Shepherd the Divide

by monakopsis

Summary:

A lowborn girl trying to make her way in King’s Landing catches the attention of Varys, who pulls her into the political games of the Red Keep. There she crosses paths with Sandor Clegane, the Hound, whose violent world collides with hers. Drawn into secrets, shifting loyalties, and dangerous turns of fate, both find themselves bound together in ways neither initially planned nor wanted.

OFC x Sandor Clegane (The Hound). Most of this is pre-written, revising and uploading as I can! Starts relatively canon-compliant, but then goes completely off the rails (once entering Winds of Winter territory, lmao).

Chapter 1: Where I Like To Stand

283 AC

 

PROLOGUE

The little soldier boy’s thirteenth nameday was in just a few short months, and he had yet to make his first kill. He was hungry for it, hungry to sink his rusty blade into something—anything. Time on the road, albeit only a few months, had already hardened him. He felt as though he were soon to be all well and grown, but, still, he had yet to pay the cost of his manhood with blood. Taken in under the wing of an elderly smallfolk soldier, the boy dared not tell the man his true name and to reveal his family's allegiances, privileges, and ties, lest he betray his father’s wishes for him to toughen up as a footsoldier, as his father had done. No, there was no straight and narrow path to knighthood during times of war, though the boy thought them utterly foolish. The stuff of ballads and fantasy paled in comparison to the gritty horrors he’d witnessed of late. Still, he wanted a proper taste.

The soldiers had marched past a small farm in the village of Ovindon, situated between Cornfield and Silverhill, where the mines were of decent quality and the farmland remained arable. The boy’s nose soured and twisted at the smell of the destruction– blood, smoke, and burning flesh were still fresh and ripe in the air. The rolling, green mountainous hills seemed to stretch on forever, just as they did back home. He was keen to march away from the Westerlands, despite them being evidently employed as a sort of preventative defence against the dragon’s forces. 

“Word was that the family here were alleged Targaryen loyalists,” the older soldier laughed. “Refused to give their sons and daughters up to the last wave of knights and Lannister bannermen who passed through.”

“Daughters? Whadya mean?” the boy asked, his accent thick and rolling.

The older man cast a sharp, dark look at the deformed little foot soldier. “You’re still too young for all that, boy. Don’t concern you.” Despite treating him like a little kid, the footsoldier had grown quite fond of the old man, once a Westerlandic miner, who had taken him under his wing. He reminded him of his own gruff, dark-haired, and bearded father, in some sort of way.

The smallfolk soldier hardly seemed to mind all his scarring, like other people. Though the dogs his family raised back home didn’t see his face like others did, he had no choice but to leave them behind. It had broken his heart, and he had even shed a single tear, met with a swift, invariably hard slap from his elder brother, who so often told him he was being an idiot.

Up ahead, the boy could hear the murmurings of shouting mixed with cruel laughter. He and the elder soldier approached the clearing behind a thicket of encircling, dense pinewood trees, where a farmer, perhaps barely twenty years of age, was held at knifepoint; the whites of his eyes resembled those of a panicked ewe more than a proper man of flesh and blood with a name and past of his own.

“Caught this one trying to smuggle away the weak and injured,” barked the drooling, capped soldier who held the fellow by the throat while two others kept their grips on his arm firm. “Jumped from his fleeing wagon to try to fend us off, with nothing more than a flimsy shepherding rod.” 

The soldier boy and the other men approached the young shepherd, his face reddened by an evidently broken nose, his lip split, a mixture of blood and drool pooling down his chin. His eyes were a bright blue, his hair an ordinary light brown. His build was tall, but thin, like most of the smallfolk who had to withstand long, tedious seasons, particularly that of winter, which only seemed to be coming to a semi-ceremonious end that very year. 

“Ought to lob off his head,” the man restraining the farmer’s right arm huffed. “But mayhaps we can have a little fun with the bloke, can’t we?” His cruel eyes settled on the little scarred soldier boy. “Hey, you, the scarred ugly boy, ever gutted a man right and proper before?”

“No,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt another soldier press the hilt of a sword into his hands.

“Well, you’re certainly big enough, boy,” another one barked. “Aye, you may be your brother’s runt, but there’s good muscle on you, yet. Get over here.” The boy approached the gathered men, still restrained. He dared not look over his shoulder at the old man who had taken him under his wing, whose name he still did not know. He felt someone press the hilt of a sword into his still-smooth palm. “You ought to gut him, see his entrails fall from his fuckin’ belly.” The other soldiers broke out in a uproarious cacophony of gritty laughter. “Oh, aye, that’d be a feast for our sore eyes.”

“Mercy,” the lowly man sobbed, his wild eyes closing shut, and opening again, bearing down at the boy’s face with a terror the soldier boy had not yet seen up close. “Please, mercy.” His eyes were the same as everyone else’s, the soldier boy thought. He thinks I am hideous, too– a monster.

Instead, the old man stepped forward, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He asks for mercy, you ought to give him it. You remember where the heart is, boy?” He nodded, taking a few steps toward the restrained man. “Slip the blade between the ribs. No need to get all messy.”

He nodded a second time, taking another few steps forward, pressing the steel tip of the blade in the man’s side. Even wielding the sword, he could parse out and feel the man’s protruding ribs– the smallfolk had grown weak , his father had told him, as their hunger admonished their better senses. Labor had been slow, and Tywin Lannister often complained of his dwindling profits in the wake of the war.

He looked into the eyes of the peasant, then to the frenzied, manic whites alone. It was easier to think of him as an animal, as a sheep for slaughter, than a real and proper man. Leaning forward, he ignored the old man’s advice, aiming the sharpened tip of the blade deep into the man’s gut, and twisting, just as his father had taught him to do with poultry, lamb, beef, and the like. The peasant let out a gasp and then a piercing scream, and the boy only leaned his full weight into the steel, leaning and pressing deeper and deeper into the creature’s abdomen, his intestines promptly spilling to the misty grass at their feet.

The soldiers erupted into a litany of cheers. He felt several slap him proudly on the shoulder as he turned to the old man, whose face looked like a stoic, unchanging mask. Cold . 

“How’d it feel, boy?” the gruff voice of the squadron’s commander rang in his ears. Glancing downward, he saw that some of the man’s blood had trickled down the blade, coating his tanned hands a brilliant, slippery red. “ Sweet , isn’t it?”

He balked, considering the commander’s words as he was pulled away from the peasant, who slumped to the ground atop his own spilled entrails, landing in a despoiled, ravaged heap on the grass below. “Aye,” he hissed. “It’s sweet.” He dared not then turn back to the old man, who would die within the next fortnight, lest he see his sorrowful, tired eyes.

 

295 AC

 

MARIYA I

Her arrival in King’s Landing was well anticipated by her soon-to-be employer. The young woman of ten and nine years of age had been spotted weaving and darting through the filthy, use-worn cobblestone streets, desperate to find the alehouse where her great-uncle had sent a courier, requesting his great-niece’s immediate employment there, as he was an acquaintance of the owner. As soon as she arrived, the alehouse owner showed her to the shabby little derelict cupboard where she would be staying. Unfortunately, her small room in the back was closest to the shared latrine, which made her living situation all the more grating (and noxiously smelly) .

It was something of a hereditary favor— he had been the uncle of her beloved deceased mother, after all. Mariya, who preferred to be called Mari by those who knew her, had known that she desired to kill the beastly knight known only then as the Mountain That Rides, ever since he, upon the orders of Ser Tywin Lannister, had laid siege upon her parents’ humble peasant town, comprised primarily of miners and shepherds, to the southeast and beyond the immediate claim of Casterly Rock, raping her young mother, maiming, and dismembering them both en route to the Sack of King’s Landing twelve years earlier. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, she had managed to survive as a child of seven. However, her early memories were practically nonexistent (although a trace of a Westerlandic accent persisted throughout her life, oddly enough). Despite her best efforts to spend sleepless nights trying to remember, Mari could not even recall the faces of her parents.

Her great-uncle, Botyl, was significantly younger than her maternal grandmother, his older sister, and he had made something of a name for himself, quite literally. Since he had been a successful merchant and trader in his time in Essos, trading perhaps somewhat dubiously (hence their swift and semi-permanent departure from the North), he had elected to give himself a House name the more coin he amassed— Midmarr . He had offered the name to her, but she had more or less refused, resigning herself only to use the last name when it would most benefit her. He was, of course, her maternal grandmother’s brother, and Mari had absolutely zero claim to much of anything of his.

No real title, no living parents, no land as a mere woman, nothing . 

In her free time, however, Mari knew she wanted to be something and someone . She had sat in on her cousins’ lessons, covering topics such as letters, the basics of mathematics, financial management, and religion and faith, as her family had converted to following the Seven several generations earlier. She would avoid all men fastidiously and resolutely, quietly petrified at the idea that she would be trapped in the constraints of marriage (thankfully, her great-uncle had no plans whatsoever to try to help his great-niece in that department), nor was she particularly keen on being bound to a mediocre plot of land like her extended family. It did not take much convincing for him to send her away and to negotiate a working contract at an alehouse in King’s Landing, the capital city of Westeros, a place of rich history she had long read about. She was glad to be away from her great-uncle’s marshy lands, where she lived a smiling ghost for all those years. 

Instead, she quickly developed a rather complicated web of resentment for any fine lords and ladies after spending a mere week in an alehouse located on the periphery of Flea Bottom, the most destitute neighborhood in the Westerosi capital city of King’s Landing. She would wander through the streets, dressed in the one beige linen shift and brown wool kirtle she owned, copying the walking styles and postures of those from all classes, feeling out of place, her eyes wandering with curious interest. She had made sure to keep herself as clean as possible, investing heavily in replacement soaps, brushes, and combs of all sorts. Mari had always been something of a hypochondriac, absolutely terrified of illness, wounds, or infections. Living on the poorer side of King’s Landing meant that this paranoia was increased tenfold.

That being said, it was no secret that the other barmaids in the establishment Midmarr had sent her to did seem willing to shag the customers for a few copper stars, sometimes a single silver stag, depending on the age. It was leagues more affordable than Lord Petyr Baelish’s more upscale establishment, of which talk was aplenty. Naturally, the alehouse’s humble visitors tended not to be Lords. They leaned more towards other smallfolk, soldiers, and sellswords, with the occasional (often lost) drunken Ser or member of the Kingsguard. 

Mari had brought very few personal items— one extra shift, one lighter kirtle for the warmer climates of the Crownlands, a piece of lard soap, a comb for her lengthy hair, a chewing stick for her teeth, and an engraved dagger that had belonged to her grandfather, who had been the first of her family to leave the Riverlands in search of work (an unusual act for most smallfolk). The dagger had been something of a thoughtless token from the late Tytos Lannister. Years ago, long before she was born, her grandfather had provided the means for a bountiful celebratory feast after a hunt in which he had nearly lost his life to an enraged lioness. Her great-uncle had told her that much of the story, time and time again, before requesting— no, pleading — for her to take her grandfather’s dagger with her as she left his home. The damn steel was rusted, in poor shape, and more decorative than practical, but it gave her comfort, nonetheless.

Mari had been insistent on making her way out in the world, much to her family’s chagrin. She had already attempted to run away several times, to her great-uncle and great-aunt’s total and complete exhaustion. Mari had first tried to run away from the Riverlands five years earlier, when she was merely ten and four years of age, hitching a ride with a crippled trader taking dried fish south. She was swiftly caught by a second cousin who happened to be riding by within the hour. Two years later, she had just barely made it to Seagard, the seat of House Mallister, before another extended family member– a bloody fisherman– caught her. 

She was a whimsical, loud-mouthed, belligerent child who wanted nothing more than to train with a sword like her cousins. However, her great-uncle’s wife had insisted she learn to sew, embroider, mend, repair, cook, and do all other things Mari found painfully boring. Worst of all, she had grown quite adept at them and was more than effective at such womanly errands, making her, at least superficially, an ideal marriage candidate for some local idiot. In King’s Landing, the only marriage prospect for fifty kilometers or more was her own awkward, lanky third-cousin-once-removed who scrubbed outhouses in the barracks she’d never met in person before, and that was never going to bloody happen. So, she was safe from marriage, at least for now.

The alehouse owner, a stern woman of eight and forty years named Gloria Waters, was a local bastard whose father was allegedly an old Lord of House Rosby who had long since been deceased. She had been the wife of a close business partner of her great-uncle during his time in Essos, and, according to him, it was quite the rarity for a woman to own a business, albeit of a particularly grimy variety. He supposed it would be, at the very least, marginally safer.

The first few weeks working in the alehouse were uneventful. However, she could not deny being somewhat scared at the vulgarities which would come from the mouths of the various members of the Kingsguard who would frequent the establishment, and who would often openly grope and molest any of the other serving ladies or barmaids. Hence, Mari kept her eyes down, her face concealed in candlelit shadow, and focused mainly on sweeping (perhaps somewhat over diligently) and restocking shelves. 

Until, of course, she first heard the dastardly name “Clegane” mumbled on the lips of an excruciatingly drunk, fat, bald, and short Ser during her third month of employment, who kept speaking in explicit and excessive detail about various whores he had been intimately acquainted with on the Street of Silk, just a few short streets over. That had definitely caught her attention. She had known the stories her great-uncle had told her about her parents’ demise. He had not withheld from her every gory detail. Her uncle was a truthful man, almost obstinately. 

Glancing over the bar, Mari surveyed the unassuming crowd until they fell onto a man sitting in the back corner of the establishment, only one half of his face visible in the low light. He was rugged-looking and somewhat half-decent to look at, at least from the side, but seemed tensely sorrowful. It surprised her how she hadn’t noticed him before. Like his brother, the man was a giant , taller than any other man she had ever seen. “Is that Ser Gregor?” she had asked the other lone working barmaid that night, fighting to keep her rage and fury contained within her. “Why is he away from the Westerlands, from his keep?”

“No, that’s the Hound, his gnarly little brother. The litter’s runt,” the barmaid had replied immediately. “Lannister’s guard and servant. Comes here maybe twice, three times a week, I’d say. Sometimes pays for a woman, though it’s been a while.” Mari raised her brows. “I’d stay away from him. He’s a right dangerous fellow. A real killer of hundreds, that one. Burned , too. Hideous creature. Glad he never asked for me.”

“Who did he ask for, then?”

“Whoever. Didn’t matter. Anyone who would take him. I’d have refused.”

Then, the lesser Clegane turned his head one evening to bark an order at another barmaid, allowing her first glance at the right side of his face, which appeared to be severely burned, the skin red and raw, almost melted and sinewy. It was admittedly difficult to make out the details from across the room. She couldn’t imagine how one could acquire such a painful, brutal injury and survive it.

So, naturally, Mari would watch the man every night with rapt attention. He hardly spoke to anyone and sat, drinking alone. And heavily . The Hound would spend quite a fair bit of coin on drink, and every beverage, be it ale, beer, summer wine, or otherwise, disappeared seemingly instantaneously. From where he would sit, tucked away in the back corner of the alehouse, his ‘good’ side faced outwards, his disfigurement to the wall. Mari hated to admit it— be it naive or childish curiosity — but she wanted so badly to inspect the burned half of his face, so often partially covered with and obscured by his tangled dark brown waves of shoulder-length hair. 

In response to her subtle queries, she had learned from local word of mouth that he served as something of a babysitter for King Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister’s three blonde-haired brats (a terrible job served him right; the Cleganes were an evil bunch!) . Naturally, as she would expect, he seemed constantly, unbearingly, excruciatingly, inconsolably miserable. The eldest, called Joffrey, had just turned nine years old; the middle child, called Myrcella, was only five; and the youngest, Tommen, was four. It seemed that every smallfolk in King’s Landing virulently despised the princes and princess because of their birth and association with the crown by default. Robert Baratheon, on all accounts, was a slovenly shell of his former valorous self and an inept ruler over the starving masses. But what else could they expect? 

The Hound’s apparent misery at his position served him right, then, she thought. 

Her great-uncle swore—oft and loudly—that it had been a Clegane-bred warhound that set its teeth upon her, in the black hour when her mother and father were slain. Perhaps one of Ser Gregor’s brutes, he would say, as if the name itself might salt the wound. Mari had never put much stock in the tale. She had her suspicions and more than a few doubts, but she let him speak it as he pleased. The truth, as she knew it, was only this: she had been found by the ragged remnant of smallfolk from the next village over. 

The story went as follows: other unnamed, forgotten survivors had come picking through the ashes and corpses, and there she was, crouched beneath a splintered bedframe, face wet with blood, her lip torn wide, the roots of her milk teeth cracked and broken. It was her great-uncle’s wife who had stitched her face once she was delivered back to the North, and she had done well enough, for a farmer’s bone needle and undyed cotton thread. The scar lay plain across her mouth, chin, and philtrum even now, but her lips were full, her cheekbones sharp, and her jaw soft and delicate as any well-bred lady’s.

Mari did not think of herself as some sort of easily scandalized prude, although she was pretty religious, albeit in private. Her female cousins, her great-uncle’s direct descendants, had taught her the rudimentary things to know about sex and about protecting oneself as a young woman, especially during travel or when living more or less alone. Hence, when she saw that not merely some, but most of the barmaids working alongside her in Gloria’s service would accept additional coin to sit on the lap of a guard, soldier, or smallfolk (if he had the means) and peck a few kisses on their cheek, she could not hear to do so herself. Gloria seemed fine with this, at first, although somewhat irritated when Mari would staunchly refuse to take a pitcher to a crowd of men on certain evenings. 

“They won't pay any mind to your face, dear,” Gloria had told her. “You cut a fine enough figure. And, if it pleases you to hear, your face isn’t half-bad either. Is it that you don’t have a liking for men at all? Is that it? I knew a few girls like that, back in my day…”

“No, I mean, I just don’t wish to be touched,” Mari had replied. “I didn’t come here to whore. I came here to work and save money. On my own. I don’t need my uncle’s help.”

Gloria chuckled, somewhat sardonically, her icy eyes suddenly turning harsh and cruel, taking Mari somewhat aback. “Save money ? What are you planning to do with your ‘saved money,’ then, eh, girl? From what your uncle tells me, you’ve been refusing to wed for years. Kept running away. Been a lot of trouble for 'em.”

“Aye, I know I’ve been trouble.” Mari could feel herself bristling as she avoided the owner’s unrelenting gaze. “And I have sought my dear family’s forgiveness. By being here. By working.”

“And, I’ll have you know, tending to customers is work,” Gloria hissed. “You may have some distant relatives who think they’re suddenly highborn because of some lucky business dealings, but you’re in the lion’s den here in King’s Landing, girl. And you need to grow up. You’re lucky I don’t beat you for your constant insolence. I should start by decking your pay—”

“Ma’am, please, I promise, I’ll… I’ll do better.”

“Good. Now, muster up some bloody courage and tend to your godsdamn customers. You’ve already stocked pickles, radish, and imported ale a hundred times over.”

“I’m… sorry.”

Gloria had already bustled away, and Mari felt her cheeks sting with a reddish heat, her eyes cast down. Then, the sensation of prickling of tears in her eyes caused her to wipe at her face with a fisted hand, like a foolish child. Looking up, finally, after taking a few deep breaths and composing herself, she met his dark, full-facing gaze; the Hound’s eyes locked firmly on her as though she were his prey. Oddly enough, a strange, tickling, and warm feeling flooded her body as adrenaline coursed through her blood.

Then, Mari had a somewhat insane thought.

Her great-uncle had insisted she bring her grandfather’s dagger with her to King’s Landing, for her protection against thieves and rapers. So far, she had not yet needed to use it. Perhaps killing his kin would be a form of retribution? What if I were to kill a Clegane myself? It was an odd, undeniably deranged, sinful, manic thought, but Mari had always been an impulsive and forthright little girl, and little had changed since she had grown into an adult woman. So, she scurried back to her rooms, rummaging through her belongings until she found the dagger, tucking it into her high wool stockings, where the cool press of the gift from Tytos Lannister to her smallfolk grandfather gave her a sudden sense of sweeping, gallant, almost knightly courage.

 

SANDOR I

Sandor had known that the strange, veiled little sweeping woman who cowered behind the barkeep had been watching him for weeks and weeks. It had become something of a game—one that he never mentioned aloud, of course— for him, at least. He would always be sure to come to this particular alehouse during his jaunts after training or duty, to sit in the same spot, to face away from her, and, as expected, there her wide sea glass eyes would be, looking at him with an utterly unreadable expression plastered across her pretty little face. Perhaps she was keen to fuck for coin.

He knew she was watching him, not out of intrigue or morbid curiosity, as most women did. He was also well aware that her gaze was watchful and observant, yet he still got the sense that he was being hunted by her, for whatever reason. Even now, after she had been scolded by the old wench who ran the place, and a single tear fell down her flushed cheek, her eyes immediately returned to his. Most interestingly, he noted that she had a rather odd scarring up and down her pouty little pink mouth, as though a knife had cut her. He was sure of it. He could recognize that type of cruel knife wound anywhere. Perhaps she had endured some past womanly scuffle with another one of the tavern wenches— she was quite bonny, and very shapely, he also duly observed. Sandor wondered if he had ever met her before, as something about her seemed intimately familiar. Perhaps she had been working at a brothel he had once visited. It had been almost a year since he had stopped any kind of proper whoring, and he had only been able to bed a few women who could tolerate the sight of his horrendous face (and worse attitude) , most of them either older, more experienced, and more willing to put up with him. 

However, in the past, he had budgeted his earnings as a second-born deformed son of a cursed line of minor nobility and brutish Lannister sellsword half-decent enough to afford a girl closer to his age, though they typically insisted on having him take them exclusively from behind and, if he ever wanted them to suck his cock, they never looked up into his eyes, to his face. He did not push the matter or make the direct request, but he knew they found him repulsive, which made the whole endeavor to go to such places more humiliating than pleasurable.

The little tavern wench ( who was always fucking sweeping! ) tended to wear a plain linen coif, which more or less covered all of her hair, and dressed borderline prudishly— as though she didn’t know exactly where she was, and how strange it was for her to cower and balk in such a slimy little establishment. 

On one unassuming night, Sandor had finished his drink, fighting the urge to get into a brawl with a particularly oafish and stupid gang of golden cloaks, who were, naturally, bragging about beating and raping some young orphan girl in the annals of Flea Bottom. Although he hated the seemingly never-ending banalities of evil he encountered in this damn place, he still knew he needed to be wary with how he picked his battles, lest he ruin his well-maintained and very scurrilous reputation as an unapproachable brute. What would picking a fight do for the little orphan girl? Bloody lot of nothing.

It served Sandor well to be feared. He had learned this when he killed his first man at the age of twelve in the service of Tywin’s army, wearing Lannister-gold plated armor for the very first time. He was already an inch over six feet back then, and looked the part of a full-grown man. The look in the man’s eyes— it was incomparable to any other sensation he had felt. It was power , it was what Gregor had tried to take from him five years prior.

Sandor eventually made his way out of the alehouse, feeling somewhat dizzy from drink, though he wasn’t properly drunk yet. It took a lot of spirits to cause any sort of real drunkenness in his near-seven-foot build, and most of the time it wasn’t worth the coin or time he had to spend in the presence of irritating, loudmouthed fellow patrons (cunts!) to get it. His plans for the evening were to retire to his room and to have a dark, dreamless sleep, which was what he tended to prefer. 

Then, suddenly, something jumped on him from behind, little arms wrapping around his neck and chest, the reverberating sound of metal clashing against his dark armor, which he had the mind not to take off whenever he went into the city proper. It was easy enough to flip the attacker off of him, the individual in question landing with a scream of pain and discomfort into the muddy streets below. What met his gaze was an indignant, almost mad, contorted, enraged face of the little barmaid who had been watching him. Bloody hell, so it wasn’t so much of a twisted crush as it was boldly murderous intent?

Sandor quickly grasped the woman's small, delicate wrist in his hand, watching as she squirmed against him in a wholly futile act. Her eyes, however, mossy and cold, bore into his; her split, scarred lip twisted into a pained grimace. Despite her disfigurement, she remained quite pleasing to the eyes. If she had not been born with the deformity or, perhaps, obtained an injury later on in life, she would have been quite stunningly beautiful. 

“Ser, you’re hurting me,” she hissed in his direction, her voice deeper than he had expected, her eyes filled with single-minded hate, the kind Sandor was only accustomed to seeing from soldiers and from himself. She tried to squirm again, but it was all in vain. He was far stronger than she.

“I’m no fucking Ser,” he replied instantly, his voice gruffer and louder than he intended. It seemed he was, in fact, ever so slightly drunk. “And I’d watch where you try to stick a dagger like that. Where’d you get it? Steal it from some drunken cunt one night?” His eyes promptly wandered to the blade, and he was immediately taken aback, balking slightly as he recognized the well-worn carvings of a golden lion on the hilt. “Well, well, well, hear me fucking roar, indeed.”

Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, the woman gathered up the available spit in her dry mouth. She attempted to shoot a loogie in his general direction. Still, the Hound was surprisingly agile, immediately dodging her attempts, squeezing her wrist so that she dropped the dagger to the soup-like piss, shite, and rainwater puddles on the debauched cobblestones beneath their feet.

“I don’t steal,” she spat back. “I’m no thief. The blade is mine, Hound.”

Sandor laughed incredulously, pausing to take in the woman before him. “You’re bloody insane, you know that? Not even full-grown men are stupid enough to try to kill me.” She did not answer him, but stared deep into his eyes, her face still angry, her scarred mouth working to gather up more spit to try to shoot a wad of phlegm in his direction again. 

Sandor suddenly felt more tired and irritated than he had in years, even after being assigned to stand around a bunch of bratty children for the past several years. “I’ve seen you watching me,” he rasped. “Months and months of this shite, you sitting there, moping around all night, watching me. What is it, then? Want a close inspection? Something to gawk and laugh at? Am I so fucking funny to you? Is that it? Funny enough that you thought to kill me with your stolen Lannister-fucking-bread knife?”

“No,” the wench choked out, Sandor’s eyes wandering upward, as the coif she always wore gradually began to slide off her head, revealing a rather unusual expanse of curly, unruly auburn-red hair,  a color similar to what he recalled of his late mother, marked by an odd streak of dark brown in the front. “You’re brothers with the Mountain, aren’t you? You’re the second son of the dishonorable house Clegane.”

At the mention of his loathed brother, Sandor practically let out a snarl. “Have some business with my House, then, girl? Well, I’ll have you know I’m not my fucking brother, and I’ll have nothing to do with him and whatever shite you’ve been put through. You’ve got the wrong fucking Clegane.” It was disappointing. He could already feel his heart dropping— this seemed to be the ultimate scope of his goddamn miserable life, forever cowering like a wet runt in the shadow of his mad dog of a brother. “You’re still in one fucking piece, so I’m sure he hasn’t…” Sandor’s shadowed eyes settled on her lip, wondering. They remained in silence for a few moments, Sandor’s grip on her wrist and shoulder softening, gradually, until both her slippered feet had returned to the cobblestone below. 

“I would appreciate it if you let me go,” she finally said, her voice barely rising above a whisper, her eyes suddenly red and brimming with tears. “I’m no whore, by the way, if you think I’ll fuck you. I don’t do that sort of thing. I just sweep the fucking floors.” 

“You’re a tavern wench. Do you know what they do, little lamb?”

One eyebrow raised in response to Sandor’s impromptu nickname. “You could say I’m a bad one. Now, let me go, you… arse! ” Her coif had finally completely fallen into the dirt below, into a particularly nasty patch of what appeared to be a grotesque mixture of sick, shit, piss, rainwater, and other unidentifiable types of human filth. Her godsdamn loogies now, too. 

They were silent for a minute more before Sandor finally released her. However, she did not move to run away, one hand rubbing the wrist he had grasped tightly while still wearing his armored gauntlets, as it was always too much of a goddamn pain to take his armor on and off when he went out drinking every night once he was dismissed from duty.

“Goodnight, Ser— Hound .”

“I told you, girl, I’m no fucking knight.”

“Just… goodnight, then.”

“And take your bread knife with you. You’re lucky I let you live, girl.” Sandor quietly prayed, for the first time in years, as he did not think himself typically pious, much less worthy, that he had not unintentionally bruised her pale, soft flesh.

Notes:

No beta, never used one before for past writing I used to do on here on a different account, don’t know how I’d have the gall to ask someone I was in proper correspondence with to read my smut, so, yeah.

Yeah, this timeline is a little fucky. Everything is sped up by a few months. I reference this sometimes in an attempt to maintain my sanity: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1ZsY3lcDDtTdBWp1Gx6mfkdtZT6-Gk0kdTGeSC_Dj7WM/edit

But yeah, it’s totally fucky. Just… just let’s all play pretend here.

…

Generally speaking, I would say that my interpretation and writing style for the character of Sandor in this fic borrows about 80% from the book and 20% from the show, which, I know, may be perceived as *controversial* because some people really, really hate book Sandor and strongly prefer his characterization in GoT. I beg to differ, though I can still concede that some show lines are just too damn juicy for me not to use or reference in later chapters (heh). Look, I love Rory McCann to pieces, and his portrayal is excellent, but, even more generally speaking, I genuinely do find the books to be far superior, par excellence. There are also some significant, major differences to the characterization I'm just gonna clear up once.

So, in this fic, he’s generally more book-accurate in terms of age (mid-20s rather than early 40s), has much lengthier and richer dialogue and cadence (in the books ma boi was prone to monologuing), and some differing physical features (the eye-color thing was tricky, since I am a massive lover of big baby cow brown eyes, but, alas… I had a feeling George had some symbolism going on with the ‘steel’ grey, and I wanted to honor that. Also, his hair seems to be described as pointedly darker in the books than in the show, so, yeah, there’s that).

Try to imagine a young Rory mixed with (hear me the fuck out right now, guys) Jacob Elordi (who I honestly don’t find all that attractive on his own) and/or Peter Steele (yeah, he’s a huge terrible POS… but… he’s tall… and all that...), and then covered in Phantom of the Opera-ass burn prosthetics that are far more brutal than what’s shown in GoT. HALF his damn face is burned off in the books. It’s gruesome, it’s gory! I love that, and I wanted to keep it, dare I say *insist* upon it, even.

This is essentially a half-finished, pre-written fic of over 130,000 words (I'm currently unsure of how to conclude it). I'll upload it in segments as I revise. Thank!

Chapter 2: I'll Be Your Mirror

MARIYA II

Since her encounter with the Hound roughly a month prior, Mari had not seen him return to the alehouse again. Oddly enough, she felt a treacherous twinge of disappointment. She was angrier with herself than anything, and with her ineptitude with that damn knife. He had been swift to disarm her, and he towered over her like a beast. He was purported to be the smaller dog of the brothers, according to the words of the other barmaids and the surprisingly gossipy men who frequented their establishment. 

She was not afraid of his facial scars, unlike most other women, who seemed to be. Perhaps he had acquired them in battle? They most certainly seemed to be burns, particularly in the way the flesh almost appeared sinew-like, twisted, gnarled, and oddly healed, as though all the skin itself had to be completely regrown. The scars covered the entire expanse of his cheek; he had no right eyebrow to speak of, his ear was a gnarled disaster (though his eye appeared unharmed), and only the slightest trace of burn touched his lips. It must have hurt terribly– No. No sympathy for a Clegane. 

She decided to try to forget the Hound, but it was proving difficult. Something about him lingered within her, walking around the back of her mind. His face, so often described as terrible, seemed oddly sweet, particularly in the way he looked at her, and how surprised he was that she held his gaze, how the unburned side was haggardly handsome, a proper and veritable warrior — No. Distractions from the Hound were sorely needed.

Every evening after her shift, she climbed the rickety ladders behind the alehouse, ladders that groaned and swayed with every step, not fit for any sane soul. The roof tiles were slick with moss, but she had learned where to place each foot and hand by heart. Once atop the alehouse, balancing on the slanted roof, she dragged out the sacks of feed and flour the owner never used, shaped them into the rough outline of a man, and beat at it with a stick as if it were a sword. From that rooftop perch, she could see the armory down the street, and beyond it, the Red Keep’s swarming barracks, the men within scurrying about like ants. The white cloaks of the Kingsguard often caught the last light of day, bright as fresh snow, while the gold cloaks moved in and out in a constant tide. Similarly, the gold cloaks, too, would shine in her eyes, even when in the dark of torch-lit night. She watched them drink, gamble, jest, roughhouse, and stroll without care, their laughter carrying faintly on the salty wind. Mari often, woe she to ever dare admit, looked for the Hound, but had yet to see him.

When she wasn’t taking her temper out on sacks of flour, she wandered the city streets or walked to the docks. There she would sit with a heel of bread and a bit of cheese, staring across the gray waters of the Narrow Sea. She could not forget the Hound. His voice, his size, the way the moment had unfolded, these moments lingered in her mind. Once or twice, she had dreamed of him, her foolish attack replaying itself again. Why had she done that? And he had let her live, almost eagerly, as though their paths would again cross. Gods help her, but he had let her live!

Suddenly feeling upset and irritated with herself, Mari huffed and climbed down from the alehouse rooftop, deciding that it would be best to go on a walk to the docks to look out at the sea on her one precious day off. She was not needed in the alehouse until the evening, when their main customer base tended to arrive. So, on one particular early afternoon, a few months into her time at King’s Landing, Mari made her way briskly to the docks, where she sat in her usual spot. However, her quiet moment was interrupted by a sudden spray of yellow dust all over her freshly laundered kirtle, linen smock, and dingy grey Northern wool cloak. As she opened her mouth to yell at whoever was so inconsiderate, she saw it was only a small child.

Mari observed as the little beggar boy, evidently from the dismal heart of Flea Bottom, as his clothes were quite tattered and unsightly, hurried over to the cart of fresh fruit, meat, and vegetables, waving around a single glittering gold dragon in his hands. She grimaced as she saw that the poor boy’s arms appeared to be heavily scarred, as though he had been repeatedly cut with a knife. It was a relatively common tactic for pimps and bad folk: they would take children from the local orphanage and mutilate them so that they could be more effective beggars, often bringing the money back to their masters. 

“Get out of here, boy,” the merchant said. “I won’t accept your dirty money.”

“He just wants some bloody food,” Mari interjected, feeling strangely emboldened as she stepped between the beggar boy and the merchant. “He’s starving. He just wants some bread, some fish, maybe some cheese… a few vegetables?” She looked down at the child with her best attempt at a consoling smile, who regarded her with subtle suspicion, the gold dragon clutched tightly in his little fists. Mari’s heart dropped when she saw that the child appeared to have been intentionally blinded in one eye, one murky, the other a dull, lifeless dark green, as though by a blade or a hot iron. “He’s not giving the damn money back to some sleazy solicitor. He’s using it to get some bloody food. What more do you want from smallfolk, hm? Everything’s a fucking problem for you uppity merchants, eh? You think you’re so much better than him, don't you?” Mari couldn’t help but think of her jaded great-uncle Botyl, who, with age, had only thought himself better and better than the same kind of humble folk his own blood descended from.

“Yes, miss, a dragon is a dragon,” the merchant replied. “But I’m more concerned about the bloke who’ll come looking for it. Scurry along, then.”

“Now, now, the coin was a gift to the child from me,“ a soft, ambiguous voice said from behind them. Mari jolted around, turning to face a tall, plump, hairless man with soft hands pressed together before him, dressed in slightly foreign robes of origins she could not place. He appeared to be wearing some kind of perfume, scented like lavender, lilac, and rosewater, and his dark eyes seemed to examine Mari deeply and profoundly, but not with the frightening, predatory gaze she had grown accustomed to from most men. “You would do well to give him whatever food and alms his little heart desires, and to provide him with appropriately calculated change.”

The merchant’s face turned white as a sheet. “Yes, Lord Varys.”

Mari had honestly no idea who this person was, nor did she recognize the name. Still, she had never before even seen a proper Lord, all her time in King’s Landing spent busying away in a dimly lit alehouse or loitering around the docks. However, this man didn’t look like a proper Lord or, at least, what she had imagined. Before she could think better of herself and scramble away, she realized the man’s sharp eyes were set on her, a spark behind them with a curious gleam that she could not quite place. 

“It’s good for you to stand up for the young,” Varys said, taking a small step towards her. Mari did not back away or budge, and he seemed, more than anything, intrigued by her. “It is always a shame when little birds are hurt by their previous masters. To give them coin is more of a charitable effort on my part than anything. Call it, well, rehabilitation , if you will.”

“Sounds like a well-meaning act of charity,” Mari said. “At least, it’s something I would expect from a man like yourself, my Lord.” Despite her general distaste for uppity folk and social niceties, her great-aunt had ensured she could at least act ladylike enough when the occasion demanded it.

Varys grinned. “Oh, I’m not a regular Lord, my dear. I have no lands or heirs. I’m well, quite involved with the affairs of court, that’s all. Such knowledge and know-how make one something of a respectable figure, even among the smallfolk. What is your name, girl?”

“Mariya.”

“Well, then, Mariya, would you care to walk with me?” Varys inquired, one robed finger pointing in the direction of a squalid and overcrowded street leading directly into the heart of Flea Bottom. 

Mari nodded, and was even more shocked when the finely-dressed, enigmatic man offered her his arm, which she decided, in the spur of the moment, to take. It was a risk, but the repetition of her life had made her feel stale, bored, listless. This was a good change, a much-needed one, she mused.

“A whole gold dragon for one single little child is extremely generous, my Lord,” Mari said, suddenly feeling overly prim and proper, blushing at the sheer number of curious eyes that settled on her. “Especially to a boy that young, who can hardly understand the value of money.”

“Oh, he understands,” Varys corrected her. “He understands far too well. Before I swept in and brought him into my service, his former master had mutilated and branded him. He had been sold for merely five silver stags. I can hardly understand why anyone would ever do such a thing to such a young child… to permanently disfigure them…”

“It’s horrible,” Mari agreed, subconsciously putting her free hand to her scarred lip. “I don’t understand how someone could do something like that… to someone so wholly innocent…”

“You are an empathetic character,” Varys said with a wry flicker of a smile. “It’s surprisingly rare to find someone with such an open heart in this part of the city.”

“My heart is hardly open. I just try to see things as they are.”

“We are kindred spirits, then. I try to do so as well,” he replied, though the more profound significance of his meaning was more or less lost on Mari. “I, too, was once an orphan who lived in complete and utter poverty, like our little beggar-boy. I was a thief as well. I did what I had to do to survive. Now, Mariya, what has brought you to King’s Landing? You have something of a hodgepodge of an accent, I have observed.”

Mari blushed. “Aye– yes . Well, I was born in the Westerlands to a family of farmers and miners, and then grew up in the Riverlands, on the northern border, for a time with an uncle. My blood is Northern, however. It’s a bit odd, isn't it? I know most common folk are born and bred in one place,” she explained. “I convinced my uncle to send me away to find employment in a city. Anywhere would have been fine, but King’s Landing seemed secure enough. He was once a merchant, so he had connections from previous business partners.”

“Do you enjoy your current place of employment?”

“No.”

Varys let out a chuckle. “Being a barmaid hardly seems fitting for someone like you. You’re far too spirited and inquisitive, aren't you? Not keen to be gawked at, either.”

“I can’t help but— Wait, how did you know that?” Mari’s eyes searched Varys’s face, though his gaze remained fixedly forward. “How did you know I am a barmaid?”

“I have eyes everywhere. I see potential, and I send my little birds to seek it out.”

“I—“

“Now, Mariya Midmarr, I would like to, perhaps, propose a suggestion of employment and service. However, if you are to accept such a position, you will have to serve several masters and do so well. I cannot guarantee your safety if your position were to be compromised by some unfortunate or even mere bad actors,” Varys began. “You have a certain kind of astute, entrancing charm about you. You work in the alehouse just outside of Flea Bottom, the one owned by Gloria Waters, yes, the Rosby bastard? She’s an old friend of mine.”

“Yes… How did you…?” The ease with which Mari began this conversation with the suave, interesting, and borderline unnerving man was quickly spiraling out of her scope of knowledge. She knew she should be terrified, but a part of her was oddly thrilled. Finally, something that isn’t so boring!

“Now, the Lannisters are, of course, the preeminent force within the Red Keep itself, as you may know, as a child of the Westerlands. They are quite a familial, ambitious bunch. They are also quite demanding of those who are in their service… and brutally unforgiving when they feel they have been wronged.”

“I have so heard…” Mari said softly, eyes wandering to the open orphanage on their left as they continued onwards. It seemed the smallfolk here recognized Varys. “Why me? I’m a nobody. A smallfolk. A tavern wench. Why do you know anything about me? Why do you want me, much less trust me, to work in the Red Keep in your service… my Lord?”

Varys paused for a moment, as though considering his following words carefully. “I know you have your hostilities toward the Lannisters and to Ser Gregor Clegane, and, by proxy, to his small, insignificant little vassal house in the Westerlands. It is but common knowledge that Ser Gregor needlessly brutalized any residents in the broad sweep of his own liege’s territory, regardless of ‘suspected Targaryen loyalties’ when they did not immediately offer up their daughters to be whored to Tywin Lannister’s bannermen, did he not?”

“Aye,” Mari found her face growing hot, her heart racing faster, watching as the smooth-faced man’s stoic expression seemed not to change, though his dark eyes presumably flickered with an odd sort of amusement. “He killed my parents,” she finished.

Varys was silent for a moment. “I am sorry. Has my inquiring upset you, child?”

Mari considered how honest she should be in her response. “It is in the past.”

Varys paused, slowing his pace, and cleared his throat. “For years, I have had reasons to keep a close eye on the political and social influence within the Red Keep, and on cyclical pursuits of power, and what is to be done to best serve the realm. I know you will care about the work I have in mind for you, Mariya.”

“Which is?” The rush of adrenaline, akin to what she experienced in her foolish attack on the Hound, coursed through her blood. She felt like her bones were singing.

“In essence, I have been seeking a replacement servant for Cersei Lannister and her little army of children,” Varys finally said. “Nothing too fancy, I am afraid, merely handling menial tasks. Bringing trays of food, holding carafes of fine wine when a highborn handmaiden or properly bred lady-in-waiting is not available or at present, and, well… emptying chamberpots. And, of course, duly reporting to me or others. Their previous lowborn servant girl had, well, complications and had to be dismissed. Even servant girls with no name or title within the Red Keep need to possess particular qualities. I believe you have said qualities. And, of course, you are not wholly unpleasant to the eye. However, you are not overly pleasing to the point of total distraction.” Mari blushed, unsure whether to be complimented or offended by the remark. “You can be unassuming, but forthright. And you seem to have a soft spot for children… of all strokes, I’d imagine. Even the rich ones. You are good at busywork, as I have also heard. An adequate sweeper . And, most importantly, the nerve and gall to attack a giant of a man with nothing more than a rusty heirloom blade.” 

"You saw that?”

Mari felt herself blush, the odd tingling sensation in her stomach returning as she thought of the lesser Clegane again, of his oddly handsome disposition, the way he carried himself like a hulking beast. The sheer size and weight of him, even in his somewhat stripped-back plate of jet-black armor, was undeniably thrilling and made her feel strange. He would be working in the Red Keep, too, as Cersei Lannister’s Hound, wouldn’t he? Perhaps, then, she would be able to speak with him again. What? A foolish thought.

“My little birds are everywhere, Mariya. I know you, too, have a reasonable distaste for the family who employed Gregor Clegane, and lined his pockets and estate. The raper and murderer of a Targaryen Queen, Elia Martell, and her poor little children. You’ve survived the Hound. You survived the Mountain. You are something of a fighter, in your way. I will compensate you, of course.”

“How much?”

Varys grinned. “If I can hand a little beggar boy a whole gold dragon, just imagine how much I can give you. What say you, Mariya, do you think you would be willing?”

Mari paused, weighing her options. It was an easy choice, in the end.

By the time she returned to the alehouse, out of breath and excited for the next week in an utterly terrifying kind of way, her shift was beginning again. Much to her chagrin, she quickly learned from Gloria that their usual serving girls were taking the night off, and she would now be expected to bring drinks and food to the customers. 

“What? No, I can’t. I don’t know how—“

“You don’t know how to bring someone a fuckin’ ale? Humpf . You’re even more worthless and loathsome of work than your great-uncle made you out to be,” the owner scoffed. “Just do your damn job. You can always tell a man to fuck off if he tries to touch you. Or, you could shut your clam, and take advantage of the coin. I know you want to be here as much as I do, girl, but sometimes you have to suck it up. The world hates us womenfolk enough already, and there’s nothing we can do to change that. Aye, we just learn their hatred to curry our favor. Now, straighten up your back, and get to work!”

“Yes, ma’am. Forgive me.”

“Save it.” Gloria gave her a quintessentially icy look, filling two pints of fresh ale and practically slamming them on a silver tray. “Bring those to the two Kingsguard in the back.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied obediently, picking up the tray, breathing deeply to settle her nerves. Perhaps Gloria just wants me out of her alehouse , Mari wondered. No idea how she knows a fancy Lord like that, though.

Turning around, Mari quickly spotted the white-cloaked men, seated together near the back, their white capes glowing in the dimly lit lighting. Then, of course, she saw the Hound , only a table away, although his eyes were not on her, set on the crackling hearth far across the room, his tankard empty. She suspected Gloria would be cross with her if she did not ask him if he’d like another.

Keeping her head tucked to her chin, she quickly placed the tray on their table, placing the tankards before the men just as one of them wrapped a bare hand around her wrist, tugging her brusquely towards him. The short bald Ser’s hands were quick on her waist just as she turned away, dragging her tightly into his pudgy lap, hands running up and down her waist, gripping the softness of her hips and thighs, his breath ripe and unbearable. 

“Now, you’re quite an ugly little thing. Haven’t seen you working before…” the knight began, running his stinking hot mouth along Mari’s neck as she squirmed, the other two men snatching away the silver tray she had brought in with the remainder of their food and beverages.  “But you’ve got quite a pair of tits. I could spot them under that ugly dress from across the damn room.” She then felt a firm hand squeeze her bum, and she let out an involuntary, petrified squeak in response. “Oh, this one makes little noises! I’ll bet she’s a screechy little fuck, aren’t you? Is that right, little girl? Do you scream when you get fucked? What do you think, Meryn?” 

“I bet she does,” the other Ser sneered. “And I bet she’s a lot louder if you fuck her in the arse, too.” The group of knights and surrounding goldcloak guards burst into raucous laughter. “That might be the best way to do it. So you don’t have to look at her.”

“Aw, I don’t think she’s that hideous,” the one called Boros said, his stinking freak hot on her neck as she jerked her head away, clenching her eyes shut. “I think the lady is just shy, that’s all. Are you shy, little lady? Want us big strong knights to take turns fucking you in the arse?”

“Let her go, Boros, or I’ll snap your bloody neck, and you know I can and will,” a familiar voice grumbled, his voice dark, raspy, and brooding. “The bitch is mine. I want her. ”

Boros, the bald, fat knight, glanced over at Meryn, the sour-looking one, and both burst into another fit of borderline hysterics. “Oh, that’s too good…” Meryn guffawed, wiping a tear from his eye. “Of course, you want the deformed wench, Clegane. You two are a match made in the heavens!” He slapped Boros’s shoulder, who had grown red-faced, tears openly streaming down his cheeks as he belly-laughed.

Mari found herself suddenly hoisted from Boros’s lap, thrust over the Hound’s shoulder as though she was nothing more than a sack of grain. She tried to squirm away, but he had a vice grip across her waist and hips. He immediately sauntered over to the bar, where she desperately tried to twist herself to see what he was doing. All she heard was the clinking sound of coins being thrust onto the bar for Gloria to pick up, so that a room could be used. A room .

“Which one?” Mari heard the Hound ask.

“On the right, the one toward the end of the hall,” was Gloria’s nonchalant, almost bored reply.

“And don’t let the loud cunts over there linger outside. I’d like some fucking privacy.”

“That won’t be a problem, Ser."

“I’m no Ser,” the Hound growled, as though he’d said that line a million times over.

Once the Hound had carried her within the threshold, her shabby, cramped quarters and loosened his grip on her hips and backside, Mari immediately ran to the far side of the wall, near the stained, boarded-up window, her eyes wide, surveying the room, forgetting exactly where she had left her damned knife. She glanced back at him and surveyed his features in the light– his brows were heavy and full, his nose prominent, seemingly previously broken, and his cheekbones were well-defined through a thick, but well-trimmed beard that covered his unburned face and traveled down his wide neck.

“Calm down, girl, I’m just doing a favor by getting you out of there. I’m sure a few silver stags will buy some time, then.” The lesser Clegane’s surprisingly soft steel eyes surveyed her, his arms crossed tightly across his chest as he leaned against the wooden door behind him, taller than the frame by a head and a half. “I won’t harm you. And no, I don’t have any intention of touching you, either. Their fucking voices were beginning to get grating. Already have to listen to them blabber all goddamn day in the Keep. I’d had enough.” Mari, still flabbergasted, merely blinked at him from across the room. "Got any ale or beer in here?” The voices outside the room had indeed died down. She could barely hear anything beyond her door. He was right— the now-muffled sounds of the alehouse were a relief. “Should’ve brought a tankard with me.”

“No. I don’t drink any spirits. Just water. My uncle always told me that once you start on something, it's difficult to stop. Not very ladylike, he always said.” Mari had no idea why she was suddenly blabbering nonsense.

“Not very ladylike , eh? Hmmpf. A fuckin’ shame, then,” he grumbled, his face twisting back into the seemingly ever-present scowl. They both remained standing on opposite ends of the room, Mari staring at him wide-eyed like a cornered animal. “I already said I’m not going to harm you, girl. Just give it a few more minutes, and I’ll leave. They shouldn’t bother you again.”

“Why?”

The question itself seemed almost ridiculous to the man, the unburned half of his face twisting into an unreadable grimace. “ Why? Well, just thought to do you a small fucking favor to get that fucking cunt, Boros, away from you. I know Meryn likes to rape his fair share of coinless buxom girls. But I don’t owe you anything, do I? Didn’t you try to stab me in the back a month back, eh? You could’ve at least nicked me. Sure, that would’ve given you some damn pleasure to draw my blood on your rusty Lannister pocketknife.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to, anyway,” she replied softly. “You caught me pretty quickly. And you wear layers upon layers of fancy armor, ya dick.” The use of the expletive felt odd but good as it rolled off her tongue. “I’m sure you’re bloody tough to kill. Sure, you’re a real hard man.”

“Aye, and you’re a lousy fucking assassin,” he retorted with a gruff roll of his eyes. “With heavy footsteps for such a little woman. I could’ve heard you trying to sneak up on me from a mile away.” 

She couldn’t help it when scarlet flushed across her face. “I’m not that small… I think I’m perfectly average. You’re the freakishly large one.” 

She felt a strange tingle as he let out a rasping, albeit brief, laugh. “Now, I’m sure you’re not stupid enough ever to try to kill me again, eh, little lamb? What, did my brother slaughter your stupid family? ” The harshness of his words momentarily took her aback; the odd, warm tightness in her lower belly instantly dissipated at the instant the snark passed between his lips. 

She paused, considering whether she should be forthright and honest. “Aye. Your brother, Gregor Clegane, killed my parents. Raped my mother, too, before further desecrating her body.”

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Sandor replied quickly, venom lacing his voice. “It’s the one thing he loves most. Ever heard what he did to Elia Martell and her babes? Heard how the Clegane name itself is a curse?”

“Your family is monstrous ,” Mari spat. “Does it give you pleasure to hear about what your house stands for?”

The Hound’s dark eyes narrowed. “Oh, aye, I know all about his endeavors and where my big brother takes his pleasure.” The point seemed deeper than what Mari could understand, and she knew she would be musing on the sellsword’s words for the foreseeable remainder of the evening. “You’re lucky you survived the bastard. Not many wenches do. I’d tell you to ask his three wives, but they’re buried deep in the fuckin’ ground.” She hardly realized the man had taken several steps toward her, looming above her, her neck craning to keep his cold, dark gaze. His eyes are oddly sweet – NO.

“You should get out of here, Clegane. I know they surely think me well enough a whore now, spending all this time with the Lannister’s dog.” Mari was growing tired of whatever banter was taking place. She just wanted to finish her damned shift. “I can hardly get on with the other maids here as it is. Time’s up.”

“What the hell does it matter to you what people think of you? You sound like some uppity-fucking-Septa,“ he barked back. “And you best realize that you’re working in this godsforsaken dump, full of ugly wenches and old leathery women… I’m sure there are a lot of things people think about you. Get used to it. That’s what King’s Landing is, woman. A smelly dump . And what should you care what the patrons of this shitehole think about you? Or the other barmaids?”

“I won’t be working here much longer,” she murmured.

“Good. Hope I never fucking see your face again.”

“Fuck you,” she spat back. “I hate you.” No, she did not.

“No, girl, you don’t hate me .” He was right. 

“I didn’t need your protection!” She might.

“Aye, you did.” He was right, again.

The Hound finally left without a single word, merely opening her door, ducking his impressive height beneath the frame, and slamming it behind him, disappearing into the night. Slowly, Mari took a seat on her shabby straw bed, pressing a hand to her chest, breathing deeply, feeling her heart pounding fast and painful in her chest, tears welling to her eyes. After a few minutes, she found herself bursting into a sudden fit, the hot, wet tears streaming down the bridge of her nose, dripping onto her lap, feeling as though she had momentarily lost something, but she did not know what.

 

SANDOR II

By the time Sandor had returned to his quarters— a private little room with an extended bed to accommodate his height, as per the cunt Queen’s orders, tucked inside the barracks— he felt angrier and more upset with himself than he had felt for years. 

The girl from the alehouse had perplexed him for months at this point. She had been the one to stare so openly at him, to look deep into his eyes, unflinching at the sight of his face, her gaze searching, boring into his. He momentarily cursed himself for how easily it seemed he would quietly fixate on any woman who showed him the time of fucking day. The little, pretty (but undoubtedly strange) barmaid who had been watching him for weeks had then gone on to ruin it, comparing him to his brother, as had everyone else. All his damned, wretched life. Just for a moment, when he was alone in the room with her, his mind wandered to the man he could have once been if his brother had not been damned and evil enough to shove his head into a brazier. 

