywin snorting in the great hall during their mealtime: “Craven,
lying, self-delusional bastard, that's what he is.”
Sandor, who was sitting only a few seats away, could only support this
assessment: “Aye, if he means to fart into Westeros's face he must know it'll
stink. And if he doesn't – he'll sooner or later die of his own methane gases.”
Further down the table, somebody who had overheard Sandor's loud steel-on-stone
voice, let out a demonstrative, booming fart, and there were general sounds of
levity in the hall. Sansa, however, who was slowly redeveloping some sense of
ladylikeness, sighed: “Sandor, was that necessary while we're eating?”
“Just in case you haven't noticed – I'm not Garlan the Gallant from
Highgarden.”
At that, Arya cut in with a nasty smirk: “What? You're not? My world picture is
turned upside-down now.”
A second later, somebody had to clap choking Edmure on his back.
 
 
The next day, the final decisions were made. Gendry and Brienne's father would
travel with King Tywin to Casterly Rock where the marriage between late King
Robert's son and Myrcella should take place a few months later, and where the
revolt of the Stormlands against Aegon VI should be planned with the Old Lion's
help. Apart from that, Lord Selwyn of Tarth also wanted to see his daughter and
to be there when his first grandchild was born. That Brienne, as an only child
and heiress of Tarth, offered the Lannisters another grip on the Stormlands
made the whole thing even more relevant for the Westerlands.
Since Shireen was betrothed to Bran she would travel with Lord Eddard, Ser
Barristan and Wylla to the north. Since the two lasses had befriended Sansa as
well as Arya, Wylla had decided to stay at Winterfell, knowing she'd always be
free to move elsewhere whenever she chose. Moreover, it would be better, if
Greywind could stay with his brothers and sisters.
Sandor was contented enough with these decisions. Sansa would have some
friends, she even got along better with her hellion of a sister now, and he
himself would have good partners for sparring with Syrio Forel and Ser
Barristan.
True enough, his goodfather's feelings were a little mixed.
He admitted to the Hound: “The Manderlys won't be overjoyed with regard to the
recent developments and Robb's disappearance. And then: I can't wait to see Cat
again... but at the same time, I'm afraid of seeing her again. I'm a cripple
now, and she knows that I've lied to her about being Jon's father. Craven that
I am I've sent her a raven so that her first angry shock will hopefully be over
when we arrive.”
“If your wife knows what's good for her she'll forgive you and not roast your
balls. After all, you didn't wench around, in contrast to what she's been
believing. Plus she can still make use of your balls, injury to your back or
no. How long can you stand now? On your feet, I mean.”
Lord Eddard chuckled: “Clegane, you're so vulgar that even a pig's muddy pool
smells sweet in contrast. – Coming back to the feet: probably a minute. Another
one with good support. The maester says that in two or three months I could
probably walk a few steps on crutches, if I keep training. And don't you ask
about the standing qualities of other parts of my body – I'll certainly not
comment on that.”
Sandor rasped his typical laugh: “Aaah, I see. We've got a saying in the west:
'The gourmet enjoys and keeps silent'.”
King Eddard wagged his finger and rumbled: “You! How could I ever let you marry
my little girl?”
“Because you knew I'm the bloody best guardian for her.”
 