Would she have been equally as fearful and as obstinately protective of her chastity? Would her eyes have been as attentive, as curious, as unblinking as she looked up at him, meeting his gaze, unlike nearly all other women, maids, or children before her? Sandor grimaced, feeling angry at himself more than anything for being so preoccupied with the ginger bitch. However, he would concede that it was strange just how bloody interested she seemed in him, even if some misguided attempt at retribution fueled that interest. No , he thought, she would never know just how badly he, too, wanted the exact vengeance.

When Sandor was a boy, after Gregor burned him, he spent a fair number of years hiding away, sickly and fighting constant infections. The Maester of his father’s keep had tended to him well, but seemed equally fearful of his elder brother. The two had stayed practically locked inside Sandor’s childhood room, occasionally being visited by his little sister. However, she could hardly bear the sight of him, so raw, bleeding, and suffering.

Isadora Clegane had already quietly informed her sickly and disfigured brother that Gregor had been touching her regularly and hitting her upside the head until she lost consciousness if she ever tried to fight back or resist his ministrations. When she quietly stopped visiting him, he had tearfully accepted her death as an inevitability. Then, of course, his father had come back into his room, ever distant and thickly bearded, his eyes dark and brooding as he informed his hideous second son of his sister’s demise.

“We ain’t had a woman live long in our bloodline,” his father had murmured, his accent thick, still uncultured and lilted in a particularly old-fashioned, mountain-born and bred, Westerlandic sort of way (he had already been a boy of age by the time his kennelmaster father had sacrificed a leg to save Tytos Lannister). “Something of a curse, methinks… must be… aye, that’s it…”

Sandor knew his father wanted nothing more for Gregor to be bloody normal , or something approximate to normalcy , and his father’s foolishness was always predestined to be his downfall. However, as Gregor was the firstborn of their small house, their continued survival and service to the Lannisters depended on him. Sandor was merely a backup , a second option, in case anything went wrong. And surely, it had, but not quite in the way his father had anticipated.

Then, of course, he became an inconvenience. There was already too much to worry over at home. His father had gone on to lie to everyone, including the Lannisters, telling them that Sandor’s bedding had caught fire one night. The lie in itself was enough to abruptly destroy any hope of a meaningful relationship between father and son. 

When he was alone, late at night in the years that followed his burning, Sandor would sneak outside into the kitchens of his family's keep, stealing a sharp cutting blade and, when he could not find it, a jagged bread knife. He thought it wise, in his childish immaturity, to toughen him up. To never allow himself to feel the kind of all-encompassing, torturous pain he had been subjected to in some of his most formative childhood memories. 

The Maester of his father’s keep had discovered his self-anointed scars, all across his arms, legs, and stomach, and had been cross with him, advising him not to tell his father. Sandor had always hated the man, as he found learning his letters excruciatingly hard. His teacher was condescending and irritable, growing increasingly frustrated every year with the young Sandor’s general distaste for literature and his slow reading pace. Despite also being terrified of Gregor, the Maester had once, in private, conceded to Sandor that he thought Gregor somewhat unusually ‘slow’ and not even worth teaching at all. Gregor Clegane could barely read anything.

Despite knowing he’d never become a scholar, being a warrior had always been his calling. A knight, even, but Sandor learned quickly that knighthood and vows meant very little, in the end. When he was eleven, he was drafted by Tywin Lannister to fight in Robert’s Rebellion, and by ten and two, he had killed his first. By his thirteenth nameday, which was more or less celebrated in quiet isolation in a Lannister war tent a few short months after he had gutted his first ever man, Sandor had firmly decided never to take his knightly vows. This is it , he had said to himself. It’s all I’ve ever had, and all I’ll ever be.

Only a few short months prior, his father died in a hunting accident, though Sandor had reason to suspect Gregor had grown impatient and wanted his inheritance before the Sack of King’s Landing was to take place. At the time, Tywin Lannister had already given word of his intent to join Robert’s Rebellion properly. Sure, Gregor was dim-witted, but smart enough to know that it would best serve him for his father to die, as their knighted father, too, was intending to go into battle per Tywin’s order. Sandor always thought Gregor believed their father’s presence on the battlefield, as he was a similarly massive man, would only serve to stifle his own intended glory. That, and he likely wanted to be a landed Lord as soon as possible.

This particular evening, Sandor’s mind was swimming with dark, brooding thoughts. He took a seat on his bed, beginning the rushed process of removing all the parts of his armor, flinging them to the ground. His head fucking hurt. He had drunk more than he had intended to, and the long-cherished feeling of numbness was finally starting to kick in.

Sandor had to give the wench credit— it was the first time since coming to King’s Landing thirteen years prior that someone had dared confront him for the crimes of his house. As he lay his head down, he imagined how soft the skin of her wrist felt under his calloused palm, how her little tied linen coif had slid away, how strands of stray hair lay flat and pressed to her forehead, sticky with sweat, how her pupils dilated as she met his gaze, as he loomed above her.

Notes:

Yeah, there's a playlist or whatevah: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0DGOYf8rPif5ePTf5Gdl4X?si=c4fa7c8977f94d2a

Chapter 3: An Cailín Rua

MARIYA III

Two weeks had passed when Mari arrived at a discreet servant’s door on the eastern side of the Red Keep an hour before dawn, all of her meagre belongings slung over one shoulder. She had taken care to have a thorough bath the night prior and had combed, oiled, and braided her long auburn hair in anticipation of her new position, whatever it may be exactly. 

She felt oddly exposed without her coif, which (she winced at the memory) had been left utterly sullied and completely unsalvageable after her first little run-in with the Hound in the alley behind the alehouse. She had since been wrapping her hair with spare fabric, but knew this style was rather prudish and tacky, especially in such a fashionable capital city like King’s Landing. Her aunt had always insisted that a woman maintain a sense of modesty as a form of protection. However, since coming to King’s Landing, Mari had learned that her wits and cunning would always have to be what would save her life, not a piece of fabric.

She had also borrowed another barmaid’s kohl and rouge, following the older girl’s advice to use a bit of makeup to detract attention away from her scarred face. Surprisingly enough, wearing a bit of makeup helped tremendously. Mari could hardly recognize herself and felt oddly radiant. However, she consoled herself that this was a costume. She was to be playing a role; this much was clear from the note passed to her one evening during her shift, the deliverer, a little girl in rags, vanishing before she could thank her. 

Where the first sun touches stone, find the door, knock three, wait three, knock three. It was a simple, easy enough message, and Mari admittedly found it somewhat thrilling. A real Lordly whisper! My very first!

Gloria Waters had taken her leave fairly well, seemingly happier to let her go than to keep her as an employee. After the Hound had left the alehouse that night, Gloria had immediately burst into her room to check on her well-being. Mari had assured the bar owner that nothing had happened between them and that she was still unscathed. The alehouse owner did not seem to believe her. “Your preciousness won’t serve you, girl,” she had said. “Though I feel for ye. Must’ve been real terrible to lose your maidenhead to that brute.”

The night prior, a cloaked figure had handed her a piece of parchment as she served a tankard of ale to a table of rowdy soldiers. She had slipped the note into her apron and continued with work, which had become far easier now that the Hound had laid some sort of territorial, lupine claim on her. No more men dared touch her, much less look at her, as she took orders and distributed ale. It was almost comical how easy her job had become since his intervention, and only just as she was about to abandon it, beyond the scope of her great-uncle's surveying discretion, to traverse right into the heart of the storm.

She had arrived at the servant’s entrance and did as the note commanded. Mari knocked three times, waited three seconds, and knocked three times again. Finally, a grey-haired, veiled woman, perhaps forty to fifty years of age, opened the door, her amber-brown eyes scrutinizing her from head to toe with a look that bordered on contempt.

“The new bird?”

“Aye.”

“Well, come on in, then.”

Mari followed the woman inside, marveling as she watched the woman proceed to re-lock what appeared to be more than a dozen fastenings. “I—“

“Yes, I know ,” the elder servant sighed. “Another birdie for the spiderweb.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow…”

“I’m something of an all-knowing, neutral party,” the servant continued. “He and I have an arrangement. I train his birds, keep an eye on them, but not for his sake. For the sake of all the poor women and children he smuggles into this bloody place.” The servant cleared her throat, evidently fighting back an urge to roll her eyes as she grabbed onto Mari’s arm, practically dragging the girl along down a series of overly complicated winding corridors of stone. “You are to be a replacement lowborn handmaiden for our last, filling a variety of flexible roles as the Lannisters see fit,” the older female servant began, starting a brutally swift pace down the hallway, Mari nearly jogging to keep up with her, the woman’s grip like a vice on her wrist. “You will wake early, change their chamberpots, bring them their food and drink, and attend to whatever else they command of you. You will address them as ‘my Lord’ or ‘my Lady’ or ‘your Grace’ to the King and Queen, and you will not, under any circumstances, be left alone with the King. And, importantly, you will never look at them. You will only speak if you are spoken to. Do you understand?”

“What’s wrong with the King?” Mari asked innocently, receiving an utterly scalding look from the older woman. 

“The last one left carrying his bastard in her belly, that’s what. The Spider had her sneak out, just like the last one. Gave her a bloody sack of gold dragons, which I’m sure pleased her most. Enough to get her and her unborn child away in one piece and to start a new, bloody life. Almost seems, by now, that these wenches want to get knocked up… seems worth the coin, at least to me…” 

Mari suddenly felt light-headed. Even the prospect of being alone with the Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. She could not deny that the idea of him being a bit of a pervert made her feel nauseous, her hands suddenly starting to shake with nerves. “Who is the Spider? I… I was brought here by…”

“Oh, so you’ve met Lord Varys, then?” Her enunciation was boldly sarcastic. Mari couldn’t help but like the woman.

“Aye, that’s who I met. Why is he called the ‘Spider’?”

“Because that little scheming eunuch has his grubby perfumed and powdered hands in everyone’s damn business, even mine!” The old servant guffawed. “My name is Jaenis. And yours, girl?”

“Mariya. But I prefer Mari.”

“Well, we all do prefer a lot of things, don’t we?” Jaenis squawked. Mari stifled a laugh. “And, by the way, if any bloke asks you who employed you, you tell them it was me . It should be clear enough as to why. Understood?”

“Aye.”

Finally, the women had arrived at a bustling corner in the lower levels of the keep, where a long string of shabby wooden doors lined the area, and many women and girls scampered back and forth, dressed identically in loose-fitting yet revealing dresses, adorned with subtle bands of gold jewelry. This must be where the handmaidens and lowly-born servants kept their quarters, she mused. The girls must’ve belonged to the wide range of noble Ladies who resided in the Keep, as some of their attire differed slightly, reflecting various regional or cultural differences, the likes of which Mari had only read about in books loaned by her uncle.

“Now, yours is the third from the left on the far western end. You’ll be taking over from the last girl. The bunk is all readied, cleaned, and washed.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re damn welcome. Now, get changed. Sosan should be inside. She’ll be the one to show you the real ropes. Get you acquainted with the castle. All the little hidden corridors where you will be expected.” 

“I… Thank you.“ Before Mari could ask anything else, Jaenis had already disappeared. 

Taking a moment to pause and breathe through her nerves, she went to the third door from the westernmost side of the hallway, as per the elder servant’s directions, and opened the door, where she was met with a girl, open-mouthed, snoring, sprawled on the bottom bunk, evidently completely exhausted. The sun had not yet risen, after all.

Mari paused in the doorframe, feeling a bit guilty about interrupting the handmaiden’s slumber, but finally tapped a few times loudly on the wood. The girl, likely the one called Sosan, awoke with a sudden jolt, her eyes settling on the strange newcomer standing before her. A brief, flashing look of terror at being awoken by a stranger was immediately met by a stern, albeit somewhat curious and playful countenance.

“Oh, you’re the new bird the Spider caught in his web,” Sosan mused, her accent thick and strange, her skin a rich golden color, her straight hair surprisingly light, like yellow-oak leaves during the autumnal season, long, gorgeous (Mari couldn’t help but blush at the sight of it), her dark brown eyes cunning and sharp. Mari had never heard an accent quite like it before. “My name’s Sosan. And, before you ask a hundred silly questions, I am from Pentos. Well, my mother was, but my father was a Westerosi merchant who often visited her at the whorehouse. Thus, me .”

“My name is Mariya. But please call me Mari. I’m from the Westerlands, well, the North too, I guess. Right where the North begins in the Riverlands. I was raised in a marsh, a three-day’s ride north of the Twins, on the border in the southern reach of the Neck.”

Sosan smirked, her gaze scrutinous. “Your accent gives you away, Mari. We’re alike. So, what is it, you’re a smallfolk’s daughter? A disgraced Lord, perhaps? Are you a bastard?”

“Yes, that’s it, um, the first one,” Mari sighed, taking note of the empty top bunk. “My family was simple smallfolk. I’m no bastard. My parents were wedded under the oath of the Seven.” 

“Not all that Northern, then.”

“Not really, no. My grandfather sought work as a laborer in the south, and he had converted to the faith from worshipping the old gods. To make their new life easier,” she replied. “I’m sorry, Jaenis had told me you would help me. I think I’m due to practice my curtsey. I need a dress, too. And I’m sure there’s an awful lot else I don't know.”

The handmaiden nodded, yawned, stretched, and rose. “We’ll get to it, then. Your dress is up there, where the last one left it. You’re a bit taller and bigger than her, but I still think it’ll fit you. I can hem it for you later, but, for today, it will have to do.”

Mari scaled the rickety ladder, reaching into the bed, pulling out the long, dusty pink-colored silk taffeta, adorned with gold-laced engravings, with a matching Lannister gold-threaded leather belt. And this was meant to be the lowborn handmaiden's attire, too. “Wow… It’s so beautiful… ” Mari murmured beneath her breath, just to be met with a snide chuckle from her new roommate. “I’ve never worn anything so nice, much less touched silk before.” 

Upon lowering herself from the ladder, she blushed, watching as Sosan’s dark eyes trickled up and down her body, unsure of whether she should change right then and there. She did not particularly like for others to see her bare body, not even her female cousins back home.

“What, are you shy or something?”

“Um, no. I suppose I’m not. Not really,” Mari murmured, beginning to untie the laces around her bust at the front of her outer brown wool kirtle, letting the dense, well-worn garment fall to the floor before she untied her shift in the back, letting the fabric fall as well before frantically scooping up the many folds and layers of the deceptively complicated gown, her face burning red and utterly unsure how to put the damn thing on. 

“Here, let me help you,” Sosan sighed, only slightly exasperated, deft and nimble fingers working alongside the dress’s many pleats, pulling it tight over Mari’s head. The dress did not fit particularly well around her chest and stomach, and felt suffocating, although she wasn’t even wearing a proper corset. “Your chest is quite bigger than hers. Were you with child before?” 

“What?! No! ” Mari practically yelled, her face red hot and embarrassed. “I’m only ten and nine years… I’m… I’m a maiden… Not that it’s anyone’s business. Do we not get a bloody brassiere to wear with these? I feel like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop.” This last little quip made Sosan laugh.

“A maiden , eh? Oh really? And I’m a silent fuckin’ sister. Jaenis told me you were a tavern wench that Varys picked up from Flea Bottom.”

“No one wanted me.” A half-lie? “I just liked to sweep. Sort the labeling on imports. Pickling was a real favorite pastime of mine. Thrilling stuff, as you can imagine.”

“Lucky you. Men who frequent alehouses are scum. I’m sure they are all riddled with diseases. Green dripping cocks, and the like.” This made Mari laugh.

“Lots of toothless soldiers with dents in their heads.”

“Lots of killers . Lots of rapers of little girls. My mother had me when she was nothing more than a young girl herself,” Sosan mused, getting around to tightening the belt around Mari’s waist. “She was ten when she first bled, and so she had followed in her own mother’s footsteps… But I apologize. It was an intrusive kind of question, wasn't it? You might have to get used to it around here, though. Everyone knows everyone’s business, especially other little birds. Most of ‘em are raggedy children in the kitchen. That’s just how it is here. But the food they make is good. You get to eat well, as much as you like, and I think you ought not to be so ashamed of fucking, if push comes to shove. It’s bound to happen, isn't it? Unless you take some sort of monastic vow of chastity, I suppose, and become a Septa and teach little highborn girls about philosophy and Targaryen cousin-sister-brother-mother-uncle rutting.” Sosan was the talkative type, her accent lilted and pleasant to the ear. “Are you particularly religious? You have that nervousness about you. You mentioned following the Seven. The last girl did, too. She was a bit of a bitch, all pious but still slack-jawed, but so eager to open her legs for the King… But I can’t judge. I’m not too pious myself. My mother followed the Lord of Light well, poorly , but she did. They believe this life is hell, but to believe is salvation. Can’t say I disagree on the first part.”

Mari’s head reeled from the girl’s monologuing. “I… Are we allowed to visit the Sept?”

“Oh, sure. After dark, when all the Lords and Ladies are done whinging for more gold, women, or servants, whatever the hell they whinge about to their gods. The nobles here don’t like to pray alongside anyone lowborn.” Mari nodded hesitantly, feigning easy understanding. “Is that your real hair?” Sosan asked, taking Mari by surprise.

“What?”

“You’ve got a streak of dark brown in the front. It has a tighter curl. The rest is reddish. Do you put dye in it?”

“No, it's just like that. There’s another one,” Mari grinned, feeling suddenly girlish, reaching in the underside of her hair to withdraw another lock of dark brown, almost near-black, showing Sosan. “I used to tell my cousins growing up that a bog witch cursed me.”

“Did she?”

Mari shrugged playfully. “Maybe, who knows!” She smiled as her remark elicited a cheery laugh from the handmaiden.

“Now, Mari, it’s nearly dawn. It’s best to be there long before the children wake up. Shadow and watch me closely, and I’ll show you how best to take care of a few blonde-haired brats and not get molested by the King. Um, don’t repeat that, by the way. Just don’t look him in the eye. That’s like foreplay to him these days. The man is bloody desperate. No longer the handsome stag of the Trident, he is. Now he’s as wide as he is tall!” Sosan laughed.

“Aye,” Mari nodded, suddenly realizing how far she was in over her head. “Let’s go, then.”

When Lord Varys had approached her on the outskirts of Flea Bottom, she had been utterly charmed, in awe of the prospect of leaving the alehouse and pursuing some manner of social ascension. Now, she was only just beginning to realize that the Red Keep was, above all else, a grand stage, and she was to become one of its willing performers. 

 

SANDOR III

Sandor woke from yet another strange, irritating dream where a girl with auburn-red hair with that damned unusual dark streak ( perhaps she was touched with black magic? Although Sandor hardly believed in such things) laughed in his arms, pointing out and naming ships along the horizon of the Narrow Sea. Freckles spanned across her face as her eyes crinkled in a beaming smile, her scent salty yet floral. It was revolting, and so pathetically romantic, and made him feel like Florian the bloody Fool.

He had, in the weeks since their rather unpleasant encounter, visited the brothel in Flea Bottom he had once frequented several years back, but had found the encounter altogether unexciting, nearly leaving halfway through before reluctantly deciding to see the use of his gold to its unceremonious conclusion. The anger and wrath in the little tavern wench’s words lingered in his mind– I hate you . It had made the whole experience with another woman almost unpleasant, and he had quietly sworn never to return. 

After briefly relieving himself, Sandor dressed and began to fasten his armor, having become something of an expert at doing it all himself ever since his last squire had suffered a nervous breakdown. Sure, it was partially his fault that he had scared the lad to the point of the boy publicly urinating himself, but it was no fault of Sandor Clegane that the squire Tywin Lannister had picked for him had been utterly incompetent. 

Then, he made his way down to the training yards, withdrawing his longsword and whacking the training dummy nearly to a maimed, straw-stuffed pulp. Ladened with sweat, his anger had subsided somewhat, and he retreated to the bathhouse to clean himself enough for duty, which would begin just after dawn. However, there were occasional mornings when the Lannisters were late to rise. He washed his hair, scrubbed both sides of his face with the customary lard soap provided to all lowly soldiers, and picked out a fresh change of underclothes before returning to his quarters, donning his armor and plates, and making his way to his assignment.

For the next hour, Sandor diligently stood guard by Robert Baratheon’s chambers, half-listening to the ongoing screaming match between the abdominous King and his dreadful, yellow-haired wife. Of course, there was something deep within him that pitied her for her terrible marital predicament, but, at the same time, he had the misfortune of serving Cersei Lannister and her family for the past thirteen years, since he was only a boy of ten and two years. Although she often called him ‘dog’ and had even spat in his general direction on a few noteworthy occasions when her marital bed was the most dysfunctional and chaotic, he knew that the Queen trusted him with her life. All the more ironic that he would so often imagine strangling her and her posh and pompous Kingsguard twin brother. 

Finally, the door was thrown open, Cersei glaring and disheveled, several of her long blonde braids falling out of place, her usually eerily perfect visage marked by what appeared to be the distinct hand-shaped redness of a harsh slap from Robert. Sandor was quick to avert his eyes, staring forward, his mouth a hard, thin, grimaced line, staring forward at a piece of stone ever so slightly out of place in the corridor. “ Dog ,” she barked. Sandor’s back straightened. “Wake up the prince in preparation for his sword lesson.” Her eyes were red and teary, her typically refined countenance anxious, frayed, worried, and restless. “Hurry.”

“Yes, your Grace,” was his immediate reply, bowing in her direction and making his way down the winding hall. 

Joffrey Baratheon had grown more and more into a petulant, whining little weakling cunt as the years had gone on. He had been a decent enough little brat, but quickly grew spoiled and petulant. His doting mother only encouraged this behavior, and Sandor had reason to believe she saw far too much of herself in her firstborn, as though she wished to impart her very soul and essence into the boy. 

Sandor knocked at Joffrey’s door, hearing no reply. He then opened it, seeing the boy sprawled across his bed, tangled in his finely embroidered gold-threaded sheets, snoring softly. “It's time to rise, my Lord,” he said, his voice gruff, impassive, cold.

Joffrey’s bright green eyes shot open, grimacing as they scoured Sandor’s face. “Pity I have to look at something so ugly when I wake up.” Despite being a little boy of only nine years of age, he had an oddly, almost frighteningly developed, whip-sharp vocabulary and wicked cadence when he spoke.

Already, a few lowly male servant boys had flooded into the room, their heads down, as they helped dress the boy. Sandor waited patiently by the door in preparation to escort the prince to his lesson, his face in its typical blank, scowling reticence. It was not uncommon for Joffrey to hit, beat, or berate the lowborn servant boys who had been tasked with dressing him and bringing him meals. The blonde creature was a bully through and through and had always quietly reminded Sandor of his brother and his own bloody, miserable childhood.

“Are you ready now, my Lord?” Sandor inquired.

“Yes, yes, let’s go already!” little Joffrey sneered, pushing aside the servants and rushing past Sandor into the hallway. Sandor let out the slightest huff of an exasperated sigh and followed the boy out into the corridor, before an odd, familiar figure caught his eye.

He thought he had seen a ghost, or perhaps he was hallucinating. He had seen her, he was sure of it; his face briefly lost control of its constant sneer and grimace, panic filling his chest as he fought the urge to turn around and peer down the long corridor, where he believed he had seen her, dressed as a handmaiden. She had flinched as well, and he had seen it. He had seen her instantaneous recognition of him, too. How could he be missed?

“Dog, come ,” Joffrey’s shrill voice immediately broke Sandor’s awe, his gaze still fixed on the long wave of curly auburn hair (it was the first time he had ever seen it properly worn down, thoroughly combed, and unbraided, oh how he longed to run his fingers through it) , now disappearing around the corridor, in the direction of little Myrcella Baratheon’s room.

Sandor, still in awe, feeling as though he were outside of his own body, followed Joffrey to the training yard, where he would receive training from the master-at-arms, Ser Aron Santagar, whom Sandor did not have a firm opinion of, aside from loathing the man’s puffy vanity and foppish swordsmanship, emphasizing the art of the ‘dance’ of the blade (an expression which made him want to groan aloud and roll his eyes) rather than practicality, which he much preferred. The sweetness of a kill far outweighed the showiness and absurdity of whatever bullshite Ser Aron was trying to impart on the untalented boy.

He stood diligently at the corner of the yard for the remainder of the lesson, keeping quiet, his body straight, his arms folded across his chest. He knew better than to watch the lesson. The boy’s weakness and incompetence would do nothing but frustrate and irritate him, souring his mood for the remainder of the day.

Sandor’s mind traveled to the woman. Yes , he was sure that it was her. Of bloody fucking course she would slither her way into the Red Keep, surely to torment him. He imagined it was better than spending another day in that slimy alehouse in that shabby little cramped room with that small, little straw bed. 

“I want the dog to teach me something!” Joffrey protested, breaking Sandor’s train of thought. “He’s the best killer in Westeros. Why isn’t he teaching me how to fight? This is all so stupid!”

Sandor briefly locked eyes with Ser Aron and huffed, looking away to the ground. “Now, my young prince, it is unlikely that you will become as big as that dog over there, so you need to learn strategy . You need to learn the dance of swordsmanship. The tactfulness . The art of the blade. You will not be able to rely solely on striking terror into the hearts of your enemies. You don’t have such a hideous face, either, my Lord. You will need to acquire skills .”

Sandor felt like spitting at the fop’s armored feet. All knights were the same— they loved hearing the sound of their own bloody voices. And, were he not such an obedient, passively loyal cur, he would’ve loved to promptly tell the knighted cunt-at-arms that he was certain he would outmatch him in one-to-one combat, not only with his size, but with his skill. Growing up with a beast of a brother who outmeasured him by six whole inches, Sandor always knew that tact and strategy would serve him well when the day came when he could finally stick Gregor Clegane’s severed head on a pike.

“This is boring,” Sandor heard Joffrey finally moan. “Dog, take me inside. I’m tired of my lesson.”

“Yes, my Lord,” he gruffed, taking the opportunity to give Ser Aron a nasty look, leading the boy back into the Keep, upstairs to his private chambers.

As he lumbered back into the Red Keep with little Joff in tow, he saw her again, this time with a taller, thinner lowborn handmaiden carrying what seemed to be golden plates of half-eaten meals from the night before, her eyes fixed straight ahead, pointedly avoiding him. Sandor knew he was a noticeable fellow; he’d been reminded as such his entire life. As Joff entered his room and Sandor moved to guard the door, he waited, and waited, and waited, until he could get the wench alone and have her answer the one question she had refused to during their last encounter. 

He found her that very same evening, however, walking alone through the halls, her eyes still forward, pointedly refusing to look at him.  So, graceful and lithe and with all the fucking tact he could muster, he made quick work to pin her against the wall of the torch-lit corridor, thankful there were no other souls up at said hour.

“How in the hells did you get the Lannister blade, girl?” Sandor questioned, his voice husky and dark, her wide eyes staring up at him, his arm pressed against the wall to her side, preventing her from scurrying or slipping away. “You never answered me, back then.”

Her scarred lips parted for a moment, eyes drifting to his own mouth, then back up to his eyes, before her face twisted into something more confident, specific. “Oh, bugger off, Clegane.”

Sandor felt his face grow hot. The damned wench seemed eager and able to push his buttons in a way most people, even armed men, did not dare to do. “Tell me, girl, or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“You wouldn’t dare kill me,” she snapped, glaring up at him, her eyes shining, crossing her arms tightly around her chest, which seemed oddly defined in the surprisingly ill-fitting— No , Sandor quickly shook himself out of… that . “You made that clear enough.”

“I’ll fucking rape you, then,” he growled, feeling disgusted at himself for uttering such foul words. “I’ll rape you and then kill you. Maybe the other way ‘round.” His anger fueled him, and he continued with such foolishness, spewing words he neither meant nor believed. It was something of an odd battle tactic he had taken up as a youth in Tywin’s army during Robert’s Rebellion— he would say foul, disgusting, violent things. It would stir up a kind of particular rage in his heart, one that propelled him forward on the battlefield and always secured his respective victory.

“You wouldn’t dare touch me. Stop acting like a fool and saying things you don’t mean. It’s unbecoming.”

“Just answer me this, wench. How in the hells does a lowborn wench get her hands on Lannister-steel?” Sandor began to quietly tell himself that this was all a matter of duty, that he was serving the Lannisters by confronting and questioning those who seemed to possess odd, ulterior motives or who were conspiring against his masters. “I’m going to get my fucking answer today, girl.”

“Doing your duty to the Lannisters, are you? Well, then. Fine. I’ll tell you.” The girl paused, twisting her face into a grimace, her eyes darting away for a moment before returning to his. “It was from my grandfather. It was originally a gift from Tytos Lannister, years and years ago. My grandfather provided his best produce and fresh lamb for a celebratory feast after a hunt in which the man nearly lost his life. Now, can I go, Ser ? Or would you like me to account for he complete oral histories of the Westerlands? Perhaps I can recite the Lannister’s genealogical tree from memory, for your pleasure .”

“ Your grandfather provided the banquet for Tytos-fucking-Lannister?!?” Sandor knew he was practically gawking at the girl. “You are from the Westerlands, then, like me.” Sandor momentarily wondered whether she knew that the feast was to celebrate the founding of his own house. His grandfather, the kennelmaster, had lost a leg but survived, as Cleganes had the somewhat unfortunate habit of doing. An uncanny coincidence.

“Aye, sort of,” she replied, shrugging. Suddenly, she looked almost bored, her eyes wandering down the corridor. “Now, Clegane, will you let me go? I have a job to do.”

“I’ll let you go if you swear to leave me the fuck alone,” he hissed, leaning close to her, almost taken aback by just how fresh and lovely she smelled. It only angered him further.

“Are you asking for my sake, or yours?” she snapped back. “Now, let me go, ya cunt.” Somehow, Sandor had no idea why, but he conceded to her biting words (in whole truth, it shocked him, too) . “And maybe you should leave me alone, eh? You’re the one who cornered me, not the other way around. Now, good bloody day to you.”

As she disappeared, Sandor knew the girl was far more than her initial appearance. Her sudden reemergence in his life, much less his immediate periphery, was nothing short of unnerving, but it had undoubtedly stirred something within him. And this made him angry, filling him with a kind of strange, tickling sensation beneath his skin, much like that he experienced in the heat and rage of battle. He shook his shaggy head, grimaced, but made sure to return to his duty swiftly.

 

MARIYA IV

Mari thought she concealed well how terrified she was when the Hound of King’s Landing confronted her yet again, grasping her arm tightly and pinning her against the corridor wall. She had fought the urge to cry out for help, instead trying her very best to keep her wits and composure about her. He had let her go, albeit after a litany of absurd threats. I’ll have to suffer years of this torment if I am to continue working here… Then, the thought crossed her mind. What if I gave all this up and went back home to my uncle?

Before she could dwell on the consideration, her feet had already carried themselves to the yard, where she recalled she was meant to fetch tubs of water to prepare a bath for the little princess, and then swiftly make herself scarce. Her mind continued to wander as she hefted the water from the well and strode back to attend to her duties, paying keen attention to every gesture Sosan made. At the end of the day, this sort of labor was not nearly as difficult as helping out on her great-uncle’s homestead, but still marginally more demanding than sorting through jars of pickles. 

When they were finally dismissed, the sky outside the nearest window was pitch-dark, and her stomach grumbled. Sosan took her by the wrist and led her from the Lannister chambers, beginning a gradual descent down to the first level of the keep.

“There are things you can do here for fun, too,” Sosan explained. “It’s not so grim and grueling a life. I’m sore most days, well…” A rather wicked smile spread across her face. “You find ways to make your own fun.” Mari did not understand her, and Sosan seemed to notice. “You know, it’s not so unheard of to take a lover in a place like this,” Sosan whispered coyly. “I have taken to bedding Jalabhar Xho. You haven’t seen him yet, but he’s an exile from the Summer Isles, far to the south. Always dresses beautifully. ”

“Oh, well, point him out to me the next time you see him,” Mari replied, trying to still her heart, her mind still murky and chaotic after her chance encounter with the Hound that very evening, her mind lingering on strange, shameful thoughts she dared not speak aloud. “But… is it acceptable? What if someone finds out?”

“Well, you do have to be smart and clever about it,” Sosan explained, as though it were such an obvious truth. “Jalabhar is fine because he’s an exile. Hardly a threat to anyone. Isolated, too, and wholly dependent on the Red Keep to maintain his lifestyle, keep him safe. Same as us. I have nothing beyond these walls, Mari. No living family. Besides, everyone knows Varys gives him extra gold, being from the Summer Isles and all, with their, well, oh, never mind. We have hardly anything else in common, anyway, but I don’t mind that.”

Mari cocked her head to one side. “What do you mean?” Sosan cast her a look, as they were still in public, and they continued in relative silence. “Well, does he treat you well?”

“Of course,” Sosan snickered. “That’s what matters. But we all know our place and our role. You’ll come to understand that, in time. Many things are best left unspoken, but you will learn them in due time, as I did, as well all did.” 

They made their way to the kitchens, where Mari was in awe at the sheer quantity of leftover food available for them to eat. They supped with the other serving boys and girls, the majority of whom were under ten and five years of age, though the pair mostly kept to themselves, chatting idly all the while. Their meal consisted of leftover fish, potatoes, cooked greens, and all manner of pickled vegetables, all of which were far more decadently and finely-seasoned than anything Mari had ever had before. They were even allotted leftover desserts – delicate vanilla and cardamom cakes covered in dusted sugar and honey. It had been a long time since Mari’s belly had felt full and sated, as even back home in her uncle’s homestead, they faced difficult crop shortages from time to time, and even with his coin, times could be challenging. But in the Red Keep, it seemed, food, wine, and ale were always so plentiful, to the point of true gluttonous excess.

Once they had eaten their fill, the girls made their way back downstairs to the privacy of their chambers, and Mari changed into the undershift she had worn on her very first day, which she now used exclusively as a makeshift nightgown. “Sosan, can I ask you a question? Not about work or serving, but, um… I suppose it’s a personal matter…”

“Certainly,” Sosan replied, leaning before the grimy, scratched-up mirror hanging on the stone wall by the door, licking her fingerpad and rubbing off the day’s kohl from her eyes. “What is it?”

“I… I don’t understand taking a lover… I mean, I think I know the general logistics of it… I learned a great deal from the other barmaids, from their chatter and, well, the sounds they made. But I don’t understand why one would…” she sputtered, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. It’s such a stupid question. I guess I don’t understand how and why you go about it.”

“Oh, my sweet…” She walked over and put both her hands on Mari’s shoulders. “Well, I’m just a year older than you, then. But I can tell we were raised rather differently,” Sosan began. “I had to take my first man when I was only twelve. I was too young. He hurt me terribly. My mother was the one who told me I had to do it. Not only that, but he was old, ugly, smelled terrible… all the worst things that could have gone wrong went wrong. And I had to do it again and again, for four whole more years. Now, I have more of a choice here than I ever did back in Pentos.” Mari smiled at her story, feeling bad for the handmaiden, not entirely sure what to say or offer her. “Even if we are bound to this place. We have far more freedoms here, wouldn’t you say?” Mari wasn’t sure if she agreed, and her doubt made itself known across her face. Sosan let out an audible sigh. “You really are a maiden.”

“You doubted me?”

“Of course I doubted you,” Sosan replied instantly. “You’re not hideous or repulsive by any stretch of the imagination, even if you have a little scar. Not even a little Lord came knocking at your family’s door, asking for a daughter?”

“No… I mean, my great-uncle wanted me to marry his sons, but they were all pocked and awkward. They were like brothers to me growing up in their home. It would’ve been too strange.” In truth, it was not very common for peasant girls in Westeros to marry young like highborns so often did.

“And no man at the alehouse caught your fancy, either? I know we called them green-cocked and all, but surely there was not even a single person–”

“ No. ” Mari wrapped her hands tightly around herself. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Do you prefer women, then?” Sosan asked. The nonplussed nature of the question threw Mari off guard, and her jaw fell open. “Is that a yes?”

“I… I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

“Do you ever want to kiss or touch a woman, like a man would?”

Mari was shocked at this query. “I didn’t know… that was possible…”

Sosan let out a long sigh and rested a hand on her cheek. “Listen, my friend, you will learn, in time, that there are all kinds of ways to love. And ways to take one’s own pleasure. I seek out Jalabhar because he and I have something important in common. We’re outsiders, exiles, abandoned by our people. Misfits. That’s why we get on, why we have come to an agreement.”

“But he wouldn’t marry you,” Mari said, confused.

“Well, yes, but I don’t want to marry him, either. You’re missing the point. This kind of thing is hardly even about marriage.”

Mari thought of the teachings of the elderly septon who would often visit her grandfather’s homestead and the nearby thatched outcroppings of houses constructed by other local smallfolk. He was a reasonably tall man for his age, and walked accompanied by a shaggy dog and sometimes a donkey, always barefoot, to atone for what he called the “sins of his youth.” He had advised her great-uncle to keep his daughters and Mari safe and away from the leering eyes of men, to let them grow to an appropriate age before even the slightest consideration of marriage. The thought that something like this, something so holy and sacral, could be expedited. It made everything all the more befuddling.

“Is it about wanting children?” Mari asked.

“Oh, no , of course not!” Sosan retorted. She momentarily wondered if she had offended her new friend. “Besides, I’m barren. Doesn’t matter much. Not anything to gain from marriage, really, lest you’re offered gold or lands. But such a match is rare, especially for women like us. Freedom suits me more.”

Freedom . The word felt poisonous even in Mari’s mind. There was no bloody freedom, she thought. Certainly not in a place like this, not even back home.

Once Sosan was truly asleep and snoring softly, Mari had snuck out, putting on a cloak and slippers, finding her way to the Great Sept of Baelor that she had inquired about earlier. Finding no one inside and the heavy stone door graciously unlocked, she went to the collection of statues of the Seven. For a moment, she was unsure whom she should pray to. Finally, her eyes settled upon the Maiden, who her great-uncle had once said was one of his niece’s great protectors. Then, her eyes trailed to the Warrior, gallantly grasping his longsword. The dim glow of moonlight lit her features through the large, framed stained-glass windows, which told elaborate chronicles of kings, knights, princesses, and heroes. She was hardly accustomed to worshipping somewhere so fancy and grand, used to only rough charcoal depictions of the Seven on stone faces rather than such finely constructed idols.

Unsure of what to do, she quietly recited an old lullaby under her breath, one she recalled her great-aunt singing to her as a child, tucked in bed alongside her female cousins, back when she had still refused to speak. “The Father’s face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong… the Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife… the Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e’er we go… the Crone is very wise and old, and sees our fates as they unfold… the Smith, he labors day and night to put the world of men to right… the Maiden dances through the sky, the lives in every lover’s sigh… the Seven Gods who made us all, are listening if we should call…” 

Mari felt impossibly silly, her face growing hot and embarrassed, although she knew there was no one else in the Sept with her. Then, she realized, no one sang a line about the Stranger, who was to be forgotten on the lips of little girls and boys. Glancing about the Sept, she found the statue of the aspect of death and things unknown, who wore a heavy hood, its body arched and uncanny, almost animal-like, predatory yet passive, neither male nor female.

She turned on her heels and swiftly left the Sept of Baelor without another word, having not uttered a single prayer.

Chapter 4: I’d Like To Walk Around In Your Mind

296 AC

 

SANDOR IV

He would see the red-haired handmaiden nearly every day for the subsequent calendar year, and she would always offer him a sly, irritatingly knowing smile; the other honey-haired girl, who was always at her side, would continue ignoring him, never looking past his boots. Even after he had spoken to her so harshly, she still offered him a bright, cheery smile, looking deep into his eyes as she had the previous year, when he gripped her smooth wrist in his hands in the alley behind the alehouse. 

She had told him to leave her alone, but Sandor was sure the wench was teasing him now. This was a game she was playing, he grumbled to himself. Did she take pleasure from his big, exaggerated overreaction? Did she enjoy the attention from the deformed, hideous brute of a man who was Cersei Lannister’s very own panting cur? It was all a mind-fuck.

One evening, late into the night, he had caught her and the other servant girl in the stables, petting Stranger, his steed, so named after one of the aspects of the Faith of the Seven, representing death and the unknown. It was an ironic choice of name, a bit of a morbid joke, what he thought at the time to be fitting for such an unruly stallion— originally a well-bred gift from the Lannisters, of course. 

Somehow, the ginger wench had managed to befriend the beast, and Sandor had walked into the stables to the girl feeding him bloody chopped apples and oats from a plate, evidently taken directly from the kitchens. “Oh, pardon us, Clegane,” she had chuckled, her eyes mischievous, almost teasing him, her ruddy and freckled cheeks flushing. Sandor had clenched his fists at his side, his eyes stormy. “We’ll be going, then. Had no idea this was your handsome destrier.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t bite your fuckin’ fingers off, girl,” he hissed. “My last squire lost three.”

“Oh, no, your stallion is a dear,” the girl cooed at the courser as though it were a sweet little soft babe, fingers detangling Stranger’s overgrown jet-black forelock. “A little nervous at first, that’s all. Gets agitated easily, but only if you touch him the wrong way. But he has a good, strong heart. Don’t you think?”

“Get the fuck away from Stranger, girl,” Sandor said, raising his voice in the way he knew to be intimidating. “Leave him be.”

“Stranger? How blasphemous!” she exclaimed, sighing and resolutely shoving the plate with the remaining oats and apples into Sandor’s arms, grasping the other handmaiden she was there with, the pair of them running off, bursting into a fit of giggles and girlish snorts. Sandor’s blood boiled . 

However, there was still a foolish little boy alive somewhere deep in his heart with an even more foolhardy dream that a woman like that could ever care for him.

So, for the next few months, alternating two to three times a week, Sandor would leave the plate of oats with slices of apples just outside of Stranger’s stall door (so the brutish stallion couldn’t get at it prematurely, of course) so she could take her pleasure in treating the beast. Perhaps she never came back; maybe some stableboy disposed of it or gave it to another destrier. He had no real way of knowing. But Sandor had a fleeting suspicion that the handmaiden was, at the very least, aware of his attempts at convoluted cordiality, offering him more fleeting smiles whenever they walked by each other in the corridors or when he caught her eye as she tended to the Lannister women’s needs.

Naturally, he met her gaze with a cold, nasty scowl, as rude and off-putting as he could manage, more desperate than he’d ever felt to be crass and harsh with a woman. He wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted from him, though he knew better than to discuss his feelings with any of the other soldiers and hired sellswords also residing in the Red Keep’s barracks. Best to keep it all to himself, he thought. Best to keep her at an arm’s length, to forget about the girl bearing his brother’s mark.

Midway through the year, he had been summoned to Cersei’s chambers to deliver, by hand, a vital message to her father, who was in Casterly Rock. It was a welcome relief to travel on the road, to have a break from the repetitive, stagnant life of the Red Keep, to gallop fiercely on Stranger, allowing the beast to stretch his legs for the first time in a while. And, of course, to put some space between himself and the woman who occupied his thoughts.

“This is an important message, dog ,” Cersei instructed him, her green eyes cold, firm, and unwavering. She had long grown used to his scars, but he knew they still pointedly disgusted her. The Queen had no patience for ugly things. “Its contents are worth more in gold than your mangled head. I expect you to return within the month. You will be compensated handsomely.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Sandor replied, nodding. 

Traveling alone to and from Casterly Rock on horseback in under a month would be a challenge, but nothing is impossible. He would need to ask the courtly farrier to re-shoe Stranger in preparation for the long ride,  he mused, before his eyes drifted to the bloody handmaiden, standing in the far back of the gilded room, pouring jug after jug of steaming water into a private bath basin, a small amount of the water spilling onto the front of her dress, pressing the dusky rose fabric taut to her skin, revealing the curve of her heavy breasts, the outline of her hardened nipples as the warm water instantly evaporated in the chill room. She quickly realized he was staring at her, her mossy eyes peering up at him through full, blonde-red lashes.

Sandor blinked and practically fled the chambers, making his way to the stables to prepare Stranger’s saddlebags for the long journey. He still didn’t know the girl’s bloody name, and had never asked. She only knew him as ‘Hound’ or ‘dog’ or simply ‘Clegane.’ Sandor’s mind felt out of control as he barked furious orders to the stablehands, deciding to leave the Red Keep as soon as possible in some convoluted effort to push back his agitation and, loath as he admitted it, his arousal at the obscene sight of her, dripping in warm bath water.

Sandor and Stranger raced along the goldroad, stopping at only three inns along the way, preferring to camp in the rocky woodlands as he had done as a boy soldier, which brought him a strange kind of pleasure. Out in the woods, where there were no souls for miles, he hardly remembered his face, where he could hunt for small birds and rabbits, enjoying the freshness of wild game in tandem with one of the many wineskins he had packed in anticipation of the journey. Stranger seemed pleased to make use of his long, strong legs, too, Sandor mused. It was a much-needed time for forgetting, a chance to distract his wandering mind.

He planned to pass far around Clegane’s Keep, not wanting to even look at the little pile of rocks his brother had claimed with such needless bloodshed. He did not wish to be reminded of the grey, suffocating halls or the demise of his little sister, Isadora. This was why a trip to the Westerlands, while a refreshing break from hearing Joff’s petulant cries all damn day, left him feeling heavy, ravaged, and more forlorn than usual. His only reprieve was the memory of her , which made him all the more flustered and angry with himself, like a foolish little boy.

Finally, to his relief, he arrived at the northernmost gate of Casterly Rock, having skirted far around the southeast, where his brother would be, idling his time, torturing his servants and smallfolk and the like. He handed a stableboy his horse, allowed for his armor to be briefly cleaned and polished, and strode into the Lord’s study, where he had been requested.

As he stood before Tywin Lannister, sitting at his desk, his cold eyes pouring over the contents of the surprisingly long message, he thought of her. Tywin certainly was taking his time, reading and rereading the contents of the scroll, and Sandor’s mind wandered. It was late, and the room was illuminated by a series of candles, many of which were suspended, the large, expansive window revealing a near-black expanse of the Sunset Sea.

“You have done well, Clegane,” he finally heard Tywin murmur. “You rode here in a mere eleven days— a first for any courier from King’s Landing. And I heard you took something of a detour, entering from the northernmost gate on the River Road.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I prefer riding through the wilderness. Being called a mere courier would’ve been taken as something of an insult from any other man. Still, Sandor knew better and kept himself blank-faced and taciturn before the head of House Lannister.

Sandor remained still before Tywin as the Lord of Casterly Rock began to pen his reply, seemingly unbothered by the looming shadow of the rigid giant man, which partially obscured his writing desk. After what felt like a small eternity, Tywin finished his letter, binding and sealing the scroll, presenting it before Sandor to take without giving him a single passing glance. Sandor reached forward and took the scroll, tucking it into his breastplate, as he still wore his complete set of armor from the road.

“Clegane, have you yet returned to your keep? Even to pay a visit?” It was a bizarre question, as Sandor had just begun to take his leave, and stopped in his tracks, turning around to face his liege Lord.

“No, my Lord. I have not returned in four and ten years. Ser Gregor holds all titles and lands,” he said, fighting against the furious scowl that threatened to spread across his features. “I have no reason to return, when my duty is to your daughter and your grandchildren in King’s Landing, my Lord.”

Tywin gave Sandor a peculiar look that he could not place. “You’re a loyal dog, Clegane. You wish for no more than what your master gives you, and you do not clamor for more rewards. I can respect that. In this sense, you differ from your brother.” Sandor could not help but feel nauseous. Tywin, of course, squeezed as much use out of his brother as he could get. While Sandor might be the bodyguard and sworn sword of the family, Gregor had become something of the lance, to be set upon their enemies, to wage wars, and to claim swaths of land. “I will seek to reward you handsomely. Someday, if your service remains loyal and true to my family, to the preservation of my lineage, unlike some, who wish to meddle in our affairs, I can ensure something worthwhile comes of it, Hound.” The last sentence disquieted Sandor, but he made no indication of this.

“I have no want of anything,” he rasped. A lie .

Tywin smiled, fox-like, withdrawing a small, finely-threaded coin purse from within his coat, tossing it across his desk in Sandor’s direction. “Good dog. Now, scurry on back to my daughter.”

He gathered up the coins without another word– more ale on the road, then. Sandor had begun his thundering ride back to King’s Landing, keen to get back, not particularly fond of riding on the road, much less risking a pass by any sorry bastards who were familiar at all with his House. By the time he stopped at an Inn halfway to Deep Den, he found himself, against his better judgment, ruminating on Tywin’s words and somewhat peculiar phrasing. The preservation of my lineage, unlike some, who wish to meddle in our affairs.  

He was not the most learned man, and he did not have an aptitude for letters, but Sandor had common enough sense to believe there were already pressing plans to arrange the three brats for marriage, even at their young age. The whole thing was unfair to them, he thought. His own father was keen to arrange for Gregor to marry, but thought little of his second son, especially after he tirelessly worked to cover up Isadora’s untimely death. He’d been told by his own bloody father more times than he could count that no woman would dare even look at him, much less marry him to some other descendant of lowborns gifted a House thanks to whatever groveling buggery they’d engaged in to clamor for said title, or perhaps some highborn’s neglected, unstable bastard. No , he thought it best to defer such grim, meandering, pointless thoughts, all of which trailed back to something he already knew, something that walked around in his mind all bloody day– that fucking little handmaiden bitch.

 

MARIYA V

Her schedule after her first full year in the Red Keep was reassuringly monotonous, and Mari was grateful for how effective a teacher Sosan had been, and how their friendship blossomed so naturally, quickly becoming a far deeper bond than she’d ever had, even with her flesh and blood south of The Neck.

The girls would rise at dawn, tend to their own needs, and pick up some food in the kitchens before scaling the series of tall, winding staircases until they reached Cersei Lannister’s chamber, as she tended to rise before her children, as many mothers did. It was not lost on Mari that there was a reason that she had her own private space away from the King. Their arguments were raucous, frequent, and unsettling. By the time Mari and Sosan usually arrived, Cersei would be speaking at hushed tones to her highborn handmaidens, who also were her bed warmers. Mari had quickly learned their names—Senelle, Taena, and Jocelyn—and also discovered that they, too, were not to be looked in the eye or addressed, much less spoken to, without being spoken to first. 

By dusk, she would escape to a certain broom closet in the kitchens (her little assigned spot), where she would play something of a “game of the ear” in which she would whisper anything of note uttered by any Lannister— man, woman, or child— to a little kitchen boy named Sully. He would, then, pass along the message to perhaps another lowborn servant, or even directly to the Spider himself, though Mari had no proper way of knowing. The latent danger of her role was one she did not care to dwell on. It made her job easier, as well, if she thought not of the risk she and Sosan partook in every day.

On the few occasions that she ever saw Lord Varys wandering the halls, he pointedly ignored her, acting as though they had never met before, and he had never extended his arm to her as he did by the docks on that fateful afternoon. Mari didn't mind and was told by Sosan never to acknowledge the eunuch unless acknowledged first, and to treat him just like any other proper Lord of the court. She certainly did not mind the extra one to three silver stags, as her supplemental pay tended to vary unpredictably; she would be given every month, tucked underneath her pillow for her to discover. Mari could not say she understood precisely what she was doing, but was pleased that Varys was pleased.

There wasn’t much to report in her first year in King’s Landing, as she was generally tasked with cleaning up after the Baratheon brats, as Sosan privately called them, and was practically never in the room with any of the adults, nay, the King nor Queen, for any significant period. Sure, the younger ones, Myrcella and Tommen, would sometimes speak at her, still innocent to the decorum of pointedly ignoring the lowborn handmaidens and servants, thinking of them more as decorative furniture than people.

Sosan had a longstanding hatred and rivalry with other lowborn girls in Cersei’s service—an unassumingly plain-looking, brown-haired girl named Bernadette, who was the daughter of a farmer from the Crownlands. Mari had no personal qualms with the girl, though they did not engage in idle talk, but knew that she was pointedly ambitious. Sosan claimed that her tendency to suck up to authority, particularly Cersei Lannister, seemed dangerous.

“Bernadette is the type of girl who will get you killed,” Sosan had said.

If there was one thing that stood out to her during the early years of her employment, it was just how much of a kindred spirit she would begin to feel with Clegane, who, like her and Sosan, was tasked with being a specter for the Lannister family, clinging to corners and the shadows, acting only when called upon like an obedient animal. Early on, why he was called ‘Hound’ had made itself quite apparent. He had gone all the way to Casterly Rock for them alone, miraculously completing the journey in under a month. 

If his hand-to-hand in training wasn’t enough of an indication of his might, the ease with which he travelled, the fear he struck in the hearts of the other servants and Lords and Ladies residing in the Keep, was telling enough. Sosan thought poorly of him, as did nearly everyone else. Still, Mari was kept alight by something akin to a morbid fascination, especially after they exchanged such harsh words on her first working day a year prior.

So, she’d always make sure to smile at him, and he’d scowl at her, as expected. 

However, she began to think she was winning the big man’s favor, slowly but surely, especially after she and Sosan had been playing with his warhorse (without realizing the beast was his, of course).

After their second encounter, Mari had noticed how the Hound would leave her plates of apples and oats for her to feed his horse, Stranger. Perhaps he thought she was doing him a favor, as she’d often brush or groom the stallion while she’d spoil him rotten. 

She had started doing this alone, without her friend, during the times in which they were apart (which were few and far between). She had a sense that he, at the very least, liked her. He had spared her harm from Ser Boros and Ser Trant— who, much to her pleasure, did not seem to recognize her in the slightest whenever she saw members of the Kingsguard consorting within the walls of the Red Keep— and he had treated her with an unusual, marked kindness, ever since the day they first met, which already felt like a lifetime prior.

She still had a fantastical, repressed, nagging desire to kill the Mountain lingering inside her, but she had a sense that there was little fealty, much less familial love, between him and his lesser brother. She was grateful, then, that her foolish plan to slit the Hound’s throat the year prior had not been able to come into fruition. She often thought of their encounter, of his protection. The Hound always walked around in her mind , she mused, just as he lingered in the shadows of her day-to-day life in King’s Landing.

 

297 AC

 

By the beginning of her second year in the Red Keep, Sosan and Mari had found a mother cat and a litter of newborn kittens, which they had immediately taken to their shared little room, bringing the little things all manner of delicious leftover meats and scraps from the kitchens. 

They would stay up late into the evening after their shift, cuddling and playing with all four — one orange, one tabby, one black, and one tortoiseshell. They had named them Aegon, Aenys, Rhaenys, and Visenya, though Mari had let Sosan pick out the name for the tortie mother, whom the handmaiden immediately called ‘Patsy.’ Mari thought it somewhat unfit. She had once been granted a semi-formal education by her learned great-uncle and had spent a period as a teenager memorizing the entire Targaryen lineage. Sosan hardly knew who these figures were, but indulged Mari’s impromptu cat “naming ceremony,” nonetheless. It was all the more scandalous given how hated a mere mention of the Dynasty in court could have the King positively fuming in an instant.

“Why name them after such old and dead Targaryens?” Sosan had asked. 

“Well, the orange little boy is going to be a big, scary conqueror, just like the real Aegon I,” Mari giggled. “But he’s a solitary, quiet little guy, too. Hardly makes a peep, doesn't he?” She lifted the full-bellied milk-drunk little orange kit, who, true to his stoic namesake, did not make a sound. “Just like the old King.” The irony of having a litter of cats named after founding members of the Targaryen Dynasty was not lost on Mari nor even Sosan, especially as they served Robert I Baratheon. It was something of an odd, convoluted inside joke between them. 

“Well, it’s a better name, Aerys,” Sosan had laughed. “Sometimes, I wonder what it was like here, back then. When the Mad King was on the throne. Heard that if you just looked at him wrong, he’d have his dragons swallow you whole.”

“Aye, I wonder, too.”

They had been keen to take sweet pregnant Patsy away when they found her underneath a barrel just outside the training yards. Sosan had informed Mari that, two years before, Prince Joffrey had killed a pregnant stray to examine all the kittens inside, only to be punished by Robert Baratheon. According to Sosan, the King had hit Joffrey so hard that it had knocked out his two front baby teeth. Queen Cersei had broken down into hysterics, though not out of any care for the animal, of course. Mari couldn't help but quietly feel that Cersei, were she born a golden-haired, shining little boy like her son, would have done the same.

From then on, both she and Sosan made a quiet pact, resolving to protect all the animals that found their way into the keep, one way or the other. By the time the kittens were grown enough, they went outside to Rhaeny’s Hill, along the Street of the Sister, where they released the cats and their mother, Patsy, into the city. There was nowhere else for them to go– neither girl trusted keeping the cats within the castle, for fear of Joffrey running amok and potentially doing something sadistic and terrible to them. However, this neighborhood in particular had a wide array of street cats, most of whom were well-fed and cared for by the locals.

“Sosan, are you crying? ” Mari gasped, turning to her friend, who had fresh tears streaming down both her angled cheeks. “Oh, my sweet, I’m sorry. They’ll be happier here. They can’t stay locked up in our cramped little room all day.”

“Oh, I know, it’s just so sad,” Sosan groaned, wiping her cheeks with the back of her palm. “Fitting for my lovely little Rhaenys to be left out here, on her namesake’s hill.” 

She reached for Mari, wrapping her friend tight in her arms, and Mari held her there. By then, the cats had long since disappeared into the crowded streets, though she had sense to believe they would have ample time to visit them.

No more than a month into her position, she had taken to writing her great-uncle once a week, sending him letters by raven thanks to the extra income provided by Varys, to which he promptly replied. She was consistent with these letters for the first two years, omitting any overly specific details, particularly regarding how she had initially obtained the job.

Botyl Midmarr was completely aghast at her predicament. He had demanded she return to the Riverlands-Northern border, where his homestead was at once, claiming that King’s Landing, much less the Red Keep itself, was not a safe place for young women like her, and that she would help him ‘build’ his intended ‘House Midmarr.’ However, Sosan knew her great-uncle’s ambitions were more pipe dream than practical, especially now that she was learning just how the highborns and noble houses worked, here in the eye of the feudalistic storm.

However, she obstinately refused, explaining to her concerned relative in her playful, looping script that this was the best place for her, that she was earning more coin than she ever thought possible, and that she had made a bosom friend in her roommate and fellow handmaiden. 

After a time, the elder Midmarr had stopped replying with any particular frequency. Mari had no idea why and wondered if he was truly cross with her. Sure, he had put up with a lot of her nonsense as a rambunctious, rebellious little girl, then adolescent, and finally teenager, and had generally caused a lot of trouble for him.

So, she had gone to the city’s northernmost Dragon Gate to try to purchase a raven for her personal use with the coins she had saved from Varys. However, the gold cloak on duty had refused her attempts to acquire the bird and had refused her coin entirely, as though he had been told to keep an eye out for someone matching her physical description. The whole bureaucratic nonsense of it all was maddening. So, she resolved to find another way—she had a feeling the eager and loyal Hound would assist her.

In her little quest to seek him out, she was relieved to have quite literally run into the man. “Greetings, Clegane,” she panted, slightly out of breath and taken aback, having bumped into his tall bulk just by the main gate of the Red Keep, evidently returning from some Lannister errand beyond the castle walls.

“What do you want?” he rasped in her general direction, taking a few steps away from her, not making eye contact with her, as he had not done in quite a few months. 

“I think my letters are being intercepted,” she replied, surprised by her forthrightness and honesty. “I haven’t heard from my family in a long time.” Mari had the sense that none of this was Lord Varys’s doing. She knew that it was likely the other little birds went through her letters, but she knew better than to allude to anything. No, there was someone else trying to prevent her from communicating with the world outside.

The Hound raised his one good brow, looking down at her, his hulking mass a leering shadow over her. When he spoke, however, his deep, raspy voice was hushed, his dark eyes momentarily darting from side to side, as if to ensure they weren’t being watched, though she had a sense that they both knew they were, regardless. “Aye, it’s likely. You know your letters?”

“Aye,” she smirked.

“Impressive. I hardly do,” he grunted. A joke?

“I heard you carried a scroll to and from Casterly Rock in under a month.”

“You know I can’t carry your letter, little lamb.” The sudden use of the silly, almost romantic nickname made Mari’s stomach flutter, against her better wishes.

“No, but could you scare the pustulant golden cloak at the Dragon Gate for me, the one who takes coin for the use of a more discreet raven?” She reached into the little coin purse tied at her gold belt, concealed underneath the pleated layers of her handmaiden’s dress. Withdrawing eight silver stags, she presented them towards the Hound, palms up, glittering in the sunlight. “I will pay you. Give him what he asks for, keep the rest. A token of my gratitude.” With her other hand, she withdrew the folded note she intended to send.

“Why should I risk my hide for you, girl?” He asked this question as though he already knew the answer. “Aye, aye, fine . I’ll do it later, when it’s dark. Now, get .” Quickly, he snatched both the coin and the letter from each respective hand.

“Thank you, kindly,” she said, offering him a gentle nod, making her way back to the entrance of the keep, finding Sosan standing by the threshold. The handmaiden had been watching them.

“Why were you speaking to the Hound?” Sosan inquired, her eyes narrowing, her arms crossed tight against her chest.

“Needed a favor.”

“Mari, you know we have our role ,” her friend hissed, taking her by the forearm and pulling her into a more inconspicuous part of the courtyard. “If the Spider finds out you’re sneaking about… You know the Hound tells them everything . He’s their fuckin’ dog.”

“I trust him. I’m not doing anything objectionable,” Mari insisted. “I’m not telling any secrets. I just paid him to send a letter saying a whole lot of foolish nothing. That fucking gold cloak by the gate won’t listen to me when I try to pay him off. I just want to tell my uncle I’m alright and bloody alive.”

“Surprised they even let you write letters to begin with.”

“Can’t tell what a raven is carrying. Probably thought the ravens I sent out were from fostered highborn boys and girls, begging their families to send them more coin to buy even more gowns to keep up with the latest fad of the Crownlands.”

Sosan paused. “Mari, would you ever return to your family?”

Mari considered it for a moment. “I don’t know. I won’t deny that I’ve considered it, once or twice.”

“I always had a feeling Varys sought me out because I had no living kin,” her friend whispered. “Don’t forget how disposable we are, Mari.” Her eyes wetted, and Mari knew her thoughts were on her young mother. It was only later that Sosan had tearfully confessed that she had only left Pentos to try to find her biological father across the Narrow Sea because the poor woman had been strangled to death by a customer. Finding her purported Westerosi merchant sire turned out all to be for naught, too.

“I know.”

The following day, in the early morning, she alone was called to attend to Myrcella during her breakfast with the keep’s Septa. Sosan had been tasked with delivering laundry. It pained both girls so when they had to be separated. Mari was carrying a tray of fine bread, honey, and milk when she felt a sinewy hand press tight against her bare shoulder.

“ Girl ,” the accented voice lilted. It was Littlefinger, Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin. Mari fought to keep her composure. She knew fully well to never speak to the slimeball unless necessary. “You surely are a stubborn one, to fight so brazenly to keep up with your kin.”

“Pardon me, my Lord,” she said, keeping her voice juvenile, lightly-pitched, and ignorant. “I do not understand your meaning. Is there something you request of me?”

Baelish’s eyes narrowed. “Eight silver stags, the gold cloak said, to send a raven to the Riverlands, by the northern border. Surely, I can only tenderly hope such coin was not stolen, or acquired through dubious means, caught in a web too intricate, beyond her understanding.”

Mari blinked. “Forgive me, my Lord, but I must deliver breakfast to the princess and the Septa.” 

Baelish’s eyes darkened, flickering across her face, up and down her body, as though delivering an unspoken threat. He cleared his throat and offered, “I wouldn’t be so keen to keep up communications with your brethren, girl. I certainly would not wish for any trouble or harm to come to them. Am I clear, or do you need me to say it again?”

“I–” Mari was at a loss for words, her mouth opening and closing, her throat constricting, her breathing running shallow. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do. I tell all my girls the same thing, really. To subvert or work around your master is a death sentence. To work for your own interests, oh , it’s precious, but it’s hardly worth all the heartache. Wouldn’t you say so, dear?” His eyes came to settle on her chest, making Mari all the more uneasy. “It’s a shame. You so remind me of my own lost love, another auburn-haired beauty from the Riverlands, but it’s a shame that your face just ruins everything . You and the dog both. A sweet camaraderie, I’d say. I can only wonder how you survive it, when such a hideous brute like him ravages you–”

“I must attend to the Princess, my Lord,” Mari sputtered out. “Thank you for offering your wise advice and courtesy. I must take my leave now.” She offered Baelish a perfunctory curtsy and hurried onward, making sure her pace was not too eager, finding herself breathing heavily as she rounded the spiral staircase in the direction of the girl’s chambers. 

 

SANDOR V

By this time, he had been taking himself into his hand nearly every night with thoughts of her. Going to a whorehouse would have been his preferred solution to address the sudden uptick in his sexual compulsions, but even the idea of being with another woman, even if her back was turned and she was a paid whore, had somehow become repulsive. He was, if anything, a truly loyal dog. 

Every night, Sandor dwelled on all the ways he would take her, how he’d lap at her full breasts, how he’d bite and gnaw at her delicate collarbone, how he’d run his hands up and down the smooth, sun-kissed expanse of her olive-tinted skin. He thought of the way he would press his tongue deep inside her, how he’d then push into her tight softness, to hear her voice moan beneath his mouth, how he would press tightly into her, never letting her out of his sight. The little dark possessive voice only grew within him as his fantasies worsened and became more elaborate, envisioning her plump, swollen, and rounded with his seed, her breasts heavy, her plush lips parted, looking up at him from beneath full lashes (an absurd and maddening delusion!) . He wondered if she was still a maiden, as she had told him two years prior. The thought that she wasn’t made him furious, but he knew it came only from a place of jealous foolishness.

Sure, he knew plenty of knights, guards, and soldiers in this very keep who had taken handmaidens, kitchen maids, tavern wenches, and the like, to do with as they pleased. However, Sandor knew he was not the type of man who could woo a pretty maid without the exchange of coin. Going to brothels had seemed almost like the better thing to do, back then. Spared himself the humiliation of rejection. That , he would concede, was one of his few great fears— alongside fire, of course.

Sandor had spent the first part of one particular night drinking alone in his quarters before rising, dressing in plain threads, and beginning his walk to an alehouse to drown his thoughts, any alehouse, before he stopped, remembering a little elevated nook atop one of the lesser towers where he had oft gone as a teenager, when Cersei Lannister had first brought him to be her guard at King’s Landing. 

So, he scaled the rickety ladder he had left behind there, years ago, and sprawled out on the little thatched roofing, in a higher tower overlooking the barracks. The night was unusual; he felt it in his bones, taking another swig from his wineskin. Then, he heard a sharp gasp to his left, seeing a pair of familiar mossy eyes peering at him over the roofing.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked, her voice hushed, panicked, even.

“I could ask you the same bloody question,” he snapped back. The handmaiden did not balk at his husky voice, loud and emboldened with drink. “Who do you think put the ladder here, girl?” He watched her as she crawled over the edge of the roofing, hands grasping at the clay-molded straw thatching. He turned away, seeing her on all fours like that.

“I dunno, could’ve been anyone. And I thought this place was my little private reprieve, where I could sing terrible, raunchy, or just plain melancholic Northern ballads my cousins taught me without any formidable, scary eavesdroppers.”

“Aye, it’s been a long time,” he rasped, still turned away from her, his mouth still keen to run thanks to drink. “Years ago, I would come here at night, when the idea of going to the alehouse did not suit me after the war was over, when I was still a green lad sworn at the Queen’s side. Liked the privacy .”

“Apologies. May I join you, just tonight?” He was taken aback by her request, but grunted and nodded in some vague affirmative gesture. Sandor felt like he was about to crawl from his skin as she sat but a foot away from him, although there wasn’t much space on the elevated perch with his formidable expanse of body. He could feel her body radiating warmth, and he was loath to admit that it thrilled him. “Thank you for sending the raven for me, Clegane. I appreciate it.”

“It was no trouble.” It was a lot of fucking trouble.

They were quiet for a time, watching the sea and the dusky clouds rolling in and out along the far expanse of nighttime sky. The stars were out, too, and Sandor’s mind drifted to the elder soldier of lowly birth who had taken him under his wing at the age of twelve or so years, who had taught him how to read the stars and the names of constellations, which he remembered examining on his thirteenth name day, after he had gutted his first man.

“And I also wanted to thank you for leaving out gifts for me to give to your sweet Stranger,” she finally said, breaking the silence. “I hope I’m not fattening him up too much. I meant to thank you earlier, for indulging me and my friend in our girlish games.”

“Aye, he’s a bit fatter, for true. I’ve heard he’s bitten fewer unsuspecting stableboys in turn,” Sandor nodded. His heart soared as he heard her giggle. “How long have you been coming here, then, girl?” He usually hated small talk more than anyone, but desperately wanted to know how she had managed to discover his secret spot.

“Only a week or so. I spend all my time with Sosan, and so sometimes we are prone to quarreling,” she explained. “It’s a nice place to, uh, sing . To think. But I am pleased to spend this time with you.” Sandor felt as though he was going to faint, like a love-struck little highborn girl. “What is your name? Your first name. I’ve never found out.”

“Sandor,” he replied, almost breathless.

“My name is Mariya. Or, well, Mari. I’d prefer it if you called me that. Mariya seems far too regal and noble for someone like me.” Mariya. Mari. Sandor’s throat felt dry. “Sandor, can I ask you a question?”

“Aye.”

“Can I ask you how it happened?” He knew precisely the it she was referring to. “I’ve wanted to ask you for a while, but I did not wish to offend. If you don’t wish to tell me, I won’t mind, either.” 

Sandor sought her eyes and saw them wide, gentle, simply curious. No hint of malice. She did not intend to mock him, he realized. She just genuinely wanted to know and had, like all the others in the damned keep, been curious. So, he decided to be honest.

“Most people think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. One fool asked if it was dragonsbreath,” he began, pausing. She ought to know the truth. “A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father’s keep, and to buy favors, he sent his children gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don’t remember what I got, but it was Gregor’s gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separately and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. Gregor is five years older than I am. The toy was nothing to him; he was already a squire, over six feet tall and muscled like an ox. So I took his knight, but there was no joy to it, I tell you. I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me. There was a brazier in the room. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You know how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. The septons preach about the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who’s been burned knows what hell is truly like.” Mari was quiet, her eyes set firmly on his. “My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Arise, Ser Gregor.’”

“I am sorry,” Mari whispered, hesitantly reaching out, touching his hand lightly. He did not pull away, as she likely expected him to. “I have something to tell you as well.” Sandor looked at her, his features devastating in the glow of the moonlight. “My uncle told me that a dog had attacked my face. A war hound, trained to maul and bite. To attack, indiscriminately, at his master’s command. But, look, see, the cut is far too neat. So, some have come to believe that perhaps a soldier, a knight— who truly knows — had pinned me down, with aims to slice my face clean off, to peel the skin from my flesh, mouth-first. But he must have been interrupted.”

“It was Gregor, wasn’t it?” She was right, he thought. The scar was far too straight a line to have come from a dog.

“Aye. Most likely. I always thought so. Made sense.”

“I always knew,” he rasped, his eyes firm on hers. He gulped, suddenly feeling unsure what more to say. “I knew the first time I saw you up close, in the alley. I just fuckin’ knew. Do you remember it at all?”

Mari shook her head. “I have barely any memories. I don’t even remember what my parents looked like. My great-uncle has given me descriptions and names, but it isn’t enough. When I close my eyes at night, I don’t even see their faces. All I know is my mum had dark hair and eyes, like my uncle Botyl. So, I imagine I look nothing like her. I have my father’s eyes, Botyl said.”

Sandor sighed, looking out to the expanse of the sea, the glow of the moonlight flickering almost like flames across the black expanse of water. “I remember it all. Every second. Every day, as I recovered. Every day since then. I will never forget. But it’s what I live for, after all.”

“What do you live for, Sandor?”

“To kill my fucking brother. Didn’t you want that too, little lamb? Aye, I know you did. I’ve seen it in your eyes.”

She paused, as though considering her words carefully. “I don’t know anymore… I think I’ve changed. You say you live to kill your kin… Better worshippers of the Seven would tell you killing your kin’s the worst sin imaginable. You certainly want nothing more?” Yes, something more, he thought, his heart aching. They were quiet for a time. “Why do you let people call you a dog, Sandor? Isn’t becoming a proper Ser better, even if they can break their vows?”

“I like dogs better than knights,” Sandor huffed. “My father’s father was a kennelmaster at the Rock. A big dumb clamoring oaf, that one. One autumn year, Lord Tytos came between a lioness and her prey. The lioness didn’t give a shite that she was Lannister’s sigil. Bitch tore into my Lord’s horse and would have done for my Lord too, but my foolish grandfather came up with the hounds. Three of his dogs died running her off. My grandfather lost a bloody leg, so Lannister paid him for it with lands and a towerhouse, and took his son to squire. The three dogs on our banner are the three that died, in the yellow of autumn grass. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he’ll look you straight in the face.”

Mari’s expression twisted as she pondered Sandor’s narration. “Don’t you think it’s so funny, how the gods made us have so much in common, and now we’re both here? The only two people in the whole bloody world, it feels like.”

Sandor, admittedly, balked at the mere mention of religion. It was another thing that he, too, thought foolish. His keep’s maester’s prayers never healed the bloody burns covering half of his face. “What gods?”

“You don’t follow the Seven, then? Aren’t you from the Westerlands?” Sandor looked at the girl incredulously. Of all the cynical loudmouths he had met in his lifetime, her being a pious little thing was, at the very least, surprising. Perhaps that was why she wore that silly little coif back at the alehouse, protecting her bloody modesty under the roof of a whorehouse. “You named your horse Stranger, didn't you?”

“As I said, what gods? ” he repeated, fighting to keep his words from slurring. “What kind of god makes a monster like the Imp, little Lord Tyrion, or a giant raping, bludgeoning, murdering halfwit like my brother, or someone like me ? If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to toy with and play. They made whores for men with coin to fuck, and they made babes to strangle and suckle and bash against a bloody wall. There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. You’d best learn that, girl.”

Mari was silent for a moment, her face studying his in the glow of the yellow-tinted moonlight. “I don’t blame the gods. It’s the world that’s awful. But without evil, there can be no good, can there? If one were never to experience anything bad or cruel, one would never know true joy or happiness.” Sandor scoffed. “Hey, don’t laugh at me, Sandor Clegane. For fuck’s sake, you have suffered as I have suffered, at the hands of the same bloody man, but here we are, enjoying a breezy moonlit bloody night. Alive. With our heads on our necks. You’ve got your fucking wine, aye, I can smell it on your stinking breath, you fool. Is being here not something worth celebrating?”

“You have a tongue on you, but you’re still a sweet little lamb,” he sighed, turning away from her, unable to meet her eyes once more. “You ought to sing me one of your songs sometime, even if they’re raunchy and Northern.”

“Perhaps. A lamb and a hound …” she whispered, wrenching the wineskin out of his hands. He stared at her as she took a swig before handing it back to him. “A most unlikely friendship. You’ll be my shepherd, then.”

“Aye,” he nodded, turning back to the outward-facing, ever-expanding darkness of night. “And if you tell anyone what I’ve told you tonight, I’ll kill you, you know.” Friendship, nothing more.

 

MARIYA VI

Everything about Sandor in her mind changed forever after the night spent on the rooftop above the barracks, when he revealed to her his darkest secret. She had anticipated, to some degree, not fully believing the widespread rumors in the keep that he had sustained his scars in battle. To have such feelings disclosed so openly made her heart tremble. She almost couldn’t believe it. But why would a man like that have cause to lie for more than a bloody year to a simple woman? Why did he fear her reaction? Was it a matter of pride, of shame? He had no reason to be ashamed of being hurt, she thought, but knew that strongmen and warriors were never keen to share their weaknesses. But he shared his most intimate, private part of himself with me, and he told me his name.

Upon returning to her room, she saw that Sosan was already fast asleep and snoring softly. Quickly, she changed into her old shift and put out the remaining overburdened candle stuck to the small dresser the two shared. The room had hardly any sufficient floor space, and so Mari had to be careful as she navigated her way to her lofted bed, stretching out and shifting so that she faced the adjacent stone wall. Sosan’s soft snoring was something of a comfort, but her mind remained clouded, unfocused.

She could not bring herself to sleep, instead fighting a goofy, wide smile that had spread across her face involuntarily as she lay there in the darkness. She covered her mouth with one hand, feeling overjoyed, though she could not yet fully understand why. Then, a rather sinister, strange thought crossed her mind, which she immediately attributed to the foolish little swig of his wineskin, though she doubted that would be enough to get her even remotely drunk.

Her eyes had lingered on his hands as they spoke on the little rooftop above the barracks. Mari wondered what they would feel like in her own hands, whether they would be firm, broad, and calloused as she expected them to be. She wondered what they would feel like if they crawled up her arms, if she were pulled tightly into his embrace. She fantasized about what they would feel like on her bare skin, traveling up and down her body, gripping her tightly, bruising her, taking her… Then, Baelish’s sly and manipulative words popped into her mind, spurring her onward into dark, delirious, heady thoughts: I can only wonder how you survive it, when such a hideous brute like him ravages you…  

Her breathing had grown strained and heavy and, merely from a place of curiosity, she hiked up her shift, feeling along her legs, the plush softness of her thighs, and along her supple belly, then higher to her breasts before she stopped, her face burning, suddenly feeling embarrassed as she pushed down her skirts, hoisted the thin linen sheet back over herself, and tried desperately once more to fall asleep, to succumb to darkness and dreams.

Mari’s visions that night were vague, but in them she saw herself walking barefoot through a moonlit mountainous terrain, where she knew that men and women surrounded her, watching her as she breathed heavily, her body feeling heavy, burdened, stretched, and mutilated beyond belief. Her hair was shorn, and her mouth was split open yet again. Before her, at the end of a rounded clearing flagged by white-silver birches and blue pines, there was a flaming pike, which she knew was meant to brand her flesh. She hesitated, but powerful hands wrapped around her arms, waist, and legs, pushing her closer and closer to the fire, where, within the orange, green, and blue flickering flames, she was forced to bear the soft, blue-veined skin of her inner wrist, the tip of the polearm pressed against her, tenderly, affectionately, as though it were not a corporeal punishment but an affirmation, an awarded symbol of victory she not yet understood.

Chapter 5: Angel in the Snow

298 AC

 

MARIYA VII

Mari and Sosan stood in the very back of the grand hall, where King Robert lounged upon the Iron Throne, half-asleep and on the verge of letting out a particularly loud snore. Mari watched from afar as the King was rustled awake by Ser Arryn, Littlefinger flanking directly behind him, the Master of Coin watching the Hand with a particular expression that Mari could not even begin to place. At the foot of the steps, she could just make out Sandor’s head, almost floating above the crowds thanks to his impressive height. She watched him for a time, surveying the gaggle of lords and ladies, as well as servants and smallfolk near the back. She smiled when his eyes briefly caught hers, but only for a moment.

Of all the men in the Red Keep to avoid at all costs, Littlefinger was absolutely at the very top of her list, especially after their odd encounter that morning in the corridor half a year prior. It was a chance meeting that left Mari with more questions than answers, and a lingering sense of unease. She already had the sense that he was something of an enemy to Lord Varys. Hence, her enemy.

There was talk in the keep that Lady Lysa, Ser Arryn’s Tully wife, objected to her son, the King’s namesake, being fostered in Casterly Rock by Tywin. Ser Arryn, who everyone knew truly was the one keeping the Seven Kingdoms afloat and unified, had been bickering more openly with Robert, according to various whispers. He, too, had also been butting heads more often with Cersei Lannister. Their fights could be heard echoing through the halls. It had never gotten this bad in the past three years of Mari’s employment.

It came as little surprise when King Robert announced that the Queen, Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, and Ser Jaime would be traveling to Lannisport, and then to Casterly Rock to spend some quality time with Tywin, their not-so-doting sycophant of a grandfather. The nature of this 'quality time' was a mystery, but it was an almost suspicious announcement, Mari found. Almost.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be taken to Casterly Rock,” Sosan practically squealed that night when the girls returned to their room. “I heard it’s the most magnificent castle. Far prettier and more grand than even this one. They say it looks as though it is floating in the very sky, that’s how high it sits on the clifftop.”

“Aye, I’ve heard that, too,” Mari nodded, though her hesitation to make the journey was more rooted in the fact that she had yet to return to the Westerlands since she was seven years old. Casterly Rock was a long journey on the far coast of Westeros, and they would have to cross mountainous terrain, employed and inhabited by peasant farmers and miners, the very same she had, in one convoluted way or another, come from.

And, of course, she knew the Lannisters’ begrudgingly beloved Hound would be coming along for the trip, as well. She had not spoken with him since their night spent on the little thatched roof above the barracks, when he had told her about his brother and his face. Instantly, although she did not concede this aloud, she had forgiven him for all his wrongs, all his harsh words.

Then, she could feel a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she locked eyes with Sosan, who gestured for her to follow. Opening her palm, she showed Mari an ink-drawn marking. A spider’s web , the symbol of their secret network of informants. The two girls headed in opposite directions down opposite corridors. Mari had no idea where Sosan received her whispers, nor did she care to know. So, she headed downstairs to the kitchens, found the broom closet, and shut the door behind her. She waited only five mere minutes before her ever-dutiful informant arrived.

“I have a message for you,” little Sully said. In the years since she’d come here, it had oddly warmed her heart to see the little kitchen boy grow into a young teenager, his limbs becoming long and awkward, his voice deepening. It almost felt like they had grown up together, in some strange sort of way. “Given the word to the Pentoshi girl already, half an hour past.”

“Aye, pray, tell.”

“ The mockingbird casts its line, the falcon drowns in a silver sea .” Sully recited, his clunky accented voice making the poetic line all the more strange-sounding.

“What?”

“Just remember. I have to go,” Sully whispered, leaving Mari behind in the kitchen closet for a moment. As per protocol, she waited ten minutes before leaving, her mind weighing heavily with the cryptic words.

When she returned to her room, she saw Sosan there, packing up both their trunks. “Odd, wasn’t it?” her friend said, folding up the few spare linen shifts both girls practically shared at this point. “I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why we have to know what that means. I don’t know why he wants us to know.”

“I don’t, either. But it feels like something important is going to happen.”

“Me too,” Sosan said. “Something is changing. There is a change, it’s even in the air, don’t you think? Don’t you feel it, too?”

 

SANDOR VI

The hound’s helm was pulled shut over his mangled face as Sandor rode at the very front of the Lannister traveling party, his senses keen and alert. Just behind Ser Jaime, who rode ahead on his blood bay destrier, looking ever so shining and handsome, like a storybook knight. Sandor didn’t hate Jaime, per se, but was always the slightest bit wary of the man, and had been for as long as he had known him. Sandor was, more than anything else, grateful that the handsome knight appeared disinterested in engaging in any sort of unbearable small talk or conversation during the journey, which suited him greatly. It was still odd that three members of the Kingsguard had to come, but it was not his place to comment. Still , odd .

Just behind them, Cersei and her three brats were locked safely away in a gilded carriage, where Sandor was sure Joffrey was taking keen advantage of the proximity to thoroughly torture his two good-hearted younger siblings. Two particularly loyal members of the Kingsguard, Boros and Trant (the very two cunts he hated the most, how poetic!) , had been sent by Robert himself to guard the carriage, flanked by gold cloaks and a various hodgepodge of brooding sellswords. Behind them, still, were wagons carrying personal servants, arranged in order of importance, with Cersei’s highborn bedwarmers in the first covered wagon, and, of course, the lowborn female servants and stablehands in the uncovered one, far at the back of the traveling party. 

The fact that she was brought along, as he had already locked eyes with her as she sat in the wagon as he and Stranger trotted up to the front of the party, brought him some measure of comfort. The sudden announcement of the Lannisters’ departure from King’s Landing felt more like a well-choreographed escape ruse than a wholesome family road trip to visit their doting grandfather. Sandor had been the Lannisters’ lapdog long enough to know that they were plotting something. And Mari, in the midst of it all, was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. 

As the journey progressed, he saw very little of Mari, and when she could be spotted, she seemed flustered, focused, and preoccupied, disposing of buckets of what he assumed was Lannister filth. Twenty days into the journey, they would finally be due to arrive, and they were expected to spend another fifteen days between his liege Lord’s castle and Lannisport. Sandor hoped he would see her more, then, perhaps even outside of the line of immediate duty– no. Friendship, nothing more.

So, they rode on, and he saw little to nothing of her, her fae still fresh in his mind and his fantasies as they continued along the chilly, rain-slicked road to the Westerlands. It hardly felt like a bloody return to his home, for he carried no tenderness or love to the place of his birth and breeding. Sandor had no genuine affection for his guard dog duties when it came to royal banquets, particularly the one held on the third day of their arrival in the Westerlands.

His deliberate exclusion by his masters always felt a bit strange, especially as he could see his house sigil pinned on the wall alongside all the other familiar names: House Algood, Banefort, Brax, Broom, Clegane (of bloody course) , Crakehall, Estren, Farman, Kenning, Ledford, Lorch, Lydden, Marbrand, Payne, Reyne, Prester, Serrett, Spicer, Swift, Tarbeck, and Westerling. Above them all, of course, was a massive tapestry of House Lannister’s proud red and yellow lion, roaring and spitting. 

The irony was not lost on him, of course, that he technically had all the bloody right in the world to sit down and join them, feasting on the bounty of freshly-hunted stag and, his favorite, chickens . More bloody chickens had been slaughtered this day than in recent Westerlandic history, he thought bitterly. And the dogs would be thrown the bony scraps. It was a cruel reminder of his place in this world, a world where birthright and status dictated everything.

Of course, his secret pleasure of the evening was seeing her there, standing in the back behind Cersei’s three highborn servants, holding a carafe of summerwine, her sweet little face poised and blank in its neutral expression, her hair elaborately braided and pinned up in a display of the local trendy Lannisport style, likely per the Queen’s orders. Cersei surely did like all her servant girls to dress in a certain way– like her, but not nearly as pretty.

The Queen would snap her well-manicured fingers, and his little lamb would come running, though he was certain Cersei didn’t know Mari’s name, and hardly even truly noticed her. Everyone knew Cersei Lannister had an almost manly love for drink, and Sandor had to contend with the woman for the impressive number of glasses she would consistently imbibe during nearly every meal. Glancing up, she saw Mari make a somewhat silly face in his direction, eyes darting back and forth from the carafe in her hands to Cersei’s now-drained cup. Sandor bit back a smile, but nodded subtly in Mari’s direction.

As the first few rounds were swiftly finished, a courier scurried into the room, dressed in the style and colors of King’s Landing, and headed straight for Tywin Lannister, seated at the head of the banquet table. The courier whispered something urgent, and Tywin nodded to him. He then leaned to Cersei, on his right, whispering. Then to Jaime, on his left. Sandor couldn’t help but chuckle as little Lord Tyrion desperately leaned in his father’s direction, though his liege Lord pointedly ignored him. Tywin then reached for a golden spoon, tapping it on the side of his respective goblet. The crowd of attendees, Lords, Ladies, and servants grew quiet. 

“With a heavy heart, I feel I must announce the sudden death of Ser Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, the Warden of the East, and head of House Arryn,” Tywin began, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a knife. 

Sandor narrowed his eyes, glancing over to Mari, who, too, was looking at him inquisitively for a moment before glancing at her little friend to her right, and then at the third brown-haired lowborn girl on her left, who had always looked at Sandor as though he were the most disgusting creature she’d ever laid eyes on. He didn’t like that one. “I imagine this will cut short my children and grandchildren’s visit. A shame. I do not believe you all will be able to make it to his funeral.”

“Oh, what a shame, really,” Sandor heard Cersei sigh. “Lord Arryn was such a good man, truly, Such a hard and loyal servant of the King.” He fought back the urge to roll his eyes at such a saccharine little performance. The Queen's hypocrisy was as transparent as fine glass, and it more than grated on Sandor’s nerves.

Tywin was entirely correct, he thought. By the time the Lannister party was due to return to King’s Landing, they would have long since missed the funeral of Ser Arryn. Not that Sandor particularly wanted to go, by any means. Still, he found it unusual, but knew full well to keep his ugly mouth shut about it, privately bemoaning how isolated he knew Mari would be on the way back, tucked into the uncovered wagon, even during rain.

 

MARIYA VIII

As Tywin Lannister's voice echoed through the grand banquet hall at Casterly Rock, a hush fell over the assembled guests. His announcement of Jon Arryn's death, the former Hand of the King, was met with a mix of surprise and unease. Mariya, like everyone else, was aware of Arryn's pivotal role in maintaining the stability of the Seven Kingdoms, a role that had only grown more crucial as the King's indulgences increased. 

“Oh, what a shame, really,” Cersei said, her voice oddly lilted and soft. “He was such a good man, truly. Such a hard worker for the King.”

The mockingbird casts its line, the falcon drowns in a silver sea . 

Despite the apparent simplicity of the message from Lord Varys, delivered through Sully the kitchen boy, Mari found herself unable to decipher its true meaning. Her gaze met Sosan's, who was holding a carafe of local wine, and she could tell they were both grappling with the same enigma.

Turning back, Mari realized she and Sosan had caught Bernadette’s eye. The plain girl stared at them, giving them a dark, brooding look. Mari offered her a polite, but not friendly, smile. Sosan was right; the third lowborn handmaiden, who dared not consort or speak with either of them outside of official duties, would be the one to get one of them killed.

As she stood in the banquet hall, her eyes wandered to the series of banners of Sworn Houses to House Lannister, skimming all the images, realizing that, despite having a fairly robust education for the average smallfolk, she still could not identify most of the respective houses by name or sigil. Her eyes drifted to unicorns, three running dogs, boars, badgers, scorpions, bulls, peacocks, and the like, all arranged in an elaborate, colorful display of fealty to the great big red and yellow lion that took up most of the wall space in the banquet hall.

Across the room, she saw that Sandor was looking at her from below the series of house banners, his face twisted in a grimace, as usual, but there was something different flickering in his dark grey eyes that she saw. She offered him the slightest indication of a shrug. He frowned, the grim lines in his face more marked and defined in the light of the nearby hearth.

By the time they returned to King’s Landing, Jaenis was waiting for them by the Lion Gate. Already, word had gotten out that Lady Lysa had fled with her son, Robert, back to the Vale of Arryn. It was odd, she thought, Varys’s message lingering on her mind. Why had he told them? Was there some role, some part for her to play here? Had all the lingering years of menial labor and reporting tedious small talk been leading to… this? Whatever ‘this’ was?

Mari was quietly thankful that Bernadette, during the return journey, appeared to have received a promotion. The Queen had asked for the lowborn handmaiden to join her gaggle of highborn bedwarmers while on the journey back to the Crownlands. The wench's entire face had lit up as she received the message from one of her handmaidens, the one called Taena, who had been the one to travel to the far back of the traveling party, where their uncovered, crappy, half-broken little traveling wagon was. Sosan thought it sickening how the girl positively clamored for Cersei’s icy touch. Mari still had some sympathy for her, however. She knew little about Bernadette personally, nor her origins. However, she imagined, like her and Sosan and any of the other smallfolk who found themselves working in the Red Keep, they were likely unsavory as well.

They had followed Jaenis down the lower levels, near where most of the handmaidens kept their quarters. “I’ve called you girls here to inform you that you will be traveling to the North by the end of the week to meet the new Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,” Jaenis began. “Lady Cersei will require additional assistance during her travels that some of her higher-ranking handmaidens will not be able to provide. She is occasionally prone to illness when traveling. Little Myrcella will also need personal attendants, as well as those who can care for horses. She aims to bring her new little dapplegrey pony. She loves the creature.” Jaenis’s eyes settled knowingly on Mari, and she blushed in response. “Rosamund, Myrcella’s little twin and lady-in-waiting, doesn’t know a bloody thing about horses or riding. But the little princess insists . Word is you’re good with ‘em, Mari. This is to be a long journey, girl. Will take several months.”

“Is it true that the King wishes to wed Joffrey to the eldest Stark girl?” Sosan interjected.

“Aye,” Jaenis sighed. “My heart is heavy for the lassie. To be married to such a twit… almost makes me want to pray for her.” Jaenis, much like Mari’s unlikely friend, Sandor Clegane, was long since disillusioned with the Seven.

“Do you think we’ll pass through your family’s home, then, Mari?” Sosan inquired.

“Oh, perhaps, but his stead is far beyond the scope of the kingsroad. I suppose I’ll think of them when we ride by,” Mari answered, her heart suddenly feeling quite sad and forlorn. She felt Sosan’s hand on her shoulder, offering her a tight squeeze.

For Mari, the prospect of returning to the North after a three-year absence stirred a mix of emotions. It was a place where she had forged a delicate personal alliance, a place that held a unique significance in her life. Despite her Westerlandic accent and her family's tenuous connection to the Riverlands, the North was still a part of her, albeit a distant, complicated, and tragic one.

“I feel guilty, sending you two girls off in another shabby wagon on another lengthy journey,” Jaenis sighed. “But some things are simply out of our control.”

“It’s alright. We’ll manage. We’ll do our duty,” Sosan reassured the older woman, turning back to meet Mari’s gaze. “Won’t we, Mari? And we’ll be together, fulfilling our responsibilities.”

“Aye, we will,” Mari said with a half-hearted smile. “It’ll be my first proper time in the North, if I’m honest..”

“All the more reason to make an adventure out of it,” Sosan smiled. “Perhaps you’ll even feel your blood sing, then, girl.”

 

SANDOR VII

The journey had been long and tedious. Sandor had been assigned to stay by the front nearly the entire ride. He knew the little lamb was, again, in the far back, mistreated by the lack of cover, which he was sure only worsened as they rode into colder and colder climates. He hoped she had not gotten sick. The thought alone made his chest ache. It was no secret that the lowborn servants were not permitted to rest in the same high-class Inns and proper barracks that he and the other higher-ranking subservients did. It was not uncommon for a scullery maid or serving boy to catch hypothermia on one of Robert’s many traveling missions, as Sandor had recalled. However, he recalled that her blood was Northern, and she was a hearty, thick-limbed, buxom, sturdy thing. She will be fine.

Joffrey had practically begged his mother to have Sandor trail directly behind his uncle when they first entered Winterfell. First King Robert I Baratheon, flanked by two knights of the Kingsguard, then Ser Jaime Lannister, and then, well— he knew he wouldn’t be much of a welcome sight— Sandor Clegane, the Hound . A dog in the bloody North, in a den full of wolves. Flanked beside him, Joffrey rode uneasily atop his brilliant– not to mention obscenely costly– palomino stallion, which the little boy could hardly keep under control. Behind them, the Imp sat astride a smaller bay horse in his modified saddle, more suitable for his size and piss-poor riding abilities.

King Robert dismounted almost immediately, wrapping up Lord Stark, who stood before him with a curious look, into a bone-crunching hug. “ Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that long frozen face of yours. You have not changed at all, my friend.”

“Your Grace. Winterfell is yours,” Ned Stark replied dutifully. Sandor saw in the man's face that he seemed surprised at the sight of King Robert, his eyes briefly flickering across the King’s rotund carriage. Sandor himself had watched the King’s gradual deterioration, how he took pleasure in wine and women, and cared not for his health or the maintenance of his once great strength.

Joff had insisted Sandor always flank his side during this journey, and the Queen had given this command as an express order. So, Sandor was tasked with guarding the poor boy for however many long, insufferably cold weeks were still ahead of them. He wanted all this to be over and done with. He tried to speak to Mari again. It had been so long since they had spoken, he thought.

Sandor, as always, kept to himself as he dismounted and the guests began to disperse in the courtyard, some heading to the servants’ quarters, others inside the castle itself. A stablehand tried to gather up Stranger’s reins, receiving a rather unfortunate chomp to the hand. The poor boy ran off, screaming. Another boy came up, meeting the same fate, and then another, until Sandor decided just to take the damn horse to the stables himself. The third boy directed him to an available stall at the far end of the barn, where Sandor quietly relished some peace at last. Joff was a real prattler, and Sandor desperately craved a drink after enduring the last few days of travel, in particular. Then, he heard a familiar voice clear her throat. Looking up, his eyes met hers. She was standing there, in her regular silk gown— the standard wear of lowborn handmaidens— with a rather dingy old wool cloak thrown overtop. She held the reins of a small, almost silly little dapplegrey, which he recognized as belonging to Princess Myrcella. On her face, there was a bright smile, just for him.

“You’re taking care of the little lady’s fancy pony?” Sandor teased.

“Aye,” Mari nodded, taking a brush and working down the mare’s speckled coat. “The princess loves this sweet little creature. Calls her ‘Twinkle.’ Insisted on riding it a quarter of the way, to the Queen’s fuckin’ chagrin. But the mare’s little hooves are so small that even with fresh shoes, she can hardly make the journey. Had to be kept in the wagon with me. Never thought I’d be lying down every night at the foot of a little lady’s fancy little ride. Amazed she didn’t bash my skull in while I slept, or shit on me, or something worse.” Mari then let out a tired laugh.

“The Lannisters always find creative ways to humble their servants,” he quipped, searching her bright face for a hint of a smile. “I would know.” He gestured to the ridiculous, almost comedically fearsome hound’s helm, placed somewhat precariously on the ledge of the stall. “Odd job for a handmaiden, to care for horses.”

Mari shrugged. “It’s no trouble. We had three back home. Grew up riding, here and there. I told the Queen I would lead the little girl on her steed and keep her safe, that it was no hardship at all. How is your handsome, tall, dark Stranger?” 

Sandor momentarily wondered if the little lamb was flirting with him, and openly, at that. That had never happened before; only women in whorehouses dared such a thing, hoping to earn some extra coin through menial flattery. Sandor always thought it seemed excessive and put-on. He wondered.

“Already bit three bloody people,” was his curt reply.

Having finished tending to Twinkle, he watched from the corner of his eye as Mari filled the pony’s trough with fresh oats and grain and refilled her bucket with fresh water, leaving the stall and confidently striding over to him, opening her closed fist, revealing the smuggled fruit-laden grain, swiped from the petite dapplegrey’s respective portion. Stranger nickered in the girl’s direction, pressing his soft black muzzle into her hand as he munched away at the offering.

“Dog, come here, now! ” The grating cry of the prince broke Sandor’s momentary sense of lulled peacefulness, Mari immediately withdrawing her hand and pulling away, making herself scarce, acting as though the two had been caught doing something unbecoming. “I want you to carry my things inside. You are to board next to me. I do not wish to stay in my family’s guest house. I want to be near you and the barracks, with the real men.” Oh, for fuck’s sake… Glancing behind Joffrey for a moment, he realized Mari had made herself scarce. Smart girl. So, he gathered up his hound’s helm, tucking it under his arm, and heeded his prince’s command.

A mere few days later, they all had heard the news that little Bran Stark, the second son of Ned Stark, had taken a fall from a broken watchtower on the outskirts of Winterfell and was critically injured, but still alive. Since then, the bloody wolves had howled nonstop in the old castle, like a cry of mourning. No one had been able to get any bloody sleep. Early that morning, just before dawn, Joffrey had summoned him, commanding him to don his helm as they made their way to the central courtyard.

Sandor stood with Joffrey as squires swarmed around them, the black helm of the snarling dog lifted from his head, so all the passing Northerners could see his mangled face, and fear him, just as the Lannisters liked. Joff always seemed to like it when Sandor stood up straight, puffed out his chest, and tried to appear formidable and frightening.

“The boy is a long time dying. I wish he would be quicker about it,” Sandor grunted.

“At least he’ll die quickly,” Joffrey replied, his voice smug, condescendingly quippy, but bright and eager for a boy his age. “It’s the wolf that makes the noise with all that damn howling. I could scarcely sleep last night.”

“I could silence the creature, if it please you, my Lord,” he suggested. He knew he had ample reason to appease Joffrey, especially now, when he could feel a tense, pregnant danger, thick in the chilly Northern air, emanating as though it marked the essence of the very land itself. He glanced downwards, watching as Joffrey placed a longsword into his open and ready right hand. Sandor tested its weight, experimentally slicing the blade through the air. He could hear Joffrey’s childish oohs and aahs, and had to bite back an urge to laugh aloud.

“Send a dog to kill a dog!” he exclaimed. “Winterfell is so infested with wolves, the Starks would never begin to miss one. Ha! ”

“I beg to differ, dear nephew,” a grating, uppity little nasally voice said. Sandor began to grit his teeth. “I know the Stark children can count past six, unlike some little princes I might name.” Glancing out of the corner of his eye, the Hound thought he could see the yellow-haired brat blush. Sandor did not like Tyrion Lannister in the slightest, but did appreciate his attempts to humble his relatives when the time came.

“A voice from nowhere,” Sandor said, tauntingly, examining the scope of his immediate line of sight before him. “What? Do I hear spirits of the air upon the wintry winds?” Joffrey laughed.

“Down here, dog.”

Sandor glanced downward, in a rare instance of overzealous theatrics, blinking in Lord Tyrion’s direction. “My little Lord Tyrion. My pardons, my Lord. I did not see you standing all the way down there.”

“I’m in no mood for your insolence today,” Tyrion snapped. Sandor bit back a goofy grin. “Joffrey, it is past time you called on Lord Eddard and his wife, to offer them your comfort.”

“What good will my comfort do for them?” Joffrey snapped, almost imitating Sandor’s particular cadence. He promptly suppressed a chuckle.

“None. Yet it is expected of you, boy. Your absence has been noted,” the Imp chided.

“The Stark boy means nothing to me,” Joffrey sneered, sticking his nose up at his uncle. “I cannot abide the wailing of women, either.” To Sandor’s quiet delight, he watched as Tyrion slapped the little brat square across the cheek.

“One word and I will hit you again.”

“I’m going to tell Mother!” Joffrey exclaimed. Sandor fought the urge to roll his eyes. Tyrion hit him again. Now both cheeks flamed. The Lannister’s dog was quietly enjoying this.

“You tell your mother,” Tyrion told him. “But first you get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall to your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with them. Do you understand? Do you? ”

The boy looked as though he was on the verge of tears. Instead, he managed a weak nod. Then he turned and fled headlong from the yard, holding his cheek like a pathetic little runt. Sandor lowered his visor, hiding the wicked smile that he could no longer contain.

“The prince will remember that, and many other things, little Lord,” he growled down in Tyrion’s direction, finally letting out the slightest indication of a chuckle. Although Tyrion tended to irritate him, even on some of his better days, he still thought the little conniving Imp was a blessed reprieve from the typical forms of rampant sociopathy that seemed congenital to the Lannister lineage.

“I pray he does. If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him,” Tyrion said, glancing around the courtyard. “Now, dog, do you know where I might find my brother?”

“Breakfasting with the queen.” Sandor momentarily wondered if Mari was to be there, waiting on Cersei, or whether she had been assigned some other duty. In the chaos of their arrival, he had not seen her since their brief conversation in the stables.

“Ah,” Tyrion nodded, scurrying away to do gods-knows-what.

 

MARIYA IX

Both Mari and Sosan had, more or less, been promoted as the primary attendants of Princess Myrcella, alongside little Rosamond Lannister, who was but a mere child, along with a few other little highborn ladies around the girl’s age, most of whom had elected to stay behind in King’s Landing. Cersei had realized that her daughter’s demands were distracting her respective handmaidens from their own. Sosan was mostly happy that this meant they would not have to spend the entire journey in the horrible back-end wagon again. Now, they would likely be asked to ride in the Queen’s large cabin with the girl. Mari couldn't help but agree that this was a significant improvement.

She was surprised to see Tyrion burst into the morning room of the Guest House, where she and Sosan stood in the corner, holding carafes of wine, as per usual. “Is Robert still slumbering?” the Imp inquired, seating himself at the table, uninvited.

Cersei offered her brother a cruel look. “The King has not slept at all. He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart, spending all his available hours visiting the Sept of Winterfell.” Mari wondered what the Queen meant.

“He has a large heart, our dear Robert,” Jaime offered, clearly unbelieving of his own words.

Tyrion barked a demand to a Northern male servant, before the sweet and rotund Prince Tommen spoke up. “Do you have news of Bran Stark, Uncle?”

“I stopped by the sickroom last night,” Tyrion replied. “There was no change. The maester thought that a hopeful sign.”

“I don’t want Brandon to die,” sweet Tommen whimpered. “He’s so nice.”

“ Psst, ” Sosan whispered in Mari’s ear. “I have to tell you something.” Mari drifted her attention from the conversation in the room, although she would have liked very much to hear it, having found entertainment in the Lannisters’ internal bickering over the years. “I believe I’ve figured out the message.”

“What? Sosan, you know we can’t speak of this here,” Mari hissed, glancing over at the Lannister family breakfast table. “Do you want them to cut off your bloody head?”

“I know, but I will tell you later.” Sosan’s face was borderline gleeful. “I am smarter than I look, you know.” Mari felt nothing but unsettled and unnerved.

“… What, me, celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world!” Tyrion declared, interrupting their whispering.

Sosan offered Mari an incredulous look, her eyebrows slightly raised, as the little Lord amused her. She had even once joked that she had a girlish crush on the little man and was taken aback by Mari’s lack of apparent judgment. She could only imagine how the girl would react if she informed her of all the time she had spent engaging in chats with the Hound.

The Queen stood abruptly. “The children don’t need to hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come . And you two, come as well.” Cersei gestured for both Sosan and Mari to follow. 

The other handmaidens, highborn, of course, had been breaking their fast in a smaller room off the main one. Sosan and Mari, naturally, had not yet been granted permission to eat.  Mari fought back the grumbling of her empty stomach, pressing a closed fist against her abdomen to stave off her hunger. However, they did as they were told, following Cersei and her two younger children to the little reading nook. 

“Do you remember the banners of sworn houses in the banquet hall of Casterly Rock?” Sosan whispered to her, suddenly. 

“Aye,” Mari said skeptically, keeping her voice down as Cersei’s back was turned, peeling through the small library to find something for Mari to read to her children. The Queen never remembered her name, but must have recalled that the full-bodied ginger knew her letters. “What of them?”

“Remember all the animals?”

“Aye, of course. Sosan, I don’t—“ Mari paused, thinking. “—I don't get it.” Then, suddenly, it made sense. 

“You’ll have to help me do some research,” Sosan whispered. “And don’t give me a lecture about how you can teach me to read. I don’t have the time or patience. You’ll do the hard work for me, friend.” Once they returned to King’s Landing, Mari knew she needed to visit the library after dark and read through some old tome on lineages.

They had suspected foul play in Lord Bran’s injury, Mari and Sosan had overheard one morning, eight days after the boy had fallen from the watchtower. Upon hearing the news, both girls were shocked and saddened for the Stark family. He had been taken away to recover in a sick house, left behind for the time being. He was just around Tommen’s age.

Mari remained dutiful, standing by the wall in the Queen’s wheelhouse, the doors thrown open. She fought back a smile when Sandor Clegane entered alongside Ser Barristan, Lord Renly Baratheon, and Ilyn Payne, the mute royal headsman, a man whom Mari admittedly feared, who had been sent to accompany the party from King’s Landing the remainder of the journey back. 

The other two men bowed before the Queen, but Sandor flanked beside Mari. She was grateful no one looked to see where the Hound positioned himself, as he kicked back one leg against the wall, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, idly watching as the stablehands desperately tried to tighten the girth on Stranger’s saddle, both Barristan and Reply’s horses being far more cooperative.