 
There was one last feast in Riverrun, and they all enjoyed it. They had trout,
wrapped in bacon, leech soup, potted hare, suckling pig, stuffed with mushrooms
and chestnuts in a brown sauce, onion-and-cheese-pie, finally honeycakes and
nuts in plum sauce, garnished with clotted cream. And, of course, there were
the best drops of everything to wash it all down.
Sandor stroked his belly lazily afterwards and could only think that he'd need
lots of extra training on his way to Winterfell to make up for all the good
food he'd been eating here. And what about some extra lovemaking? After all, it
was sparring with different means, if you looked at it from a certain angle.
Then, the music started. Lady Lollys managed to lure her rigid husband into
some more dances than usual, and even went as far as kissing him square on the
mouth in public – Sandor couldn't even avert his head fast enough and swore
inwardly, because it was one of the last things he wanted to see.
Gendry, who was still developing nicely, danced with Sansa, and so did sodding
Edmure. Even Ser Barristan thawed enough and danced with her. Which was a good
thing, because it meant that the Hound had to dance less, even if he couldn't
escape his Little Bird all evening.
Gendry chose Arya for one song as well, but after only one dance Syrio Forel
took over, jealously guarding his young wife – although it was clear as day
that the little She-Wolf had only eyes for her Braavosi.
Edmure shook his legs several times with a Frey woman, her name was Roslin, if
Sandor remembered correctly, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste over the
weasel family; but seemingly the oaf of a red-haired man couldn't be helped any
longer, judging by the way he was grinning at her like a fool. Well, at least
that woman didn't look too much like the personification of a rodent, and
perhaps the Frey women were better than the men. Who knew.
Bronze Yohn Royce was the next one to approach Sansa for a dance. For once he
wasn't wearing his special armour, but even so, the man looked still
impressive. The Hound could only think that he had been a worthy negotiator for
the Vale, and he was sure that the man still had some surprises up his sleeve
for the future.
The Evenstar had gotten himself rather drunk and disappeared, grinning happily,
with a dark-haired, lush woman in his arms. Well, there was clearly nothing to
be said against a warm bed. Sandor looked at his Little Bird and how she was
flying through the hall and grinned wickedly until the burned corner of his
mouth twitched. He'd make sure later she'd fly elsewhere tonight as well.
 
 
At dawn, Sandor woke up in Sansa's arms groggily. After returning to their room
only after midnight and having had a merry, prolonged and very satisfying
tumble with her he could only have slept three hours at best.
But now, the Little Bird was patting his shoulders impatiently.
“What, wife!?”
“Sandor, I've warged! Twice even! I can do it again!”
Damn.
“Did you?”
“Yes! Gods, it was soooo exciting! I was with Lady – and it's so unbelievable
to have little pups suckling on your... your teats!”
Whoops. Now that was really a new experience that she had not been able to have
with baby Jayne.
“I see. That must have really been impressive. If you want to repeat the
sensation – I can lend you a hand. Or mouth, rather.”
“Sandor, you're obscene! I was talking of little pups!”
The Hound growled: “Fuck, I guess I'm to big a pup, right?”
“You're hopeless.”
Sandor could only grin.
“Aye.”
“But listen to me, I warged a second time – into Robb! I don't know exactly
where he is... but he feels horrible, he's half sick.”
“I can't say I feel really sorry for him. And he might feel better, if he just
came back.”
“He won't. He's still with Theon.”
“The blasted Kraken bugger.”
“I've heard them talk. They want to join something they called 'The Golden
Company'.”
At that, Sandor pricked up his ears. Or at least his unburned ear.
“Fuck the Seven! That's an army of sellswords. Far away. Quite illustrious a
reputation. Considering their options – apart from coming back – probably the
best choice.”
Sansa sighed: “I wish they could see how stupid their behaviour was.”
Sandor growled: “Perhaps they do so already and feel ashamed. All the more
reason to not return and prove themselves first.”
“Like you always say, Sandor: life isn't a song.”
“No.”
Sandor smirked then.
“But I could teach you another one, Little Bird.”
“Dearest Lord Husband of a Hound, your quite insatiable!”
“That's what dogs are known for.”
 
 
The next morning, they parted from those who'd travel to the west and those
who'd stay behind in Riverrun. Arya was especially sad to leave her friend
Gendry and her great-uncle Brynden. Lady, who was realizing what was going on,
ran to the former blacksmith as well, rose, put her paws on his shoulders and
licked him across the face. Then, she did the same with King Tywin, which lead
to some helpless choking snorts behind upheld hands all around.
The Old Lion only wiped his face and commented sourly: “BAH! I'm relieved I
won't see that beast for a year!”
Two extra carts were prepared as well: one for King Eddard, Sondra-Jayne and
the chair-on-wheels, and one for Moonlight, the female direwolves and the pups.
Sodding Edmure had complained that the second cart was a waste of resources,
but when he had found himself face to face with two snarling mother direwolves
he had known when it was time to better shut his mouth.
 