“Pity about the Stark boy,” Mari whispered, not daring to turn her head to look at him, keeping her composure, her back straight. Sandor merely huffed in reply. She was not sure what more she could say to him, though she knew she so badly wanted to speak with him again, somehow.

They watched as Lady Sansa, the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, who was to be wed to Prince Joffrey, entered. She was a pretty, waifish thing, Mari mused, with similarly colored long curly auburn hair, although Lady Stark’s face was quite different than her own, far longer and less rounded, with sharper edges and defined features. She immediately seemed regal, her glittering blue eyes and high cheekbones marking her face as highborn, almost precious. Mari watched as her expression shifted from one of awe as she gazed upon Barristan and Renly to something more grim as she eyed Payne, who stood on the other side of the room against the wall. 

The girl backed up, and backed up, and backed up, until she bumped directly into Sandor’s bulk. She turned and looked as though she had seen a beast, practically bursting out of her skin, blue eyes wide and horrified at the sight of him. Her gaze darted to Mari by his side, who regarded the girl calmly, hoping to put her at ease. “You are shaking, girl. Do I terrify you so much?” Mari could hear Sandor ask the Stark girl, his armored gauntlets taking hold of her shoulders to turn her around, push her away. 

Sansa Stark merely looked up at Sandor, her face twisted in a mix of disgust, horror, and pity. Sandor let out a laugh, but Mari’s heart sank as she saw the crowd gawking at the pair of them. Slowly, she inched herself away from the scene, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

“ A wolf, ” a voice in the crowd cried out, cowardly and shrill. “ Seven hells, that’s a dire wolf! ” 

“What’s it doing in the camp?”

“The Starks use them for wet nurses,” Sandor growled in response, glancing around at the gawking crowd, his eyes flickering to Mari, just for a moment.

“Leave her alone,” Joffrey barked at Sandor, appearing in blue wool and black leather, his eyes bright, his hair well-combed. He was a handsome thing when all freshly washed, Sandor thought, but still a complete twit. “What is it, sweet lady? Why are you afraid? Is it my dog that frightens you? No one here will hurt you. Put away your swords, all of you. The wolf is her little pet, that’s all. And you , dog, away with you, you’re scaring my betrothed with your ugly face.”

Sandor bowed and made himself scarce. Mari followed him. Behind them, she could hear Sansa’s panicked words to the brat, “It was not him, my sweet prince. It was the other one.”

“She’s a daft little thing, isn't she?” Sandor rasped. “At least I’m not as frightening as fuckin’ Ilyn Payne, the bloody rat.”

“She’s but a little girl,” Mari sighed. “She dreams about her prince and castles and knights, I’m sure. She’s only ten and one years of age. I had my years like that, back when I was just a fanciful creature, bound to my well-worn, handmedown storybooks…” Sandor huffed impatiently. “Though, in earnest, I was far more wild, more like that little dark-haired sister of hers. Haven’t you seen her scurrying about, wearing that oversized Stark guard’s helmet? Truly a feral creature, she is.”

He grunted affirmatively, finding his way around the side of the wheelhouse, his eyes downcast, worried. “Older Stark girl’s not fit for the keep.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ll tear her apart,” Sandor murmured. “The shock of a few ugly brutes-in-arms almost had her fuckin’ fainting like a damsel. Thought Northerners were meant to be tough, cold-blooded, sharp-tongued, like you. She won’t be able to deal with Joff and all his bloody tantrums. It’s going to be a fuckin’ disaster.”

“I hope you will watch out for her,” Mari said, her voice softening. “I have a bad feeling about all this. She’ll need someone in her corner, Sandor.” The sound of his name on her lips quieted him. “Promise me you will watch out for the girl?”

“ Hmmpf. Why do you bloody care so much? You know I don’t take oaths, little lamb.” Mari gave him a stern look. “Fine, I’ll look out for your Northern girl, then.”

Notes:

Oop, looks like book/show canon is just beginning...

Chapter 6: Ignorant Piece of Shit/The Rifle's Spiral

SANDOR VIII

One of the Stark children’s dire wolves had bitten Joff’s arm during his little outing with Lady Sansa, and they were having a courtly meeting about it, calling in the noble brats as witnesses and the like. Sandor wanted to throw down his longsword then and there when Joff gave him the command to seek out the butcher’s boy, who had scratched his pretty little face with a branch in some childish scuffle. Utter foolishness . This was not what he signed up for as a boy of ten and twelve years, tall and primed for proper war under Tywin’s command.

It was easy enough to find the boy on description alone, to cut him down, to toss his bleeding body across Stranger's saddle, to think not of it, to fulfill his duties. He had cut down plenty of men and children before. He had no honor. Although he had informally agreed to watch out for the Stark girl per the handmaiden’s persuasion, he had taken no vows. There was nothing to hold him from engaging in base savagery, of relishing in the taste of killing.

As he arrived through the castle gate, flanked by the riders Joffrey had commanded to accompany him (though he did not have any love for their attendance to his killing) , he immediately spotted Lord Stark. “No sign of your daughter, Hand,” Sandor rasped down. “But the day was not wholly wasted. We got her little pet.” He reached back and shoved the cloak off the butcher’s boy’s dripping red body, and he fell with a thump in front of the Lord. Bending, Sandor watched as Ned Stark pulled back the cloak. He had cut the child almost in half from shoulder to waist.

“You rode him down,” Eddard Stark gasped.

“He ran,” he replied, a bubbling laugh erupting from within his throat. “But not very fast.” He did not mind the moral Lord’s judgment. It was just as he, too, felt. A monster. He was merely playing his role.

He watched as Lord Stark gritted his teeth up at him. “Does it please you to kill little children, Clegane? I can certainly tell you are no father yourself.”

Sandor looked down at the Lord of Winterfell as though he were utterly insane, scoffing at such misplaced pathos. “Spare me the moralizing lecture, Stark. I receive a command from Prince Joffrey-fucking-Baratheon, and I carry it out because it’s my bloody duty. Would you prefer the butcher’s boy to spend the remainder of his days in the Black Cells of the Red Keep?”

“You could have done something,” the Lord murmured, almost under his breath, but loud enough so Sandor could hear him. “You could have spared him.”

“No, I couldn’t have.”

Lord Stark simply looked at him, the man’s face unreadable as he took his leave without another word. Then, his eyes locked with Mari, who stood across the courtyard, wrapped tightly in her wool coat, one hand clutching a bucket of water from the nearby well, her mouth opened, eyes wide, shock and horror marking her face. Fuck. Quickly, he handed off Stranger’s reins to a male servant to pursue her, against his better judgment.

Not caring whether or not he was seen, Sandor followed the handmaiden around the back of the guest house, where she was trying to enter with the fresh water. However, upon seeing him, she quickly spun around, dropping the bucket, and practically launched herself in his direction, attempting to claw at what remained of his face. It took little for him to catch and restrain her.

“I thought you were something fucking different than your brother, you lying cunt!” the girl screamed in his face, smacking him upside the head. She then began to beat on him, though Sandor knew it pained her, her knuckles rapping against his chestplates as he fumbled to restrain her by her wrists without causing her any harm. “He was just an innocent child!”

“You heard what I said to Ned Stark, girl,” he said through gritted teeth, gripping her shoulders tightly. “Either I had to kill the boy as I did, or bring him back to Joffrey to be his little experiment. Would you want to see a mere boy thrown into the Black Cells? And don’t look at me that way, you know how Joff is. He’d lock the boy inside and throw away the bloody key. I was being merciful .”

Mari momentarily stopped hitting him, her eyes teary and reddened, her face puffy. “I just thought you were different .” The words stung. Sandor felt as though his chest were about to shatter into a million pieces. 

“I’m no fucking knight, you should bloody well know this by now,” he finally hissed. “I’m a killer. I love killing. Nothing sweeter, there is.” Sandor could feel his rage bubbling, threatening to burst. He wanted to hurt her; he wanted to see her squirm. He could not figure out why, but he was too far gone, his rage superseding any clarity of mind he could have used to quell the trembling, distraught little lamb, sobbing openly in his arms. “And I don’t bloody care that you pity me enough to be nice to me, that you like how I fuckin’ swoon and dote all over you, you stupid girl, that you look at me all the bloody time, that my cunt brother maimed you, too. I’m sure it's nice only to have a tiny little nick to remember Ser Gregor Clegane, and not have half of your fucking face missing. I’m sure it’s so dear, to have a big ugly brute like me be so in love with you, isn’t it?”

Mari froze. Sandor felt as though all the blood in his body had pooled to his feet, his hands still clutching her shoulders with a vice-like grip.

“You… you’re in love with me?” Her eyes were wide, balking, his sweet little lamb . Sandor felt as though he had been stabbed by Valyrian steel, staring back at her blankly, unable to form the words to give the wench an answer. 

So, instead of saying more, he let her go. He watched as she slowly picked up the bucket, which had long since dumped the fresh water she had been sent to fetch. She gathered up the rope, slinging it over her shoulder. She did not meet his eye as she walked by his shoulder, back to the well. He watched her off, disappearing around the corner of the Lannisters’ guest house.

 

MARIYA X

She didn’t dare tell Sosan why she was so glum as they finally arrived back at King’s Landing a week later by dusk. Myrcella, still only eight years of age, was not permitted to sit astride her pony as they crossed the gates, which tended to be littered with human filth, waste, and puddles that could be needlessly slippery for horses. Subsequently, the two girls were permitted to ride in the large carriage with Myrcella, her cousin, Rosamund, Cersei, and her four handmaidens, including Bernadette, all of whom gossiped and snickered among themselves, darting mean-spirited looks in Sosan and Mari’s direction.

“Is it your menses?” Sosan asked. 

“No,” Mari sighed, fighting the urge to be short and bitter to her friend. "I don’t want to talk about it.” She knew she would not be spared from ridicule if she were to confess to her friend what was going on between her and the Hound.

She had not expected things to go so far. She could not deny she felt a kind of special tenderness for him, and even found him somewhat ruggedly handsome, in his, well, unconventional sort of way. It had been difficult to admit that to herself, at first, but it was true. He was strong, capable, loyal, misunderstood— or so she thought.  

The sight of Sandor Clegane tossing down the body of that little smallfolk boy had set within her a rage, terror, and despair she hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. It was worse that it came from him, and that he displayed his violence so openly. He had even called killing sweet . He had gone from claiming that killing the child was a mercy to openly declaring that he loved her, while insulting her, to boot. It was horrible and confusing, and Mari wanted nothing more than to press her face into her pillows and never be seen by anyone again.

“Tonight, I think we should go to the library,” Sosan said, interrupting Mari’s sulking. “You remember our discussion, yes?”

“I just want to sleep,” Mari groaned, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs, pressing her face into the crevice between her knees. “I just want to be left alone. Forever. ”

“Mari, I can’t bloody read the Common Tongue,” Sosan snapped, his hushed whisper rising precariously in volume. “You need to find the book for me, okay? And spare me the lecture about how you’d be oh so keen to teach me. I’m too stubborn. I’d drive you mad.”

Mari groaned, though she knew her friend was right. They were being pointed in a particular direction by Varys, and she had to remember her role, although as the days wore on, it seemed increasingly unclear.

They attended to Myrcella during the evening meal. They helped the little princess bathe, dress in her night clothes, and prepare for bed, all the while she more or less ignored them, chatting happily with her cousin, Rosamund, instead, who was to slumber by the girl’s side. Finally, when all was done, they waited outside Cersei’s chamber, where the Queen dismissed them from the day’s duties with an impatient, tired wave of her hand and a slamming door.

Instead of returning downstairs, they headed in the direction of the library, where it was unlikely any lingering septon, septa, or scholar would be loitering at such a late hour. They did not carry torches; instead, they remembered every nook and crevice, every turn, every slightly mislaid stone beneath their feet. Finally, they arrived, only to find it deserted. Sosan took a moment to light a few scattered candles using the burning torch hanging just down the corridor, returning it to its rightful place when she was done.

Firstly, Mari checked for records of houses and sigils. She had found a few and flipped through them, but they were all grossly outdated. Several were solely records of Targaryen lineages, detailed accounts of bastards turned nobility, and the like. Finally, near the very back, she found a large, weighty book, which she carried over to a nearby desk.

“ The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms …” Mari read aloud. “I think this is it.” 

She began to flip through the book, recognizing sigils and colors, painted in an array of expensive, hard-to-come-by inks and paints. It was excruciatingly dense, detailed, and admittedly boring. As Sosan took over the flipping, her eyes lingered on one page: House Clegane. The three running dogs, foregrounded by a yellow banner—the color of Lannister gold—caught her eye.

“Wait, go back,” Mari said. “The page before. Let me read that.” Sosan cast her a dubious look. 

Mari paused, taking the time actually to read the contents of the page. House Clegane is a house of landed knights in the Westerlands. Their fealty is to House Lannister of Casterly Rock. They possess a towerhouse. Their sigil depicts three dogs on a yellow field. The first Lord Clegane, Konan Clegane, former kennelmaster of Casterly Rock, of dark hair, dark eyes, and one-legged. His son, Lord Konnor Clegane, former squire of Lord Tytos Lannister, knight of Clegane’s Keep, of dark hair, dark eyes, born 235 AC. His elder son, Ser Gregor Clegane, of dark hair and dark eyes, born 265 AC. His younger son, Sandor Clegane, with dark hair and grey eyes, half-burned, was born in 270 AC.

She found it odd how the book paid such keen attention to traits like hair color and eye color. It was almost as though it sought to document and categorize members of both major and minor nobility. Perhaps it served as a valuable means to keep track of bastards, to account for physical characteristics. Her mind then wandered to her own inadequacies – she had read plenty of storybooks in her childhood, but the pages were torn, worn, and bent, and seldom featured elaborate paintings or images. She hardly knew the names and titles of modern nobility and realized that, although she knew her letters, she sorely lacked a true and proper education, despite once thinking herself far more well-read than most other smallfolk. Her cheeks burned with a sudden, newfound sense of shame and inadequacy.

“What is it?” Sosan asked, impatient, not recognizing the sigil or being able to read the words (for which Mari was most grateful) . “Isn’t that the horrible Mountain’s sigil? Yes, I recall what he wore to the Tourney…” Sosan cast her friend a dubious glance. “Look, enough, we’re looking for a mockingbird, not a dog… um… What was the message again? Something about silver… some other bird… I can’t remember…”

“Excuse me,” a stern voice rang from the main door. Mari and Sosan whipped around, locking eyes with Lord Eddard Stark. “Aren’t you the Lannister’s attendants?”

“Aye, my Lord,” Mari said immediately, her voice shrill, fighting to keep her composure. “We… we were just on our way…” She quickly reached over and slammed the large book shut with her free hand.

“ Wait ,” Lord Stark said, stepping into the frame of the library entrance. The man’s dark eyes were kind, his long, ruggedly handsome face and framing dark hair made him seem both formidable and patient. Mari had a feeling he would not let harm come to them. “It does you no good to sneak around at night, not here, not in this place… If I may ask… I am in search of a specific book.”

“We don’t know the library, sir,” Sosan interjected, grabbing Mari’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “We have to go now.”

“What book are you seeking, my Lord?” Mari asked, feeling suddenly emboldened. 

“It’s… It’s a book on lineages and histories…”

“… of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms? ” Mari finished. She swiftly pointed to the old tome, sprawled open on the desk. “It’s right there, my Lord.”

Ned Stark smiled. “Yes, that’s the one. Please, I must have it.” 

“It is yours.” Sosan suddenly dug her fingernails into Mari’s hand, but she fought to ignore the painful sting. Lord Stark approached the pair, albeit cautiously, his face backlit in the candlelight, his eyes wary, his mouth drawn into a straight, fixed line.

Lord Eddard took a quick intake of breath before he spoke. “I won’t tell your masters that you’ve been snooping here. And I won’t tell them that you’ve been reading the last book the late Ser Arryn ever laid his eyes upon. And I won’t ask you both what in the hells you’re up to, who you really work for. I expect such courtesy to be reciprocated. Do I make myself clear?”

Mari felt like she was being scolded by her great-uncle all over again. Sosan eagerly nodded, starting to drag Mari out of the library roughly. “Yes, my Lord. Forgive us, my Lord,” Sosan stammered as she and Mari nearly sprinted back down to their quarters. 

Later, they lay in silence in the darkness of their small, first-floor room, the sounds of crickets, bats, and owls swarming in the chilled autumn air. “Do you think we failed?” Sosan finally asked.

“I have a grim feeling we did exactly what we were supposed to do.”

“You know we will have to tell Varys,” Sosan began.

“We promised Lord Stark–”

“No, Mari, we save the skin on our own backs first. Remember?”

As Mari tried to fall asleep, she found herself lingering on Sandor’s words.  

“I don’t bloody care that you pity me enough to be nice to me, that you like how I fuckin’ swoon and dote all over you, you stupid girl, that you look at me all the bloody time, that my cunt brother maimed you, too. I’m sure it's nice only to have a tiny little nick to remember Ser Gregor Clegane, and not have half of your fucking face missing. I’m sure it’s so dear, to have a big ugly brute like me be so in love with you, isn’t it?”

 

SANDOR IX

Sandor found himself in a rage as he threw himself headlong into training the first morning after they had returned to King’s Landing. All was shaping up to be a proper mess, he thought, belaboring the past week’s sheer, utter misery with a newfound, boiling yet stony rage. Joff was keen to watch his training, the young prince cheering him on as he practiced the melee with a few gold cloaks brave or foolish enough to spar with him.

Joffrey cheered in the makeshift stands of the yards, clapping enthusiastically as Sandor knocked yet another man to the ground within less than a minute of sparring. Every move from his opponents had begun to feel predictable years and years ago, even before Mari had arrived to work as a handmaiden, a role that brought her into his daily life and made her absence all the more painful. Again, he found herself thinking of her, making him all the more miserable and rageful as he bashed man upon man upon man with the mace and one-handed sword Joff had requested he use for sparring. Denting shields upon shields, armor upon armor, the sweetness of battle and violence washed away his thoughts, centering his mind, keeping the memories of her smile, the way the light reflected her reddish hair, and her sweet scent from his immediate waking consciousness. 

Other men who were less cowardly would try to immediately bed any lowborn girl they even remotely fancied– he was not naive to the doings of the other nobles in the keep, much less the King himself. He would not dare call himself highborn, but he and his loathsome brother were both relatively privileged. That much had been made clear when Tywin Lannister repeatedly arranged marriage upon marriage for fucking Gregor Clegane, despite reports that the women were brutalized and killed within the first month of having taken their vows. Indeed, he knew that other men in his position would try to claim the woman, to take her back to his chambers in the barracks and have his way with her. But, no matter how many times he truly did consider this option, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Especially not now, not with the way her face looked as he flung the bloodied child, near split in half, to the ground, nor how she struggled against him, beating him with her weak, ineffective, soft, pale hands.

After sparring and the completion of his shift, Sandor ultimately decided to return to the alehouse on the periphery of Flea Bottom, where Mari had once worked, and was working through his fifth pint when one of the barmaids approached him, resting an arm on his, pressing into his bloody face. He barked and hissed in her direction, and the woman scurried off, her eyes wide with fear and discomfort. His outburst had only made him feel all the more miserable and alone than ever, alternating between moping down into his ale or staring off at the distant hearth. He always sat in the same spot whenever he came here, which was always somewhat infrequent, but he appreciated how he could be both far from the fire and decently warmed at the same time. The company, however, was consistently loathsome. All company, in truth, was contemptible to Sandor Clegane. Except hers.

Sandor’s relative peace and isolation would be brutally interrupted by the misfortune of Ser Boros and Meryn’s arrival at the alehouse, just as it was three years earlier. They were donned in their full armor, still wearing the starch-white of the cloak of the Kingsguard, and walked with a boastful swagger that made Sandor practically seethe with rage. Then, they took a seat near him. He clenched and unclenched his tired knuckles.

“Hand’s Tourney is within a fortnight,” Boros said, his face reddened by drink. “Think you’ll ride this time, Clegane?”

“Why the fuck are you talking to me?” he hissed, not looking the plump, garish knight in the face.

“Why not?” The knight’s impish smile made Sandor’s stomach turn.

“Fuck off. I’d like to enjoy my drink in peace.”

“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss, Clegane,” Meryn laughed, scooting his way down the bench in Sandor and Boros’s direction. “You know, perhaps you’ll see that busty little woman you fucked into next week in the stands, since Robert says he’ll open up the event to common folk. Haven’t seen her around this place lately. Swear I did, but, eh, the face was different. Tough to tell apart women who cover their hair. Still paid for her anyway.” Sandor grit his teeth and took a long swig of his ale, still not facing the two knights whom he wanted nothing more than to beat to a bloody pulp deep in the ground. “Haven’t seen you whoring much lately, Clegane. Cock having some trouble gettin’ hard?”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you, Hound?” Meryn taunted. “Never seen you even bloody smile before. Is it because you think you’re so much better than us, then, refusing your knightly vows again and again? Well, what do you have that we fuckin’ don’t? Jealous of our good looks, is that it?”

“Aye, I’d just love to look like a dour-faced, rust-colored cunt. Just like you, Trant. And I’d love to have your fuckin’ jowls, Boros. Surely all the maidens come a’ runnin’ when they see you hobble into their whorehouses on the Street of Silk on those stumpy legs of yours.” Sandor took another swig of his drink before slamming it onto the table, fishing in the purse tied to the belt at his waist for a few coppers. “And I’ll enter that damn tourney and crush you both. You have my word.”

Boros and Meryn exchanged a peculiar look between each other, but then returned their attention to him and to their ridicule. “What, did that veiled barmaid call you ugly, and now you are fearsome of women? Is that it, Hound? Oh, that’s quite the dilemma,” Meryn taunted. “I bet she had her eyes closed when you fucked her. I bet she cried, too, for someone to save her from you. I bet she didn’t think it was even worth the money, and–”

It was not a difficult decision, in the end, to punch Boros and Meryn square across the face in immediate succession once the proper coppers were placed onto the wooden table. He could feel the crack! of splintered cartilage beneath his fingers, his gruesome face twisting into an involuntary smirk of glee as the two moronic men collapsed into a heaping pile upon the alehouse floor. 

 

MARIYA XI

Sosan had insisted they find a way to watch the Hand’s Tourney, although she, admittedly, cared very little about seeing the rich, uppity nonces they served have even more fun. However, her friend had been insistent, especially after what she had seen in Lord Stark’s generosity. After all, the tourney was to be held by King Robert in Lord Stark’s honor. It was the first tourney that they could attend, although, in the past, they were oft held for naming day celebrations. This one, however, was to be different. Both girls knew that well enough, especially with the appointment of a new Hand. All was cause for ample celebration.

“Listen, it’s not every day we get to see such a thing, even if we’re to be hiding back in the stands,” Sosan insisted. “I’d like to see who the winner will crown the Queen of Love and Beauty. I have a feeling Lady Sansa, Ned’s eldest girl, is going to get her flowers. I’d like to see it. She’s been through enough, with her little brother and all. Oh, the way those wolves howled and howled… ”

“Aye, I hope so, too,” Mari sighed. “Alright, we can go. But we can’t get caught.”

“Not like in the library,” Sosan teased. Mari offered her friend an exasperated look. “Oh, lighten up. It’ll be fine. He’s honorable. That’s why he’ll be such a good Hand.”

“You speak like you harbor sweet affection for the man,” Mari teased.

“Do not!”

“The fellow is happily married,” she retorted with a laugh. “Do keep that in mind.”

“But he has a bastard…” Mari gave her friend a little disciplinary slap on her shoulder, and the girls couldn’t help but burst into giggles. “Alright, alright, I’ll seek to withhold myself.”

Beyond the iron doors of the King’s Gate in the tourney grounds, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the smallfolk of the Crownlands had come out in the thousands to watch the games. Mari observed that Sosan seemed particularly captivated by all the shining armor, the grand bay, white, chestnut, and black chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the joyous shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind, and the knights themselves, valorous and glorious, with freshly polished shining armor and steeds all hosed and groomed. It was all rather magical, Mari privately conceded, even if it was all utterly foolish and a waste of coin which, otherwise, she thought could have very well gone to aid the many starving beggars and cockfighters of Flea Bottom. 

As lowborn handmaidens and servants, neither Mari nor Sosan was expected to be seated behind any of the Lannisters on that day. So, they were directed to various patches underneath the stands near the front rows, duly joined by all manner of dirty, unwashed, grubby little smallfolk children, who were just as gleefully eager to watch the joust, which was always the biggest and most brilliant spectacle of the tourney.

The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field, all but Jaime Lannister in scaled armor the color of milk, their cloaks starched a brilliant, near-blinding white (Mari and Sosan could name every individual child-servant who had thoroughly scrubbed, laundered, and ironed each cloak) . Ser Jaime wore the white Kingsguard cloak as well, but beneath it, he was shining gold from head to foot, with a lion’s head helm and a golden sword. “Oh, Ser Jaime looks gorgeous!” she heard Sosan exclaim. “He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes upon…” 

However, Mari’s attention was elsewhere. She watched the thundering arrival of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, the pillager of the Westerlands, the slayer of Elia Martell and her children, the slayer of her peasant family, far more attentively, however, all the air suddenly leaving her lungs, her legs feeling like jelly.

“Mari, what’s wrong?” She could feel Sosan grasp onto her forearm. “Hey, are you alright? You look ill. Look, Mari, in the crowd, there’s Lord Beric Dondarrion and there’s Jalabhar!” She had never told Sosan about Gregor, or about her scar, much less how her parents died beyond the vagueness she had provided. Her friend had never asked, which felt like something of a courtesy.

Mari felt even sicker as she watched Sandor Clegane enter the lists with hawk-like, singleminded focus, followed directly by Lord Renly, the King’s younger brother. Finally, just for a moment, it seemed that the world had finally stopped spinning.

“I think I’m going to be sick…” Sosan placed a hand on her arm. Mari paused, taking a deep breath, composing herself. “Okay, wait , I feel better now. I just… I… I’ll be alright,” she whispered, her voice barely audible among the surging roar of the tourney crowd, her eyes now set on the lesser Clegane, watching how he scowled as the other competitors seemed to try to make small talk with the giant man. Tough luck , she mused.

They watched as Ser Jory unseated Horas Redwyne and then one of the Frey sons from the Riverlands. Ser Jaime, the Kingslayer, overthrew Ser Ansar Royce and Lord Bryce Caron, and even had a go as Ser Barristan Selmy, who, despite his more advanced age, won his first two tilts. In the small slot where the pair were hiding, partially concealed by the benches, they attentively eavesdropped on the wealthy patrons seated just above them in the proper stands, who had a near-encyclopedic knowledge of every participant. This helped Mari follow things, at least a little.

The most terrifying moment of the day came during the Mountain’s second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight, Ser Hugh of the Vale, under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly, blood practically spraying about, nearly drenching the first-row members of the crowd. Mari felt her blood boil— another victim of the Mountain. She heard Sosan let out a terrified shriek on her right and watched as the girl covered her eyes. Mari did not cover hers. She wanted to see.

The point of Ser Gregor’s lance had snapped off in the young man’s neck, and his life’s blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new, and a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. Ser Hugh’s cloak was a light blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer’s day, trimmed with a border of shimmering crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one. Mari clenched her fists, feeling as though she, too, had been stabbed. Her hand darted up to her lip, her eyes welling with tears.

“Oh, I can’t watch any more. We can retire. I don’t think the Queen will require us—“

“ Shh ,” she hushed her companion, watching as squires came to carry off the body, a boy with a spade running to the field, shoveling dirt over the bloodstained spot where Ser Hugh had fallen. Then, everything resumed as if nothing had happened. Mari silently prayed for the young man.

Next, Ser Balon fell to the Mountain, then Renly to Sandor. The lesser dark-haired Baratheon was unhorsed so violently that he seemed to fly backward off his charger, legs in the air. His head hit the ground with an audible crack that made the crowd gasp, but it was just the golden antler on his helm. One of the forks of the decorative helm had snapped off beneath him. When Lord Renly climbed to his feet, the commons cheered wildly, for King Robert’s handsome young brother was a great favorite of all, smallfolk or noble alike. He handed the broken antler to his Sandor with a most courteous bow. He would make a far better King than his brother , Mari privately thought.

Mari watched as Sandor held the piece of Renly Baratheon’s token, undoubtedly worth a near-fortune. His eyes were cold. She watched as he began to raise his hand, just about to throw the expensive piece of metal into the crowd, before his eyes locked on hers, his expression unreadable. Or, at least, she thought so. It was difficult to tell from across the jousting field. How could she have seen him? I am imagining things , she thought. Then, she watched with rapt attention as, not Sandor, but the Hound tucked Renly’s antler into his breastplate, his eyes still locked on hers.

Later on, a hedge knight in a checkered cloak disgraced himself by killing Ser Beric Dondarrion’s horse and was declared forfeit from the tourney. Lord Beric shifted his saddle to a new mount, only to be knocked right off it by Thoros of Myr, also known as the red priest. Ser Aron Santagar and Lothor Brune tilted thrice without any tangible result; Ser Aron fell roughly afterward to Lord Jason Mallister, and Brune to Yohn Royce’s younger son, Robar. By the end of the tourney, as the barest trace of a grey-yellow dusk painted the mountainous horizon, it came down to four finalists: the Hound, Ser Gregor, Ser Jaime, and Ser Loras Tyrell, the strapping youth they called the Knight of Flowers.

“My, he’s handsome ,” Sosan cooed. 

“Oh, shush, he’s not yet a man as it is,” Mari snapped, rolling her eyes. 

It was hard to tell precisely how old he was, but, to her, he seemed hardly like a proper man, not like Sandor, for instance, who was all hulking muscle and fearsome mass. Her eyes immediately searched for him, finding him waiting by the stands outside of the arena, scowling at all the knights. Gregor had vanished momentarily. The mere thought of the man staying a night in a tent in the tourney grounds made Mari feel something akin to a rising panic, deep in her heart. She knew she would not sleep well in her bunk in the servants’ keep on this evening.

By the time the four finalists were announced, the sky had begun to darken. They would continue on the following day. Mari was keen to return to the Red Keep as soon as possible, the mere idea of encountering Gregor Clegane at night sending ripples of terror into her heart. However, Sosan had insisted on lingering, likely to try to flatter some armored men.

“What do you mean, linger ?”

“Well, maybe one of them might pay me a passing glance,” Sosan giggled. “What? You can hardly judge me, as is. We are dismissed today and tomorrow. I’m going to take advantage of our meager time off. You don’t have to always come with me or follow me around.”

Mari felt her hands grip into fists at her side, peeved at Sosan’s last little quip. “Fine. I’ll go. If my company is so very loathsome.” She turned on her heel and practically stomped back to the Red Keep, heading straight for their room, wanting nothing more than the darkness of sleep. As she scaled the little ladder leading to her bunk, something immediately caught her eye.

There, on her bed, was the fragment of the antler from Ser Renly. Well, rather, from a certain Sandor Clegane. Worth a bloody fortune . Far more gold than she ever dreamed of seeing in her lifetime. For a moment, she wondered if she had gone insane. How on earth did this get here? No, she knew exactly how this had happened. 

He was seeking her forgiveness, in his own way.

Chapter 7: Which Will

SANDOR X

After the first day of the Hand’s Tourney, Sandor wanted nothing more than to get shit-faced drunk. Ignoring all the grating congratulations he had received, along with the nonces trying to pat his back and shoulders, he had wandered to the massive, tented banquet table, where other Lords and Ladies and bloody knights were gathering in preparation for a grand feast. His eyes briefly scanned the scope of the tent, eyes peeling through each and every servant, but he did not see her. His heart silently despaired.

Said servants made sure to keep their cups filled all night. Singers sat before the King’s pavilion, filling the dusk with music. A juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. The King’s fool, the pie-faced simpleton called Moon Boy, danced about on stilts, all in motley, making a mockery of everyone, including him (though Sandor knew himself to be an easy target for superficial ridicule, and was too drunk by then to take offense) . Elaborate courses and regional delicacies came and went. A thick soup of barley and venison. Salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts. Snails in honey and garlic, all of which Sandor consumed with gluttonous abandon, demanding drink after drink after drink, hoping he would be drunk enough to pay no heed to Gregor, who he knew was seated with his motley gang of rapists and thugs— called the “Mountain’s Men” (more like his bloody pet rats!) — at the table on the opposite side of the room. For tonight, he thought, he would make an effort to ignore his brother, and he would sit proudly at the far end of Robert-fucking-Baratheon’s table. At the end of the meal came sweetbreads, pigeon pie, and baked apples fragrant with cinnamon, as well as lemon cakes frosted in sugar. Sandor did not conceal his ravenous hunger and thirst, wasting no time with pleasantries as he practically gorged upon the feast.

Sandor, at the far end of the table, could hear King Robert turn belligerent, as he did when he drank. “ No ,” the King thundered in a voice that drowned out all other speech. “You do not tell me what to do, woman,” he screamed at Queen Cersei. “I am the King here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight! ” Everyone had turned to stare, Cersei’s face a mask. She rose, gathered her skirts, and stormed off, her three highborn serving girls following behind her. 

Ser Jaime tried to console the man, but the King shoved him away. “The great knight. I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer. Give me my hammer, and not a man in the realm can stand before me!”

Jaime’s perfect face soured as he rose, brushing himself off. “As you say, Your Grace.”

“You’ve spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh goblet,” Renly interjected.

“ Dog! ” Joffrey suddenly shrieked.

“Yes, Your Grace?” Sandor had risen and swiftly took his place behind the prince.

“Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her,” the prince commanded brusquely.

Sandor grunted, glancing down at the little girl, whose mouth was agape, staring in the direction of her betrothed, completely, devastatingly, openly heartbroken. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. “Small chance of that. Come, you’re not the only one who needs sleep. I’ve had too much to drink, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow.” He laughed again, nearly toppling over. Indeed, he had far too much to drink on this night, the foolish little boy inside of him impatiently waiting for the courier to deliver Renly’s token to the handmaiden’s chambers. To ask her for forgiveness.

The little Stark bird grasped at her snoring Septa. The little girl was terrified of him; that much was more than obvious. Sandor grabbed a torch to lead her way, gesturing for the girl to follow. They walked among the pavilions, each with its banner and its armor hung outside, the silence weighing heavier with every step. 

“You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor,” she said, her voice shrill, as though forcing herself to speak and break the tense silence between them. 

“Spare me your empty little compliments, girl. I’m no fuckin’ knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight, though. Did you see him ride today?”

“Yes,” Sansa whispered, trembling. 

“He was… Gallant? ” the Hound finished, his voice laced with sarcasm and ire.

“No one could withstand him.”

Not a lie . “Some uppity little bitch of a septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A little talking bird, repeating all the words they taught you to recite, talking ‘round and ‘round the whole truth.”

“That’s unkind. You’re frightening me. I want to go now,” the Stark girl said, her lip trembling, her big blue eyes looking up at him, a telltale mixture of fear and disgust, one he was so accustomed to seeing. 

Perhaps it was the drunkenness, maybe it was how he had no idea how his little antler token to the handmaiden would be received, but Sandor could feel his angry words bubbling to the surface long before he thought better of himself to control them.

“ No one could withstand him . That’s truth enough. No one could ever fuckin’ withstand Gregor. That boy today, his second joust, oh, that was a pretty bit of business. You saw that, did you? Fool boy, he had no business riding in this company. No money, no squire, no one to help him with that armor. That gorget wasn’t fastened properly. You think Gregor overlooked that? You think Ser Gregor’s lance rode up by chance, do you? If you believe that, you’re as empty-headed as a bird for true. Gregor’s lance goes where Gregor wants it to go. Kills innocent shepherds, his own fuckin’ family, cuts the man’s daughter... Look at me. Look at me! ” He put a hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her and moved the torch close to his mangled features, his drunkenness masking his terror of fire, just to prove his bloody, drunken point. “There’s pretty for you. Take a good, long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you turning away down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look. You’re not like her , you’re not a little sweet lamb. You fear me. She didn’t fear me. Take your fucking look, girl!” She stared back at him, her eyes wide and utterly petrified, shaking slightly. “Just know, little bird, that my brother is no true knight.” He rose, composing himself, and turned, knowing that, were he to tell this little creature of his torment, it would truly come back to haunt him. He had enough ghosts, as is. 

The rest of the way into the city, Sandor Clegane said not a word. He led her to where the carts were waiting, told a driver to take them back to the Red Keep, and climbed in after her. They rode in silence through the King’s Gate and up torchlit city streets. He opened the postern door and led her into the castle, his burned face twitching and his eyes brooding, and he was one step behind her as they climbed the tower stairs. He took her safely to the corridor outside her bedchamber.

“Thank you,” Sansa Stark said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Sandor looked at the girl for a moment and nodded, wanting nothing more than to return to his bunk and succumb to the darkness of sleep, though he knew, in his heart of hearts, who would be the one to plague his dreams.

His walk back to his cot in the barracks was drunken, dizzy, and stumbling, but he finally made it after what felt like an eternity. He sat down hard on his bed, rubbing his face over his hand, feeling the twisting pain of his burned, sinewy flesh beneath his hands as his mind flooded with those early memories of his recovery. It had always been an ill-omened sign that, in times when he would succumb to drink, his dreams would be plagued with dark, perverse visions of his piteous childhood, trapped in a stone keep or thrust into blood-soaked battlefields. However, not only did he see his own little face in his dreams, but he saw hers, too. He saw her, a little curly-haired ginger woman, whose face was etched in a twisted smile, pinned against the wooden floor of some farmer’s cottage, her sea glass eyes wide, reddened, brimming with nightmarish tears as the unmistakable, large and meaty pale hands of Gregor Clegane pinned her down, as they had done to him, all those years ago.

The next day, Sandor was the first rider to appear, wearing an olive-green cloak over his soot-grey armor, along with his hound’s-head helm. He was grateful that he was not particularly hungover, and privately embarrassed at his outburst at the Stark girl the night prior. 

As he trotted around the periphery of the tourney arena, he glanced towards the stands, to the place where he had seen the handmaiden’s bright face, peering between the feet of some obese Lord of House Crakehall. She was not there. Perhaps she would come later.

“A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer,” he heard Littlefinger announce loudly as Jaime Lannister entered the lists, riding an elegant blood bay destrier, coat freshly shined and gleaming in the light of the early afternoon sun. The horse wore a blanket of gilded ringmail, and Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles. Sandor scoffed, thinking it all far too showy and decadent.

“Done,” Lord Renly shouted back. “The Hound has a hungry look about him this morning. I think he’d be a wise man to bet on this day.” Sandor heard the remark and rolled his eyes.

“Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them,” Littlefinger added, dryly.

Sandor proceeded to drop his visor with an audible clang— if there was anyone he hated just as much as the brat Joffrey, that Littlefinger certainly was a close contender, along with that bloody Spider— and took up his position. Ser Jaime blew a kiss to some woman in the commons and rode to the end of the lists. Both men couched their lances. Sandor leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instant before impact. Clegane’s point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the garish lion blazon, while his hit square. Wood shattered, and Sandor reeled, fighting to keep his seat atop Stranger.

He only just managed to stay in his saddle. Sandor jerked his mount around hard and rode back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime tossed down his broken lance and snatched up a fresh one, jesting with his squire. The Hound spurred Stranger forward at a hard gallop. Jaime then rode to meet him. This time, when Jaime shifted his seat, Sandor moved with him. Both lances exploded, and by the time the splinters had settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while Ser Jaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and dented.

Jaime was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing. Finally, they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling. Sandor was grateful his visor was still down. He knew there was a gruesome smile spread wide and proud across his ugly face, and he knew it would not serve him well to have any of the elder Lannisters bear witness to his wicked joy.

Sandor rode Stranger out of the ring and dismounted, giving his heady stallion a break, removed his helm, shook out his lank, dark hair, and blinked some of the sweat away from his eyes. He turned back to the arena, watching as the Knight of Flowers ( bleh! ) made him nauseatingly suave. His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful fleabitten grey mare, built for speed. Ser Gregor’s massive stallion nickered and then screamed as he caught her scent. The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, nimble and elegant as a dancer.

“Clever…” Sandor mumbled aloud. The mare was in the midst of heat; that much was evident to anyone with a pair of working eyes.

In turn, Gregor was having trouble controlling his horse. The black stallion was screaming and pawing the ground, shaking his head. The Mountain kicked at the animal savagely with an armored boot. The horse reared and almost threw him. Ser Loras saluted the King (unlike Sandor’s heady, or perhaps merely dim-witted, elder brother), rode to the far end of the list, and couched his lance, ready. Ser Gregor brought his animal to the line, fighting with the reins. Then it began. 

The Mountain’s stallion broke into a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while the mare charged as smoothly as a flow of silk. Gregor wrenched his shield into position, juggled with his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Ser Loras was on him, placing the point of his lance just there, and in an instant, Gregor was failing. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh, and Sandor quietly prayed, albeit blasphemously, that his brute of a brother would finally snap his fat fucking neck.

Well, lo and behold , Gregor burst into a beast-like fury, screeching to his pimply squire for his longsword, which he swiftly used to slice his stallion’s neck nearly in half. Cheers turned to shrieks of terror in a heartbeat at the sight of such a blatant, grotesque act of cruelty. An automatic forfeit , Sandor realized. The stallion fell to its knees, screaming as it died. By then, Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras, his bloody sword clutched in his fist, and, then, Sandor’s feet seemingly acted of their own accord, grabbing hold of the nearest longsword he could find, his vision nearly going red with fury, shoving the hound’s helm back over his head.

This is my fucking chance.

Ser Loras was shouting for his sword as Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of his horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras kept his seat, but barely. Gregor swung his sword, a savage two-handed blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. Loras’s pretty courser dashed away in a panic as Loras lay stunned in the dirt, his pristine hair askew, his handsome face dirtied.

“Leave him be,” Sandor rasped, the weight of the longsword in his hands feeling like almost nothing, the scent of the stallion’s blood in the air only urging him on.

The following moments were no more than a blur as the brothers clashed, the brothers hammering at each other relentlessly. Gregor unashamedly aimed for his neck, but his helm was fortified and well-crafted, deflecting every blow. Perhaps, Sandor mused to himself, Gregor had always wanted to kill his little brother just as much as he had tried to kill him. However, he knew he would be the one to win in the end.

“ STOP THIS MADNESS, IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING! ” Robert I Baratheon bellowed. 

Sandor instantly bowed the knee, his eyes down, feeling the blow of his brother’s steel cut air above him, slicing a mere inch from his skull. He dared not raise his eyes to the King. Then, he heard a grunt from his brother and the clatter of his longsword against the tourney sands. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Sandor realized the man had stormed away, refusing to bow to his own King. Sandor couldn’t help but scoff. Fucking cunt.

“Let him go,” he heard the King say. 

“I owe you my life,” a soft-spoken voice cut through the noise of the hysterical crowd. “The day is yours, Ser.”

“I’m no Ser, ” Sandor growled, standing up to look down at the handsome young knight before him, his arms outspread, offering Sandor a small tourney-winnings chest, which he knew contained roughly twenty thousand gold dragons, far more money than he had ever seen in his miserable bloody life. However, he could hardly refuse such an offer, and practically snatched the winnings away from the lad. 

His eyes again, perhaps of their own accord, searched the stands, looking at that same place below the piggish Crakehall Lord— likely some second or third cousin of his, from his mother's side— where he had seen her. She was still not there. Foolish. His heart sank, his mind suddenly swarmed with worrisome thoughts. Did she not like my gift?  

Sandor felt like a bloody juvenile love-stricken squire boy, and he fucking hated it. Perhaps she was angry with him for giving her something so utterly useless. Of course, he decided, the girl would want something practical, not some thoughtless, broken trophy.  

The audience’s utter rapture and delight at his performance, at such a display of honor , felt more foreign and strange than he could have anticipated. Loras beamed at him, and he gave the boy a relentlessly cold look. Finally, the handsome highborn dropped his wrist and bowed to him, as though they were the same, as though Sandor were not the grandson of an oafish kennelmaster, but a proper, uppity Lord like him and all the stuck-up Tyrells. Glancing across the arena, he saw that the little bird, Sansa Stark, was offering him a standing ovation, her father beside her clapping along politely, a soft smile across his face, his eyes still regarding Sandor with an understandable amount of suspicion. His eyes scanned the crowd once more, searching for her. He could not find her, and oh , how he silently dismayed.

After Sandor had a servant deliver the small trunk of tourney winnings to his room, he had made plans to seek out Mari in the Red Keep. He needed to speak with her at once. He needed to seek her forgiveness. Sitting through the melee and archery competitions was torture enough already, but having to grit his teeth through all the incessant congratulations , all the attempted handshakes, and rough pats on the back was more than he could bear. People asked him repeatedly who he wished to crown his ‘Queen of Love and Beauty’ or some shite, and he pointedly told them all to fuck off.  

However, his plans to return to his quarters were perforated by the shriek of Joffrey Baratheon. “Dog, come! ” Sandor heard the boy shout, his voice piercing and grating through the noise of the crowd. “I wish to have a word with you.”

Obediently, Sandor followed the prince to the King’s tourney tent, where, inside, sat Robert, Renly, Cersei, the eunuch, and Littlefinger. Less than ideal.

“He’s a fine warrior. More than a fine warrior. Isn’t he, father?” The way Joffrey clamored to appease his father (well, his sort-of father, as Sandor reasonably inferred and knew), who barely paid him any mind, was reminiscent of his childhood. For that, he had some degree of sympathy, at least. “You know, dog, with my impending marriage, I began to wonder why you have no wife of your own.” Sandor felt all the color drain from his face, his eyes darting between the boy, the King, and the Queen, who looked particularly disinterested in this entire conversation. “Well, I suppose with that horrible face, lowly title, and lack of coin, I’d imagine it’s difficult to find a woman who could stand to look at you,” Joffrey continued. “And, well, you do have a bite .”

“Leave the dog alone, Joffrey,” the King sighed, not bothering to look at either of them, holding his golden wine goblet askew as a handmaiden refilled it, giving the young maiden a lascivious look. At his side, Queen Cersei seemed positively miserable, moreso than usual.

“Father, just imagine … a litter of pups,” Joffrey said, cracking adolescent voice bursting into a series of grating cackles. “What a sight that would be! Mother, can you imagine an army of Hounds at my beck and call, for when I am King?” He then turned to Sandor. “And, if you get bored with the woman or she breaks, I can always get you another one, just like my grandfather did for your brother.”

Sandor looked down as he shifted his weight in an attempt to disguise his discomfort at the suggestion, particularly at the talk of his brother’s three wives, all of whom, much like his beloved little sister, had ‘disappeared’ under mysterious circumstances. His eyes turned to King Robert, who seemed generally uninterested in the whole discussion, his eyes now wandering to some of the younger, unwedded court ladies who were lingering in the front row of the stands, some of whom seemed to wink, sway, and smile coyly in his direction.

“Father, what say you?” Joffrey said, his tone taking on the odd, childish, high-pitched, and grating one it always did when the boy wanted something desperately. “He was so brilliant in the tourney, wasn’t he, Father? He fought valiantly against his giant of a brother and saved Ser Loras!”

Sandor watched as Lord Varys, a man whom, like Littlefinger, he held in particularly low regard, scurried over to the King, seemingly out of bloody fucking nowhere. Varys leaned into Robert’s ear, whispering something inaudible, dark, beady eyes fixed on Sandor as though undressing him. Sandor, of course, immediately put on a particularly gruesome expression in the eunuch’s direction. 

“Lord Varys tells me you have something of a lady-love,” the King said, his bright blue eyes suddenly flickering to life, making Sandor’s stomach drop. “You sent a servant to deliver my brother’s token to the room of a named handmaiden. I never took you for a romantic, Hound.” Sandor opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. “I’d say— all the merrier! Have them wed, then.”

“Oh, please, Robert, let’s not indulge ourselves in frivolous matchmaking,” Queen Cersei’s voice cut through. “It's unbecoming . And beneath us. A dog is always happiest by his master’s side.” Cersei looked back at Sandor with a twisted grimace of disgust. It seemed the mere idea of him having a ‘lady-love,’ as the King had called it, appeared to repulse the Queen greatly.

“Oh, shut it, woman,” Robert snapped. “Well, what say you, Clegane?”

“Who… who… who… did you have in… mind, exactly?” Sandor already knew the answer. It was rare for him to ever find himself at a loss for words.

“Oh, don’t play coy. Varys tells me her name is Mariya. Pretty name, Hound… You know, when I was but a boy, fostered in the Vale, there was a lovely plump little kitchen maid with that same name who worked there. A nice, round arse on that one. I’d think about her every night, back then. I’d even—“

“Your Grace,” Cersei cut in, her face suddenly livid. “Let us save such talk for another time.”

“Robert—“ Renly began, rich blue eyes flickering between Sandor and Robert. 

This sudden turn completely took Sandor aback; the contentment of a taste of proper battle with his brother rapidly faded. As if being treated and talked about like breeding stock wasn’t horrible enough, but Mariya, too, had somehow, near-miraculously, been involved in this mess. She will loathe me forever.

“So, what say you?” Robert asked again.

Sandor’s throat suddenly became parched. “I would not… refuse… you… Your Grace.”

“Tomorrow it is, then!” The King clapped his hands together loudly, a jolly reddish flush to his merry cheeks. He must be a bit drunk, still. “Congratulations, dog. Someone get my bloody squire, tell him to find the damn girl. And get me a scribe!” More bloody congratulations.

“A scribe, Your Grace? Whatever for?” Littlefinger inquired, eyes furiously darting to meet Sandor’s. 

“His beast of a brother forfeited the tourney. He did not heed my order! He did not bow before me. He deserves to be stripped of lands and titles!” Robert declared. “Get me a scribe! Go, go! Make haste!” Cersei suddenly jerked upright, her green cat-like eyes alight with panic. Gregor was, as Sandor begrudgingly knew, the most invaluable wartime asset to House Lannister. To have one belligerent knight and minor Lord stripped of titles was unheard of. “It’s your lucky day, young man. It’s not every day a secondborn son proves himself as such… and is so handsomely rewarded!”

 

MARIYA XII

Sosan had insisted they return to the final day of the tourney to watch, though she conceded that the whole show the previous day had frightened her, particularly the gore-ridden spectacle that was the death of the handsome Ser Hugh of the Vale. Mari, having concealed the token gifted from Sandor beneath her pillow, thought risking locking eyes with the giant of a man was unwise. There was no way, then, that she could deny her affections – in truth, it terrified her. Better to avoid him for a while , she thought.

“Then we don’t have to go,” Mari said. “We have the day off. We’ll be back at the King’s tent to pick up Myrcella in the evening. Why don’t we go to the markets today? Buy something nice?”

“Fine,” Sosan relented. Mari felt a little bad. She knew how badly her friend wanted to see Ser Loras win the tourney.

They spent the afternoon in the markets in and around Flea Bottom, buying a few strands of finely threaded, decorative ribbons for their hair. They even paid Gloria Waters a brief visit. The old alehouse owner was more annoyed at Mari for bothering her than she seemed happy at her supposed base improvement in her state in life. So, the girls left without buying anything to eat or drink.

By the time it was dark, both Mari and Sosan were expected to escort Myrcella Baratheon back to her chambers after the completion and final rounds of the Hand’s Tourney. The little girl seemed exhausted from the long and tiresome day of watching men charging about on fearsome warhorses and engaging in hand-to-hand melee. Bernadette, smug as she was, was to stay by Cersei’s side along with Senelle, Taena, and Jocelyn, the highborn ladies. Just for a moment, albeit a fleeting one, Mari could swear she saw the Queen’s eyes linger on her, indicating the first moment of recognition she had yet to experience from Cersei Lannister since beginning work as a handmaiden for her family three years prior and fluttering in the woman’s vicinity for said time.

“Oh, it was all so frightful!” Myrcella innocently declared as Mari helped the little girl mount her dapplegrey pony. They would have to cross through King’s Gate to get back to the castle, and there was no place for a well-dressed princess to wade through. That was a lowborn servant’s job. “Poor Hound, almost lost his head today… He can be mean, but I would mourn him. I’m happy he won.”

“The Hound won the tourney?!?” Sosan said incredulously. “Myrcella, my Lady, are you telling us a fib?” Sosan gave Mari a playful look. 

The little princess burst into a fit of giggles. “No, I’m for true!” Myrcella squealed. “Mummy had me tucked in her arms, because Gregor killed his horse. I didn’t want to see. They fought, and Gregor stomped away. Ser Loras gave the tourney victory to the dog.”

“Well, then the Hound didn’t actually win the tourney,” Sosan scoffed. 

“You’re Mariya?” a voice suddenly interjected, causing Mari to jump and Myrcella’s little pony to spook. She knew exactly who the man before her was. 

It was Lancel Lannister, squire to the King. Myrcella’s pretty face lit up as she saw her cousin, offering him an adorable little wave which he hesitantly returned. “Hi, Lancel!” the princess beamed. 

“Aye, I am,” Mari said.

“You know your letters?”

“Aye.” 

The squire pressed a scroll into Mari’s hands. “You’ll be expected, then, girl.” The blonde Lannister squire then stomped away. He was always considered a bit of a condescending, arrogant little prick, especially by most of the servants.

“What does my cousin want of you, Miss Mari?” Myrcella asked innocently, using the little nickname the sweet princess tended to use towards her lowborn handmaidens.

Mari handed over the pony’s reins to Sosan, allowing her to properly break the lion and stag wax seal on the scroll and read it. Her eyes widened. She stopped in her tracks. She wanted to hand off the scroll to her friend, to tell her to read it herself, but Sosan couldn’t read the Common Tongue, only Pentoshi.

“What is it?” Sosan asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been ordered by the King to be wed to the Hound tomorrow.”

Naturally, Sosan had been completely horrified, and, once they were somewhere semi-private, she started openly freaking out on Mari’s behalf. It was all worsened when the parcel containing a wedding dress had been hand-delivered to their door by a servant boy mere minutes after handing off Myrcella’s pony to a stablehand.

The two fumbled with the hideous, outdated, and stuffy gown Mari was expected to wear for the ceremony the following morning, far out in the tourney grounds (as per the letter Lancel had delivered), which they both knew would be partially deconstructed by then. Not the most atmospheric or aesthetically pleasing place to take vows.

The weight of her predicament suddenly caught up to her as Sosan fished through Mari’s sparse belongings, carefully pulling the old shift she had brought with her when she arrived at King’s Landing three years prior over her head, dropping it unceremoniously to the ground before picking up the new silk chemise that had been provided for her to layer underneath her wedding gown. Likely, the undergarment was a highborn lady’s hand-me-down, but it was the nicest fabric Mari had ever touched, nicer than her silk handmaiden’s dress. 

Sosan suggested she try it on while doing alterations to get a better sense of the sizing and fit of her wedding gown. She had asked her a litany of questions, mostly how in the world had her lowborn, insignificant, no-name ever come to grace the bloody King’s lips? How did he know of her existence? What in the Seven Hells had even happened on the last day of the tourney?

“I’m going to be married tomorrow,” Mari said aloud in disbelief.

Sosan didn’t say anything for a moment as she tightened and adjusted the hideous dress, working her seamstress skills to try to find a way to make the ugly, frilly, needlessly conservative thing slightly more appealing. 

“There are worse punishments than getting married against your will to a brute in a tourney lot on the side of the Kingsroad,” she said, pausing. “Look, I know you have shared private words with him, Mari. A fair few words. People talk. You should know that.”

“I thought as much.” Mari felt her cheeks flush. She had no idea where even to begin. “No, it’s not like that… I mean, a lot of what they say is true. He can be a rotten person. He’s foul-mouthed, a heavy drinker…”

“… Tough on the eyes, that one. Probably the ugliest man I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen my fair share of men. Well, maybe the Imp is uglier.”

“Aye,” Mari sighed. “Maybe.”

“Heard that he visits whorehouses in Flea Bottom. Gets into fights and brawls in sketchy taverns. He’s killed little kids and women, just like his evil brother, who butchered poor Ser Hugh.”

“I know.”

“He’s not even an heir to his lesser house!”

“Well, I am not an heiress to anything at all. I have nothing but savings from my salary here and the Spider’s tokens of gratitude. And it’s hardly enough to cover more than a week’s travel away from this place.”

“He killed a little butcher’s boy on the journey back from Winterfell. Didn’t you hear?”

“Aye,” Mari conceded, her face momentarily twisting into a grimace. “Saw the boy strung across his bloody saddle, staining the dark leather red. ‘Spose it would’ve been a quicker death than whatever Joffrey had planned for him.” 

All the servants of the Red Keep knew about the goings-on of the Black Cells. Mari had no desire ever to set foot there, nor could she wish such a fate upon anyone. She knew Sandor Clegane had provided the boy with something akin to mercy, even if it was cruel. He had been right, in that respect. The boy’s death was quick, at the very least. Her mind then wandered to Renly’s token. Would that be enough to forgive him?

“You defend him? Why?” Sosan questioned her. “Now everything is talking. All the servants know. We are supposed to remain as unassuming as possible, Mari. Some will say you want to be wed to the Hound. You told me yourself, you don’t understand relationships. You’ve never lain with a man. He’s a beast , Mari, he’ll break you. I know better than anyone what men like that are capable of.”

Mari hesitated. “I cannot deny that we have something of an odd history.” Her eyes met Sosan’s. She couldn’t tell the fellow handmaiden the truth of the matter. It would reveal all too much. “It’s a long story, my friend. One that is too difficult and tiring for me to tell… And it’s awfully… sad.” Sosan paused, her eyes searching for something before sighing resolutely.

“Well, it is late. Early tomorrow morn, you’re going to have to help me trim the loose threads on the sleeves here. I’ll not let you, my fine friend, be further humiliated by wearing something scrappy and ugly. Ugh, I hate this shade of yellow. Makes you look sickly.”

“Isn’t it the same shade as the Lannister lion?”

“Yes, and it’s ugly .” Mari let out a weak chuckle. “Do you think the Hound demanded your hand to the King? You think the dog is madly in love with you, eh?”

Her face burned. “Sosan, I’m not going to entertain this kind of talk.”

“It’s a simple question.”

Mari hesitated. “No, I don’t think he would do that.” She dared not answer the second query.

“You think he cares for you? Why did you never speak to me about this?” Sosan pressed. Mari did not reply. “ Do you bloody like him? Well, I will say that I do not think he is capable of love. It’s hardly an attack on his character. I don't believe most men are. Not really. Not even well-dressed, exiled princes from faraway lands.”

As Sosan helped her out of the modified gown, the fact that she would become Mariya Clegane the following day made her feel a little sick. Like a traitor to her very flesh and blood. If her uncle ever got wind that this had happened, she had no idea what she would do. 

Regardless, she’d soon no longer lay hesitant claim to the name ‘Midmarr.’ She would never be able to return to his lovely little stone house in the marsh, with their one elderly servant woman. Mari would never again laugh and run into the nearby marshy woodlands. She would never see the sun set as brilliantly as it did in the summer seasons of her youth. She would never again get to pet and sing to the old sow in her great-uncle’s barn. She would never get to ride the horses along the marshy fjords with her boy cousins again.

In the darkness of their room, Mari let out a sigh. “Do you think Lord Varys knows?”

“Of course, Varys knows everything, I’m sure. He hasn’t put a stop to it, has he?”

“Do you think it’s what he wants from me?”

She heard her friend shift below her in her bed. “You’re going to have a new role. I’m sure he knows all about it. It's best to sleep, gather your strength, and prepare yourself for it. And remember, I’ll always be your friend. I’m going to miss you here with me. But trust in Varys. And, remember, vows made by force are never truly binding.”

The next morning, Sosan helped dress her to take her vows. It was strange to be dressed as though she were the lady when, for what felt like a decade, it had always been the opposite. Sosan had done good work in helping the ugly, frilly thing look far more flattering. They had tailored the waist to fit better and cut off some of the more excessive trimmings, particularly on the collar, which made the neckline lower and gave it a more modern look. She had trimmed down the frills on the layered skirt, as well, and had shortened the bell sleeves to grant Mari the use of her hands again. It was customary for women to wear the cloak of their own House, but her family had no house sigil. So, she was to be wed without one.

By the time the pair reached the King’s Gate on foot, they found a band of men on horseback there waiting for them. She saw a man robed in the cloth of a septon she did not recognize, likely recruited for the occasion, sitting astride an old grey mule. Sandor was there as well, atop Stranger, turned away from her, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. The reluctant and sour-faced squire Lancel Lannister was also in attendance astride what looked like a spare bay from the stables. Finally, the third rider made Mari’s heart sink. Littlefinger . Why he was here, she had absolutely no idea. 

A small part of her had wanted Lord Varys to come, but she was not keen on his plans. Perhaps it would be best for him to stay out of it all. Maybe that was his plan. Perhaps that was part of her direction.

“Wait!” a woman’s voice barked from behind. Mari and Sosan turned, and Mari was surprised to see Jaenis bounding up to them, holding her muddied skirts, still wearing the messy apron she often wore when overseeing the kitchens. “I’m coming!”

“It would be quite ungentlemanly of us not to offer the bride and her companion a ride to the tourney grounds,” Littlefinger said in his lilted, strangely unpleasant voice. “Clegane, why don’t you take your bride? The fairer handmaiden can ride with me.” His eyes were predatory as he examined Sosan up and down, as though he were undressing her like one of the whores in his brothels.

“May I inquire why you are in attendance, my Lord?” Mari asked him, fighting to disguise the repulsion she felt at the mere sight of the man, which she so longed to wear openly on her face. “I can’t imagine that much coin is being spent on this occasion.”

Littlefinger donned a sinister, wicked grin. “Well, girl, I would imagine your poor great-uncle would not be able to travel from the southern reach of the Neck to offer you up,” Baelish snapped. “You need someone to escort you to your future husband, do you not?”

“And report to the King?”

“Oh, yes,” Baelish practically squirmed in his saddle, leading the beast over to Sosan. “A castrated man would hardly be appropriate for the occasion.” He dismounted, offering the girl his hand, helping her sit astride the horse, shortly following her. Mari’s guts twisted in rage as she watched the man paw at her friend’s trim waist and hips as he reached for the reins. “Now, dog, get her, will you?”

Mari turned back to Sandor, who had already begun dismounting his massive destrier. He took a few hesitant steps toward her, still pointedly avoiding her gaze, lightly guiding her by the shoulder to the horse, offering her a leg up atop Stranger, following behind shortly. He was oddly rigid and stiff as he reached for the reins, clearly trying to avoid touching her as much as possible, given their closeness.

“You can ride with me, ma’am,” the septon offered to Jaenis. The servant cast everyone in attendance a harsh look, but swung up atop the mule with ease.

The ride to the tourney grounds was only twenty or so minutes at a walking, leisurely pace. The ride was held in silence, although Mari watched as Lord Baelish pressed his lips against Sosan’s ear, whispering something. Sosan’s sharp face remained stoic, her eyes forward, ignoring the ministrations of the man as he circled her hips and the dip of her waist with his slimy hands.

Finally, they arrived at the clearing, an expanse of sky that was otherwise brilliant and blue above their heads. It was a beautiful day for something unusual.

As Mari had no living father or proper established House of her own, she wore no cloak of her own, and the weight of the three dogs on the yellow Clegane sigil felt heavy and weighted as Sandor draped and tied it over her shoulders, his large fingers moving with surprisingly dexterity, evidently keen to get this all over with as soon as possible and to avoid any accidental contact with her exposed neck and jaw. 

“Now, please repeat after me,” the timid, exhausted-looking septon began.

“With this kiss I pledge my love…” they began in unison. Mari felt as though she were about to retch, though not out of disgust, but rather the strange, unnerving spectacle of it all had her feeling deeply unwell. “...and take you for my Lord and husband…”

“... and take you for my Lady and wife…” she heard him say simultaneously.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” they finished. Mari had never truly given much deep thought or consideration to the weight of these words, and her mind drifted to that of her parents, who were illiterate peasants, whose faith in the Seven had likely been an anchor at the time of their gruesome deaths. 

Her somber thoughts were interrupted as she looked upon Sandor’s face, his eyes wide, steely, boring into hers as he leaned down, his lips meeting hers with a sort of timid chasteness so devoid of passion or lust that it was almost more uncomfortable than if he had kissed her roughly. Neither closed their eyes, turning back to the septon just as soon as the kiss had been initiated. I can’t believe that was my bloody first kiss , she bemoaned.

Then, it was all over, and they were set to return to the keep. “Let’s go,” Mari said, although it felt like she was speaking with another woman’s voice. Her heart raced, and she dared not look at him, feeling as though she were lighter than a paper doll as Sandor Clegane effortlessly lifted her back up onto his horse, and they embarked on their ride home.

 

SANDOR XI

Sandor had felt the blood leave his body when Joffrey requested a dual award for his exemplary performance in the Hand’s Tourney. On the one hand, he would be tasked with the misfortune of becoming the boy’s bodyguard by the time they returned to the Red Keep. And, of course, on the other hand, he would be given a wife of his own. Not just any wife. Mariya . The girl who he’d cursed and shouted at, who he’d called stupid, though he knew she was smart as a damn whip, so brightly-eyed and all-seeing, with an unusual amount of earnestness in her dear little heart.

How in the hells Joffrey Baratheon, the most inconsiderate, mean-spirited, cruel little shite, had any idea how much this secretly pleased Sandor was utterly absurd, almost shocking to him. He momentarily wondered if this was all just some sort of bizarre dream. 

Sandor always knew Joffrey had an odd sort of tenderness and (misplaced) affection towards him. Fondness wouldn’t exactly be the right word, however, but admiration wouldn’t be quite right, either.

These things were meant to be held in fucking Septs, Sandor mused cynically. A proper seven-sided building, as his childhood maester had blabbered on and on about in their lessons. Doing this in a half-cleared tourney field made the whole affair all the more utterly ridiculous. A keen little attempt at morbid humiliation , it was. Vows were meant to occur at midday, but it was only just past dawn.

Mari and her handmaiden friend had arrived just on time, the men— himself, the conniving little Lord Baelish, Robert’s pretty-faced and empty-headed squire, Lancel Lannister, and a low-ranking septon who was most conveniently on hand— having mounted by the gate slightly before the sun had risen across the expansive horizon. Lancel looked piteous, clearly not wanting to be there and reticent to have to be awake so early, but likely was meant to give all the salacious fucking details to his cousin, the Queen. They were later joined by an older woman dressed in the attire of common servants. Perhaps Mari was more kindred with him than he thought, having so few ‘friends’ to name. A few of the Kingsguard had asked him if he wished for them to tag alone, but he had refused them. The less, the merrier .

They rode for a time until they reached the tourney grounds. Sandor had helped the little lamb dismount, avoiding touching her waist for any longer than he needed to. She wore a well-fitted Lannister yellow gown (evidently a gift), and her auburn hair was long, tightly curled, with a few swirling braids pinned and framing her broad face; the little near-black portion around the front reflected the early morning sun. 

Mari’s little handmaiden friend and the older servant woman stood on one side, while Lancel stood on the other, the lad looking noticeably bored and ill at ease. The septon stood at the head of the party before Sandor, withdrawing some needlessly hefty book and reading some verses he couldn’t even begin to bring himself to care about. Sandor was grateful the man seemed to be rushing through the words.

It was Lord Petyr Baelish who had insisted on walking Mari to him, a gesture which Sandor thought of as nothing but a thinly-veiled threat. Of what kind, he could not be sure. She looked positively miserable on the short-statured Master of Coin’s lithe arm. 

They both scurried through the customary words, reciting after the septon. Before Sandor knew it, he realized that they were expected to give one another a chaste kiss. He stared down at her blankly. She seemed momentarily shocked or even scared, but then allowed him to bring his face to hers, pressing his mouth against hers, just for a brief moment. Sandor thought he heard some muted applause, likely from Baelish.

“We ought to get back,” Sandor heard Lancel say behind him. “ Dog , you’ll be wanted by the Queen and Prince within the hour.” He wanted nothing more than to punch the bloody teeth from the pretty Lannister’s fucking skull, but softened as he felt Mari take his hand in hers. 

“Let’s go,” she whispered to him, her eyes pleading.

“Aye,” he sighed.

By the time they returned to the Red Keep, the Queen had ensured an apartment was set up and prepared for both of them and that the remainder of their personal belongings were moved inside it (he couldn’t help but wonder what Cersei’s reaction would be if she discovered the girl’s rusty little Lannister blade, surely tucked away somewhere) . He didn’t imagine the wench had much to her name, being a smallfolk and all, but his minor title and secondborn status made his respective belongings few and far between as well.

Baelish had insisted that the girl ride with him atop his steed, Stranger, and no words were exchanged between them as he hoisted her body to the pommel of his black leather saddle, which she gripped tightly, her knuckles white with the effort to maintain her balance atop such a large warhorse. He then swiftly loped up behind her, trying to avoid touching her as he reached forward for the reins, keeping his face stern, his scowl intact, as the barrel of his chest pressed snugly against her back, which was rigid and frozen as a rod. 

They did not speak for the remainder of the ride from the yard beyond the stables. Their wedding had been just past dawn, and had very few in attendance other than that damned honey-haired servant girl (whose name Sandor couldn't bloody remember) who always lingered by her side, the available septon on-hand, who had been there during the trek from Winterfell, a couple of bloody fucking Sers (who were there to snicker and laugh more than anything else), and a few of said Sers’ meek and pimple-faced scrawny squires. Not even Joffrey showed up, though Sandor hadn’t expected him to, although he knew the bratty puppeteer would’ve loved to see his two ugly dolls kiss for his own amusement’s sake. Perhaps it was too early in the morning for him to be bothered.

The event was all the more complicated with Gregor’s sudden flight from King’s Landing and his disappearance into the wayward countryside. Now, with his sudden promotion by the Lannisters, Sandor felt more and more uncertain about the future than he had ever been before. Not that he had considered his future much. He had always assumed he would die in the heat of battle against some highborn brute of a Ser, perhaps in some effort of self-sacrifice as he finally slayed his brother. The latter would be far more ideal. Now, he was being given a woman– who hated him, more or less– but who had no real alternative but to obey him. As a married woman with a newfound title, she would be expressly forbidden to work any longer as a handmaiden as well.

The whole situation angered and confused him in a way he couldn't exactly put his finger on.

Finally, they had arrived back at the Red Keep, and he dismounted, grasping the woman by the waist, helping her down from his warhorse with ease. She did not look at him, keeping her gaze fixed forward, her braided hair coiled into two knots by either ear, reflecting brightly in the dawn-lit sunlight, the sky a brilliant, somber shade of scattered rosy pinks and tourmaline blues. If he were a less jaded man, he would’ve called it beautiful. There was to be no feast, and the murderous look he offered to the Lannister squire, who immediately made himself scarce, and that greasy cunt Littlefinger was enough to frighten them both off for good. It seemed the two servant women did the same, though they offered his new wife cursory, apologetic glances that Sandor couldn’t help but sneer at.

“Not going to let the Lannister squire or Baelish molest you in some sort of fuckin’ precursory Westerosi bedding ceremony. Fuck no . I will escort you to the apartment myself and see no harm comes to you,” he said gruffly, trying to avoid meeting her gaze. “Gift from the King. I have my duties to attend to. There'll be no bedding ceremony, nor feast. Good-fucking-riddance. ”

“And I am barred from mine. What am I meant to do all day, then? Fuss around with some womanly embroidery, like a proper highborn little Lady?”

Sandor fought back a chuckle. Mari always had a particularly foul-mouthed and dry sense of humor, even for a little lady. “You’ll not be locked in by my word. You can leave, if it pleases you,” he said, fighting to keep his voice soft, a modicum of comfort lacing his tone. His eyes looked her up and down yet again, the yellow-beige of the structurally laced part of the dress form-fitting, the cape still draped over her back, hurriedly stitched with the three-hound sigil of his own House, looking as though it were about to swallow her whole. “I’ll ask the Queen if you can continue your service.”

“Really?”

“Aye, girl.” His eyes lingered on her face, her large, expressive eyes framed by long, thick ginger-blonde eyelashes. Had she forgiven him? “I’ll not keep you from changing chamberpots, if that’s what your heart so desires.” Sandor could swear he saw a flicker of a smile spread across her bonny, rosy face. 

“My life’s calling,” she said sarcastically, momentarily pretending to swoon, before reassuming her previous composure, walking just a hair’s breadth away from him. “And with your tourney winnings, I’m sure you can buy me a thousand gold chamberpots to change, eh?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, little lamb.”

She allowed him to gently push and guide her in the direction of the apartment as they made their way through the castle. Finally, they reached a large wooden door. This part of the keep was one that Sandor— and he suspected the same for Mari as well— rarely visited. Typically, when noble visitors or fostered noble youth would come to King’s Landing, they would stay in this part of the castle. The apartments here were luxuriously decorated and often featured private bedrooms or multiple rooms, sometimes with an added study or small library. 

“Wait here for a time,” he instructed her. “I’ll ask the Queen if you can continue your service. If she says it’s all right, I will send for you. Couldn’t stand you bored and whinging around here all day.”

The girl smiled briefly at him, eyes wide as Sandor opened the door, allowing her to step through the threshold and look around for the first time. She could barely hold back an audible gasp, which, oddly enough, warmed Sandor’s heart. “Is that full of your tourney winnings?” she asked, pointing towards the gilded chest placed smack in the center of the room. At least she likes my bloody gold.

“Aye,” he replied. “A servant had it brought here.” 

“How much?”

“Twenty thousand dragons.” He watched as her face stilled, as though she were taken aback. “Never had that much coin in my life, either.”

“You better not waste it on drink,” she said. Sandor rolled his eyes in response. “Seriously, Sandor. You know how I feel about–”

“Aye, yes, you love your water, I remember. Now, I have to return to that cunt prince. Rest here a while. I’ll be back after dark, most likely.”

Mari nodded, her eyes settling on his. As always, he knew she was not looking at his burns. Her eyes bored into his, settling somewhere deep inside of him, oddly comfortable, not a trace of fear in her visage. “Thank you, Sandor. I… I hope things are not too unhappy between us.” He felt a tightening in his chest, the tension in his jaw softening at the sound of her soft voice.

“Aye,” he grunted with a nod, taking his leave from the apartment, his pace nearly reaching a jog as he hurried to the throne room, where Joff would be waiting for him. 

He had been excused prematurely from his early morning duties, but needed to return as quickly as possible, lest his own bloody affairs risked inconveniencing his masters. Sandor could not deny that his thoughts wandered, and that there felt as though something was tight in his throat, as though a million eyes were on him, as though he was a poorly-liked spectacle, dragging along the poor girl with him. 

By the time he resumed his position for the day, he found himself near-disassociating, his mind crowded and busy, his legs heavy as lead as he plodded along this way and that, attending to Joff, lingering on the idea that she was there , truly there, waiting for him. He knew not what to expect when he returned that evening, shuddering slightly even at the mere consideration of… no … he would not allow himself to dwell on impossible things. This was a sham wedding ordered by a slovenly, drunken King far past his prime. Naturally, he would not harbor any expectations of her.

Notes:

... 50k-ish words in? Yes... medium burn... methinks... smut next chapter, though! I'll label all those chapters with "NSFW" when I get to it.

Chapter 8: The First Taste/Rilkean Heart [NSFW]

Notes:

proper smut alert! yeah.

MARIYA XIII

It was late, a few hours past dusk, when Sandor returned to the apartment, his step heavy. She had almost fallen asleep, having lit a fire and sprawled across the lush chaise lounge. She had already removed the wedding gown that Sosan had tailored for her, wearing only the finely embroidered silk chemise that had also been something of a wedding present from the Queen. 

Her heart was pounding in her ears as he closed the door behind him, drawing her legs up to herself, wrapping herself tightly around them, suddenly embarrassed at how little she was wearing. Somehow, she had entirely forgotten he would return, having spent the day preoccupied with the modest set of books in the apartment’s study.

“I asked your little girly friend to bring us a tray of food and wine,” he huffed, not looking in her direction. “Need some fucking drink after the bloody day I’ve just had. Can’t begin to tell you how much Joff moaned and whinged all bloody afternoon. Little blonde cunt had completely forgotten about this morning. Glad he wasn’t there…”

“What about my position?”

Sandor sighed, avoiding her gaze. “Queen said it would be ridiculous— improper , was the fancy little word she used—for a married woman to serve as a handmaiden."

“Oh,” she said, sinking back into the lounge, deflated. Sandor sat hard and heavy on an armchair across from her, further away from the roaring hearth. He made no move towards her. They sat still and silent, for a time. “I understand why you did it,” she said, breaking the silence. “I wanted to tell you earlier. I understand. I know why.”

“Why I did what?”

“Killed the butcher’s boy, back in the Trident. You had to do it. I think you were lying. I don’t think you liked it. I think you saw yourself in the lad, just for a moment, when your blade sliced downwards, deep into his chest. It was a cruel mercy, but a mercy.” Sandor stared back at her, his expression unreadable. "I know I can’t be the one to forgive you. Someone else will have to. I don’t know who. But I just want you to know…”

“Don’t need your pity,” he snapped.

“I don’t pity you, Sandor.”

“Course you do. All the Flea Bottom whores who’d take me up did, too, I reckon,” he spat.

“Trying to make me jealous? It won’t work. Not the jealous type, never have been,” Mari said firmly, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “I don’t care if you are a whorer or not. I’m sure I’d be too, were I born a man.”

Sandor seemed mildly incensed, his words running away from him. “What a sad, terrible fate for you, little lamb, being wed to Sandor Clegane, the Lannister dog with his tail between his legs…”

“ Stop it, ” she snapped. “I’m not so different from you.”

“Hardly. You and your bloody faith and piety. You’re not a hideous brute. You’re no killer.”

“I never thought you were hideous. I’ve told you as much. You’re just hurt,” she whispered, examining the scars on the right side of his face, not with malice, but gentle curiosity. There seemed to be a shift in the air between them, a sudden glimmer of understanding. “And I wanted to thank you for the token from the tourney. It was… kind of you.”

Sandor huffed in a manner most petulant and looked away from her, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. “You sound like the little bird. Thought King’s Landing would harden you,” he snapped in reply. “Besides, you are but a pretty lamb, even with your rotten tongue. Who cares if you have a tiny fuckin’ scar? I told you, girl, it’s just a nick. It’s not half of your fucking face. You’re still a beautiful girl.”

“A lamb ? Why a lamb?” Mari couldn’t help but laugh, blushing at his compliment much against her will. “I’ve always wanted to ask where in the bloody hells you got that from.”

He seemed momentarily taken off guard, and Mari swore she saw a hint of a blush appear against his unmarred cheek. “You’re faithful, aren’t you? I remember. The name suits you,” Sandor replied, still not meeting her gaze. “Still doesn’t mean you don’t have a fierce tongue on you, from time to time. Already cussed me out enough.”

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Mari nearly jumped out of her skin. Sandor rose and opened the door. Mari got but a mere glimpse of wide-eyed Sosan standing in the threshold just for a moment, her eyes searching for Mari’s, before Sandor nearly slammed the door in her face. Mari frowned. She had a sense of what the giant was getting at, collecting herself as he made his way back across the room with the tray of food and wine in his arms– something of an impromptu wedding feast, albeit without any guests, which Mari was sure pleased Sandor greatly.

“I’m not that innocent. I don’t understand why you insist upon it,” she finally said once he returned and the door was fully shut and locked behind him. 

“Aye, you’ve got quite a tongue. You are a precious thing. Got every right to be mad at me, too. Bloody stupid of me to try to give you that fuckin’ antler.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

“Why do you think, girl?” 

She frowned and rolled her eyes, which seemed to oddly amuse Sandor all the more. He took a moment of pause, placing the tray on the small table between the chaise and the armchair. There was a prolonged silence between them as both paused to take their fill of the most generous and luxurious platter before them, filled with fresh meats (Sandor, near instantly, ate all the pieces of chicken Sosan had brought), bread, fruits, and drinks. He poured himself several cups of summerwine, and Mari conceded, allowing herself only one. 

“I can only ask for your forgiveness now that you’re a proper Clegane woman,” he murmured bitterly, his voice rich with simultaneous regret and sorrow, and a hint of appropriate sarcasm. “The very House you had once sworn to destroy, hm? Oh, I remember. Fondly . I remember how you watched me in that shite alehouse, all those years ago. Like a fucking beast of prey, in a woman’s body. Then I remember you trying to stab me with your rusty Lannister bread knife. A lamb with the heart of a hound.” She watched a smile flicker across his face when she laughed at his little joke.

“I heard you fought Gregor yesterday,” she added, changing the subject, ripping off a piece of fresh-baked bread, dipping it in oil, and biting into it.

“Aye,” he rasped. “Wish I could’ve cut his bloody head off. But the King stopped me before I could. A real shame. Wish I got to. I could’ve.”

“I wish I were there to see it. My friend and I… at the time, you were angry with me. I couldn’t bear to watch. We went shopping. Bought some… ribbons for our hair,” she began, realizing she was meandering, and Sandor looked a little bored. Her face felt hot. An hour or so passed, and the stillness between them was becoming almost suffocating. Sandor quickly rose with the emptied platter, cups, and carafes, shouting out for a servant in the hallway and handing off the dishes. He returned to her swiftly, returning to his seat on the chair, his eyes downcast. She took a quick breath to still her nerves, her eyes surveying the room. “This place is quite lovely. I’ve never had a claim to anything so expensive before.”

“It all comes at a fucking steep price,” Sandor growled, standing abruptly and sauntering over to a cabinet nearby, where he withdrew several more bottles of wine and a steep cup, filling it to the brim before taking a long, hearty swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously as he downed a shocking amount of fine wine. “You’ve got to be grateful to fuckin’ Lannisters. Every day when you wake up, look around. Everything you see here, all bought and paid for by another damn Lannister .”

“You could’ve protested the marriage. I’m sure Joffrey would’ve listened to you. He speaks so highly of you, you know. You’re almost like a father to him.”

“Aye, little Joff likes scary killers who follow his every command. Big surprise,” Sandor growled, taking another long swig. He then suddenly paused, his brow furrowed in thought, his eyes glowing in the firelight as he turned to face her. He reached into the satchel tied to his belt, retrieved a small roll of paper, and thrust it in her direction. “Read this.”

Mari took the paper from him, eyes widening at the Baratheon stag wax seal, and opened it. 

To Sandor Clegane, Victor of the Tourney of the Hand in the year 298 AC, I, Robert I Baratheon,  King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm of Westeros, head of House Baratheon of King’s Landing, grant all lands and holdings belonging to House Clegane. Furthermore, I grant him the title of Head of House, to do as he sees fit, by him and his heirs or assigns, forevermore.

The letter was concluded with a signature from the King himself, somewhat scrawled and shabby-looking in comparison to the fine scribe-work above. “Is this for true?” she asked, trying to fight back a look of complete awe and bewilderment which threatened to form across her face. 

“Aye,” he replied. There was still some hesitation, almost uncertainty, in his tone. “I believe King Robert wishes me to retire from my service. He’s not too keen on me becoming a personal guard for Joff, at least for much longer. He has reasons to be wary of the boy. I don’t like it, not one bit.”

“What makes you say that? The King is offering you something most couldn’t possibly dream of,” Mari replied. “You won’t have to listen to Joffrey’s prattling anymore. And don’t give me that look. I know you hate it. It’s only going to get worse when Robert eventually dies. And that will take years and years, won’t it?”

Sandor scowled and grunted in her direction. “It’s suspicious, that’s all.”

“You’re not happy?”

“Happy? Hah! ” His sudden exclamation made Mari jump. “It’s not about being happy , silly girl. I don’t like the look of this piece of fuckin’ paper, and I don’t like the way things are shaping up with the Northern folk here, with this Lord Stark fellow as the ever-so-moral and ever-so-righteous Hand of the King. Don’t you see?”

“See what?” Mari already knew.

“War is coming to Westeros,” Sandor snarled. “And we both will have a new role to play in this game. It’s just a matter of time.”

“How do you know that?” Mari stiffened, wondering if he suspected her loyalty to the Lannisters. Indeed, he had no true love for Joffrey, the Queen, nor his liege Lord, but she dared not confess to him of her arrangement with Varys.

“I just do ,” he grunted, taking another swig of his wine. “I’ll have a duty, then. More and more will die by my hand if war comes. Is that something you can accept?”

Mari considered this. “You’ll do what you must. I’ve told you, I don’t believe you're a monster.”

His dark eyes had turned in her direction quite suddenly. “When the Stark girl sees me, she sees a beast, not a man. The Lannisters call me a dog. I say I don’t mind, but I do mind. I know I am just… a man… at the end of it all…”

She felt as though the air had been sucked from her chest, her head feeling light and airy. She rose, walking as though she were wading through water, and climbed onto Sandor Clegane’s lap in the armchair like a tavern whore (how ironic) , hesitantly raising one palm to rest upon his unscarred cheek. Now that she was close to him, she could see his eyes were a quite charming shade of dark grey, like the steel of a longsword. Mari knew that it was not a requirement to like her husband. Many women hated theirs, but in this moment, she felt a sudden surge of tenderness unmatched by anyone she had felt towards another person before. Her heart was pounding, her other hand coming to rest upon her chest, as though to still herself.

Sure, his face had suffered gravely from whatever happened to him, but he was a massive man who she knew without a doubt could slay anyone who ever tried to harm her. He was observant, and he had tourney winnings that were sure to last them quite a long time, if the coins were spent wisely. So, Mari closed her eyes, leaning in towards his face, shaking every so slightly as she felt his large hand cup the side of her jaw and a chaste peck placed on her lips, not that different from the one they had done when taking their vows before the anxious Septon. 

“There are far worse men here I could have married,” she whispered. “You’re one of the better ones, I think.” Sandor huffed. “I’m being serious. You are.”

She could feel his hands travel into her hair, fingers threading through her curls, before bringing her mouth more firmly to his own. The kiss immediately deepened, and she could feel his tongue pressing against her closed lips. Not entirely sure what to do, she parted her mouth slightly, and their embrace only deepened, his other large hand coming to settle on her waist, fingers pressing into the softness of her flesh through her thin chemise, which left little to the imagination. 

By the time they parted, Mari knew her cheeks were flushed, from an odd combination of the lustful headiness that now swarmed her blood and tickled her skin. “How old are you, anyway?” he asked suddenly. Mari blinked in her direction, seemingly taken off guard by his awkward query.

“Two and twenty years,” she replied, feeling as the hand on her waist travelled up and down her side, tracing absentminded circles with one finger. “I’m something of an old maid.”

“You’re six years my junior,” he rasped. She could feel his hand traveling downwards, gathering up and bunching the fabric around her hip.

“Is that… a problem?”

“ No ,” Sandor grunted in response, not offering her any sort of answer, as one hand began to lift the fabric of her chemise, but she quickly placed a warm hand atop his to stop him. “You’re wise enough. Smart enough. It’s what I bloody well need.”

“I’ve never—” she began, sputtering. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Even since then?” he asked her. Mari knew he remembered their encounter in the alehouse, when Ser Boros and Ser Meryn had accosted her three years prior. She had seen both knights nearly every day, like Sandor, and neither seemed to recognize her or pay her much mind. She remembered it vividly, too. Mari, too, remembered how harsh her words were against him then.

“Aye, even since then,” Mari replied. “Since that day you slung me over your shoulder like a sack of bloody grain, saved me from those cruel knights like I was a little highborn damsel in distress. Do you remember?”

“No man caught your fancy, did they?” he teased, goosebumps prickling against her skin as he began to rub circles with a finger along her bare, exposed thigh. “You seem in love enough with that servant girl you’re always with.”

Mari blushed. “Aye, I suppose so. Her name is Sosan. I’ve told you that before, I think. She has a very special and dear place in my heart. She is my one true friend.”

Sandor did not offer a reply, his hand traveling from her jaw down to her neck, resting there for a moment. “You tell me if you don’t want to do this. I’m no raper. Not like my brother.”

“I know.” 

Mari could feel her heart pounding in her throat, just below Sandor’s touch. It would take so very little for him to snap her neck, to crush her skull, to destroy her. But, despite this, she knew he would never harm her. She nodded at him. His hand left her neck, traveling along her exposed clavicle, before running along her heavy breasts, pinching at her nipples, which immediately hardened, beneath her silk chemise. Mari fought back the soft moan she felt already building deep within her throat as a compelling feeling in her lower abdomen caused her thighs to begin to shake.

“Remove your armor first,” she said, her voice shaking. She rose from him, self-consciously wrapping her arms around her chest, eyeing the open door of the bedroom just on the other side of the room.

Sandor grunted again, and did as she asked, methodically and slowly taking care to remove all the pieces of his armor— the gorget, the spaulders strapped on each of his impossibly broad shoulders, the Dornish katar he always kept on his waist belt, his rerebraces, the couters at his elbows, the cuisses, greaves, and poleyns along his long legs, his gauntlets— and by the time he was done, he was left in a hauberk and a pair of roughspun beige linen trousers. Blushing profusely, Mari turned and walked to the bedroom, her husband following close behind. 

Mari wondered if she should go ahead and do this, if she should really submit herself to embrace the title of the House that had brutalized her kin. So, she thought of her friend’s lessons and lectures. Sosan, of course, was not a maiden and had even worked briefly as a prostitute to follow her young mother’s footsteps, though after a man had beaten her and her mother died, she figured out a way to quit –through the Spider’s help, of course– once she arrived in Westeros. Despite this formatively negative experience, Sosan had well explained, in somewhat excessively graphic detail, how fucking could be enjoyable, if done right and well. 

“Take that thing off,” Sandor said. It wasn’t so much of a command as it was a suggestion, rumbling deep in his gruff voice. Standing at the foot of the bed, Mari reached down, gathered the floor-length hem of the silk undergarment into her fists, and raised the fabric over her head, leaving her completely bare and exposed to him. She could not meet his eyes and struggled to keep herself from covering her modesty. Then, she felt a calloused hand run along the line of her body, gripping at her hips and arse, the wine-scented heat of his breath heavy along the crown of her head. She felt him place a delicate, almost gentlemanly kiss there, lips lingering against her hair. “Lie down on the bed.”

Mari did as she was told, finding a comfortable place among the pillows. It was the first time in her life she had ever lain on a bed of downy feathers, and almost let out a dreamy sigh the moment her bare skin made contact with the softness of it. Part of her was relieved that he was giving her some sense of control. She had grown accustomed to simply doing what was told of her, and she had the sense Sandor was making an effort to be pointedly gentle, to restrain himself.

He was on her in an instant, kissing her mouth, biting and sucking at her neck, his hands kneading the weight of her breasts. Little sighs and grunts left his mouth, and Mari did the same, feeling a warm, maddening tension brewing in her lower abdomen, her legs jerking slightly as his own pressed them apart. Sandor quickly reached for his hauberk, pulling the chain mail over his head and depositing it unceremoniously at his side with a loud clang as it made contact with the stone floor below. Underneath, he wore a simple linen tunic, which he, too, quickly withdrew and deposited. 

For a time, she always thought his great bulk was enhanced by the heavy armor he always wore. However, she quickly learned that most of his size was truly his own. He was built like a statue, all rippling, firm flesh, and sheer power. He was quite hairy too, hairier than the few shirtless men she had seen in her time, completely covered with a blanket of dark fur across his arms, chest, stomach, and neck. 

He then began to suckle at her breast, which caused her to yelp, her head thrown back, beads of sweat forming along her brow as she felt her muscles tense, building towards something she had yet to understand. Then, his lips trailed down the center of her chest, licking, biting, and sucking, lingering on the little bit of pudge in her lower belly, before she realized what he must be doing. 

“Oh, I don’t know—“ she began, her voice suddenly breaking as she felt his flat tongue press against the wetness of her slit. His hands began to knead the softness of her full thighs, pulling her legs further apart as he started his obscene feasting, sucking and licking around the small bead that Sosan had told her was the source of womanly pleasure. Sosan had told her about what this was, but also told her not to expect it. It was not something that proper Lords did, she had said. But Sandor was no Lord. Not quite yet, at least.

Suddenly, Mari felt a strange, unusual feeling, her muscles spasming and clenching nearly uncontrollably, glancing downward, her eyes widening at the obscenity of his gluttonous feast, her thighs tightening around his head, though he seemed not to mind. He feasted upon her flesh like a man starved, and, before long, Mari felt her vision blacken, her eyes seeing stars, her face, chest, and breasts drenched in beads of sweat, her hair wet against her skin. 

When she opened her eyes, she saw him hovering above her, his beard wet and glistening, resting his weight on an elbow with his right hand, his left untying the fastenings at the front of his trousers, pushing them down his long, strong legs, kicking off his pants with shocking dexterity. “Wouldn’t want to fuck you if you weren’t ready for me,” he growled into her ear. “Wouldn’t be the right thing to do.”

Mari’s mind cleared momentarily, enough to ask an important question. “What about pregnancy?” It had seemed like an obvious question, especially given that he was to be granted lands. Perhaps, perhaps , she could be a mother and wife to a minor Lord. She could serve him, maybe. Maybe that was what the Seven had predestined for her, she wondered.

Sandor hesitated for a moment, eyes drifting, as though considering his words carefully. “I can bring you moon tea tomorrow, if it pleases you.” It was quite courteous of him, she thought. “I’ll not spill inside you tonight, however, if you do not want that. I can come on your breasts, your stomach… The choice is yours.” Mari shuddered, completely involuntarily, at his surprisingly soft-spoken and gentle words, letting out a huff of relief. “Whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… I want to ask… Now that you’ve been appointed to lands, do you not want an heir?”

He paused. “Never gave it much thought.” Mari had a sense that he had never assumed he would marry. She had felt the same when she left home and came to King’s Landing. “Never thought I’d have a wife, much less one I wanted. But… I’ve thought about it… you… ” he sputtered, as though he were suddenly embarrassed, so soon after he had licked and sucked at her cunt mere moments before. “In private, I can be fuckin’ foolish…”

“For true? Years? I didn’t take you for a daydreamer, Sandor.”

“Since I first met you, when you tried to fuckin’ stab me. Aye, I… and they weren’t daydreams… I’d… I’d wank my fucking cock to the idea of you… I…” He seemed suddenly nervous, but Mari’s heart felt surprisingly full. “I once dreamed about you, rounded with my bairn.” Mari felt a fluttering deep within her. So, she reached up, holding both sides of his face in her hands, running circles over the smooth and scarred flesh. He momentarily closed his eyes, as though it had been an infinity since anyone had touched him so tenderly. It nearly broke her heart.

“No moon tea, then,” Mari murmured, shocking herself as the words poured from her mouth. She proceeded to affectionately kiss his scarred cheek, and his eyes unexpectedly welled with tears. 

“Are you certain?”

“Aye,” she whispered. She closed her eyes tightly, turning her head away from him. She could feel his warm, wine-scented breath heavy on her neck and above her breasts. He then kissed her, roughly, pushing his tongue into her mouth, for a time, before he withdrew, his eyes wild, his breathing heavy.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked above her, suddenly adjusting himself and her, placing his body between her thighs. 

Mari nodded. He did not request that she open her eyes, for which she was very grateful. She spread her legs apart, drawing up her knees to place her feet on the bed, taking in the feeling of his great weight, the way his body hair tickled against her skin (her legs and armpits, which she thought annoyingly coarse, paled hilariously in comparison) as Sandor positioned himself between her. She could feel the press of the head of his cock against her slit, and dared not look down.

He uttered a ragged, almost pained moan, which she echoed as he pushed into her softly, slowly, until he was buried entirely in her folds. He adjusted his weight above her, leaning down to kiss her neck and clavicle as she grasped his strong, trunk-like arms, gently pressing into the depths of her tight cunt. Sandor was being gentle, as gentle as he could be, she knew that, but the initial stretch and sting were slightly uncomfortable. She shifted, and he froze above her, waiting patiently for her to ease into him, to allow him to move.

He lay upon her for a moment, kissing her on the mouth, neck, and chest, feeling the grip of her hands around his arms tightening as he began to thrust in shallow motions, in and out. She let out a soft whimper, the tingling pleasure growing quickly into something blissful, looking up into his face, into his dilated grey eyes, his mouth slightly open. Mari moaned again, a bit louder this time, and his movements quickened, becoming deeper, pressing into her far deeper than anything had ever gone before. The sensation was heady. Mari’s nimble hands roamed his body, over well-defined muscles that tensed and relaxed rhythmically, and, in turn, he growled into her lips, hips moving faster, an obscene slapping sound growing louder between them.

Then, he pressed deeper than before, grasping at her thighs, pulling up her legs so that her knees were bent around his middle, the sensation causing her almost to let out a scream, which he swiftly silenced with his mouth, tongue pressing deep, muffling her cries, biting at her plush, still-rouged lips. Mari could feel him press deep in her guts, almost in her throat. Sandor’s breaths were growing hard and rasping, and she tried to breathe in tandem with him.

Finally, something had changed. He gripped her hips, pulling her toward him, gritting his teeth. His thrusts became much rougher, and Mari wondered if she would have bruises come morning. Looking up, she saw that his eyes were fixed on hers, searching, ravenous, and raw, the feeling of his poisoning cock inside her growing, swelling, changing. Then, with a rather animalistic snarl, he pressed tightly into her, and she felt an odd sense of fullness in her abdomen. He thrusted a few more times, albeit shallow, before nearly collapsing on top of her, one hand bracing himself by the side of her head, his other still tight on her bare hip. 

Sandor gently kissed her sweaty temple before pulling his softened cock out of her, rolling off to the side. She glanced over at him, his cock now flaccid, her eyes widening as she took note of the sheer size of it, even now. She lay still for a moment before sitting up, wiping the sweat from her brow, and taking stock of her body, all while Sandor watched her intently.

“There’s no blood…” she puzzled, examining the sheets, pausing as she was somewhat taken aback by the sheer quantity of the milky fluid which rapidly streamed down her legs as she had sat up and moved. “Why is that?”

“Didn’t you ride horses in your youth?” The question gave Mari pause.

“Aye, like my boy cousins. We had three– you remembered .”

“There’s your answer, then,” he sighed, rolling onto his back, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling. Only the burned half of his face was visible to her now, but she was pleased that it did not seem to bother him or make him feel self-conscious, not now, not anymore. “Did I hurt you at all, little lamb?”

“No,” she replied. “Maybe at first, a little, it stung a bit. But… I enjoyed it.” She crawled over to him, kissing him firmly on the mouth. He reached out for her, embracing her tightly in his arms. 

“Just ‘enjoyed it’?” he teased, the scarred half of his face twisted into something akin to a smile.

In response, she climbed over him, straddled his legs over his broad chest, and pressed her lips firmly against his. His hand came to clutch at her arse, squeezing her tightly. She could feel him getting hard again, pushing into her stomach, as he nipped his way down her neck. A few breathy moans escaped her as his tongue lapped around her breasts, sucking on her rosy nipples, causing her to squirm and jerk. Sandor only tightened his arms around her in response, holding her impossibly close.

 

SANDOR XII

He awoke at the break of dawn, having dreamed of a dark nothingness. It was strange, after having so many dreams of the girl for years, to have him in his arms and bed, of the brazier that had burned him, of Gregor’s face and shadow towering over him, to then dream of a chasm of nothingness– the best bloody night of sleep I’ve had in years.

Sandor turned over and spent a moment gazing upon Mari’s sleeping face, wondering about the tremendous oddness and precariousness of their now shared situation. If he were a pious man, he would have declared their union to be something akin to fate. All the odd overlapping quirks, all the strange ways she had been able to stand up to him, for their paths to cross with an almost preternatural regularity, and, of course, for her to forgive him for slaying the butcher’s boy in cold blood. He pressed his face into the soft crook of her neck, her scent washing over him, entangling himself more tightly around her limbs, wrapping her and holding her to him. He knew he didn’t deserve her, not really.

Sandor Clegane had never thought he would have a wife. He had always assumed he would flitter in and out of whorehouses if his urges became too distracting, but, for the most part, killing and fighting had always kept such inclinations at bay. Always had for years. And, of course, his face and sour attitude had been deeply off-putting to anyone of the opposite sex without coin as an immediate negotiator. Always had, for years.

Her willingness to stave off moon tea, now that he thought about it, had been a dangerous combination of arousing and heady and also somewhat distressing. The vague notion of more godsdamned Cleganes running amok in the world made him feel slightly ill now that the heady arousal had more or less worn off. His mother had died giving birth to his little sister. An involuntary shudder coursed through his skin, but he did as he always did before a battle— he swiftly made the choice not to think, and almost to forget. There was much left to be done. The writ contract was no certainty for any future. 

Sandor then felt her stir against him. He had taken her a second time the night prior, guiding her to straddle him, easing down her soft, supple body with firm hands on her hips until her wet, still-dripping cunt had encased his manhood, squeezing him tight as a glove. He had allowed her to adjust for a time before he had grasped her, moving her up and down, finally caving in to his base desires and thrusting up roughly into her sweet, tight, perfect little pussy before spilling deep into her once more. She had fallen asleep then, wrapping up tightly in his arms, his cock still half-hard, deep inside of her for a while. 

Sandor Clegane had decided that she was a marvelous thing, and quietly, in the light of the early morning, swore an oath to protect her, no matter what. She would not know, for a while, that he had done so, but he felt in his heart of hearts that it was the right thing to do. It was the truest act he had yet pledged in the course of his life. His broad hand then ran along the expanse of her unruly curls, settling on the unusual, discolored dark patch near her right temple, where the pattern was tighter. He ran his forefinger down the strong bridge of her nose, over her full, slightly arched eyebrows, along the scar spanning from her left nostril, through her full lips, down to the bottom of her soft chin. In response to his feather-light touch, she slowly woke, blinking up at him through her ginger-blonde, full lashes, her eyes hooded and sleepy. 

“Good morrow,” she whispered. Sandor brought her flush to his chest and kissed the crown of her head, an act of affection that felt right, even if slightly foreign to him. “Did you sleep well?” she asked. He nodded, kissing her head again, wanting to do so forever. But, to his dismay, he knew he was expected at his duties.

“I need to get going,” he said gruffly, his voice still morning-deep. “Gotta report to some cunts.”

“I wish you’d stay,” Mari whispered, running her fingers through his coarse beard. He so enjoyed how her fingernails felt against his rough skin. He took one of her little hands in his, kissing it like a foolish, romantic knight from a storybook. It all felt silly, but he couldn't help but smile.

He knew she was watching him as he rose and dressed, donning his armor, tightening the straps on his own, as he had long since needed a squire to assist him. He turned back to her, just for a moment. She sat naked on the bed, his eyes flittering over her soft, full breasts, rosy-tipped, the curve of her hip, the softness of her rounded, full figure, the way her long, curly auburn hair flowed over her shoulder and down her back. Upon her neck, clavicle, and across her breasts had flowered quite a few little bruises. He could also see some bruising in the approximate shape of a handprint across her full hips, none of which she seemed particularly worried about. She breathed heavily, her eyes wide, holding his gaze– fucking temptress.

“I’ll be waiting here for when you come back,” she said.

“Don’t try me, girl, or else I’ll never leave this fucking room,” he hissed, offering her a small smile before leaving quickly, knowing that if he lingered a mere moment longer, he would certainly keep his dirty word. 

Sandor marched to Joffrey’s quarters, where he had been called to be stationed until the boy rose. An hour past dawn, Joffrey finally emerged from his quarters, having dressed and been readied by his male attendants. He then remembered his promise to Mari– that he would ask the Queen whether she could continue her duties as a handmaiden.

“Dog, come ,” Joff barked in Sandor’s direction, gesturing him in the direction of the Queen’s chambers. Sandor followed him inside, beginning to form the words to his question before Cersei cut him off. “Enough, dog. You’ll wait outside,” Joff snapped. Sandor bowed briefly and took his place, listening through the door, waiting.

“We allow the Northerners too much power. They consider themselves our equals… I’d double their taxes. I’d command them to send ten thousand men to the Royal Army. Why should every Lord command his own men? It’s primitive… we should have a standing army of men loyal to the crown…” Sandor heard Joffrey whine through the door. “And if they rebel?” He caught the boy’s mother's softly retorted words. “I’d crush them. Seize Winterfall and install someone loyal to the realm as loyal to the North. But I’ve grown bored of this conversation.” Sandor shifted slightly, feeling suddenly ill at ease.

“ Dog! ” He heard Joff shout through the door. Sandor opened it and walked inside, bowing to Joff and his bitch mother, as he always did. 

“Yes, my Lord?”

“I heard your marriage vows were taken yesterday morn. How was your bitch? Did she satisfy you?” Joff asked. Sandor felt his stomach turn, and could barely conceal his signature scowl from the brat he had sworn to protect. Cersei looked on at them, her face cold, beautiful, and utterly unreadable. “My father would tell me all the gritty details of his liaisons, by the way, dog. Nothing could ever frighten me. So, did you ravage her?”

“Joffrey, enough of such foul talk,” Cersei graciously interjected, her emerald eyes darting over to Sandor, her face twisted in authentic repulsion at such a consideration. “Your father isn’t here, and so I shall be the one to prohibit such language.”

“No wonder father hates you,” Joff spat. Sandor’s eyes returned to Cersei, watching as her face practically deflated. She looked more worn and ragged than he had ever seen her.

Joffrey looked genuinely irritated when he turned to face his loyal dog, but had Sandor follow him from the Lannister chambers down to the sparring yards, where he insisted upon watching Sandor again and again pound gold cloaks into oblivion. All the while, of course, his thoughts were to his great fortune and, naturally, to all the ways everything could fall apart in the mere blink of an eye lest either of them overstep their place in the keep, in the den of lions, vipers, and truly unfathomable dangers.

 

MARIYA XIV

Mari had decided to take her leave of the apartment by late morning after she had been keen to relieve, bathe, and ready herself, as no servant had come by with any food, although it had been something of a long shot to expect them to do so. Nothing between the Clegane brothers had been finalized as of yet. Sandor had just about as little to his name as she had to hers.

So, she had dressed in her new shift and a plain grey gown from the massive dresser in the bedroom, as she could not find her handmaiden’s dress anywhere and realized how foolish it would be to wear that when dismissed from duty. Thankfully, Renly’s antler was tucked away safe in the trunk at the foot of the four-poster canopy bed, which brought her great relief. She then brushed through her unruly hair, deciding to leave it down, as there was a scattering of bruises and little love marks all over her neck and derriere, which made her feel hot and a little embarrassed if anyone were to see them.

Mari took a deep breath and stilled herself before making her way down to the kitchens. On her way there, however, she took immediate notice of the many odd glances and snickers from the other lowborn servants she passed. She adjusted her hair, ensuring that it shrouded her like a hooded cloak, and arrived to request a tray of her own. There, she saw Jaenis and waved. The woman came over, casting her a pitying look.

“Oh, you survived ,” Jaenis murmured, gathering up some leftover sweet rolls, fruits, and portions of filet fish. “My dear, I am so very sorry for you.”

“I am alright,” Mari assured her. “Truly, Jaenis, I’m fine.”

“He didn’t beat you, did he? Will he punish you for coming here, and so late in the morning…? Oh, my dear… I can't even begin to imagine…”

“No and no,” Mari laughed. “Please, I appreciate your kindness, but I promise you that I am completely fine. I wasn’t sure if someone would bring me something to eat this morning. No one came, so I just thought to get it myself.”

The servant woman shot her a skeptical look. “Pray, tell me if he hurts you. I can’t do much… but surely… I can do something… ”

Mari grasped the woman’s hands in her own. “I promise, Jaenis. I’ll come to you.”