 
The way to the north was cumbersome at best because of the snow, even if the
King's Road was maintained better than any normal street in Westeros.
A week later, Sandor was woken again by his wife after having stopped at an
inn.
“What now, little skinchanger!?” the Hound growled.
“I was... I was... beyond the Wall!”
Within an instant, Sandor was wide awake.
“WHAT!?”
“Jon must have ridden the biggest of the dragons for the first time!”
“You were inside of Jon!?”
“No...”
“Fuck, you don't want to tell me you were inside the dragon!?!?”
“No...”
“Boah, don't make me squeeze each single sentence out of your nose. Tell me
what's going on!”
“If only I knew! I was something... or somebody I've never seen before. Not big
in comparison to Jon, but I could hear much better than usually, and although
it was dark night I could see much better! I had brown skin and dots like a
deer on it, but also red-brown hair, and hands with only three fingers and a
thumb... and claws. But I did have a human, female voice. Very strange.”
Sandor gaped.
“You're not pulling my leg, are you!?”
“No! Absolutely not. I could see Jon land with his dragon, the dark one, and
the... being that I was in showed herself. Jon was as confused as me and asked
her who she was. She said her name was Leaf. And then... you see, I still
clearly remember what Coldhands and his magic felt like, you know. I have to
say that before I go on. Now. Leaf predicted the true rise of the Others was
still to come. That what Jon had experienced so far was only a first glimpse.
And she said she wanted to help Jon. To prepare him better for the future. To
make the Dragon King stronger. And then...”
“What, Little Bird?”
“I don't know how to explain. Jon seemed to know he's half Targaryen, and he
doesn't particularly like it, because he pulled back his lips as if he wanted
to snarl.”
“That was his Stark heritage then.”
“Be that as it may. The important thing is that Jon is very much alive and
healthy, but Leaf started to fill him with the same magic that keeps undead
Coldhands alive. It doesn't make any sense.”
Sandor was too flabbergasted to say something for a moment – but then, his
strategical thinking propelled into action, and he growled: “Oh, I don't think
so. When you're fighting wights and Others an extra portion of magical life
force can come in very handy. And another thing: Coldhands may be undead, but
he's not a brainless monster like an average wight. Perhaps, this magic is an
extra shield here, too. Anyway, if anything Jon and Westeros are prepared
better for the Others now than before. It should give us hope. And soon we'll
be in Winterfell and can help prepare everything and perhaps even visit Jon at
the Wall. What do you think?”
Sandor could feel his wife smile against his skin now in the darkness of their
tent.
“To hear YOU of all talk of hope is the very best sign that we'll prevail
against the Others.”
Sandor snorted.
Then, he gave Sansa a kiss and said: “Do you know what will prevail, Little
Bird, and I'm totally sure about it?”
“What, Sandor?”
“Our love.”
 
– The End –
Chapter End Notes
     So this was the end of my first piece of fanfiction. I'd like to
     write a sequel, set a few years in the future of "And suddenly,
     everything was different". There would be more stuff about the Wall,
     the dragons etc. I haven't started writing so far, because I'm still
     working on another project, but I do already know the final ending.
     For the chapters in between, however, there's still quite a bit to
     fill. So I'll be grateful for any suggestions from your side! If you
     think there's anything especially worthwile to dwell upon - do tell
     me! Maybe, I can pick it up, or it triggers off some other ideas. I
     cannot promise, but one never knows. :-)
     Anyway: thank you for your interest in this story and your feedback
     via kudos and posts!
***** Chapter 37 *****
 
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