“Oh, what a good girl,” Jaenis cooed, reaching out to lightly touch Mari’s neck, pushing aside her lengthy hair, her eyes widening at the shock of her bruised skin. “ OH! ”

With that, Mari took her cue, wishing the older woman well in a series of frenzied, flurried thanks, gathering up the tray and dashing out of the kitchen, up the spiraling staircases, and back to the apartment, where she paused momentarily to catch her breath. 

She placed the food onto the small table before the hearth and sat on the ornate rug to eat, staring into the embers. When she finished, she began to stack the plates, as was her habit, readying to go, when she jumped at the sound of someone rapping on her door. Rising, she strode a few paces to open it.

“Mariya Clegane, I pray you are well,” Varys said, his hands tucked neatly into his robes, a dangerous smile spread across his face. “May I come in?”

“Lord Varys,” Mari gasped. “I wasn’t expecting you. Um, yes, you may come in.” She stepped aside, and the Spider entered the apartment.

“It was rather quick thinking on my end to negotiate this whole arrangement,” he began, examining the room, particularly the book lying on the chaise that she had been reading that afternoon, still waiting for news from Sandor as to whether she could continue her previous duties. “But I do believe it is the right decision to make. All the more incentive to ensure that his titles and lands are kept well away from Ser Gregor and his merry band of rapists, drunks, and philanderers…  a wild Lannister dog let loose and roaming in the countryside does nothing to benefit peace in the realm…”

“Pardon me, my Lord,” Mari’s mouth was agape. She could not believe her ears. “What did you say?”

“I believe you head me perfectly well, child,” Varys replied, picking up the book she was reading, eyeing the cover— An Anthology of Targaryen Madness . “Odd, I didn’t think of the Hound as a particularly literary type…” His eyes flashed to hers, all-knowing.

“I was reading that. I’m sure it’s something they put in all the guest apartments on this side of the keep. It’s an unflattering portrayal. King’s orders, I’d imagine. I was… bored . I like learning about the Targaryens. They’re, um, fascinating, I suppose.”

The slightest shadowy indication of a complicated smile spread across the eunuch’s face as he carefully placed the book back down, ensuring to keep her page open. “You and the Pentoshi girl did well to give Lord Stark that book. Just as I intended.” Mari opened her mouth to speak, finding that no words came out. “Did you fulfill your wifely duties last night, Mariya?”

Mari blushed. “Yes, I… did.”

“Very good,” Varys exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Mari could barely help but flinch. “You’re quite the brave girl. As of now, it’s in the best service of the realm to ensure that Gregor Clegane is unseated, punished and met with proper justice, stripped of lands and titles in retaliation for his needless cruelty, and, ideally, punished for his many excessive crimes. I am sure you would agree, would you not?” It was a subtly deceptive question. “He’s quite the dangerous fellow. I have sense to believe Tywin Lannister would seek to use him, and to absolve his crimes yet again, if he were in a position to do so.” Immediately, Mari thought of Sandor’s suspicion that war was coming to Westeros.

“You want Sandor Clegane to return to the Westerlands, too, am I correct?” It was almost precocious of her to try to ask for clarification, to peer into Varys’s many elaborate schemes. However, she was undeniably curious. “You want him away from King’s Landing. He’s good at his job, isn’t he? You know the Lannisters are up to something. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

Varys turned away from her and walked a few paces toward the door, and Mari momentarily panicked, worried she had upset him. “Yes, he is good at being the Hound. He plays his part well.” Mari almost let out an audible sigh of relief as Varys turned back to her, his face brighter, though more distant. “I can imagine you wish to continue your work as a handmaiden. Be assured that your role is here for now. You are to wait and be unnoticed for a time. I am already seeking your replacement.”

Mari felt her face drop. “You mean to command me to stay locked inside this apartment?”

“No, I don’t mean to command you to do anything, child. I’m sure you can leave from time to time, stretch your legs. Let your Hound be an escort if you wish to wander the castle or courtyards. Learn your new role as the wife of the head of a minor house before you make the journey to Clegane’s Keep in the Westerlands. For now, however, I will not be needing you. You are best put to use… here .”

“What of Sosan?” Mari could feel her face burn as she asked. She knew that it was silly to want so badly to return to her dear friend, to their late-night chatter, to their girlish games in the courtyards, stables, rescuing little animals, and climbing rooftops. “Can I not see her again?”

“She still has to play her part. It isn’t over yet,” Varys replied simply before offering her a curt bow, Mari impulsively curtseying back, as she had been so trained. 

“May I ask one more question?” 

Varys’s face softened. “Of course, child.”

“Was this your plan all along?”

The eunuch paused, considering his answer. “I always considered it a possibility . Something to keep at hand, in the back of one’s mind, was the occasion to arise. Consider it a testament to your brave heart and to the Rosby bastard’s keen, watching eye. Now, I fear it is time for me to take my leave. Small council meeting. I wish you good health and spirits, Lady Clegane.” With that, the eunuch disappeared, and the heavy apartment door closed near-silently behind him.

Chapter 9: Kungen är död [NSFW]

SANDOR XIII

A few days had gone by since he had first taken Mari’s maidenhead, and although every night they had rutted since they had taken their vows, reports had swiftly come to King’s Landing that a white hart had been sighted in the Kingswood. Lord Renly, Ser Barristan, Prince Joffrey, Balon Swann, Sandor himself, and half the bloody court had been called to hunt it alongside the King.

At first, the Queen was insistent that Joffrey stay behind with his younger siblings, but the petulant boy screamed and wailed until he got his way, of course. Then, naturally, she had summoned her Hound, commanding him to travel with the boy. He had said goodbye to Mari with a series of tender kisses before taking her roughly under her skirts beneath the grand window which overlooked Blackwater Bay, spilling deep inside her welcoming cunt as he bit, lapped at, and panted against her soft white neck, wanting to leave a mark there, to remind her to wait patiently for his return.

“I will miss you…” she whispered. 

He had gotten the sense that it was hard for her, being here. Sandor was sure the other servants gawked at her, and didn’t even dare ask if she had any encounters with any Lords or Ladies since they had been wed. Word spread fast in the Red Keep. She was sure to be scorned. However, she seemed pleased enough with the books he promised to begin collecting for her from the library late at night, claiming that her letters were rusty and she needed more practice. She was a whip-smart, sweet little tender thing, all his. Sandor smiled at the thought.

“I’ll be back soon, little lamb,” he rasped. “Within the month, at least. Whenever Robert catches the damn thing.”

“I’ll always wait for you,” she whispered, her smile beaming as she kissed the back of his hand.

By the time he and Joff had left with Robert’s party, there was already a fickle strangeness to the air that made Sandor feel ill at ease. Robert was impatient, his riding sloppy, the squire Lancel Lannister handing the man far too many wineskins. Any refusal or suggestion to slow down with his drink would only be responded to with slurred, belligerent curses from the fattened King and similar mimicked condemnation from his petulant, entitled little son. Sandor’s own respective mind was not particularly present, as he was not to partake in any of the hunting, but, rather, he would act as bloody babysitter to an incompetent, spoiled little boy. So, in the evenings and during the more extended periods of riding and camping, his mind would linger on Mari’s memory, her laugh, how sweet she felt around him, how willing she was, how soft and supple her tender heart was to ever be willing to lie with a man like him. Then, everything changed.

Sandor was sent back far sooner than he had imagined, having spent just over a fortnight away. “They found the white hart,” he had grumbled as he strode into their apartment mid-afternoon, wrenching his armor off at once. “Some bloody wolves got to it first. The King was fucking furious. Only took a mere hoof and horn, that’s all that was left of it.”

“Why are only you and Joffrey back?” Mari asked, cradling Sandor’s head in her arms, stroking her fingernails through his hair and beard, the way she had learned brought him comfort.

“King heard there was a monstrous boar. Joff got bored. Demanded I take him home to his evil little mummy,” Sandor chuckled, then pausing for a moment, pursing his lips. “Found out something.”

“What?”

“Beric-fucking-Dondarrion was sent to kill my brother by Lord-fucking-Stark while the King and his hunting party were gone. That cunt Littlefinger advised it. He won’t be able to kill Gregor, I sure as fuck know that much. He’ll just waste time, time nobody has. They know he’s mine to fucking kill. They want me here . Dunno why. Beric is too lithe and light to fight my bloody oaf of a brother. I would know.”

Mari paused, reaching out and taking one of Sandor’s large hands in her own, giving it a tight squeeze. “Gregor has already been disposed of his lands and titles. I don’t think you should worry. I, for one, am glad you are back here with me.”

“Aye,” he sighed into her, breathing in her scent before his hands reached up to the ties at the front of her gown, reaching into her kirtle, palming his way through her shift before bearing her plump, full breasts to him, beginning to suckle wildly like an overgrown babe. He had been waiting for this for weeks now.

His sweet little lamb couldn’t hide the genuine smile that spread across her face as she reached for him back, and he melted into her, breathing the sweet scent of her skin as he reached under her gown, feeling for her wetness as she let out a breathy, scandalized gasp, her eyes widening. He reached deeper, pressing a finger into her folds, listening to her cries, rubbing one thumb and forefinger along her swollen little wet pearl. 

“Sandor!”

“I’ve waited many a night for this, woman. Now, I’m finally going to fuck you,” he rasped into her ear, biting on her earlobe, licking along her neck. “I’m going to fucking spill inside of your tight, wet little cunt. And you’re going to be screaming for me. Do you understand?” In response, Mari let out a breathy moan and nodded, her eyes clamped shut. It seemed the little maiden enjoyed it when he spoke so crassly. A wicked smile spread across his wicked face. 

Sandor made quick work of undressing her, fighting a wild urge to rip the hem of her chemise and to take her roughly then and there, extracting his respective pleasure. However, the girl held up a hand to his face, willing him to wait for a moment. He paused, always keen to wait for her permission.

“I want to… to try…” She was blushing head to toe, standing there completely naked as the day she was born, all dusky curves and plump roundness before him. Mari took a step towards him, reaching for the tie at his trousers. “Sosan told me… about… well…”

“You know what to do, little lamb?” he rasped, fighting back a smile. She looked terrified, but the tell-tale flush of scarlet arousal still spanned across her fine chest and full breasts.

“I can try.” He took the lead, unlacing his trousers and dropping them to the floor, watching as she hesitantly ran her hands along his thighs, fingers pausing at all the scars and wounds he had acquired from his many years as a soldier in Tywin’s army. “I want to know where each of these came from,” she breathed. “One day you will tell me about all of them.”

“Too many to remember.” Some of them are self-inflicted, too.

A moment later, Sandor could feel her hot breath on his testicles, shuddering as she took one into her pretty little mouth, lapping her tongue over it, licking and lightly sucking, taking his scrotum ever so gently between her lips and pulling as she moved her rouged little red mouth away, pausing to lick along the rock-hard line of his cock. She then took him in her little hand, weighed him, and ran her index finger up and down the length of him. Sandor couldn’t help but shiver as she then pulled back his foreskin, her sea glass eyes fixed on the tip, running one finger along his slit, which was already wet and salty with precum.

He laced a fist through her pretty curls and sighed aloud as she blew on the tip, looking up at him through her eyelashes. Sure, her little friend taught her that , he mused, before she smiled up at him, taking what she could of his length into her hot, wet mouth and holding him there as she hollowed out her cheeks. She then withdrew, slowly, releasing him from her mouth with a pop . 

“You’re a bloody natural,” he rasped down at her. “Good girl.”

She seemed flustered, heady with his praise, and took him in her mouth again and sucked, bobbing her head up and down along his rigid length, her hands stroking the base of him that she couldn’t take, her spit sloppy, trailing down his testicles. She then drew back slowly, releasing him from her mouth, a trail of spit trickling its way down, following the groove of her scar, where it landed between her breasts. Sandor almost spent himself at the sight of that.

“I need you to fuck me,” she said, her voice light and airy, her pupils blown, the flush having spread along the tops of her arms and down to her soft stomach. “I want you to take me from behind, Sandor. Don’t hold back. Please fuck me.”

Without another word, Sandor hoisted the girl up, carrying her to the chaise in the center of the room, hoisting her up by her hips, pulling her taut to him, and grabbing hold of her hair to pull her head, albeit gently, to look at him. Whores never looked at him, but he knew Mari would. 

She was a divine sight. Hips in the air, her wet, flowery, dripping pink little cunt was on full display, open and waiting for him. The baby hairs around her face were stuck to her head. Her sweet little pink lips, reddened by her previous ministrations, formed a distinct O shape, and her ruddy, freckled cheeks flushed. 

Sandor gripped her hips firmly, pressing his rock-hard length deep into her, growling as he fought the urge to spill into her prematurely. He rolled his hips, and she moaned shrilly, voice breaking, keeping her eyes locked on his, never looking away. He began to tease her, thrusting only shallowly, before her eyes looked miserable and desperate, before bringing his hips forward to bury himself deep, almost all the way, one broad palm traveling up and down the marked line of her soft spine.

“I said, don’t hold back,” she moaned.

That was all Sandor needed to hear; his hips began to piston at a furious pace, pumping deep into her cunt, which felt even tighter than before at this new angle and position. A lustful moan escaped from between her lips as she trembled around him, her walls clenching shut as her cries became more wanton, desperate, high-pitched before she shouted suddenly, her voice desperate and almost feverish, his own release rising and ebbing with every thrust. His grip on her scalp tightened, and her eyes welled up with tears of pleasure as her sweet cunt tightened around his cock and he promptly spilled deep inside of her, falling forward to groan her name into her shoulder.

He withdrew from her softly, watching with a mixture of awe and vicious contentment as his milky seed trickled down the back of her thighs. Mari immediately collapsed, and Sandor moved quickly and  gathered her up into his arms, bringing her back to the bed, laying her smooth body down on the downy bedding, reverently running his lips, teeth, and tongue along her tender flesh. He glanced down at her rear, where he had gripped her roughly, watching as bruises already began to blossom there where his large hands had held her while he pommelled into her like an animal.

“I’ll need to be more gentle with you next time, little lamb,” he whispered into her ear, gently biting along the curve of the shell of it. “Everyone expects me to break you, but, aye, I think I want you around for a long, long time.”

“I would like that,” she groaned in reply, her breath hitching as he roped an arm around her creamy thigh, feeling the head of his member pressing again to her folds. 

She shifted herself slightly, evidently a gesture for him to enter her again. This time, however, he was soft, gentle, thrusting deep into her moistened, wet cunt, his hands fondling her breasts and pert nipples, breathing heavy into her neck. In truth, there was no place Sandor Clegane would rather be than between this little woman’s legs, moreso than the battlefield, than sparring, than the sweetness of killing, even. It was a sentiment he thought he would never confess to himself, but he knew it to be true. By the time he spilled in her again, he knew his sweet little lamb was tired, as her body grew slack. So, he tucked himself tight against her, wrapping the whole of his bulk around her. Aye , he thought, there is no one else in this godsforsaken land who could understand me like her.

 

MARIYA XV

Despite enjoying having Sandor back and in her bed, Mari knew that his early return from Robert’s hunt was nothing if not a terrible, foreboding sign. Joff was a petulant, egomaniacal little thing who certainly would not truly grow “bored” of the hunt. She knew Sandor was anxious, too. He knew better. He knew the Lannisters better than anyone.

A servant boy sent by Sandor had come to inform her that his shift would be extended late into the evening, which was an occasional occurrence. Mari then elected to spend a late evening in the library, alone with her thoughts. It was a tenuous thing to do, given how Varys had advised her not to leave her apartment unaccompanied, for the time being, as the dust settled.  It was bad enough being a smallfolk wearing the silk gowns of a proper Lady— she, too, was married to one of the most consistently loathed men in the entire Red Keep and perhaps even in all of Westeros itself. And, of late, having Lord Stark sit on the Iron Throne in the King’s absence was cause for tension enough in the Red Keep. Mari could imagine the sour look on Cersei’s face, seeing him there.

Her fingers were shaking as she turned the page of the collection she was reading, desperately trying to teach herself Old Valyrian, a language she had always wanted to learn since she was a girl, though, of course, no one in her family knew it, and she had no childhood septa or maester to teach her. Hence, she had never been able to learn until now. However, teaching herself a new language was just as frustrating and mind-bogglingly difficult as she had expected, and, within the hour, all felt hopeless.

Mari felt her stomach flip as she closed the old books after a few hours of self-study, putting them back in their proper places. She took a deep, steadying breath, one hand coming to rest inquisitively on her stomach. She had not bled yet this month, although there were rare times when her menses were inconsistent and unpredictable. Still, that tended to depend on how much food she was allotted or not during a given period. Perhaps it was nothing, she thought. Only three weeks had passed since her wedding night, and she knew that, for many couples, having children could take years . It all varied. There was no rush. Still, Mari wondered.

She thought of going downstairs to her old room and paying a visit to Sosan, but something had kept her from her friend. Perhaps it was the thought of needing to explain herself, to explain that she had not been brutalized, that she had been tenderly loved and cherished, that brought her some degree of shyness. She was not embarrassed , per se, but she did not know how Sosan would react if she were to learn the whole truth of her predicament.

There was suddenly a rap at the door of the library, startling Mari, causing her to let out a rather unbecoming squeak of surprise. “My Lady,” a finely-dressed, partially armored man in blue-grey plate, plain in appearance, around the same age as Sandor, said. “You are certainly the girl my Lord seeks. Well, one of them.”

Mari was, understandably, wary of the stranger. “Who is your Lord, Ser?”

“The Hand of the King,” the man replied. “I am but a household guard for the Starks. If you would be willing, Lord Stark would like a word with you. The matter is somewhat urgent.”

Mari rose hesitantly, putting out the few candles she had lit as she followed him to the chambers of Lord Eddard Stark, finding herself in a quiet, subdued state of panic as the guard seemed to be leading her to the man’s private chambers. There, upon his bed, the Hand of the King lay with his leg elevated, bandaged and wrapped, the smell of medicinal herbs wafting through the expansive room. By his side, to her chagrin, was Littlefinger. Panic immediately welled in Mari’s chest. 

“Thank you, Jory, that will be all,” said Lord Stark. The sellsword who brought her bid them both a courteous farewell and a nod, then disappeared.

“I apologize for bringing you to such a less-than-ideal meeting place,” Lord Stark chuckled, evidently in pain. His brow was marred with beads of sweat, and he lounged at an uncomfortable angle.

“Lady Clegane,” Littlefinger hissed. “Pleasure to see you again. You look well.”

Mari offered a tense, awkward curtsy in both men’s direction. “Thank you. My Lords.”

“How is your leg, Lord Stark?” Littlefinger suddenly asked, twisting his head in the direction of the Hand, whose honorable, long face, twisting in pain, examined Mari closely. Mari had no idea the Hand had broken his leg. She was surely kept most from courtly matters in the past few weeks.

“Inflamed and painful, with an itch that is driving me mad.”

“In the future, I would try not to let any horses fall on it,” Baelish quipped. “I would urge you to do what you can to heal quickly. The realm grows restive. Varys has heard ominous whispers from the west. Freeriders and sellswords have been flocking to Casterly Rock, and not for the thin pleasure of Lord Tywin’s conversation.” His eyes darted to Mari. “They’ve found the white hart, it seems… or rather, what remained of it. Robert was in a fury until he heard talk of some monstrous boar deeper in the forest. Then nothing would do but he must have it. But, Lady Clegane, you know fully well how your husband returned this morning, with Joffrey, the Royces, Ser Balon Swann, and some twenty others in tow. Your husband escorted Joffrey himself and went straight to the Queen. But you knew that, did you not? He returned to you after he met with the Queen, I pray.”

“Aye— yes , my Lord,” she answered. “We spoke this afternoon.” Did a whole lot more than just bloody speak.

Littlefinger nodded. “Once Dondarrion lops the summit off our Mountain, the Clegane lands and incomes will pass to Sandor, but I wouldn’t hold my water waiting for his thanks, not that one. Pray, tell, Lady Clegane, I recall that the King wrote up a promise to your husband— the runt of his litter — to ensure he receives what he is due.”

“Yes, my Lord. He provided Sandor Clegane with a writ contract,” Mari replied, her eyes flitting over to Lord Stark, who watched her with a countenance she could not quite place. “On the final night of the Hand’s Tourney.”

“Baelish, if I may, I had intentions to speak to the girl alone,” Lord Stark interjected. “Pray, I must speak with her. Please.”

Littlefinger smiled, slippery and slimy, and took his leave of the chamber with a veritable, exaggerated bow, his shoulder lightly shoving against Mari’s as he glided out of the room. Just before he crossed the threshold, he paused, taking notice of a tome on the nearby table. Mari, glancing over, felt the breath leave her lungs as she recognized its title.

“ The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children … Now there is tedious reading if I ever saw it. A sleeping potion, my Lord?”

“Jon Arryn was studying this volume when he was taken sick,” the Hand quickly replied. Mari’s heart pounded. She was not aware of this particular detail. Was Varys involved in Ser Arryn’s death? 

“In that case, death must have come as a blessed relief.” Lord Baelish bowed yet again and took his leave. 

Lord Stark’s eyes were still upon Mari as she stood at the far side of the room, her hands folded before her. She almost felt like a little girl being scolded, although the Hand had yet to speak. 

“I know you work for Varys,” he finally said. “ Lady Clegane. I’ve figured it out. Now, pray, tell me, why does your master want both Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Jon Arryn dead? One party is surely a finer and more honorable man than the other.” Mari considered her options. She could lie to Eddard Stark, or she could tell him the truth— all or part of it. “With Ser Gregor dead, you would get a fine share of gold and a neat plot of land. That is quite the reward for a smallfolk of no title, lands, or coin. Is that what Varys has promised you?”

“He hasn’t promised me anything.” Not a lie. “I will speak plainly, my Lord. I do not believe Lord Varys killed Ser Arryn.” Mari wondered if she was ruining everything, but she found that she couldn't stop herself from speaking. “And I did not know about the book of lineages. I swear to you, with all my heart and soul, I did not know.” Not a lie, either. “You know I am smallfolk. That much is obvious, even if I do not wear the lowborn servant’s costume any longer. My blood is Northern, too, my Lord, like you. I know my letters. I was reading merely out of curiosity about my to-be husband’s house. I wished to learn more about his family before I married him. He fancied me, you see. I was to be his prize for winning the tourney. The King wished to throw his dog a bone. I was ignorant. I am ignorant.” Mari shocked herself by the sheer number of half-truths she uttered before such a respectable man, although he may have been partially bedbound and suffering. “My companion came with me to the library simply because I asked her to. She is my bosom friend.”

“Do you admit, then, that you are a servant of Lord Varys?” he pressed. “I do not believe for an instant that you would be wed to the Hound unless through deception or coercion. It does not matter if you have no claims or titles or a family of your own. Why would a girl wed such a beast on the gamble that he might acquire some lowly title and claim? Why bind yourself for life to a slaughterer of innocent children, a dog for the Lannisters?”

“Forgive me, my Lord, if I sound crass and objectionable, but why should it matter?” Mari replied, suddenly feeling strangely powerful, her back straightening as she spoke. “I have told you, I do not believe Lord Varys is responsible for Ser Arryn’s demise. I recall seeing him in corridors and courtyards, years ago. I remember him being a sickly man. Perhaps there was foul play, but I do not know. I have no love whatsoever for my brother-in-law, either. I pray every night to the Seven that Ser Dondarrion is successful in his efforts to upend Ser Gregor, as penance for his many crimes.” More and more half-truths.

Lord Stark regarded her for a moment, his face still marked with a suspicious look. “I do not judge you, girl, but you would do well to protect yourself from what is to come.” His words left Mari with an odd, hollow feeling.

“I will pray for you as well, my Lord.” 

She turned to leave, but Lord Stark stopped her. “Pray, my Lady, I have a question for you. The seed is strong . Does this phrase mean anything to you?”

“No, my Lord,” she replied, truthfully. 

“That will be all, then.”

 

SANDOR XIV

That was it. Robert I Baratheon is dead. Sandor felt his heart plummet, his throat going dry, and he experienced a peculiar, disorienting lightheadedness. He thought of the note the former King had given him, tucked away in the chest with his tourney winnings in the apartment with the supple little woman he had been given to use to further secure his claim to his family’s lands and titles. 

Sandor wasn’t the most learned man, but he was not a complete idiot. He knew that, for whatever war was coming, Tywin would immediately bring his brother back into the proper fold of knighthood and take immediate advantage of his brutality— the mad dog .

He thought of Mari, trapped away in that apartment, not so different than the little bird, Sansa Stark, the Hand’s foolish elder daughter. As he considered the impending reign of Joffrey, he felt his mood sour, his visage darken, and a thundering roar brewing deep within his chest. Both women were in terrible danger; this much was obvious.

Lord Stark, whose leg had been broken and roughly cast, had limped inside the King’s chambers, casting the Lannister dog an unusually pointed glance, which Sandor ensured was met with a resolute, albeit still vaguely respectful, scowl back. The Hand had left, a seal in hand, and, but an hour later, Grand Maester Pycelle had emerged, informing Sandor and the two other guards of the news. 

“Dog, I wish for you to accompany me, now ,” Joffrey barked as he emerged from Robert’s chambers, the same tone as always, hardly mournful. “Escort me to the throne room.” He then turned to a nearby guard, Cersei in short succession, her face eerily calm as she followed behind them. “Call for Ser Trant, Boros, Mandon, Preston, and Arys. Tell them to meet us there.”

Sandor followed Joffrey from Robert’s chambers into the throne room, the steward providing the announcement of the little brat’s arrival and newly acquired title. 

“All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” the steward dutifully announced.

It was a long and tedious walk to the end of the fucking hall, and Sandor took his appropriate place off to the side, watching as five of the most irritating knights of the Kingsguard, save for Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan, arranged themselves around the base of the iron throne where the brat took a smug seat.

After the attendants, Kingsguard, and others had been properly arranged, Joffrey stood. His red satin cape was patterned in gold thread; fifty roaring lions to one side, fifty prancing stags to the other. “I command the council to make all the necessary arrangements for my coronation,” the boy proclaimed. “I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today, I shall accept oaths of fealty from my loyal councillors.”

Sandor watched as Lord Stark stepped forward, producing the final letter and will of the former King. “Lord Varys, be so kind as to show this to my lady of Lannister,” he said to the Spider.

The eunuch carried the letter to Cersei. The Queen glanced at the words. “Protector of the Realm,” she read. “Is this meant to be your shield, my lord? A piece of paper?” The spiteful Queen ripped the letter in half, ripped the halves in quarters, and let the pieces flutter to the floor, a smirk forming on her tinted lips.

“Those were the king’s words,” Ser Barristan said, shocked.

“Well, we have a new King now,” Cersei Lannister replied. “Lord Eddard, when last we spoke, you gave me some counsel. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee, my lord. Bend the knee and swear fealty to my son, and we shall allow you to step down as Hand and live out your days in the grey waste you call home.”

“Would that I could,” Ned Stark replied grimly. “Your son has no claim to the throne he sits. Lord Stannis is Robert’s true heir.”

Sandor moved to rest his hand on the hilt of his sword. Something twisted in his throat, and he swallowed, his face feeling tight and hot as he struggled to maintain his composure, eyes surveying the room, seeking out any potential threats. His mind briefly drifted to thoughts of Mari perched in the window, staring out into the expanse of Blackwater Bay.

“ Liar! ” Joffrey screeched, his little face red and swollen with rage.

“Mother, what does he mean?” Little Myrcella asked the Queen. “Isn’t Joff the King, now?”

“You condemn yourself with your very mouth, Lord Stark,” Cersei snapped. “Ser Barristan, seize this traitor.” The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard hesitated. In the blink of an eye, he was surrounded by Stark guardsmen, bare steel in their mailed fists. “And now the treason moves from words to deeds. Do you think Ser Barristan stands alone, my lord?”

Sandor knew this was his cue as he withdrew his longsword; the knights of the Kingsguard and twenty Lannister guardsmen in crimson cloaks moved behind him, as though he were their leader.

“ Kill him! Kill all of them, I command it! ” Joffrey’s grating voice screeched in Sandor’s ears.

“You leave me no choice,” Ned told Cersei Lannister. He called out to Janos Slynt. “Commander, take the Queen and her children into custody. Do them no harm, but escort them back to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard.”

“Men of the Watch!” Janos Slynt shouted, donning his helm. A hundred gold cloaks leveled their spears and closed.

“I want no bloodshed,” Ned told the Queen. “Tell your men to lay down their swords, and no one need—”

With a single sharp thrust, the nearest gold cloak drove his spear into a fat Stark guard’s back. The guard’s blade dropped from nerveless fingers as the wet red point burst out through his ribs, piercing leather and mail. He was dead before his sword hit the floor. 

Lord Stark’s shout was far too late, Sandor thought, as Janos Slynt slapped open another guard’s throat. A third guard whirled and began to let loose a fury of blows, though, assuming the role and spirit of the beastly Lannister dog, Sandor took a cut off the man’s sword hand at the wrist, quickly driving the man to his knees, slicing him open from shoulder to breastbone, blood splattering and coating the front of his armor and his face, the rush of killing causing an involuntary, wicked smile to spread across his face, as it always had. Sandor then watched as Littlefinger whispered something to Lord Stark as he held his dagger against the Northerner’s chin. 

 

MARIYA XVI

She knew King Robert I Baratheon was dead as the bells in the seven towers of the Great Sept of Baelor began to toll loudly, their reverberating clamor resonant and deep. This would follow for another day and night, Mari quietly thought, as was custom.

Her meeting the previous day with the Hand was nothing short of unnerving. She had yet to receive any word or any summons from Varys. Was it no longer appropriate to go to the broom closet in the kitchens, to speak with Sully, to wait for direction, something ? She sorely regretted not asking the eunuch for more information when he came to visit. As her anxious thoughts swarmed, there was then a sudden rapping on her door. She practically sprang from the chaise, swinging the door open. But there was no Spider, only her beloved friend.

“Sosan!”

“Didn’t even think to call for me earlier?” The handmaiden’s arms were crossed tightly across her chest. “It’s been three whole weeks, you fiend! I wondered if you were dead. Thought maybe the Hound had killed you.”

“Please forgive me,” Mari asked earnestly. She was met with a tight hug from Sosan. Mari practically melted into her friend’s embrace, her scent sweet, her skin and hair soft. Oh, how she loved her. “What is happening out there?” Mari pressed, taking Sosan’s soft hands in hers. “I was… advised… by our shared special friend… to not leave the apartment. That’s why I haven’t sought you out. It’s not because I didn’t want to.” She dared not tell Sosan of her secret outings to the library, nor her meeting with Lord Stark, as she knew it would only upset her. “I technically have ‘freedom of the castle,’ but I dare not push my luck.”

“I know. You’re a real Lady now, too, aren't you? Lucky wench. It wouldn’t be proper for us to be seen out together,” Sosan conceded. “But I can tell you what I know.” She took a breath, as though preparing herself. “Just a few days ago, that snake, Bernadette, was assigned to be Lady Sansa’s handmaiden by the Queen. I don’t like that one bit. She’s a slimy little creature. I don’t trust her.”

“Cersei wants a close eye on the Stark girl, then,” Mari sighed. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to expect.”

“I don’t know, either. I’m just waiting.” The pair was silent for a moment longer. “Now, Mari, can you assure me that you have not been harmed? I mean, I worried for you. You were constantly on my mind in the past few weeks.”

“Yes, my friend, I am fine.”

“He does not harm you?”

“No. He is very kind and good to me.”

Sosan scoffed. “Him? Kind? Pfft. I could think of a dozen other things that beastly man is, my dear friend.”

“I told you before. He is . You don’t have to believe me.” Mari knew it would be impossible ever to convince her friend of this. Without thinking, one hand came to rest on her stomach.

“Word got around that he had been granted his family lands, titles, and inheritance by King Robert, whose death bells are ringing as we speak. What now?” Sosan asked. “I would hope you would ask me to be your lady-in-waiting if Robert’s command holds.”

“I don’t know. Joffrey wants to keep him in court. Had him leave the hunt with him early to return to the Queen,” Mari said, realizing how sketchy it all seemed when said aloud.

“So you’ll be able to stay here?”

“I may as well die here,” she sighed. The admittance was inevitable. “Sosan, I need to tell you something. It’s extremely important. You can’t tell anyone. Swear to me.”

“I swear. What is it?” Sosan’s eyes widened, taking Mari’s hand in hers.

She thought it best to be straightforward. “I have not yet bled this month.”

Sosan’s face dropped, her eyes flickering to Mari’s stomach and then back up to her face. “Oh. Oh . Are you… sure? It might just be delayed… You don’t know… ”

“I may not be fully sure, but the uncertainty is more than enough. You can’t tell anyone. Not now.”

“But… King Robert…” The look of panic in Sosan’s eyes was not much of a comfort. “Oh, Mari… what are you going to do? ”

“I… I don’t know what you mean… I’ll just do what everyone else does…”

“They are calling a meeting in the throne room as we speak… There are… contentions in the court…” Sosan was giving her a particular, pointedly frightened look, her eyes darting down to Mari’s abdomen. “Does the Hound know about your menses?” She still said Sandor’s cruel nickname with such venom.

“No,” Mari muttered. “I want to wait a little bit. Maybe it’s not for true. You know well how my menses can be irregular.” She, too, knew Sosan had been made barren, and no longer bled at all. The issue was always a sensitive, painful one for her dear friend.

“I can’t believe it…” Sosan whispered. “I can’t believe… you… I can’t…”

“What can’t you believe? That I’d lie with the man I was married off to? Is that such a big bloody surprise? Lots of women do it. There need not be love or tenderness.” There was.

“I can’t believe that you’d let him — of all men—spill… inside you…” Sosan hissed, lowering her voice. Mari had honestly never seen the girl so stunned or scandalized about sex before. She had briefly been a prostitute herself, for the Sevens’ sake! “You… let him… right?”

“Gods, Sosan, yes! He didn’t force himself on me. I told you, he was good to me. I refused to drink moon tea.”

“You promise?”

“Aye, I swear it.”

Sosan wrapped her friend in a tight embrace. “Are you happy?”

“Aye, I am happy. But don’t get ahead of yourself. I can’t be sure yet,” she said. “And I can’t say I’d be distraught if my blood does come. I don’t feel that the Red Keep is a safe place for a little babe…” Her friend only grasped her tighter, running her fingers through her hair. She pulled away briefly, holding Mari’s jaw in her hands, pressing a soft, tender kiss to her mouth. 

“Not a little babe, a giant babe,” Sosan joked, kissing her again, deeper and more fully this time. “You’ll be too rounded to walk!” They burst into a lengthy fit of laughter, still wrapped in each other's arms.

“I love you,” Mari whispered.

“And I love you.” Sosan was still for a time before she moved to look Mari deeply in the eyes. “There is something more I need to tell you. I should’ve come earlier. Much earlier. And for that, I hope you will forgive me. Do you remember how I rode with Lord Baelish to your wedding on the tourney grounds?” Mari nodded. “He whispered something in my ear on that day. He told me: The mockingbird casts its line, the web is broken .” The eerie similarity to the previous message from Lord Varys gave Mari tremendous pause. “Do you think that’s a threat, Mari?”

“Aye, I do,” Mari whispered. “Sosan…”

“Lord Varys will protect me,” her friend insisted. “I know he will. I just need to keep my head down. To keep to my duty. As you keep to yours. There’s a reason we are something of a team in his service. Don’t you agree?”

Mari gripped Sosan’s hand tightly. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“And I, you. Now, my sweet, I have to go. There is to be an announcement about the coronation within the hour,” Sosan said. “I’ll be with Myrcella. She asks for only me now.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mari forced a smile. “Please, stay safe. I will leave a piece of twine on the handle of the door, so you can know when we may speak.”

“I will look for your token, then,” Sosan replied with a half-hearted smile.

 

SANDOR XV

In the coming days, the walls of the throne room had been stripped bare, the hunting tapestries that King Robert loved taken down and stacked in the corner in an untidy heap on the floor. Sandor was not fond of the former King and the way he ruled his people, but something about the scene was undeniably tragic. This was to be the first court session of Joffrey’s reign, a line of Lannister house guards standing beneath the western windows, yet another line of gold-cloaked City Watchmen beneath the east. Sandor saw Grand Maester Pycelle sitting alone at the concealed table, his eyes pressed shut, his hands clasped together atop his long beard. Sandor’s eyes narrowed, and his teeth gritted as Varys and Baelish entered. 

He noticed how Littlefinger’s feline eyes settled predatorily on the young Stark girl, standing among the other nobles, herself dressed finely, her hair worn long and resplendently red, both similar and different to his wife’s. She seemed to be dressed in mourning, he noticed. Her gown appeared freshly dyed black, with a single silver chain around her neck. Her hands were clasped before her. She did not conceal her emotions well— she looked utterly terrified, and she had good reason to be. Sandor had the feeling her father was to die, and soon.

A herald’s voice rang out: “All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail his lady mother, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent, Light of the West, and Protector of the Realm.”

Soon, Ser Barristan entered, followed by Ser Arys escorting the Queen, while Blount took Sandor’s place to escort Joffrey. Looking out over the hall, he began to speak. “A king must punish the disloyal and reward those who are true. Grand Maester Pycelle, I command you to read my decrees.”

Pycelle pushed himself to his feet. He was clad in a magnificent robe of thick red velvet, with an ermine collar and shiny gold fastenings. From a drooping sleeve, heavy with gilded scrollwork, he drew a parchment, unrolled it, and began to read a long list of names, commanding each in the name of King and council to present themselves and swear their fealty to Joffrey. Failing that, they would be deemed traitors, all lands and titles forfeited. It was to be utterly disastrous.

Pycelle named a series of nobles: Lord Stannis Baratheon, both Lord Royce and his sons, Ser Loras Tyrell, Lord Mace Tyrell, his brothers, uncles, and their sons. The red priest, Thoros of Myr, Ser Beric, Lady Lysa Arryn and her son, Ser Brynden, Ser Edmure, Lord Jason Mallister, Lord Bryce Caron, Lord Tytos Blackwood, Lord Walder Frey, Ser Stevron, Lord Daryl Vance, Lord Jones Bracken, Lady Sheila Wheat, Doran Martell, and all his many sons. The listing continued for what felt like nearly an hour. Finally, Pycelle read aloud the names Lady Catelyn Stark, Robb Stark, Brandon Stark, Rickon Stark, Arya Stark… Sandor looked over at Sansa and watched as she stifled a gasp of shock and terror. Every bloody member of her family was named. The girl was doomed.

“In the place of the traitor Eddard Stark, it is the wish of His Grace that Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, take up the office of Hand of the King, to speak with his voice, lead his armies against his enemies, and carry out his royal will. So the King has decreed. The small council consents. In the place of the traitor Stannis Baratheon, it is the wish of His Grace that his lady mother, the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, who has ever been his staunchest support, be seated upon his small council, that she may help him rule wisely and with justice. So the King has decreed. The small council consents,” Pycelle declared. Murmurs ripped through the crowd. Sandor surveyed the room like a hawk, still cautious of further disruptions such as the one that had occurred when Lord Stark declared treasonous intent.

“It is also the wish of His Grace that his loyal servant, Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch of King’s Landing, be at once raised to the rank of Lord and granted the ancient seat of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, and that his sons and grandsons shall hold these honors after him until the end of time. It is moreover his command that Lord Slynt be seated immediately upon his small council, to assist in the governance of the realm. So the King has decreed. The small council consents.” 

Sandor leaned forward, just enough so that no one else would notice. He quietly prayed— a rarity for him, he usually only prayed when it came to the little woman waiting for him back in his apartment, as he had instructed her— that his name and title would be announced, that his lands and titles would be secured, following King Robert’s promise.

“Lastly, in these times of treason and turmoil, with our beloved Robert so lately dead, it is the view of the council that the life and safety of King Joffrey is of paramount importance…” Sandor felt his blood turn cold. They were not announcing anything on his behalf; his writ contract had been utterly forgotten. I will have no lands or titles of my own to claim….

Cersei stood. “Ser Barristan Selmy, stand forth.”

Ser Barristan, who had been at the foot of the Iron Throne, bowed his head and took the knee before the Queen. “Your Grace, I am yours to command.”

“Rise, Ser Barristan,” Cersei said with a sneer. “You may remove your helm.”

“My lady?” The old knight stood, removing his helm, confused.

“You have served the realm long and faithfully, good Ser, and every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. Yet now I fear your service is at an end. It is the wish of the King and Council that you lay down your heavy burden.”

Ser Barristan gasped, fumbling with his words. “My… burden? I fear I… I do not…”

Janos Slynt rose, shouting in the old knight’s direction. “Her Grace is trying to tell you that you are relieved as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“Your Grace,” Barristan gasped. “The Kingsguard is a Sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust.”

“Whose death, Ser Barristan?” The Queen’s voice was soft as silk, but her words carried the whole length of the hall. “Yours, or your king’s?”

“You let my father die,” Joffrey said accusingly from atop the Iron Throne. “You’re too old to protect anybody, you fool.”

A novel, buzzing sound had swarmed Sandor’s ears, his vision growing blurry, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side. He was panicking, he realized. It was never good when a soldier panicked. He thought of Mari, and he thought of the little game Joffrey had played, entrusting a girl like that into the fold of his fealty through royal decree. Now, he had the feeling he would be destined to fail her, again and again.

“I am a knight,” he heard Barristan stammer, his attention returning to the court, his breathing finally leveled. “I shall die a knight.”

“A naked knight, it would seem,” Littlefinger interjected.

Sandor couldn’t help but laugh, but realized all the others were, too. Although he tended to hate the pompous self-importance of most Sers, he could hold some measure of sympathy for this knight as he endured one of Joffrey’s soon-to-be-many humiliation rituals.

Then, Barristan drew his sword. Sandor’s hand reflexively traveled to the hilt of his own. Barristan withdrew the blade, dropping it at the foot of the Iron Throne with a metallic clatter. “Here, boy. Melt it down and add it to the others, if you like. It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five. Perhaps Lord Stannis will have a chance to sit on it when he takes your throne.”

“He called me boy ,” Joffrey said peevishly, sounding younger than his years. “He talked about my uncle Stannis, too!”

“Idle talk,” said Varys. “ Without meaning…” For once, Sandor was grateful to the eunuch for his gentle, flowery words and mediation.

“He could be making plots with my uncles. I want him seized and questioned!” No one moved. Joffrey raised his voice. “I said, I want him seized!”

Janos Slynt rose from the council table. “My gold cloaks will see to it, Your Grace.”

“Good,” huffed King Joffrey.

“Your Grace,” Littlefinger reminded Joffrey. “If we might resume, the seven are now six. We find ourselves in need of a new sword for your Kingsguard.”

Joffrey smiled. “Tell them, Mother.”

“The King and council have determined that no man in the Seven Kingdoms is more fit to guard and protect His Grace than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.” Sandor momentarily wondered if he had started hallucinating, his mouth feeling dry, his back straightening involuntarily as his undeserving, loathed name was repeated aloud before the court.

“How do you like that, dog ?” Joffrey said smugly, his elvish face contorted in a sick look of twisted glee. He heard the throne room burst into a growing uproar of shocked murmurs (of what sounded like shock and horror, if he were to be honest). “You won’t get your land, but you’ll get to be by my side. What a great honor for my beloved Hound.”

Sandor took a long moment to consider, thinking of that precious image of his little lamb sitting in the windowsill, staring out at the expanse of sea before her, her long, streaked hair flowing behind her in the soft, salty breeze. “I have a wife, and I’ll not renounce her. I’m no Ser. I’ll say no knight’s vows.”

“The Hound has a wife?!?” someone in the crowd declared, followed by a series of shocked, scandalized whispers and murmurs. It had not yet occurred to Sandor that word had not fully gotten out about the impromptu marriage carried out after the Hand’s Tourney. He then realized how wise it was to keep Mari out of the public eye. He could hardly imagine the torment she would experience, sweet little thing she was, by mere association with him.

“The Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard have always been knights,” Ser Boros said indignantly, his eyes aflame. Sandor caught a glimpse of the Spider’s eyes, watching him, an unreadable, unsettling expression on his powdered face. “They have always been forbidden from taking a wife or fathering children. This is simply inconceivable!”

“Until now,” Sandor rasped, giving the fat cunt a piercing, cruel look. “Lucky for you, I have no heirs, Boros."

The whispers only grew louder in the throne room until the herald’s voice boomed out: “If any man in this hall has other matters to set before His Grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence.”

Sandor couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as he watched the Stark girl take a step forward. She had far more courage than he thought, then. “Your Grace,” she called out, blue eyes pleading in Joffrey’s direction.

“Come forward, my lady,” Joffrey practically cooed. This would be bad.

“The Lady Sansa, of House Stark!” the grating, pitchy herald declared.

“Do you have some business for the King and council, Lady Sansa?” Cersei said between pursed red lips, her eyes narrowing marginally.

“I do. As it pleases Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King.” Sandor grimaced— a foolish and dangerous query .

“Sansa, you disappoint me. What did I tell you about traitor’s blood?” Cersei sighed.

“Your father has committed grave and terrible crimes, my lady,” Pycelle added. “Treason is a noxious weed. It must be torn up, root and stem and seed, lest new traitors sprout from every roadside.”

“Ah, poor, sad thing,” sighed the Spider. “She is only a babe, my lords; she does not know what she asks.” Sandor bit down on his tongue to fight back the urge to shut up the eunuch forevermore with his fists or his longsword, preferably both.

“Let her speak. I want to hear what he says,” Joffrey interjected.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa replied meekly.

“Do you deny your father’s crime?” Lord Baelish asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“No, my Lords.” Evidently, the little girl knew better than that, but still not nearly enough. “I know he must be punished. All I ask from the King is mercy. I know my Lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert’s beloved and dear friend, and he loved him so. You all know how very much my father loved the King. He never wanted to be the Hand until the King asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or . . . or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise.”

King Joffrey leaned forward, hands grasping the arms of the throne. Broken sword points fanned out between his fingers. “He said I wasn’t the King. Why did he say that?”

“His leg was broken,” Sansa replied eagerly. “It hurt ever so much. Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy, and they say that milk of the poppy fills your head with clouds, delusions. Otherwise, he would never have said it.”

“A child’s faith, such sweet innocence. And yet, they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes!” Varys declared, talking more so to fill the air with noise, Sandor thought.

“Treason is treason,” Pycelle replied at once.

Joffrey rocked restlessly on the throne. “Mother?”

Cersei Lannister contemplated the girl for a moment. “If Lord Eddard were to confess his crime,” she said at last. “We would know he had repented his folly.”

Joffrey pushed himself to his feet. “Do you have any more to say?” he asked her.

“Only that, as you love me, you do me this kindness, my prince,” Sansa said.

King Joffrey looked the poor little bird up and down. “Your sweet words have moved me,” he said rather gallantly, nodding, as if to say all would be well, but Sandor knew such a look to be nothing more than a dressed-up lie. “I shall do as you ask, but first, your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I’m the King, or there will be no mercy for him. That is my final word and will.”

“He will. Oh, I know my father will,” the girl said, her face lighting up with false hope. "Thank you all. Thank you, thank you..."

Sandor paused, realizing how desperately he needed to speak with Mari, to console her, to explain their new predicament. He had no idea if she would be pleased at his sudden, unconventional promotion. Surely, she would find it in her heart to forgive him for what was to come.

Chapter 10: Somliga går med trasiga skor

MARIYA XVII

Just as the sun began to set across the brilliant sky on the third day after King Robert’s death, there was a sudden knock on the door, causing Mari to jerk in surprise, nearly falling from the window ledge where she was perched, her eyes watching some of the latest boats come in laden with new shipments. She enjoyed watching them, wondering who was aboard, where they came from, and where they could take her. All hypotheticals, of course. Another hefty book on Old Valyrian poetry sat open in her lap; it, too, remained unfinished. 

There had been some odd shouts and clashes outside, but the direction of her window had not allowed her a glance into the inner yards of the keep. Surely, it was all just some squabbling as the King’s will was to be read aloud by the Hand, as she knew was custom. A servant had come by the previous morning, informing her that her husband had requested that she stay within their chambers. Mediocre, lukewarm leftover food had been brought to her door, for which she was still grateful. She worried greatly for Sandor. It felt terrible to be separated from him.

“Come in,” she said. The door opened, and Sosan was standing there. Not Sandor.  “Sosan! I wasn’t expecting you. But I didn’t leave twine on the door…”

“Lady Clegane,” Sosan said, her voice lilted, distantly rehearsed. “You are requested to dine with the Queen, her daughter, Princess Myrcella, and Lady Sansa Stark this evening.”

“Why are you talking like that?”

Sosan pushed the door open a bit further. Behind her stood Bernadette , gazing at her with barely concealed malice, her brown eyes scanning the lush apartment. In the less beloved handmaiden’s hands appeared to be a wrapped parcel. “The Queen wishes for you to dress for the occasion,” Bernadette said through gritted teeth, pushing past Sosan, placing the wrapped gown on the chaise lounge in the center of the room. She then proceeded to unwrap it, revealing a long red silk gown with black embroidery around the neckline and cuffs. On the front of the gown was stitched a single black dog. Inside the fold, there was a golden pendant, marked by the sigil of three sprinting hounds. “We will help you dress, my Lady,” Bernadette purred.

“I can dress myself, I’m not a bloody child,” Mari snapped, striding over and grabbing the gown and the sigil pendant from the handmaiden’s claws. “You may return to the Queen. But aren't you meant to be serving Lady Sansa, eh, Berny? Taking a little break from helping Cersei torment the girl, is that it?”

“I will take my leave if you so wish, my Lady,” Bernadette said bitterly, offering her a rather venomous, half-arsed curtsey. Sosan didn’t even bother, and merely cast her an anxious, almost resigned look as she and Bernadette took their leave.

Once alone, Mariya examined the pendant bearing the sigil of House Clegane more closely. Had this been made for her, or was it some kind of heirloom? If the latter, how did Cersei acquire it?

It took her some time to get the surprisingly tight red gown over her head and laced adequately without help. She silently cursed herself for being arrogant enough to think she could do this alone. Hurrying over to the nearby standing mirror, she examined her shape, first head-on, then at an angle, and then another. She took a few minutes to compose herself, pacing the room for a time, before picking up the pendant and fastening it around her neck. The cut of the dress was slightly lower than she would have ideally gone for, and made her décolletage feel somewhat scandalously on display. Her cheeks were ruddy with embarrassment, and she had not yet even set foot beyond the four walls of the apartment. 

Fighting to keep her composure, she applied some kohl to her eyes and rouge to her lips and cheeks, feeling an odd mix of emotions as she stared at the young woman looking back at her. She looked like a real and true proper lady; the scar on her face, in all earnestness, was barely noticeable in combination with her other adornments.

She readied herself and, just as she was about to take her leave, there was yet another knock on the door. “Come in.” This time, Sosan alone entered. “Oh, thank the Seven you’re here.”

“You look… nice ,” her friend offered, one eyebrow raised, examining her up and down. “But why do you think the Queen wants your tits on full display? You think she’s into that kind of thing?” Mari burst out laughing, Sosan following suit, though the girl quickly grew serious again. “Mari, I can't say more, but just know, there has been trouble. I had to come back for you. You shouldn’t be wandering the halls alone, even if you’re a Lady. Armed men are about. There’s been fighting.”

“ What? ”

“I said I can’t say more,” she said. “Now, please, walk with me.”

“You’ll be there, too?” Mari inquired, following Sosan down the corridor. 

“I’ll be there,” Sosan replied. “Pouring your wine and hand-feeding you grapes, tending to your every whim and fickle desire you may have.”

“Perhaps it’ll spare me the boredom of their stale highborn babbling,” Mari joked. The girls burst into another fit of giggles, drawing the attention of the passing servants, all of whom seemed to be wearing black attire for mourning. “Why do you think the Queen wants me to wear this ? Isn’t she mourning her husband?” Mari looked down at her dress, realizing just how absurd her attire was, especially for the first evening meal following the King’s demise. Sosan offered her a peculiar look and a half-hearted shrug in response.

Up and down the corridors, Mari was taken aback by the sheer number of scurrying gold cloaks, some with spears drawn. Sosan was right— something big had happened. Her mind went to Sandor, wondering where he was, what he was doing. Without another word, she followed Sosan up the last spiraling staircase to the Queen’s chambers. Sandor was nowhere in sight, Mari noted, and there were only regular guards stationed by the Queen’s door. How unusual . Sosan was the one to knock.

However, after the second knock, she grabbed onto Mari’s arm, pulling her roughly towards her, and whispered harshly in her ear, “Don’t drink your wine.”  

Mari backed away, her eyes wide, wondering, questioning her friend, but Sosan was quick to put back on the mask of their formerly shared role, her neutral, rubbery, static expression hardening as they stood before the door to the Queen’s chambers. 

“Come in,” she heard Cersei’s smooth voice. Opening the door, Mari peered inside, seeing the Queen, the little Myrcella, and Sansa Stark. “Lady Clegane, please, come and take a seat.”

Mari curtseyed and hesitantly walked to the lone available chair next to the Stark girl, immediately feeling out of place, realizing she was the only one not wearing mourning-black. Glancing around the room, she saw that Sosan, along with Bernadette, Jocelyn, Senelle, and Taena, stood around them, poised for service. Was this what I too looked like, all these years? Notably, the Stark girl was staring at her quite openly, white as a sheet, as though she’d seen a ghost. Don’t drink your wine .

“I am pleased you could join us,” Cersei purred. “Even if you are so late.” Mari’s eyes settled on the golden chalice held languidly in the Queen’s hand. Don’t drink your wine .

She had arrived precisely at the time the Queen had demanded. “I wish to extend my regards to the Lannisters... for your late husband… the King…” Mari felt herself grow red as she fumbled with her words. “…Your Grace.”

“Your gown is beautiful, Lady Clegane,” Sansa said, her tone peppy and forced, even as her blue eyes looked so very sad and exhausted, her face still ever so slightly streaked with tears from heavy crying. “It is very becoming.” No, girl, it’s wanton and bloody inappropriate, and even I know that.

“The pendant is a token of well-wishes from your brother-in-law,” Cersei said softly. Mari’s heart dropped, her hands beginning to shake profusely as she reached for the fine silverware laid before her. “I sent a raven to father, who, upon obtaining Ser Gregor’s permission and full endorsement, retrieved the token from Clegane’s Keep. He wishes you both a happy marriage.” No, he bloody didn’t ‘obtain’ the monster’s permission. Stupid brute doesn’t care one bit. She’s trying to scare me, that’s it. The Queen’s words weighed heavily like poison in the air.

Bernadette and Jocelyn approached the table, pouring bright red wine into each cup, sparing Myrcella, as she was still slightly too young. Mari’s eyes locked on Bernadette, the girl’s face solemn, cold, neutral, unyielding. Mari picked up the chalice, tilted it back, pressed it to her lips, pretended to shut her eyes slightly, as though savoring its taste. Not a single drop passed her lips. Don’t drink your wine .

The meal began more or less in silence. Mari had never eaten roasted snails before, but Sansa was quick to show her how to extract them from their shells. “King Joffrey taught me during the feast after the Hand’s tourney,” she explained, forcing a cheery, peppy tone, her eyes darting to Cersei, seeking the venomous woman’s approval.

After a time, they were served the main course, a well-roasted duck with an orange stuffed between its beak. “In truth, I care not for wild boar,” Cersei began, her servant Jocelyn reaching forward and picking the best part of the animal and placing it delicately on the Queen’s plate. “I do not see the pleasure in eating the animal that killed my late husband, even if it was his final wish.” Her brilliant emerald-green eyes seemed to momentarily flicker to Mari’s cup, untouched before her. Don’t drink your wine . Mari swiftly pretended to take another small sip.

“Yes, I, too, prefer duck,” Sansa cut in. Mari avoided both of their glances, keeping her head down, allowing Sosan to slice pieces of the bird and plate them for her. “We never had any of it in Winterfell. Before coming here, I never knew its taste.” Sansa took a longer sip of her own glass, appearing to not have any particular reaction. Then, Mari recalled that Bernadette had been the only one to serve her and her alone. She shifted in her seat.

“Sansa, my sweet little thing, with your father’s lingering crime of treason, I would scarcely think it wise, much less thoughtful, to speak of Winterfell. Especially here, my dear, at my table.” Treason? Mari lost whatever appetite she had immediately. “But you have written your letters, and we shall see how your father fares.” Cersei smiled, her expression so cold and empty. Then, she turned to Mari. “I wish to congratulate you on your husband’s new position.” The Queen then raised a golden goblet in her direction. Don’t drink your wine .

Mari had no idea what she was talking about. “I… I’m sorry… I don't understand, your Grace.” She momentarily looked at Sansa, the girl suddenly appearing petrified, her blue eyes wide. “What new position?”

“Why, he’s the first unknighted, married head of the Kingsguard,” Cersei said, concealing her growing grin behind the rim of her cup. “It’s quite an accomplishment. He is so very trusted by our family. No one else could defend Joffrey like he does. He was the only real consideration for the job after having to let poor Ser Barristan go. So unfortunate. The old man was simply inadequate, far too aged for the role.” Green, unearthly beautiful cat-like eyes flickered again to her chalice. Don’t drink your wine .

“I did not hear of this,” Mari gasped, her chest rising in a panic. What on earth could this mean, for her, for them both? “I apologize, your Grace. Please forgive me for my ignorance. I have not yet spoken to my husband on this day.”

“Were you not in attendance at King Joffrey’s first court session?” Cersei inquired, almost playfully, as though she were a cat toying with a mouse. “It is expected of a Lady of the Red Keep to be in eager and timely attendance.”

“No, your Grace. I was not. Forgive me.”

“I can only wonder if you are in hiding from the court,” Cersei quipped, teasingly, cruelly. Don’t drink your wine . Mari knew the Queen Regent knew precisely what she was doing. “I wondered as such when a servant discovered a Lannister dagger among your belongings.” The Queen smiled, pausing, a knowing smirk on her lips. "You have lived here in King’s Landing for three years, have you not?” She had helped dispose of the Queen’s shite and piss every morning and night for almost three years, and now, here they were, locked in some sort of twisted conversational dance. For the past three years, Cersei Lannister had hardly even looked at her before now, much less acknowledged her existence, or even remembered her name. Don’t drink your wine .

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mari answered, praying that her interrogation would end swiftly, and she could return to poking at her plate in silence. “The dagger… was from my grandfather. It was a gift from Tytos Lannister.”

“An odd scramble of aligned coincidences,” Cersei purred, a little glittering half-smile on her face. “Quite fitting that you would serve us again, here, like your predecessors did for my fool of a grandfather.”

“Were you a lady-in-waiting in King’s Landing, my Lady?” Sansa inquired innocently. “I seem to remember you. Your face… is… familiar.”

Mari opened her mouth to answer before Myrcella, too, innocently interjected. “Yes, she served us both, didn’t she, Mother?” Sansa looked over at Mari, confused. “She was a good servant. She was good to my pony, Twinkle, as well.” It was meant to be a compliment, but Mari had never wanted to disappear more than she did at that very moment.

“Yes, she was. Very obedient ,” Cersei said, her eyes flickering to the pendant around Mari’s exposed neck, then to the way her hands improperly held her utensils and, once again, to her undrained cup. Don’t drink your wine . Mari immediately put down the knife and fork in her fists. “I have learned of late that, before your employment here, you were a tavern wench in an alehouse just outside of Flea Bottom.” The immediate silence in the room was suffocating. “Is that true, Lady Clegane?” Her lilted tone practically reeked with venom. “What a tremendous climbing of the proverbial social ladder you have achieved. You ought to be congratulated.”

“ Yes , your Grace,” Mari replied, struggling to keep her lowborn accent in check. “That is for true. I am so very grateful.”

“Who recruited you?” Don’t drink your wine .

Mari hesitantly looked into the Queen’s piercing green eyes. “Her name is Jaenis. She is the elder servant who runs the kitchens and coordinates the intake and scouting of all new workers within the keep.” Only half a lie . “I am quite good at cleaning, Your Grace. I had a natural… talent… for it.” She immediately felt like a bloody fool for that last part. Mari fought her hardest not to look in the direction of Sosan, who she knew stood by the door just to her right. I’m such a fucking idiot . 

“Perhaps your previous work as a tavern wench could explain your choice of dress,” the Queen said, breaking the tension in the room by snapping her fingers at Jocelyn, gesturing for more wine. “Were you not so distinct-looking and keen to dress like a harlot during the period of mourning for my late husband, the King, I would have thought you to be some sort of spy .” Mari was about to open her mouth to protest that she had been the one to send her this bloody gown! “But, I see now that you are merely a retired, eager whore. Perhaps that is why my dog took such an immediate liking to you.”

“Your Grace, if I may ask—“ Sansa interjected. Mari discreetly let out a breath of tightly contained air, feeling dizzy and grateful to the young Stark next to her. “What do you think will happen when my father provides his confession?” Sansa shot Mari a sympathetic glance.

“I have spoken with the King. I have bid him let Lord Eddard take the black,” the Queen Regent murmured, her scrutinizing eyes drifting from Mari to Sansa. “It would hardly be wise for the King to be so openly punitive so early into his rule. Have faith in him, my sweet child. All will be well. He will be stripped of lands and titles, but I am sure he will yet live if he confesses his crimes before the court.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa practically blurted out. “I thank you for all your kindness.” Mari eyed the girl momentarily. She seemed to be, albeit slowly, getting her bearings in this place, where one’s performance superseded all other things.

By the time it was dessert, Mari tucked into honey cakes, savoring each succulently sweet bite. She had never had them before, but had served them plenty of times. They were just as delicious as they looked, she thought. Later that evening, she wanted nothing more than to return to Sandor’s arms. They had been apart for too long. 

“How did you get your scar, Miss Mari?” Myrcella asked, still using her old, informal little title they had shared, once the girl had finished her final course.“I always wondered, but I thought it rude to ask.”

“When I was a child, I was attacked by a dog,” Mari replied, praying they did not ask her to go into further detail. “Aye— yes , there was a rabid dog that was let loose in my family’s farm.”

“A farm. How quaint, and how ironic ,” Cersei teased. “Don’t you think so, Lady Clegane?”

“Aye— uh, yes . It is,” Mari stammered. “I suppose it is.”

Within the hour, she and Sansa were dismissed, with Bernadette practically hovering over the girl. Sosan had been instructed to return Myrcella to her room and ready the girl for bed, and so they were separated. The Queen had assigned a gold cloak to escort the three young women back to their chambers.

“Let us walk you back,” Sansa offered, sweetly. “I would like your company, as well.”

“Alright, my Lady, as you wish,” Mari had replied.

They walked at first in silence, before Sansa finally spoke. “I did not know he had a wife. I did not… know what to expect of you.”

“Aye,” she said, not bothering to adjust her tone or dialect, now that they were out of the Queen’s earshot. “We wed just over a month ago.” Glancing at the girl, Mari swore she saw her blush. 

“Does he frighten you at all?” Sansa asked, just as they arrived at Mari and Sandor’s chambers.

Mari smiled. “No, my Lady, he does not.”

Sosan opened the heavy apartment door, leaned close to Mari’s ear, and whispered out of Lady Sansa’s earshot: “Cersei made Berny put moon tea in your chalice.” Mari’s heart stilled, her hand going up to her throat, grateful she had heeded Sosan’s warning, but suddenly fearful– not for herself, but if anyone were to find out about Sosan’s blatant act of treason. She decided she would omit this detail when recounting the events of the evening to Sandor, whenever she saw her husband again.

 

SANDOR XVI

He returned far past midnight, his heart soaring to find Mari sleeping soundly in their bed, wrapped beneath the covers, her breasts heaving softly as she dreamed, closed eyes twitching as she made little noises, shifting back and forth. Wonder what she’s bloody dreaming about.

The violence and uproar for the past three, now four days, had been disastrous. Sandor had taken to sleeping in his old room in the barracks, just for the time being, as things settled. Lord Stark’s men were to be swiftly rooted out and executed on sight. He had been sure to send a male servant to inform his little wife of what was taking place, and prayed she did not leave that bloody gilded apartment every second he was away from her. He had killed a fair share of men during this time, and his face and armor had been more or less drenched in bloodshed. He made sure to towel off before returning to Mari, however.

Sandor had learned from years of practice how to move silently in his armor, but he still somehow managed to wake her. She smiled up at him and reached her arms around his neck, pulling him close, kissing his unscarred cheek tenderly. Her hands came to rest along his chest, threading her long nails through his chest hair, eliciting a shudder from him. 

“I had dinner with the Queen, Myrcella, and Lady Sansa earlier this evening,” Mari said immediately. 

Sandor frowned as he adjusted himself into a seated position on the edge of their bed. “What did the bitch want with you?”

Mari laughed. “She made me wear a ridiculous whorish red dress while all the others were dressed in black for mourning,” she explained. “Poked fun at me a bit. The Stark girl is terrified of her, but wants so badly for the Queen to love her. It’s a sad, sad game.”

“Aye, she should bloody be,” Sandor growled. “Her father is in the Black Cells now. Had me take him there as my first proper Kingsguard order.”

“I heard and assumed as such,” Mari sighed, pulling herself up, the covers falling from where they were tucked around her chin. Sandor’s eyes traveled to the gold pendant she wore, adorned with three running dogs, the air stolen from his lungs in a minute, his vision growing cloudy.

“Where did you get this?” he gasped, taking the pendant in his hands, feeling it between his fingers. Yes, it’s the one.

“Cersei had me wear it for dinner. Forgot to take it off.”

“This was my mother’s,” he growled. “A wedding gift for my parents from Tytos, just before the old lion died. I remember grasping it as a little boy, as I sat in my mother’s lap.” In truth, he had no idea how Cersei could have gotten her claws on it. For all he knew, it was kept in a trunk in Clegane’s Keep… Gregor . Now that Joff had been crowned King and Gregor swiftly reinstated into knighthood, his crimes washed away under the order of Tywin Lannister, he was sure his brother had been informed of his marriage. This was yet another thinly veiled threat on his little lamb’s life on the Queen’s part.

“Aye, she told me Gregor sent it over.”

“A bloody fuckin’ lie,” Sandor spat, feeling enraged, though another tender kiss to his scarred cheek cooled him off, for the time being. Mari wrapped her arms tightly around him, leaning her head against his broad chest, her breathing steadying him.

“You haven’t told me much about her. Your mother, I mean.”

“Not much to tell. My mother was the bastard daughter of some Crakehall Lord. I don’t remember much of her face, but I do remember her ruddy hair. She was a tall, big, soft woman. Too kind for her own good. She died giving birth to my sister."

“You have a sister?” Mari gasped. “You never told me.” Sandor felt himself still. He did not like to speak aloud of the deceased women of his bloodline. 

"She's dead.”

“Oh,” Mari whispered. “What was her name?”

“Isadora.”

“Oh… That’s a beautiful name, Sandor. When did she die?”

“She was ten years of age. An accident at home.” Sandor fought the urge to run, to change the topic, to demand his wife be quiet. However, he knew he owed her at least a little honesty about the details of his origins. “Isadora was two years my junior. It had been too soon for my mother to have another babe. My father didn't listen to her. My mother was prone to being ill and sickly after she had me. At least she never lived to see me get burned.”

“Was your sister ill as well?” 

Sandor could not yet bring herself to tell her that everyone knew Gregor was the one to kill her. He had touched her, likely raped her, too, for years and years. Sandor dared not think of how often. Her death was only a month before her father’s “hunting accident.” All the more incentive for him to flee as a boy, to become a foot soldier at the age of ten and two.

“Aye, she was made ill,” His eyes settled again on the locket on her neck. The sudden rise of long-repressed pain was nearly unbearable. 

“I’ll take it off,” Mari suggested, reading Sandor's stone-hard face, depositing the locket in a drawer in the bedside table. “I’ll not cause you more hurt, Sandor.” He grunted in reply, his heart warming as she pressed another tender kiss to his cheek, pausing as she then kissed the other scarred side. “Now, come, rest a while.”

So, she stripped his armor, and he joined her in their bed, grasping her thighs tightly as he ran the flat of his tongue against her folds, sucking at her pearl, causing her to gasp and arch, and then, eventually scream. Shortly after, he pushed himself into her, pistoning into her tight snatch until he spilled deep within her. Sleep was welcome after.

Weeks would come to pass, and Sandor was feeling restless, knowing that the former Hand’s trial would come soon. Joff was a demanding master, constantly requesting Sandor to be at his side, often sleeping very little, acting almost manic in his frenetic cruelty to various servants and even other members of the Kingsguard. Renly Baratheon had retreated quickly from the keep, and there was word that Stannis Baratheon had fled to Dragonstone and was assembling an army in the name of his new bloody fire religion from Essos. The thought itself was enough to make Sandor indignant. More bloody religion, forced upon the masses? Bleh. The thought itself was enough to make his lip curl.

He had not needed to sleep in the barracks any longer, though he found it more challenging to take his pleasure from the supple woman in his bed. She seemed more hesitant, too, and more openly nervous, occasionally nibbling at her fingernails or staring off into space during the fleeting hours they could spend together. 

Finally, the day of the trial would come. 

“Cersei said she would pardon Lord Stark,” Mari said. “She said she told Joffrey to have him take the black, to go to the Wall. He’ll renounce his titles, and he will live. Sansa has begged him to. She loves her father so.” There was an oddly wistful lilt in her tone. As a fellow orphan, Sandor could sympathize. “He’s a good man, Sandor.”

“Rare enough around here,” he grunted.

However, Sandor didn’t believe for a second that Joff wouldn't hesitate to do something fucking insane and detrimental to the political climate of King’s Landing. Not for a second. However, he did not wish to frighten his little lamb any further. He hoped the man would live, for his foolish little girl’s sake, and all his other children.

A servant had come with a request for ‘Lady Clegane’ to dress and be in attendance. He watched as she fingered through the dresser, with all the silly, pretty little gowns Cersei had left for her, finding one and dressing slowly. As she finished, she offered him a tired smile.

“I’ll escort you part of the way, but I’ll be expected to be by Joff’s side,” Sandor rasped.

Mari nodded, allowing him to lead her to the yard before returning to Joffrey’s quarters, bringing the boy just outside the doors of the sept. The crowd that had gathered was formidable, but it made him all the more worried and cautious.

Lord Eddard stood on the High Septon’s pulpit outside the doors of the Sept of Baelor, supported between two of the gold cloaks. He was dressed in a rich grey velvet doublet with a white wolf sewn on the front in beads, and a grey wool cloak trimmed with fur. However, the man had grown dangerously thin, and the cast over his broken leg was grey, putrid, and rotten. The High Septon himself stood behind him, a squat man, grey with age and ponderously fat, wearing long white robes and an immense crown of spun gold and crystal that wreathed his head with rainbows whenever he moved.

Sandor stood, flanked by four of the other Kingsguard around him, he a head or more taller than them all. Joffrey was prominent, his raiment all crimson, silk, and patterned with prancing stags and roaring lions, a gold crown perched on his shiny blonde head. Before his little wife woke, Sandor had his armor polished that morning by a servant, donning the snow white cloak of the Kingsguard as Joff had insisted. He had refused to change his old dark grey armor, preferring it to something so flashy, which he thought looked ridiculous with his scarred, ugly face. 

Then, he spotted Mari across the yard, dressed in a pale green, standing next to the little bird, Lady Stark, who was dressed in sky-blue. They almost looked like they could be sisters or, perhaps, cousins, as their faces and the undertones of their skin were still quite different. It was no wonder his little lamb worried so much over the girl. He was sure Sansa reminded Mari of herself.

“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King,” Lord Stark announced, his voice still surprisingly strong after being kept for so many days in the Black Cells. “And I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my King and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baylor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth of what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Just then, a stone was thrown in Lord Stark’s direction, hitting the man in the face, leaving a deep, trickling gash of fresh blood along his temple. Then, there were more stones, Sandor’s Kingsguard stepping before Lord Stark, lifting their shields in his defense.

“As we sin, so do we suffer,” the High Septon knelt before Joffrey and the Queen. “This man has confessed his crimes in the sight of gods and men, here in this holy place. The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor taught us that they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?”

Sandor’s eyes flickered to Mari, and their eyes met across the sea of bodies. Then, they briefly settled on Sansa. She looked… optimistic . His eyes returned to Mari’s. She looked petrified, her gaze conveying a thousand words all by itself.

Finally, King Joffrey stepped forward. “My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.” Sandor watched as the boy turned to look at Sansa, who offered him a small, pathetic little smile, which Joffrey returned. “But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your King, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head! ”

The crowd roared. The High Septon clutched at the King’s cape, and Varys came rushing over, waving his arms, and even the Queen was saying something to him, but Joffrey shook his head. Lords and knights moved aside as he stepped through, tall and fleshless, a skeleton in iron mail, the King’s Justice. Sandor watched as Lady Sansa let out a horrible, curdling scream and fell to her knees, sobbing hysterically while his wife bent down, trying desperately to console her.

Sandor turned back to the scene at hand, watching as Ser Ilyn drew a two-handed greatsword from the scabbard on his back. As he lifted the blade above his head, sunlight seemed to ripple and dance down the dark metal, glinting off an edge sharper than any razor. It was Lord Stark’s sword, he realized. The man was to be executed by his very own blade. 

He heard Sansa continue to wail and saw the girl collapse to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Mari had bent down, trying to console her, but the girl pushed her away. Ser Ilyn, a skeleton in iron mail, the King’s false Justice, then climbed into the pulpit. Ser Ilyn gestured, gave a command, and the gold cloaks flung Lord Eddard to the marble, with his head out over the edge. It only took a single hack from the Hand’s shining, razor-sharp greatsword to sever Lord Stark’s head from his shoulders, blood spurting into the frantic crowd, Sansa’s screams only growing louder and louder. Sandor looked over to her and his wife, locking eyes with Mari, who looked at him with something heavy, akin to regret, but deeper and far more painful.

Chapter 11: Sue (Or in a Season of Crime)

Notes:

This... was a tough one to write and revise.

CW: some suicidal ideation.

MARIYA XVIII

It had been well over two full moons, and Mari felt certain that his seed had indeed quickened. She knew that it was unlikely to conceive on one’s wedding night, but they had been so reckless in the months since, making it difficult to tell. Now, there was just the matter of telling him. This, in horrible tandem with the cruel execution of Lord Stark, made her feel profoundly ill at ease. And, of course, she had received no word or direction from Lord Varys. She had grown utterly terrified of leaving her chambers and felt lost at sea, anxious, unsure of what to do. There was a deep, dark, concealed part of her that thought often of her private conversation with Lord Stark, of that strange, dense tome of lineages, of the cryptic words uttered by both Varys and Baelish. Guilt was not quite the proper sentiment, but she wondered if, somehow, there was something she could have done. 

She knew it was wise of Varys to keep his little birds in the dark. Her role had been clear-cut, simple. She had memorized conversations, recited private words to Sully in that bloody broom closet, and had been rewarded for her efforts. Now, however, she was not quite sure what the Queen wanted of her, of Sandor. She seemed to trust her Hound through and through, but the woman given to him by her late husband, not so much. Sandor would keep her safe, she knew this, but would he heed a command against her by Joffrey, to prove his loyalty? She had the proper sense to believe that no, he wouldn’t, but the thought still haunted her nonetheless.

One night, as she brought her evening meal from the kitchens to her chambers, she saw Sandor in the hallway. He barked an order at the two white-cloaked Kingsguard with him, leaving them alone for just a moment. “Joff is angry the little bird won’t speak to ‘em,” he grunted under his breath, eyes darting back and forth in the hall, to ensure they weren’t being listened to. “Fucking cunt of a King.” 

“The what ?” Mari said, her eyes widening. “The… little bird? What do you mean?” Does he know?

“Aye, it’s what I call Lady Sansa. You know how she is, always repeating the little words that bloody dead Septa taught her. Like a daft colorful bird from the Summer Isles,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “She does as she’s told, but it doesn’t matter none.” Mari let out an exhalation of breath, admittedly relieved. “Are you cross that I have a nickname for the girl? I think it brings her some measure of comfort.”

“I don’t mind,” Mari said. “Has she locked herself in Maegor’s Holdfast in mourning, then?”

“Aye,” he sighed, eyes still searching hers. “Cersei wants her there, too.”

She took a breath to study herself and quell the nervous butterflies in her stomach. “Sandor, I have something to tell you. It’s important. We must speak in private. Can I expect you in our quarters within the hour?”

“We can go now. I already dismissed myself.” He pressed his hand along the small of her back, navigating the overly complicated, winding halls until they reached their little apartment, where he made sure to lock the door behind them. “What is wrong, little lamb?” he asked her, pressing a hand softly against her cheek. Her eyes bore into his, but he seemed tired, more tired than usual. There were noticeable dark circles under his steel grey eyes.

“I think I may be with child,” she replied immediately. Blunt, straight to the point.

Sandor softened, momentarily feeling as though he were about to collapse before gathering himself. “Aye, I had expected that to be true. This was what you had wanted, what we had planned, wasn't it? Even if so much has changed in such a short time.” Of course, that was back when Sandor was to acquire lands and titles. Now, that future seemed an impossibility once more.

“You’re not angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry with you, silly girl?”

“I don’t know… but I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’ve been ill, too. Not every morn, but enough so that it is bothersome,” Mari murmured. “I apologize for not telling you sooner. Other things got the best of me. But now that Lord Stark is dead… I don’t know what to do. I worry for… it . The babe, I mean. I also worry for the girl.”

“Aye, I worry for her, too,” Sandor's voice softened.

Mari looked away for a moment, mossy eyes growing distant. “She reminds me of myself when I was but her age, albeit I was far more loudmouthed. A bit more adventurous. Tomboyish, even. But, when I was but a girl of twelve, I wanted so very badly for things to be… right and good . I liked silly romantic stories, and I liked the idea of being loved. It’s hard to explain. She should’ve left this place when she had the chance.” 

“She should have.”

“That Joff treats her like she’s nothing more than cattle. Meat , livestock for bloody breeding.” Mari paused, climbing to the little windowsill, letting the fresh salty breeze flow into the room, briefly closing her eyes. “I pray for her every night. I know you don’t believe. But I do. It brings me a small measure of comfort. And I pray for you, Sandor, and the babe.”

 

SANDOR XVII

That night, he hardly slept, holding Mari close in his arms. The weight of their predicament was, slowly but surely, beginning to dawn on him fully. He rose early, dressed, and left, miraculously without waking Mari. A servant had come by early— Joffrey had requested, on this day, that Sandor wear a plain brown doublet and a green mantle, and avoid donning his regular set of full armor. 

Oddly enough, he felt as though he were being treated, although quite precariously, like a proper Lord. This, and Mari informing him of her uncomfortable dinner with the Queen Regent the night before Eddard Stark’s execution, made him all the more uneasy. He then reported swiftly to Joffrey’s chambers and was loath to see the wicked smile on the boy’s pretty face as he strode out of his room, bright and early within the hour. The King was wearing a padded crimson doublet patterned with lions and a cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar that framed his handsome, wicked little face.

“Dog, come ,” Joffrey said. Sandor nodded, having heard these exact barking words from the boy for years and years at this point. He then realized the boy King was heading in the direction of Maegor’s Holdfast, to Lady Sansa’s room, the following early afternoon. In times like this, he often thought of his little dark-haired sister. He missed her so. He wondered what kind of woman she would have become.

They arrived at the door, Sandor standing tall and still, waiting for an order. “Please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good , please don’t…” Sandor could hear the lady murmuring from behind the closed door. He could see that the room was still dark on the other side.

Joffrey threw open the girl’s doors. Lady Sansa was still in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. The King surged forward, yanking back the bed hangings, letting in the day’s light, which made the girl flinch and recoil.

“You will attend me in court this afternoon,” Joffrey said between gritted teeth. “See that you bathe and dress as befits my betrothed.”

“No, please… leave me be…” the girl whimpered.

“If you won’t rise and dress yourself, my Hound will do it for you,” Joffrey spat.

“I beg of you, my prince…” Sansa’s eyes settled on Sandor, looking terrified, repulsed, and disgusted at the sight of him. He could hardly blame her.

“I’m King now. Dog, get her out of bed.”

Sandor took a moment to still his breath, scooping the girl out of bed from around her waist as she struggled weakly. Her blanket fell to the floor. She was only wearing a thin bedgown to cover her nakedness. He turned his head away slightly, not wishing to look at her.

“Do as you’re bid, child,” he said sternly. “Dress.” He gave her a gentle push on the shoulders toward her wardrobe.

Sansa backed away from them. “I did as the queen asked, I wrote the letters, I wrote what she told me. You promised you’d be merciful. Please, let me go home. I won’t do any treason, I’ll be good, I swear it, I don’t have traitor’s blood, I don’t. I only want to go home.” Remembering her courtesies, she lowered her head. “As it pleases you,” she finished. Pathetic and terrible.

“It does not please me,” Joffrey hissed. “Mother says I’m still to marry you, so you’ll stay here, and you’ll obey.”

“I don’t want to marry you,” Sansa wailed. “You chopped off my father’s head!”

“Your father was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I’d be merciful, and I was. If he hadn’t been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death.”

“You said he could have taken the black and gone to the Wall… I hate you,” Sansa whispered. If Sandor could hear that, so could the King. Shut up, girl!

King Joffrey’s face hardened. “My mother tells me that it isn’t fitting that a king should strike his wife. Ser Meryn, hit her again.”

The knight was on the poor girl instantly, yanking back her hand as she tried to shield her face and backhanding her across the ear with a gauntleted fist. Trant, the sadistic, evil bastard , stood over her with blood on the knuckles of his glove.

“Will you obey now, or shall I have him chastise you again?”

“I… as… as you commend, my Lord,” she said, her hands on her ear, withdrawing and staring at the patch of blood on her palm. 

“ Your Grace ,” Joffrey chastised her. “I shall look for you in court.” Ser Meryn and Ser Arys followed Joffrey out, but Sandor thought it best to give the poor little bird an essential piece of advice, helping her to her feet.

“What… what does he want? Please, tell me.”

“He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love,” Sandor explained. “He wants to hear you recite all your pretty little words the way the septa taught you. He wants you to love him… and fear him,” Sandor said, struggling to keep his voice level, so as not to terrify the poor thing further. She merely stared up at him, her blue eyes wide and blank of expression. 

He let out a raspy sigh and took his leave for the throne room, where he had the sense to believe Mari would be waiting. As he arrived, he was somewhat relieved and terrified to spot Mari on the balcony with a lone additional handmaiden he had often seen at the Queen Regent’s side, dressed in an unassuming grey gown, her eyes wide as they met his. He offered her a curt nod, which she returned in kind. He wanted so badly to speak with her, to hold her close, to protect her, but he knew such a display of public affection or even mere niceties would only serve to ruin them both.

Three hours of formalities had passed before Joffrey demanded to see his betrothed. “Ser Meryn, bring Lady Stark to court so she may witness our justice. Seat her with the other ladies,” Sandor heard Joffrey command as soon as Sandor had taken his position among the Kingsguard. After ten or so minutes, Lady Sansa arrived, still looking haggard and forlorn, but washed and dressed. Sandor watched as Lady Stark took her place by Mari’s side, though Sansa did not acknowledge her.

A thief was brought before Joff, and he had Ser Ilyn chop his hand off, right there in court. Two knights came to him with a dispute about some land, and he decreed that they should duel for it the following day. “To the death ,” he added, sounding delighted. A woman fell to her knees to beg for the head of a man executed as a traitor. She had loved him, she said, and she wanted to see him decently buried properly under the customs of the Seven. “If you loved a traitor, you must be a traitor too,” Joffrey sneered. Two gold cloaks dragged her off to the dungeons. Those words stuck with Sandor, a lump forming in his throat.

The following case was that of a plump tavern singer, who was accused of writing and performing an offensive ballad about the late King. Joff commanded the gold cloaks to fetch his wood harp and ordered the man to perform the song for the court. The singer wept for his pitiful life and swore he would never sing that song again, but the boy insisted. It was a somewhat amusing song, all about Robert fighting a pig, which almost made Sandor crack a smile, had he not had a weaker resolve. Hells, if he’d heard this at the alehouse and was drunk enough, he would’ve joined in on the fun, too. When the song was finished, Joff announced that he’d decided to be merciful. The singer could keep either his fingers or his tongue. The final verdict eventually determined that the tavern singer would be given a day to make his choice.

Finally, Sandor heard Joff clear his throat and rise from the Iron Throne, gesturing to the clamoring sound of the doors opening down the hall. Sandor looked, eyes narrowing as he saw a handmaiden with a bruised cheek and a black eye being dragged into the room by two gold cloaks flanking her on either side. He recognized her. It was Mari’s good friend. He thought for a moment and recalled the girl’s name (he was never particularly good at remembering them) — Sosan, aye . A spy? No, that couldn’t be right.

“Ah, yes, the handmaiden traitor ,” Joff sneered. Sandor frowned, then glanced upwards to look at Mari on the balcony. “A conniving little rat, tucked away in our chambers and court.” The crowd laughed, and some booed. 

His wife had risen, her mouth slack open, tears streaming down her wide-eyed, bonny face. She looked to the handmaiden standing before the King, then to Sandor, then to the woman again. He looked back at Mari, her face twisted in pain, completely unwound and desperate. Sandor knew that his little wife wanted him to do something, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“You have been accused of being a Northern spy in the service of the disgraced King Joffrey, found out by my mother, the Queen Regent. What say you, girl?”

“I’m… no spy…” the handmaiden grimaced, her mouth swollen and bloody, making it difficult for her to speak. “… Your Grace. I was born in Pentos, across the Narrow Sea. I’m not Northern.” The girl hardly looked Northern, either, Sandor thought. Her hair was light, her skin tanned, her eyes dark. Her speaking voice was accented , for the Seven’s sake! The accusation was bloody ridiculous.

“A fire-worshipper, too, then. I’m sure she is working with Stannis and his little Lord of Light, Your Grace. Your uncle and Robb Stark will stop at nothing to destroy you,” Cersei said to her son firmly. The Queen Regent had been so unusually quiet and restrained during this entire affair, Sandor hardly noticed she was there. “We have gathered irrefutable evidence that this girl was providing valuable information to the Starks of Winterfell and has aided and abetted in treason against your claim to the throne. She has served our family’s inner circle for nearly a decade, orchestrating a complex network of spying efforts on behalf of the disgraced Starks. Furthermore, she attempted to poison me, the princess, and our dining guests at a private dinner.”

Sandor’s eyes wandered to the eunuch, who was sitting near Cersei. Something was off about the fellow, perhaps even more than usual. His eyes were flitting around the court, and his hands were concealed entirely beneath the billowy sleeves of his fine purple silk robe. Sandor did not consider himself an expert socially, by any means, but knew that something strange was afoot. The Spider looked as though he wished to speak, but dared not. Sandor had never seen the man look out of place or even remotely uncertain in himself before.

“Well, if that is the case, then do to her as we did to Eddard,” Joff sighed, apparently becoming bored, returning to his Iron Throne and sitting down, sprawling one leg across an arm. Sandor grunted at the sight. Looks fucking uncomfortable on that damn throne . A gesture that’s all for bloody show. “But I would like to spare Ser Ilyn the trouble of wiping commoner blood from his greatsword. Shoot her in the heart. I’ve grown tired of looking at her.” Sandor watched as a nearby gold cloak on standby raised his crossbow, aiming directly for the girl. She let out one final shrill scream before the arrow pierced straight through her chest, the dripping tip coming out of the other end. The Pentoshi girl gasped, sputtered, gurgling blood before collapsing to the floor at Joff’s feet. “I’m bored with this tedious business. Someone get rid of her body, clean up all that blood. She’s making a mess of my court!”

The handmaiden’s execution was the final business of the afternoon. The moment the herald’s voice dismissed the court, Sandor saw both Sansa, Mari, and the plain-looking handmaiden scurry from the balcony. Joffrey beckoned him and Trant to follow them to the base of the curving stairs, blocking the path of Sansa, Mari, and the brown-haired handmaiden. Sandor felt his heart sink as he saw that Mari’s eyes were red, her lips swollen, her cheeks stained with tears. She looked ruined, devastated. But he could not yet run to her; he had yet to follow Joff, to see what he had planned for the poor little bird.

“You look much better than you did, Lady Sansa,” Joffrey sneered.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa replied.

“Walk with me,” Joffrey commanded, offering the girl his arm.

Sandor’s eyes fell on Mari’s, somber and as apologetic as he could muster. Instead of comforting her, the girl glared viciously at him. She bloody hates me, he realized. The little lamb blamed him for her friend’s demise, as though it could be helped. He watched as his little wife stormed off, followed swiftly by the brown-haired handmaiden, who had evidently also been dismissed. 

“My name day will be here soon,” Joffrey said as they slipped out the rear of the throne room. “There will be a great feast and gifts. What are you going to give me?”

“I… I had not thought, my Lord.”

“ Your Grace, ” Joffrey sharply corrected her. “You truly are a stupid girl, aren't you? My mother says so.”

“She does?”

“Oh, yes. My mother worries about our children, whether they’ll be stupid like you, but I told her not to trouble herself with such thoughts.” Ser Meryn stepped ahead and opened the door for the four of them, though Sandor lingered back, wanting so badly to pursue his wife and to do his very best to console her and to have her forgive him, but decided against it, lest it would stir Joff to anger and retaliation.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa murmured.

“I’ll get you with child as soon as you’re able,” Joffrey said as he practically dragged the poor little bird across the practice yard. “If the first one is stupid, I’ll chop off your head and find a smarter wife. When do you think you’ll be able to have children?” The thought of children made Sandor feel uneasy, especially now. 

“Septa Mordant says most… most highborn girls have their flowering at twelve or thirteen.” Poor little bird, always repeating the words that damned Septa taught her.

“This way,” Joffrey said, leading her to the base of the steps of the gatehouse, which led up to the battlements. Sandor knew what the brat had planned, and Sansa was quick to realize it, too.

“ No . Please, no, don’t make me, I beg you…”

“I want to show you what happens to traitors,” Joff smirked. Evil .

“I won’t. I won’t!” Don’t fight him, girl.

“I can have Ser Meryn drag you up. You won’t like that. You had better do what I say.”

Sansa backed into Sandor, jolting as her back made contact with him. “Do it, girl,” he hissed at her through gritted teeth. He’ll have you up there no matter what, so give him what he wants.

Fighting herself, Sandor watched as Sansa Stark took Joffrey’s little pale milky hand, beginning to climb the steps to the high battlements of the gatehouse, the whole world spread out below them. She paused, staring at the expanse of the Narrow Sea, then at the near-aerial view of King’s Landing down below them.

“What are you looking at?” Joff snapped. “This is what I wanted you to see, right here.” A thick stone parapet protected the outer edge of the rampart, reaching as high as the little bird’s chin, with crenellations cut into it every five feet for archers. The heads were mounted between the crenels, along the top of the wall, impaled on iron spikes so they faced out over the city. “This one here is your father,” Joff said, his voice dripping with dark, wicked, untethered sadism. “Dog, turn it around so she can see him.” Sandor took the severed head of Lord Stark by the hair and turned it. The Lord of Winterfell’s head had been dipped in tar to preserve it longer, per Joff’s orders.

“How long do I have to look?”

Joffrey seemed disappointed. “Do you want to see the rest?” Indeed, was a long row of heads lined up, most of whom were the King’s own recent acquisitions, ranging from highborn to lowborn indiscriminately.

“If it pleases your Grace.”

Joffrey marched her down the wallwalk, past a dozen more heads and two empty spikes. “I’m saving those for my uncle Stannis and my uncle Renly. That’s your Septa, there.” Sandor glanced at the rotted skull the King was gesturing to. The jaw had fallen off, and the birds had eaten one ear and most of the right cheek. 

“Why did you have to kill her? She was godsworn…”

“She was a Northern traitor, like my sister’s screaming handmaiden,” Joffrey answered, as though such a thing were obvious. “You haven’t said what you mean to give me for my nameday. Maybe I should give you something instead, would you like that?”

“If it please you, my lord,” Sansa recited, her voice wavering.

“Your brother is a traitor too, you know.” Sandor turned the Northern Septa’s head back around. “I remember your brother from Winterfell. My dog called him the Lord of the wooden sword. Didn’t you, dog ?”

“Did I? I don’t recall,” Sandor replied, keeping his voice unaffected, eerily level.

Joffrey gave him a peculiar look before turning his recalcitrant gaze back to the innocent little girl. “Your brother, Robb Stark, defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother says it was treachery and deceit. She wept when she heard. Women are all weak, even her, though she pretends she isn’t. She says we need to stay in King’s Landing in case my other uncles attack, but I don’t care. After my nameday feast, I’m going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That’s what I’ll give you, Sansa. Your brother’s head.”

“Maybe my brother will give me your head.” For fuck’s sake, girl!

“You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her Lord. Ser Meryn, teach her a lesson, will you?” Sandor watched as Trant grasped the girl by her jaw, holding her still as he struck her across the face. Twice, left to right, and harder, right to left. Her lip split, and blood ran down her chin, mingling with her tears. Joff sighed petulantly. “You shouldn’t be crying all the time. You’re prettier when you smile and laugh. When you don’t speak. Wipe the blood, you’re all messy.”

“Here, girl.” Sandor knelt before her, taking a firm stand between her and the King. He took out a clean handkerchief from within the small bag tied to his waist belt, and dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip. She looked into his eyes, her own wide, almost starstruck , as though she were a mere maiden with a foolish girly crush. Then, the moment passed. He stood up and backed away from the girl. He knew he needed to find Mari as soon as possible.

“Thank you,” Sansa thanked Sandor with a breathy, exhausted sigh.

“And you, Clegane,” Joff hissed. “Tell your little woman that her friend’s scheming has come to a quick and bloody end. That’s a warning , dog.” Sandor, in truth, did not really know what the young King meant by this. “If my mother wishes her to drink wine, she’ll drink it. If my mother wishes for your bitch to bark and sit and perform tricks for the court, she’ll bark and sit and perform tricks for the court. If my mother wishes for your ugly whore to fetch her a stick, she’ll do it, even if she thinks herself highborn now that she’s bound to the likes of you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, your Grace,” Sandor replied dutifully, still unsure of what exactly had transpired with Mari and her executed companion. What made matters worse was that he had absolutely no bloody desire to find out, but knew he shortly would as he strode after her.

 

MARIYA XIX

She writhed and wailed in absolute agony once she was alone in her chambers, feeling as though her world were falling apart. She had cried all the tears she had left to give, and now felt parched and lightheaded. Bernadette had come to her chambers that morning, per Cersei’s orders, telling her to follow her to the court, where they would be in attendance during various criminal hearings. The idea sounded unpleasant to her, but she quickly dressed in the most neutral gown she could find in the closet provided for her and followed the handmaiden there. 

The handmaiden had led her to a spiral staircase, which led to the balcony overlooking the Iron Throne. An odd place for them to be told to sit, and relatively isolated, she realized. Moments later, Sansa Stark had joined them to watch the proceedings, barely acknowledging either woman’s existence. Mari did not blame the girl. Sansa had been made to witness her father’s horrific death less than a week prior, after all. She thought to offer condolences, but what could she say?

Then, the court brought out criminals to be heard and tried before King Joffrey. All routine forms of cruelty and sadism were on display, and Mari grimaced through it. Occasionally, she would pause, glancing at Sansa, seeing her face cold, broken, exhausted, her eyes swollen and still watery with residual tears. Bernadette seemed more or less nonplussed about the proceedings. 

Then— she had wondered if it was an illusion or a trick of her mind— she saw Sosan being hauled before the King, her face bruised, swollen, and bloody. She had looked to Sandor, hoped he would do something , anything. He knew how much she cared for Sosan. She saw him look at her, then back at the girl. Nothing . 

She had hurried back to her chambers, hating everything about this place. Hating herself for being such a fool, for letting Sosan believe that Lord Varys would protect her. She was a fool to leave that alehouse and the service of Gloria Waters, to think herself chosen and better than other girls, to be selected to be in service of the Red Keep, a cruel, unforgiving grave for sycophants and abusers alike.

A cruel thought came to Mari in an instant. She could jump out of the window. Her body would break on the rooftops below, and she would finally be free from this nightmare. She would kill the barely-there child inside of her, too, but the thought did not seem so wicked to her at that very moment. A smile spread across her face at the thought of it. Relief, finally. Freedom, like what Sosan spoke of.

Sandor had done nothing. Varys had done nothing. The two-faced Queen Regent, who had invited her to dinner only a week prior and who had sought to humiliate her, had sentenced her friend to a gruesome death for something she hadn’t done. Well, not exactly.

Mari knew Sosan’s execution was nothing more than a thinly veiled threat levied in her direction. Although neither she nor Sosan had served the Starks, the seed of mistrust had been planted— somehow — and her head was quite literally on the proverbial and non-proverbial chopping block. For some reason, Varys did not think her worthy of his grace. She had been a sacrifice , she realized. But why? Why had she been found out? What purpose did it serve to kill poor Sosan? She had no clue.

Just as she began to climb to the ledge of the open window, she heard Sandor’s rasp behind her. “Please, Mari, I couldn’t have done anything,” he insisted. “Please, step down from there."

"Leave me be!" she shouted back at him.

"Would your friend want you to do this?” His last statement gave Mari pause. So she stilled, allowing him to embrace her, lifting her by her waist and pulling her tight into his arms. “My sweet little lamb…” he cooed in her ear. “You know there was nothing I or you could do. She was already a walking dead woman.” Mari was swiftly wracked with another fit of sobs, and Sandor held her tighter.

He stayed by her side for the rest of the evening, cradling her as they lay together. She felt empty, no more than a husk of a woman. Her soul felt as though it had been crushed, strangled, beaten, and brutalized. The despair had not yet resided in her heart, but she no longer wanted to jump from that bloody window looking over the bay. 

“In two weeks, just before the new year, we will both go to Joffrey’s thirteenth name day tourney,” he whispered into her hair, which smelled sweet and rich. “I am sorry, little lamb, but he wants both me and you there. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to go,” she whispered, pressing her cheek flush against the scarred half of his face. He couldn’t bring himself to mind anymore. Under different circumstances, he would have balked and flinched away. “Don’t make me go, Sandor. He killed her. He killed her…”

“You can’t let him win. You can’t let them hurt you so. You can’t let them know of your state,” he rasped, his voice still barely above a whisper, resting a hand on her abdomen. “You need to be strong, do you understand me, Mari? You can’t let them in. Don’t let them affect you. They’re all cunts, do you hear me? Do you hear me? ”

“Aye,” she said, her voice gurgling with the heave of a sudden incoming sob. “I know. It just hurts. I don’t know what I’ll do when I see Joffrey… he’s so evil , Sandor… I can’t believe… I can’t believe it… I don’t know what to do…” Between sobs and hiccups, she took strained breaths. “Sandor, I didn’t tell you… she put moon tea in my wine that night. Sosan told me not to drink it. She saved our babe… Cersei tried to kill it…” She wondered, should he know about Varys?

Immediately, Sandor reached for her, taking her into his arms, holding her tightly, his breath hot and strong against her hair and her neck. “If I could, little lamb, I’d kill that bitch Queen in your name without a second bloody thought. Do you hear me? She’ll never fuckin’ seek to harm you ever again.” She melted into his touch, yet her unease persisted, her world crumbling before her. 

Then, just beyond the large window, she saw it– a blood red comet , streaking the sky over Westeros, her heart catching in her throat as she gasped. Sandor, too, turned to the window, seeing the anomaly with his very own eyes, too. Her hand grasped at her abdomen, tears brimming her eyes. “Oh, it’s an omen, don’t you think? An omen from the Seven…”

“Of what?” Sandor rasped, his arms still wrapped tight around her chest, his face buried in her neck and unruly curls. Mari knew he was not a pious man, nor did he have any love for superstitions.

“You don’t have to believe me, but I think it means something,” she said, her voice still shaking as fresh tears rolled down her reddened cheeks anew. “Aye, it means something.”

 

SANDOR XVIII

The other Lannisters— Jaime and Tyrion— had been away, and they were certainly not missed by Sandor Clegane. At first, he had hardly noticed the golden boys were gone. Still, he was quick to hear word that Catelyn Stark had captured Tyrion at the inn at the crossroads as he was returning from a visit to the Wall, as she was under suspicion of a botched assassination attempt on her son. Jaime’s army marched against the river lords, capturing the heir of House Tully. However, Robb Stark’s army ambushed Ser Jaime and captured him. Sandor was quietly pleased to hear it. The Lannisters ought to be a little humbled, before this all gets worse, he thought.

The morning of Joffrey’s name day dawned bright and windy, with the tail of that bloody comet visible through the high scuttling clouds. Sandor was not keen to listen to the boy ramble on and on about how it was a preternatural sign that he, indeed, was destined to be the King. There was to be a bloody tourney. Joff had begged Sandor to participate, but he politely refused, and the boy had begrudgingly accepted his dog’s position on the matter. The carpenters had erected a gallery and lists in the outer Bailey of the tourney yards. The half-baked, meager throng that had gathered to watch filled but half the seats, which brought Sandor some odd comfort. Everyone he knew privately hated their little cunt King. The whole affair paled terribly in quality when compared to King Robert’s tourney of the Hand.

Joff had sent a servant to request Mari’s attendance, likely knowing full well of the extent of her despair and her closeness with the girl he had killed merely a week or so prior. She was initially recalcitrant, but conceded– Sosan’s execution was a threat, and Mari’s continued allowance within the Red Keep was wholly contingent on her relation to the fearsome Hound, as his property . If she were not obedient, she would not live. This much had been made clear.

Most of the spectators were guardsmen in the gold cloaks of the City Watch or the crimson of House Lannister; of lords and ladies, there were but a paltry few, the handful that remained at court and had not fled or changed allegiances. Grey-faced Lord Gyles Rosby was coughing into a square of pink silk. Lady Tanda was bracketed by her daughters: the placid, dull brown-eyed Lollys and the grey-tinged, acid-tongued Falyse. Jalabhar Xho was an exile who had no other refuge, and nowhere else to go, and so he stayed, his gaze sadder and more reserved, his clothing less colorful and eye-catching than what Sandor remembered of him. Lady Ermesande, a babe seated on her wet nurse’s lap, soon to be married off to Tyrek Lannister, to stake a claim on her family’s lands— a sick, repulsive thing , Sandor thought, to forcefully wed but a mere babe to a boy already of two and ten whole years – was in attendance, too, though, of course, the infant would have no memory of the event to speak of. 

Joff was most comfortably shaded beneath a crimson canopy, one leg thrown negligently over the carved wooden arm of his chair. Myrcella and Tommen sat behind him, glancing warily at their frightening brother now and then. In the back of the royal box, Sandor was instructed to stand at guard, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was draped over his broad shoulders, fastened with a jeweled brooch, the snowy cloth looking somehow unnatural against his brown, rough-spun tunic and studded leather jerkin. By his side, Mari stood in a very becoming, beautiful red gown he had never seen before, with a hound stitched to the front, his mother’s pendant around her neck, her hair done up in a trending style of elaborate braids and twists. He had stepped away, just for a moment, to guard her as she heaved, sick and vomiting up the contents of the morning’s breakfast, in the nearby woods. They had made sure to hurry back quickly, without being noticed. Joff had not offered his wife a chair or stool to sit upon during the tourney, but both knew better than to ask for one. 

There, too, stood Ser Arys Oakheart, a man who Sandor thought little in particular of, as the man had conceded to Joff’s demands to beat Sansa before the court, though Sandor could tell it pained him, and he hit her more lightly than the others. Still hit her, though.

Sandor watched the poor little bird arrive, offering her a curt nod, and Mari did the same. “Lady Sansa,” he offered. Sansa looked at him with a quintessential mixture of fear and repulsion, although when she gazed at Mari, her eyes were far more tender and sweet, offering her husband a gentle smile before her face became stoic, and she returned her gaze to the King.

“Your Grace,” she said in reply, dipping in a curtsy, her eyes not meeting Joffrey’s.

“Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could!” Little Tommen declared happily as Sansa took her seat by Joffrey’s side.

“I fear for the life of your foeman,” Sansa smiled at the boy, trying her very best to keep her composure, to recite sweet, assuring words.

“His foeman will be stuffed with straw,” Joff interjected as he rose, evidently peeved. “He’s just a plump little baby, and he’s to be coddled as such. Aren’t you, Tommen?” The younger brother pouted in response.

Ser Arys bowed, excusing himself as Joff and Sansa began to make pained, laborious small talk, and Sandor knew that Mari had turned to look at him, though he kept his gaze ahead, neutral, focused. It would not be wise for them to speak at all within the earshot of the King.

“—Viserys. The last son of Mad King Aerys. “He’s been going about the Free Cities since before I was born, calling himself a king. Well, Mother says the Dothraki finally crowned him. With molten gold. ” Joff laughed. “That’s funny, don’t you think? The dragon was their sigil. It’s almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him. Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?”

“I would like to see that, Your Grace. Will you enter the lists today?”

“My mother said it was not fitting, since the tourney is in my honor for my name day. Otherwise, I would have been champion. Isn’t that so, dog? ”

“Against this lot? Why not?”

“Will you joust today, my Lord?” Sansa asked him, looking at Mari for a brief moment.

Sandor knew his voice was thick with contempt. “Wouldn’t be worth the bother of arming myself. This is a tourney of gnats.”

This made Joffrey laugh. “My loyal dog has a fierce bark. Perhaps I should command him to fight the day’s champion to the death. I’m sure it would please his bitch, too. Maybe, if he does a good enough job, he’ll be gifted a second bitch from me. One that’s less ugly, I pray, one that I can stand the sight of. What say you, dog? ”

“You’d be one knight the poorer,” Sandor growled, thankful for the procession of blasting trumpets which followed. He watched as the brat grasped at Sansa’s hand.

The tournament was a bloody disappointment, and Sandor took little pleasure in seeing all these bloody fools who called themselves noble knights flail among themselves. He would glance over to Mari from time to time and felt terrible as he withdrew his hand when she attempted to loop her pinky over a single finger. It simply was not wise or safe.

“This is a terrible show,” Joff moaned.

“I warned you, your Grace. Gnats ,” Sandor huffed. From the corner of his eye, he saw a small smile creep across Mari’s face.

The jousting continued, and a free rider, a short little man dressed in dented plate without a lance, appeared on the west end of the yard. Finally, a chestnut stallion trotted into view in a swirl of crimson and scarlet silks, but Ser Dontos, the free rider’s intended opponent, was not on it. The knight appeared a moment later, cursing and staggering, clad in breastplate and plumed helm and nothing else. His legs were pale and skinny, and his manhood flopped about obscenely as he chased after his horse. The watchers roared and shouted insults. Catching his horse by the bridle, Ser Dontos tried to mount, but the animal would not stand still, and the knight was so drunk that his bare foot kept missing the stirrup. The crowd roared with laughter, and Joffrey looked utterly incensed.

“A cask from the cellars! See him drowned in it!”

“ No , you can’t—“ Sansa interjected. Shut up, little bird.

Joff’s head snapped to her, his face incredulous. “What did you say? Did you say I can’t? Did you?”

“Please, I only meant… it would be ill luck, Your Grace… to kill a man on your nameday.”

“You’re lying. I ought to drown you with him, if you care for him so much.”

“But I don’t care for him, Your Grace. Drown him or have his head off, only… kill him on the morrow… please… not today, not on your nameday. I couldn’t bear for you to have ill luck... terrible luck, even for a King like you, the singers and the stories all say so…”

“The girl speaks truly. What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the year,” Sandor interjected, trying to keep his voice flat, unaffected. If he could say or do anything to spare this girl more beatings, bludgeonings, and torment, he would, for his own sake and for Mari’s. He then felt his wife grasp for his hand. He allowed Mari a single squeeze before letting go.

Joff huffed. “Fine. Take him away. I’ll have him killed on the morrow, the fool.”

Sandor listened half-heartedly as little Tommen began to whine and argue about being able to ride with the others, Myrcella taking the King’s side, for once. “Tommen, don’t joust today, even if your opponent is to be straw. We’re children. We’re supposed to be childish. We don’t have to grow up so very fast!”

“She has you there,” Sandor couldn’t help but quip, offering the girl something of a crude smile. He had known them both for years, even been called their bloody babysitter . He could not deny he had a soft spot for the younger two. 

Joffrey sighed. “Very well. Even my brother couldn’t tilt any worse than these others. Master, bring out the quintain. Tommen wants to play a gnat on this very special day.” Perhaps the King was picking up more of his odd little rhetorical idiosyncrasies than he thought, Sandor mused. To his side, he heard Mari let out a little laugh. Tommen jumped for joy and ran into the arena.

They set up the quintain at the far end of the lists while the prince’s bay pony was being saddled. Tommen’s opponent was a child-sized leather warrior stuffed with straw and mounted on a pivot, with a shield in one hand and a padded mace in the other. Someone had fastened a pair of antlers to the knight’s head. Was this meant to mock the Baratheon name? An odd choice, he thought. It was a rather egregious display. It was true that he long suspected, well, essentially knew, that these children were lions through and through, so to speak. Within mere moments, a pair of squires buckled the prince into his ornate silver-and-crimson armor. A tall plume of red feathers sprouted from the crest of his helm, and the lion of Lannister and the crowned stag of House Baratheon frolicked together on his shield. The squires helped him mount, and Ser Aron stepped forward and handed Tommen a blunted silver longsword with a leaf-shaped blade, crafted to fit the hand of a slightly overweight eight-year-old.

The little boy trotted out on his pony, waving his sword and striking the straw knight’s shield with a solid blow; the quintain spun, the padded mace flew, and Tommen received a hard whack! on the back of his head. He spilled from the saddle, sword flying, and his child-sized armor rattling. However, the boy seemed keen to remount and try again.

“The boy has courage,” Sandor murmured, with an odd tone of restrained fondness.

“Aye, he does,” Mari mused, nearly startling Joff, who seemed surprised to hear her dare speak.

Just before Tommen could finish mounting his ride, the sounds of the gatehouse took everyone by surprise, the chains rattling noisily as the portcullis was drawn upward. A column of four riders emerged. Sandor took this as his cue to step close to the King, hand on his hilt. There, in the middle of the crowd of Lannister-bearing riders, was the Imp, his arm in a sling, dressed in the black fur of the Night’s Watch. Sandor watched as Tommen rode anyway, galloping across the yard. However, he was quickly scooped from his saddle by a sellsword whom Sandor did not recognize, deposited before Tyrion, who embraced his nephew.

“You,” Joffrey snapped.

“Me,” Tyrion agreed. “Although a more courteous greeting might be better received for an uncle and an elder.”

“They said you were dead,” Sandor interjected.

“I was speaking to his King, not to his cur,” the Imp snapped in reply. Sandor rolled his eyes.

“ I’m glad you’re not dead, uncle!” cheery little Myrcella declared.

“We share that view, sweet child,” Tyrion said, turning to Sansa. “My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel. And I am sorry for your losses as well, Joffrey.”

“What loss?”

“Your royal father? A large, fierce man with a black beard who enjoyed both women and drink; you’ll recall him if you try. He was King before you, by the way.”

“Oh, him . Yes, it was very sad, a boar killed him. A squealing overgrown pig was enough to run down the Demon of the Trident.”

“Is that what ‘they’ say, Your Grace?”

“I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my Lord,” Sansa interjected.

“A great many people are sorry for that, and before I am done, some may be a deal sorrier… yet I thank you for the sentiment. Now, nephew, where might I find your mother?”

“She’s with my council,” Joff replied. “Your brother Jaime keeps losing battles. He’s been taken by the Starks, and we’ve lost Riverrun, and now her stupid big brother is calling himself a king.”

Sandor watched with contempt as the Imp’s face twisted. “All sorts of people are calling themselves kings these days,” he said. “A twisted game of thrones.” Once Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen had taken their leave, Sandor leaned in Tyrion’s direction. “I’d guard that tongue of yours, little Lord. You’re not so endeared to Joff; I doubt you’ll be spared from this raging in the weeks to come.”

Tyrion scoffed, his eyes settling on Mari, standing still and poised by Sandor’s side. Sandor hated how the Imp’s eyes took her in, his little, clever, sharp mind dissecting his wife, examining her. “And I’d better guard your bitch, Hound. Did Joffrey want her paraded about? Did he hope you would butcher a collection of innocents before her today? Quite the spectacle, it all is.” Tyrion paused for a moment, examining her further. “Now, I believe I am one to know a dressed-up and powdered whore when I see one. Well, I should know—“

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Imp,” Sandor snapped. “A spiteful, bitter creature you are, little Lord. Heard you had to pay extra for every whore in all of the Crownlands and then in the Riverlands, too.” He shot Tyrion a dark look, taking hold of Mari’s wrist, dragging her in the direction of the three Baratheon brats. “Does your rich ol’ man know how you spend his money, Imp? Or does he not care enough about you to ask?”

“Sandor–” Mari interjected, taking hold of his forearm. “Cut it out. Let’s go.”

“I’d watch that tongue of yours, Clegane,” Tyrion warned, shouting after them. “And listen to your woman more often.”

Chapter 12: We Share Our Mother's Health [NSFW]

299 AC

 

SANDOR XIX

The new year had come, and every day that passed, Sandor found himself worn thin with worry for his little wife. She was only just beginning to show, the bump still able to be concealed with the right fitted gown, but barely. He had been sure to guard her vigilantly, insisting that she remain within their chambers, as maddening as he imagined that was for her. He had tried to bring her books and tomes he thought she would be interested in, but her reading only grew more voracious, and her frustration and boredom grew. He would even bring her bloody romance stories about knights and royal ladies (the topic he loathed the most) , which she had once confessed she had a soft spot for. 

Mari’s interest in their marital bed also became more and more apparent as time went on, though Sandor knew much of this increase in activities could be attributed to what he identified as primarily boredom. He knew she had spent much of her life involved in menial, repetitive labor, and to be so stripped of such repetition and routine was not serving her particularly well. She was an odd creature who seemed to have surprisingly rigid, fixed ideas about things, many of which Sandor would have otherwise mocked more openly, were he not so smitten with her. Mari was undoubtedly moral, that was for certain, and she would often ramble about her prayers, about the Seven, and about the things she wished for in the future. Sandor had never given much thought to a future of his own– there was nothing there for him, nothing beyond the scope of his duty, the Lannisters, Joff’s pitched commands. 

Reluctant as he was to imagine such a future, to smile around her when in private, the more he found himself insatiable, hungry for her, to claim her roughly, to hold her tightly in his arms, to possess her and press her into a different kind of submission than that he was accustomed to when slaying men at the fickle whim of a rich man’s command. No, he had not said a single thank you to any god or deity for her, and he was beginning to wonder if he should start doing so.

“Do you think we were foolish?” she asked him one morning, wearing just the old shift she slept in, as the pink hues of dawn traced the sky along the expanse of Blackwater Bay, the red comet still marring the sky like a fiery spectre. He had a sense that Sosan weighed heavily on Mari’s mind these days, with her death and the anomaly’s apparent simultaneous appearance.

“What?”

“I mean, were we foolish to expect King Robert’s word to hold true?” Mari said. “That you would have your little claim to lands. Your titles. Were we too eager? Did we act rashly?” Sandor’s mind returned to her attempted leap from the window, which he had a servant bolt and iron shut in the days since.

“Had no reason to expect the cunt would up and die on us, Mari. Hunting a godsdamn squealing little pig, too,” he replied. “Robert was a fuckin’ fool.”

“Aye, he was,” she sighed, rubbing two strands of Sandor’s dark hair between her fingertips. Sandor closed his eyes, momentarily relishing in the act of such effortless, casual tenderness. “But it’s how we ended up in this predicament, isn't it? We were foolish, too. Silly to think anything good would come of—“ A large forefinger pressed against her mouth to quiet her. 

“Quiet now, little lamb. That’s enough . There’s no use changing things.”

“It can’t be hidden for much longer. There are no secrets here.”

Sandor paused. “I know. Now, I have to go.” He took her hands in his and kissed her knuckles.

“Wait,” she said, her voice desperate. “I don’t want to be left alone here… please don’t leave…” Mari reached towards him, wrapping herself tight against him, burying her head into the crook of his neck. Sandor felt his skin there dampen with her tears. “Please, just stay, just for a moment longer.”

So, he embraced her, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the little seat by the window overlooking Blackwater Bay, which she loved so very much. She buried her face deep into his neck, her breathing gradually growing level and even, her hands running up and down his chest, lingering on the hem of his shirt around his neck, and then below, near his breeches.

Suddenly, he stilled just for a moment, suddenly aroused, eager and keen to claim his woman again. Sandor let out an animalistic growl as he began pleasuring himself in slow, methodical tugs tugs, inching towards his little wife Mari was already moving to lean back against the bed, kicking the remaining covers to their feet, spreading her legs, allowing him to climb between them, and resting her thighs atop his, as he was rubbing his tip at her entrance. He sheathed himself inside of her in one thrust, as he tightly gripped her hip. She continued to stroke herself as she gazed upon his face with a slack, open, red little mouth, his feral desire splayed across his gaunt, mangled features, as he used her body to take his own pleasure. 

He watched her cunt as it stretched around his thick cock, while he moved to fill her, to prove to her his need, and his heart hammered in his ears as his lust overcame his proper mind and senses. As the wetness of her pleasure coated his manhood, dampened the curls at his base, and glistened on her thighs, he rocked harder into her, as her moans heated his blood, all the more, while she whined and keened like a proper wench. He still wore his armor, the dichotomy of her bare, naked, soft flesh and his in steel seemed to arouse him all the more, and her, too, evidently.

"F-faster, Sandor, please, fuck . Oh… oh… I think I-" she stuttered, as he gripped her hips tight enough to bruise, and thrust fast and hard into her, as her fingers hurriedly swiped across her nub. "D-don't stop, please, Sandor. Gods… fuck… " She loudly moaned, head tilted back, while her other hand sought purchase in the linen bedding, as she clinched her release upon his manhood. 

Loosening the grip on her hips and leaning over her, he slid his arm under her back, curling his large hand around her shoulder, cradling her to his chest, as she was moving her hands to rake along her fine, sharp nails over his metal armor, across the scaled expanse of his broad, plated back. 

The unrelenting grip on Mari’s bare shoulder tightened as he pounded into her, his hips smacking roughly against her thighs, as grunts rumbled in his chest and off his half-parted lips, and mixed with her moans in the air above them. His thrusts then became erratic, as his cock was starting to pulse, promptly shooting his seed deep inside her womb, while a slew of curses came falling out of his mouth. He rested atop her, while his body jerked sporadically, as the last of his pleasure left him, and allowed his blood to cool, his mind to grow clearer, his senses to gradually return to him. 

After a moment of heavy, strained panting, he felt her soft lips press a kiss so tender to his scarred cheek that he thought his very heart would collapse within him. He ran his hand along her pale, flushed body, running his hands over her full, rounded breasts, pressing a tender kiss along her sternum, never wanting to lift his lips away from her soft, salty skin ever again.

“Should’ve been gentler with you,” he breathed into her skin. “If you are with child, for true.”

“I am fine, Sandor, but I wish you would stay,” she sighed, dreamily, like a lovestruck maiden. It was moments like this that he could hardly believe his own luck, and the dark little voice of doubt reared its head deep in the recesses of his mind, in the dark, sad, insecure corners of his waking consciousness.

He laughed raspily in reply. “I’m already late for my duties, little lamb. I must go.”

After a few pained minutes, Sandor finally rose, adjusted his plates and breeches once more, and made his way to Joffrey’s chambers to await orders, fighting the urge to let the smile within spread across his features as he thought of his little woman, tucked away back in the apartment. He began to idly daydream as he stood before Joffrey’s chamber door, thinking of all the ways he would take her when he would return that evening, when the two of them were alone in that little world, apart from the cruelty and neverending hysteria that followed Joffrey Baratheon wherever the blonde brat bloody went.

“We are to hear Lady Sansa account for her brother’s crimes on this day, dog,” the boy had said, Sandor’s pleasant fantasy crumbling at the mere grating sound of the boy’s pitchy voice alone, having summoned him inside while he finished dressing in his fine coats and jewels. “Go on. Fetch her for me.” 

“Yes, your Grace,” Sandor nodded, hurrying off to Maegor’s Holdfast, where Cersei had requested the Stark girl stay of late. Of course, he knew well how terrified the child was of him. She saw his scars before anything else and thought him a beast and a brute. This errand was as much an effort of his own humiliation on Joff’s part as it was hers. 

Sandors knocked on the door, and the brown-haired handmaiden he recognized from Sosan’s execution answered it, a sour look on her plain face, nodding for him to enter the room after her. There, Lady Sansa stood, her modesty covered, but still half-dressed. She flushed head to toe with embarrassment and could hardly bear to look at him. “The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you,” Sandor Clegane warned the Stark girl, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back against the entrance to her chambers, quickly glancing down at the floor.

The poor thing tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at the buttons and knots of her courtly silk gown. When the girl was finally ready, Sansa walked on Sandor’s left, away from the burned side of his face. “Tell me what I’ve done to offend, please, tell me.”

“It’s not you, little bird. It’s your brother who calls himself King of North, that’s who Joff has his knickers in a twist about,” he huffed.

“My brother Robb’s nothing more than a traitor,” Sansa repeated the words, like a little obedient bird. “I had no part in whatever he did. Joffrey is the one true King.”

Sandor snorted, briefly rolling his eyes. “They trained you well. Come on now, let us be on our way.” Sansa nodded, her brown-haired handmaiden in tow. Sandor conducted her to the lower bailey, where a crowd had gathered around the archery butts. Knights, council members, highborn fops, and the like all moved aside to let them through. There, Joffrey stood in the center of the throng, winding an ornate crossbow. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were with him. 

“Your Grace.” Sansa fell to her knees.

“Kneeling won’t save you now,” the brat said. “Stand up, Stark. You’re here to answer for your brother’s latest treasons.”

“Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that, I beg you, please—”

“Get her up!” Joffrey commanded. Sandor did so, trying to be gentle. “Ser Lancel, tell her of this outrage.”

Lancel, the same bloody moron forced by Cersei to attend his and Mari’s wedding, having been recently knighted, despite being a rather incompetent nonce of a squire mere months earlier, stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days' ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift a sword. After the slaughter, the Northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain, like barbaric savages, less than human!”

“Your Grace, the poor Stark girl is shocked witless,” murmured Ser Dontos.

“Silence, you fool.” Joffrey lifted his crossbow and casually pointed it at Sansa’s face. “You Starks are as unnatural as those direwolves of yours. I’ve not forgotten how your monster savaged me, back then. Did you think I would forget?”

“That was my sister Arya’s direwolf,” she said. “Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway.”

“No, your headless father did,” Joff said, weighing the weapon in his arms. “But then I killed your father. Well, Ser Ilyn did. I wish I’d done it myself. I killed a man last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread, as if I were some baker, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat. There was a woman throwing rocks. I got her as well, but only on the arm. I’d shoot you, too, but if I do, Mother says they’d kill my uncle Jaime. Instead, you’ll just be punished, and we’ll send word to your traitor of a brother about what will happen to you if he doesn’t yield. Do you recall that little handmaiden? A gold cloak got her square in the heart, like she was but a stag on a hunt. Do you remember? Oh, I wish I’d done it myself, though she was hardly worth the bother… Dog, hit her.”

Sandor’s body froze at attention, watching, petrified, as Trant seized Dontos, dragging him away from court, while Boros, seemingly taking over Joff’s command for him, slammed a fist into Sansa’s gut, driving the air out of her. It made him think of what now seemed like the distant past, though it had only been three years prior, in which both men had molested his Mari. As he watched Sansa double over, he nearly gasped aloud as Boros withdrew his blade, slamming it flat against the back of her thighs, knocking her to the ground, aiming to leave welts.

“ Enough ,” Sandor said, his voice a raspy bellow, rage rising within him. 

“No, it isn’t,” Joff snapped, eyes flashing as he appeared shocked by Sandor’s intervention. “Boros, make her naked.” Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. “Beat her bloody,” Joffrey said, “we’ll see how her brother fancies—”

“ Whai is the meaning of this? ” the Imp demanded, bursting into the room. “Is this your notion of chivalry, Ser Boros? What sort of knight beats helpless maids?” Oh, I know a few , Sandor thought.

Rage coursed through his ears on behalf of the little girl, threatening to overtake him. He could hardly hear what anyone was saying until he listened to the Imp say, “Someone give the girl something to cover herself with!” Immediately, he unfastened his wool Kingsguard cloak, starch white and meaning very little to him, and he tossed it at her. Sansa clutched the fabric against her chest, wrapping herself in the material, looking back at him over her shoulder, her eyes reddened with tears.

In the next week or so, news that Renly Baratheon had been assassinated spread like wildfire through the keep, and Mari only appeared to grow sicker, vomiting nearly all day, unable to stomach most solid foods. The rumors were that Robert’s youngest brother was killed by dark magic; others claim it was at the hands of a member of his own Rainbow Guard.

“Dog, I wish for your bitch to be in attendance as we see Myrcella off. I’ve nearly forgotten how hideous she is. But far prettier than you, isn’t she? I’d like something to laugh at and humor me. I imagine the ceremony will be terribly boring.”

Sandor could hear Littlefinger snickering. “Yes, your Grace. My wife and I will be in attendance,” he said.

Within the next hour, they all stood at the docks, watching as Myrcella Baratheon took her leave on the deck of the ship they called the Seaswift. It was all an attempt to forge a Dornish alliance and, Sandor quietly thought, to keep the little sweet princess as safe as she could be. Finally, Cersei indicated to the group that it was time for them to go and return to the keep, though not before organizing a procession through King’s Landing. Joff was already in piss-poor favor with the public, but Sandor strongly doubted such a display of opulence would go over well with the commonfolk.

The narrow streets were lined by men of the City Watch, holding back the swarming crowd of commoners by the shafts of their spears. King Joffrey followed along on a tall grey palfrey, a golden crown adorned on finely washed and styled golden curls. Sansa Stark rode a tepid chestnut mare at the King’s side. Sandor rode on Joffrey’s right atop Stranger. Mari had not been granted permission to sit astride him and was walking somewhere far behind with the lowborn female servants, yet again. He did not dare express his offense at the arrangement, and Mari did not seem keen to, either. 

They crossed Fishmonger’s Square and rode along Muddy Way before turning onto the narrow, curving Hook to begin their climb up Aegon’s High Hill. A few voices raised a cry of “Joffrey! All hail, all hail!” as the young King rode by, but for every man who picked up the shout, a hundred more smallfolk kept their silence.

However, Sandor was taken aback when, halfway through their ride, a wailing woman in rags forced her way between two watchmen, holding the blue, swollen corpse of a dead baby in her arms. Sandor couldn't help it— the mere sight of the dead infant made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He glanced behind, seeking Mari’s eyes in the distant procession. She was too far away for him to easily reach, he realized. He felt his stomach drop.

The king fumbled piteously in his purse, barely concealing his agitation at the whole affair, and flung the smallfolk woman a silver stag. The coin bounced off the child and rolled away, under the legs of the gold cloaks and into the crowd, where a dozen men began to fight for it. The mother never once blinked. Her skinny arms were trembling from the dead weight of her son.

“Leave her, Your Grace,” Cersei called out to the king. “The woman is beyond our help, poor  pitiful thing.”

The mother heard her. Somehow, the queen’s voice cut through the woman’s ravaged wits. Her slack face twisted in loathing. “Whore!” she shrieked. “Kingslayer’s whore! Brotherfucker!” Her dead child dropped from her arms like a sack of flour as she pointed at Cersei. “Brotherfucker brotherfucker brotherfucker!” 

Then, a wad of dung was flung in Joffrey’s direction, and the boy erupted into hysterical fury. “Bring me the man who flung that filth! He’ll lick it off me, or I’ll have his head. Dog, you bring him here!” Sandor dismounted, heeding his master’s order.

“Clegane, leave off, the man is long fled,” Tyrion interjected. 

Sandor cast the Imp a dark look. Before Sandor could move, the shouts began, and the air was filled with rocks and rotten food. Gold cloaks began tossing their spears into the crowds, and all hell broke loose. Sandor withdrew his longsword and began to hack, kill, and maim, as he was directed. It was what he was the best at, after all.

 

MARIYA XX

Mari was more than happy to walk alongside the servants trailing the back of the party, bidding farewell to Myrcella. However, Bernadette did make for poor company and an even poorer conversational partner. So, she walked in silence. Her ankles hurt terribly, but she made no complaint, expressed no emotion, kept her gaze neutral, facing forward, not daring to display any emotion, to stand out among the servants any more than she already did in her stupid-looking, itchy fine silks.

When the riots began, she thought of running, but where could she go? She was dressed finely, wearing a gold pendant, and the smallfolk whom she once thought proudly of as her own looked at her with disgust, with rabid intent, desiring only to tear her apart. Someone had grabbed at her hair, pulling it loose, and someone else had ripped at her dress. Two things that were repairable, though, most of all, she was terrified for someone to try to rape her, to hurt her babe. Her hands protectively covered her stomach, running almost blindly forward, hands grasping at her as she charged who-knows-where.

“There she is!” she heard Joff shout, pointing in the direction of her husband, little Sansa wrapped tightly around his chest, her shuddering, bleeding face pressed into his armor as he carried her. Mari immediately thought he looked rather heroic rescuing the Lady, though she knew he would make a face if she were to tell him that.

“They … they were throwing things … rocks and filth, stinking eggs … I tried to tell them, I had no bread to give them. A man tried to pull me from the saddle, he tried to touch me, to rip my dress apart… The Hound killed him, I think … his arm …” Her eyes widened, and she put a hand over her mouth. “The Hound cut off the man’s arm… I couldn’t bear it…”

Sandor lifted the girl to the ground as soon as she saw Mari, his eyes searching hers, wrapping her tight in his grasp, pulling her to his chest, unashamed of who may see him. His replacement white cloak was torn and stained, and blood seeped through a jagged tear in his left sleeve. “The little bird’s bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage and see to that cut.” A maester scurried forward to follow Sandor's command. “They did for Santagar,” he panted. “Four men held him down and took turns bashing at his head with a cobblestone. I gutted one, not that it did Ser Aron much good. Now, where’s my horse? If anything’s happened to that fuckin’ horse, someone’s going to pay.”

“He was running with us for a time,” Tyrion said, “but I don’t know what became of him after that. Flea Bottom’s is in flames. The fire can’t reach the Guildhall of the Alchemists. Clegane, go with Bronn, my sellsword.”

“Tell your sellsword that he better find my fuckin’ horse and bring him straight to me,” Sandor barked, snarling down at the little Lord. “My wife is with child and was nearly ripped to pieces, you cunts.” Mari gasped aloud, glancing up at him. 

His face paled, evidently not realizing that he had breached their little secret. The three remaining knights of the Kingsguard and Cersei seemed to perk up at the confession. Mari turned to Sansa, who, too, had overheard, her eyes wide as the maester began to drag her away.

Sandor grabbed her in his arms, hoisting her up, her arms wrapping tight around his thick neck as she allowed herself to be carried back to the Red Keep, where he deposited her onto their bed, running his hands on her sides in a somewhat medical kind of way, as though she were a fellow soldier on the battlefield, as though he were checking her for wartime injuries.

“I’m not hurt,” she insisted, her hair tossled, the braids she had arranged that morning tangled and wild around her face, her baby hairs stuck to her forehead and around her cheekbones. “Someone ripped at my hair and dress, that’s all. Please, I’m unharmed, and the child is unharmed. I swear to you. Go back to Joffrey and the Queen, lest they grow angry.”

Sandor was quiet for a moment, hovering over her. “Forgive me. They all know now.”

Mari bit her scarred lip, resting her hands on her stomach. “What are we to do?”

“You are not to leave this bloody room,” he replied instantly. “Never again. Stay inside. I forbid you to leave. I will bring all your meals. You are not to eat or drink anything unless I taste it first. Do you hear me?” She nodded affirmatively and bit her lip again. “I mean it, Mari. Don’t fucking try to leave. I’ll even bar the door.”

“I understand, Sandor. The Queen, the Imp, the Spider, and all the rest watch each other, keen-eyed and cruel-tongued, to see what the others are doing. No one should trouble themselves about me if I stay out of the way, and if you do as you are told,” she said somberly. “Do you duty. I’ll be here, and I’ll be waiting for you, like I’ve always said.”

He hurried over to her, pressing his lips to hers, firm and insistent, before pulling away just as roughly. “I must go.”

“Please, stay safe,” she whimpered, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her knuckles, feeling more lonely than she ever had before as Sandor hurried out of the room, the door slamming heavily behind him.

Her heart ached with a longing for Sosan, her dear sister. She yearned for her to be by her side, to hold her hand, to kiss her soft, sweet-scented cheek. She craved to hear Sosan's stories of debauchery, of adventure aboard a pirate ship crossing the Narrow Sea. These were the few fleeting good memories she had of Pentos and of her mother, who had once been a kind, caring woman to her sole daughter. 

More than anything, she wanted her mother. She wanted to hear her speak, to remember her voice, and to feel her sweet, soft embrace. To know what she had smelled like, how she sang, whether her tone when reciting Northern ballads was as deep as her daughter’s. Such things, she finally realized with a sudden, weighty sob, Mari would simply never know.

 

SANDOR XX

Sandor could not deny that his temper and nerve were both running dangerously thin as he traversed the Red Keep, keen to return to Joffrey, to hear to his duties, and to satisfy whatever demands the brat had for him. Everything had been going absolutely to shite lately, and he could not deny that he was beginning to feel something akin to fear. Since the riots, he had heard word that Lady Lollys Stokeworth, a rather notably dim-witted youngest daughter of Lady Tanda Stokeworth, had been knocked from her saddle, raped more than a hundred times, and was rumored to also be with child. The fact that the same fate could have befallen poor Sansa or even Mari filled Sandor with an inscrutable, terrifying rage that kept him on a constant edge, his nerves frayed beyond what he believed possible.

Now, of course, he did not only have himself to worry about, but he had been saddled with a wife, and he had been willing, no, eager , to spill inside of her, to put a child of his very own into her. It had all been bloody irresponsible– he knew this, now. Back then, he was all too taken with his fanciful dreams of having her, of keeping her astride him… of being gallant . Yes, he decided, this was the crux of his issue. He had succumbed to his desires and had doomed an innocent little peasant woman, embroiling her in something far beyond her scope of understanding, even if she was a bright girl. For that, Sandor decided he would have to atone for this, somehow, but he knew not where to even begin.

Along his path to Joffrey’s quarters, he suddenly spotted Sansa Stark turning back to the stairs, just outside her bedchamber, watching the gnats crawl through columns of smoke, readying themselves for war. She saw the girl grasp at her abdomen and keel over, just slightly. He feared that she might fall, and he swiftly reached to catch her, his mind fearfully returning to Mari, standing upon the windowsill overlooking Blackwater Bay. Sandor had to catch her then, too.

“Let go out of me!” Lady Sansa shrieked, wildly thrashing in his hand. “Let me go, you brute!”

“The little bird thinks she has wings, does she? Or do you mean to end up crippled like that poor little brother of yours?”

“I wasn’t going to fall. It was only… You startled me, that’s all,” Sansa gasped for breath, staring at him as though he had three bloody heads.

“You mean I scared you. And still do.”

Sansa glanced away, unable to look at him. “I thought I was alone.”

“The little bird still can’t bear to look at me, can she? You were glad enough to see my face when the mob had you, though. Do you remember?”

“I… I should have come to thank you after, for saving my life during the riot in Flea Bottom… You were so brave. And I pray that your wife is well. I had no idea… I had no idea you were expecting a child… You saved all three of us, then. So, I want to thank you, my Lord.” Her little excessive courtesies did nothing but irritate him. He felt rage bubbling up, more so at the girl’s remembrance of his wife, of her state, of their delicate, precarious life in the kennel that was the Red Keep.

“ Brave? A dog doesn’t need courage to chase off rats. They had me thirty to one, and not a man of them dared face me.”

“Does it give you joy to scare people?” Sansa frowned at him.

“No, it gives me joy to kill people, little bird. Wrinkle up your face all you like, but spare me this false piety. You were a high Lord’s spawn. Don’t tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a bloody man in his time.”

“That was his duty. He never liked it. Why are you always so hateful? I was just thanking you…”

“Just as if I were one of those true knights you love so well, yes. What do you think a knight is for, girl? You think it’s all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in a gold plate? Knights are for killing. I killed my first man at two and ten, in a field in the middle of bloody nowhere in the Westerlands. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed since then. High Lords with old fancy names, fat rich men dressed in velvet, knights puffed up like bladders with their honors, yes , and women and their screaming little children too—they’re all meat, and I’m their butcher . Let them have their lands, their gods, and their gold. Let them have their bloody fuckin’ Sers.” Sandor spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. “So long as I have this…” he continued, gesturing to his sheathed sword at his belt. “… there’s no man on earth I need fear.”

“And your wife? What of your child? Do you not even think of her…?”

“Don’t you dare speak of my wife, little bird,” Sandor spat, growing angrier and more flustered by the minute. “Do not speak of her. You know nothing .”

“I know she is kind and good, sweet and simple, and I think you are not deserving of her,” Sansa protested, becoming braver. “I think you are a mean, black-hearted man.”

“Aye, perhaps you’re right at that.” Sandor huffed, his eyes wandering to the distant fires ravaging Flea Bottom. “All this burning… only cowards fight with fire.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked.

“Of what?”

“For you, for your wife, for your babe. That the gods might send you down to some terrible hell for all the evil you’ve done, don’t you worry for them, too? Don’t you worry about what will happen if you leave them behind?”

Sandor barked a sharp, booming laugh, which caused the girl to flinch and recoil. “I’m no coward. You’ll do well to learn that men like me are honest . Now, fly away, little bird. I’m bloody sick of you peeping at me.”

Notes:

Excited asf to eventually publish the next chapter (Battle of Blackwater Bay)... heh...

Chapter 13: Window Over The Bay [NSFW]

MARIYA XXI

More time had passed, and she had kept true to her word, hiding within her room, waiting. Sandor would come every evening to give her a report on the court's goings-on. Finally, he confessed to her that Stannis Baratheon, King Robert’s younger brother, was set to launch an invasion of King’s Landing by sea. Renly had been killed in cold, treacherous blood, allegedly by a dark shadow, though some spoke of an assassin of physical form. This news hurt Mari’s heart, as she recalled Renly to be good-natured, well-liked, handsome, and considerate of the smallfolk from when she saw him at the Hand’s tourney, an event which itself felt like a lifetime ago. His token, gifted to her by Sandor from the Hand’s Tourney, was packed alongside her other belongings in preparation for her intended plan.

Naturally, as one of the finest and most fearsome warriors in all of Westeros and the leader of the Kingsguard, Sandor was expected to be in attendance, slaying and hacking Stannis’s men to bits and pieces. Having long since refused to wear the Kingsguard armor Joffrey had made for him by the keep’s blacksmith, he instead resorted to wearing his well-worn dark soot grey plate, though he still wore the white cloak moreso out of a sense of hesitant obligation as opposed to willingness or pride. Typically, the other wives and highborn ladies would wait together by the gate in attendance of their spouses, relatives, or intendeds, but Sandor knew better than to let Mari leave the apartment again, especially in her precarious position.

“This is our chance, then,” she had gasped. Sandor looked at her in confusion.

“What in the hells are you talking about, woman?” he asked her, watching her dress in plain clothes, his eyes lingering on the ever so slight, barely noticeable swell of her stomach, which, in private, she knew brought him well-restrained delight to look upon.

“We can take Lady Sansa with us. She can be bargained to her brother, Robb. Sandor, we can be free of this place,” Mari insisted, though her husband appeared to hear none of it. “I don’t want to leave her here. It wouldn’t be right. She deserves to be back with her family in the North. You know how poorly they treat her.”

“Stannis won’t harm her,” Sandor huffed in reply. 

“Don’t be daft, Sandor. You are a soldier, aren't you? What in the hell do you think Stannis’s men will do to her if they find her? They are still men. Didn’t the smallfolk in Flea Bottom try to rape and rip her to pieces once they got her off her mare? What do you think they’ll do to me ? You refuse to have me brought to Cersei’s side to wait out the invasion in the Queen’s Ballroom, guarded by Ser Ilyn, though she demands it. What will happen if Stannis’s soldiers find me here, all alone?”

“I’ll not entertain this,” he snapped. “Not in your state. I’ll not run. I’m no coward. You’ll wait here, patiently, sweetly, for me,” He took a few short strides toward her, his hands grasping at the dip of her hips, one traveling to press against the barely discernible rounding of her abdomen, rubbing a broad palm against it, pressing his lips and tongue into the curve of her neck. “I’ll not have my wife stuck in a fuckin’ room with Ser Ilyn and Cersei-fucking-Lannister, of all bloody people, either.” His hands traveled upwards, finding her slit and her wetness, rubbing against her bead, slipping a finger inside her. “Remember how the bitch tried to poison you, to kill our unborn child? Fuck no. You’ll be staying far, far away from her, if I have any bloody say in it.”

“ Ah … All I ask is that you pack Stranger’s saddlebags. Please, just do it, for me,” she breathed through his ministrations and affections, leaning into his hand as it worked to build her pleasure. “It is all I ask of you. Just keep them in the barn in his stall, if they need you on horseback.”

He considered her request for a moment, pausing. She almost let out a pitiful groan in response as he stilled his ministrations. “You know, if we do leave, Cersei will call for our fucking heads on a pike. She’ll stop at nothing to get them, too.” He continued to stroke inside of her, pressing his thumb against her breast, feeling her shake and shake until she reached her peak, shuddering and moaning loudly, one of his hands coming to pull against her bodice, exposing her swollen breasts, twisting a nipple harshly before soothing her with a tender kiss against the vein of her exposed neck. 

“Aye, so we’d have to ride fast,” she replied once she had caught her breath, tenderly kissing his scarred cheek before running her nails through his hair, kissing his scarred forehead as tenderly as she could muster. “She won’t catch us. Sandor, I don’t want my child to be born here, not with Cersei Lannister as Queen Regent, not with Joffrey and his cruelty. We can take your tourney winnings, and I can take Renly’s token, and we can purchase a little farmhouse in the North, far away from everyone here. We can have a little plot of land, and the child can be born there, and we can be happy, away from all this.”

Mari watched as Sandor flinched at that word: happy . “You are quite a dreamer, little lamb,” he whispered into her ear, righting her dress and covering her modesty for her. “I’ll be back for you. I won’t die on this night, I swear it, and you won’t, either.” Sandor seemed to believe his words.

Her eyes widened as she grabbed at his gloved hand. “Please, just consider my suggestion, Sandor.” She so very badly thought they would be wise to run, and Sandor was no real man of knightly honor. However, his gaze was resolute, his eyes sullen and serious as he regarded her for a final time, finally taking his leave to join the battle.

Mari stood alone within the apartment, going over her gathered and packed things again and again. She did not believe she had properly convinced Sandor to try to leave– he wasn’t fearful, she thought, but he clearly did not know the man he was without the looming spectre of the Lannisters hovering over his life. She was tired of it all, in truth. She was tired of Varys, tired of being kept locked away in a tower, exhausted and sickened by the complacencies of such banal evils here. 

Then, she wondered– should she tell him the truth of the circumstances of her arrival at the Red Keep and of her employment? Should she tell him the half-truth behind Sosan’s execution? Would that change things? Would he be angry with her? No , she concluded. He would understand why she did what she did. 

 

SANDOR XXI

Sandor always drank heavily before any battle. It had started as something of a nasty habit, all those years ago, after he had gutted his first man and called it ‘sweet’ when prompted. That night, some of the younger Westerosi soldiers, perhaps ranging from their late teens to early twenties, had taken him to another tent, where they had given him lots of wine and showed him how to properly fuck a woman, demonstrating on a whore they had brought with them all the way from Lannisport.

He had stopped by the kitchens on his way to the courtyard before the official send-off, chugging several wineskins as a lanky kitchen boy watched him, eyes wide, slack-jawed as he stared at him. Sandor growled in the boy’s direction, and he promptly fled. Still, it wasn’t enough. So, he made his way down to the barracks, sure that the gold cloaks and sellswords in the service of the blonde cunt would have something they’d be willing to share (though he was not at all concerned about threatening them for it, too, if need be) . However, when he entered the barracks, his eyes settled on a rather irritating scene.

Sandor eyed the sellsword who captivated the room like an actor did his audience, a man in Tyrion’s service called Bronn, who balanced a naked whore on his lap like a prized trophy. The whole harshness of the spectacle made Sandor feel near-sick. The man’s face lit up as Sandor entered, flanked by five or so gold cloaks around him, all of whom gawked and looked at the tall, thin man with eyes as black as coal.

“Welcome, my friends. This round's on me,” Bronn said cheerily. He locked eyes with Sandor, whispering to the whore on his lap, pointing a jabbing finger in Sandor’s direction. “I don’t think the big one over here likes me all that much.”

“You think you’re a hard man?” Sandor jeered. 

Bronn and the other soldiers laughed. “It’s warm in here. We’ve got beautiful women and good brown ale. Plenty for everyone. And all you want is to put one of us in the cold ground with no women to keep us company. Where’s your sweet wife, Clegane? Have her locked away somewhere?” The sellsword’s hands traveled the length of the whore’s long legs. She looked between Bronn and Sandor, putting on a ridiculous little show, blinking her eyelashes, biting her lips, all well-rehearsed and practiced.

“Don’t fuckin’ speak of her,” he hissed. “You know nothing.”

“Think you’re so much better than us, then?” Bronn slapped the naked whore on her bare arse, pushing her roughly aside, and rose to face Sandor, looking up at the larger man and puffing out his chest like a fool.

“No, you’re just like me,” Sandor mumbled, taking a few steps in the sellsword’s direction. “Only smaller .”

"And quicker, eh?”

Sandor took yet another step, peering down at Bronn. “Your Lord Imp’s going to miss you.”

“Aye, I expect he will someday. One more drink, then, Hound, before the war? Shall we?”

Sandor scoffed, taking his leave. He would have to find more wine somewhere else, for he was far too irritated to tolerate such company. He would not dare spend another second in the presence of such gnats who dared call themselves knights, fighters, warriors, soldiers, and the like. All were disgraceful, all were butchers, just like him, even if some thought themselves better because a bloody king had pressed a sword to their shoulder and declared them Ser.

So, he made his way to the entrance hall, where he saw Sansa Stark, her hands tucked before her, bright blue eyes downcast as Joffrey stood before her, withdrawing his flashy golden-hilted sword– a mere child’s plaything, utterly soft and brittle, far too flimsy for a proper battle like this one , he thought. There, he too saw Tyrion and a dark-haired woman he had never seen before, dressed in the attire of a handmaiden. Her poise, however, was relaxed, almost slouching, her heart-shaped face far too expressive and playful for a common servant. Despite such odd suspicions he quietly harbored, Sandor swiftly hurried to the King’s side, standing again as his looming shadow, observing the Stark girl keenly from the corner of his eye, watchful to see if Joff would take the ample opportunity to humiliate the poor bird again.

“Sansa,” Joff began, his pointed white chin raised high. “Come here.” Sansa took a reluctant step towards her pathetic little King. “My sword, Hearteater, I’ve named it. Kiss it.” Sansa did as Joff bid. “You’ll kiss it again when I return and taste my uncle’s blood.”

“Will you slay him yourself, your Grace?” Sansa asked, her voice quiet, almost shrill, her eyes cold, detached.

“If Stannis is fool enough to come near me.”

“So you’ll be outside the gates fighting alongside your vanguard, alongside the Kingsguard?” Sansa inquired.

“A King doesn’t discuss battle plans with stupid girls,” Joff snapped back, shoving his stupid sword back inside its sheath.

“I'm sorry, Your Grace. You're right, I'm stupid. Of course, you'll be in the vanguard. They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting is thickest. And he is only a pretender,” Sansa said, repeating pretty words, though her tone had changed, her gaze more resolute, momentarily glancing over to Sandor when she thought Joff wasn’t looking, as though she were seeking his approval.

“Your brother’s turn will come. Then you can lick his blood off Hearteater, too,” Joff snickered. “Hound, where is your bitch? Why isn’t she here with the others?”

Sandor paused, surprised that Joff would bother addressing him. “She’s in our chambers, your Grace.”

“She’s not coming to Maegor’s Holdfast?” Sansa chirped, her cheeks reddening with a blush once she saw the harsh, furious look Joffrey gave her. 

The little dark-haired handmaiden with the fox-like dark eyes and heart-shaped chin put a hand on her shoulder, gesturing for her to follow her inside the keep. She curtseyed briefly, and the pair took their leave. As they walked out, Sandor spotted Tyrion giving the dark-haired girl a peculiar look– undoubtedly one of longing . He’d seen it before on many men’s faces, and was sure it graced his own, as well, particularly in recent years.

Sandor and Joffrey joined Lancel Lannister on the winding streets of King’s Landing, heading downhill in the direction of the bay. Several smallfolk scurried this way and that, most windows having been boarded shut, the many without homes utterly at the mercy of both Lannister and Baratheon soldiers once the violence was to commence. They approached the outermost walls, climbing a series of rickety banisters made of splintered wood. The expansive bay before them was a wide wash of ebony-black, with the white foam of licking waves firm on the shoreline, as the wind had just picked up. Tyrion joined them momentarily, moving more slowly than the others. Sandor scoffed, wondering what had emboldened the little Lord to try his hand at combat so boldly, especially given his respective lack of training and handicap.

There, in the distance, they could see Stannis’s fine ships from Storm’s End appearing on the horizon. “Where’s our own fleet? Our own vessels?” Lancel asked, his still-adolescent voice pitchy, fearful. 

“They’re on the way,” the Imp snapped, his voice thick with self-contentment. Sandor lingered back, again taking to the shadows. What is the Imp bloody planning?

“Why isn’t it here now? ” Joff hissed, tapping his foot impatiently. “Hound, tell the Hand that his King has asked him a question.”

Sandor turned passively to Tyrion. “The King asked you a question, Imp.”

“Ser Lancel, if you would be so kind, do tell the Hound to tell the King that the Hand is extremely busy,” Tyrion snapped in reply.

Lancel cleared his throat, straightening his back, still not daring to look Sandor in the eye. Bloody fool. “The Hand of the King would like me to tell you to tell the King–”

“If I tell my dog to cut you in half, he’ll do it without a second thought, cousin. The same goes to you, uncle,” Joff snapped. Sandor placed a hand on his longsword, waiting for an order. I wouldn’t mind hacking these two, in particular, to pieces.

“That would make me the quarterman. It just doesn't have the same appeal. Cut me in half and I won't be able to give the signal. No signal, no plan. No plan, and Stannis Baratheon sacks this city, takes the Iron Throne, and puts your pinched little head atop a gate somewhere. It might be quite amusing, except that my head would be up there, too. I've never much liked my head, but I don't want to see it removed just yet. Hound, shouldn’t you be down below the harbor wall? I can hardly stand the stench of you.”

“Yes, go lead your men, dog,” Joff said with an irritated wave of his hand. Sandor half-bowed and let out an affirmative grunt, grinding his teeth in his jaws as he descended the rickety ladder and found swarms of men around him, their eyes looking upon him, waiting for his command. Someone handed him Stranger’s reins, and he mounted.

“Let’s go. Stannis is sending us fresh meat,” he barked at the sellswords, soldiers, knights, and members of the Kingsguard alike. “Any of these flaming fucking arrows come near me, I'll strangle you with your own guts!” Stranger reared, screaming into the smoke-thick air as they charged by the bay, the flimsy arrows ricocheting from his well-worn dark soot armor, more and more ships swarming the way, the blood pounding hard and loud in his ears. Men arrived at the shores, men whose faces he did not see, who became formless in the bloodlust of battle. “Any man dies with a clean sword, I'll rape his fucking corpse!” he roared, raising his blade into the air, shoving at the back of a smaller man who ran by with trepidation in his step.

Then, Sandor’s surroundings became that of a waking, realized nightmare of his very own hell– past the shattered Mud Gate and the blackened ruins where the market stalls and docks had once bustled with smallfolk and life, the bay itself burned like it were a living, breathing, terrible thing. Stannis’s once-proud warships and Joffrey’s galleys alike were engulfed in green fire, their decks ablaze, their sails collapsing around them. The alchemical wildfire turned hulls into funeral pyres and men into screaming, flailing torches. Smoke, flying iron arrows, and cries of dying men thickened the air around him. Downstream, sailors and nobles alike watched as the tide carrying the green inferno trickled to their vessels, dragged helplessly along by the ebb and flow of the water’s current. Their screams were a thousandfold on Sandor’s ears as the terror began to slowly but surely set into his skin.

The long white oars of the Myrish ships beat frantically against the flame-licked waves, flashing like the frantic legs of trapped, poisoned insects, yet there was no escape to be had. Beneath the city walls, barrels of concealed pitch had burst into roaring, screaming blazes, but those looked small before the wild expanse of the bay before him. The emerald flames drowned out the red and gold of the Lannister banners, painting the stormy-grey clouds above in shifting hues of green, as if the very heavens themselves had caught fire. All was beautiful, terrible, inescapable . He stood on the shoreline then, removing his helmet, just for a moment, as the metal felt too hot against his scarred face, the memories all too awakened within him.

His terror was momentarily quelled as he felt the sharp slice of a blade above his right eye, which was swiftly met by a hardened blow of his own, hacking the head from the shoulders of one of Stannis’s men who had dared attempt to maim him. Then, he was off along the shoreline, donning his helm, remounting Stranger, thundering and slashing blindly, the green mist and heat of the fire suffocating him and obscuring his line of vision through his hound’s visor.

Sandor returned to the battlefield, his heart fluttering and wild in his throat, the smell of fire and blood too strong. He pushed and chopped his way through Stannis’s men, the proceedings of the night a total blur. On this night, there was none of his usual love for killing, to his inebriated chagrin. Made the whole ordeal far worse. As he rode on Stranger along the coast, it was easy enough to bludgeon the waves of Baratheon men who arrived on the shoreline, swiping them down with a brutal hack of his longsword or through a bash upside the head with the mace he held in his non-dominant hand. Of course, then, the heat of the fire bore down upon him, deep into his skin– his helm didn’t do enough to protect him from that chasing, eroding feeling of melting skin and flesh. He was that little burned boy, all over again. 

The next few minutes were no more than a blur– he found himself riding away from the battle, kicking and spurring his raven-black destrier back in the direction of the inner sanctum of the city’s walls, riding and riding toward the King’s Gate, of all bloody places, where a dark, manic, wild little voice in his head told him to find Joffrey, to put the saddlebags on Stranger, to tuck his horse away, to prepare for flight. Before he knew it, he was standing by the Kingsgate, next to Tyrion Lannister, still enshrouded in shadows, yet to declare himself to the Imp. I’m done.

“Form up! Who commands here? You’re going out,” the Imp commanded his troops, as though he were not a mangled, tiny little thing with no fighting or sparring capabilities to speak of, riding astride a modified saddle, his whole life coddled, perfumed, and powdered beyond belief.

“No,” Sandor rasped, stepping from the shadows. He wrenched off his hound’s helm for one final time, letting it fall to the ground. His heart raced. The steel on the damn thing was scorched and dented, the left ear sheared off. A gash of blood was trickling into his vision above the eye on the burned half of his face. 

“Yes,” Tyrion growled. “That is an order, dog. Go!”

“Bugger that. And you .”

“Do you think this is a tourney, dog? Shall I bring you a nice iced milk and a bowl of raspberries? No? Then get on your fucking horse, Clegane.” Sandor had no words for the man, but drew his longsword. “They’ve taken a ram to the gate, you can hear them, we need to disperse them—“ 

“The King’s Hand commands you,” Ser Mandon stepped in. Sandor hated the fucking sight of the man and the always-lying Sers of this damned place, who beat little girls at a mere order’s notice, who had no gall, no backbone, no nothing, yet held such fealty to their silly vows.

“Fuck the King’s Hand. Someone bring me a drink.” A gold cloak ran up, offering him a cup. He took a sip, then spit it out. “Water? Fuck your water. Bring me wine .”

“Very well, I’ll lead the sortie if you’re too afraid, Clegane,” Tyrion said.

He burst into raucous laughter as a wineskin was pressed into his hand. He paused, downing the entire thing in a single gulp. “ You , Imp?” Another full wineskin replaced the previous. "I lost half my men. Blackwater's on fire."

Tyrion let out an irritated sigh. “You’re the head of the Kingsguard, Clegane. You must beat them back, or they will take over this city. Your city.” Hardly .

“Dog, I command you to go back out there and fight!” Sandor could hear Joffrey’s petulant squeals, but a sort of momentary bliss crossed his mind, the sweetness of the wine settling deep in his belly, the thoughts of his wife holding a sweet little babe in a little farmhouse somewhere, far away from this, swarming his mind’s eye.

He took another long swig, dropping his hound’s helm to the ground with an unceremonious clang! . “Fuck the Kingsguard. Fuck the city. Fuck the King. And melt down my helm into a bloody chamber pot when I’m gone. I hope you shite in it, Imp.”

Fuck. Aye, he was running, like a bloody coward. To see the bay lit up with wildfire, to feel the burn and heat of it, was too much. It lit a match (no pun intended) under his arse, and a panic in his heart. He left like a little burned, tearful boy from the Westerlands all over again. So, he ran as fast as he could back to the apartment he and his wife shared, feeling as though he were flying as he scaled staircase upon staircase upon staircase, until– “Clegane,” a soft voice punctured through his drunkenness. Turning, his face twisted in a grimace with thinly veiled attempts to be threatening, he locked eyes with the eunuch.

“The fuck you want? What are you doing here?”

Varys smiled. “Taking your leave of King’s Landing so soon?”

“The fuck is it to you?”

Varys took a soft, soundless step in Sandor’s direction, his arms folded before him, his eyes glinting in the green backlit glow of the bay, which flooded into the keep. “I am aware my little bird is abandoning her duties to me, as well.”

“What are you blabbering about, you dickless nonce?” he snapped. Little bird? He was too bloody drunk for this, disoriented and panicked.

“At first, I had thought arranging your union would be rid of you, for a time. Save the court quite a lot of needless violence and brutality. Then, of course, the King died, oh so horribly,” the Spider said. “My servant is sweet and docile, is she not? I am pleased you enjoy her so. It’s a pity how she carries your child now. Poor thing. What to do… what to do… Surely, you can’t leave her here… I can’t even begin to imagine what the Queen will do to her, once she finds out everything… all her secrets… all the lies… You saw what Joffrey did to her little friend. Yes, you were there, too.” Sandor felt as though he had left his body, for just a few moments, staring down at himself, his face covered in other men’s blood, looking more animal than man. “Oh, you had no idea, did you? I always had faith in her to do her part wisely. She was always so loyal and true, so very obedient.”

He backed away from the eunuch, the air leaving his lungs, his feet carrying him somewhere, anywhere , other than the apartment. Not yet.

Sandor was, indeed, the drunkest he had ever been in his entire life. He recalled that Mari wanted him to bloody take little Sansa with them, for some fucking reason or other. Who fucking cares what a spy wants? He climbed a staircase, not remembering if it was the right one. He kicked open the wooden door of a room, falling into a bed… one that was too damn small… he clenched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, fought the urge to pass out when he heard the sound of footsteps in the darkness. Like a beast, he grasped at the figure, holding her wrists tight, one hand wrapping around her mouth. At first, he truly believed it was Mari, but learned quickly that it was not. 

“It’s you . Little bird,” he breathed. “I knew you’d be coming with us. If you scream, I'll kill you. Believe that. I’ve told many the same thing, and I’ve always kept my word.” Looking to his right, he saw that he had been grasping a wine flagon by her bedside table. He hardly remembered even carrying one up here. “Don’t you want to ask who’s winning the battle, little bird?”

“Who?” the poor girl squeaked.

“I only know who’s lost. Me .”

“What have you lost?”

“All, even her,” he groaned. Mari was lost to him as well. She had been deceiving him, lying to him. He had little, no, nothing . “Bloody dwarf. Should have killed him. Years ago.” He glanced at the raging green fires, visible in the distance from Sansa’s window.

“Tyrion is dead, I’ve heard them say,” Sansa offered him meekly. 

“Dead? No. Fuck that. I don’t want him dead. I want him burned . If the gods are good, like Mari says, they’ll burn the sonofabitch, but I won’t be here to see. Three of us are going.”

“Going?”

“The girl repeats whatever she hears. Going , yes. Fuckin’ going.”

“Where will we go?”

“Away from here. Away from fires. Go out the Iron Gate to the northeast. North. Somewhere, anywhere.”

“You won’t get out,” she protested. “The Queen's closed up Maegor’s, and the city gates are shut as well.”

“Not to me. I have the bloody white cloak, don’t I? And I have my sword. I’m the bloody Warrior, I am. The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fuckin’ fire.”

“Why did you come here?”

“You promised me a song, little lamb, on my roof far above the barracks, that night, years ago. Did you forget? Was it all just part of your game? The eunuch put you up to it, did he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me go, you’re scaring me,” Sansa said, flailing in his tight grip.

He blinked, realizing that, in the dim light, and in his despair, he had grown confused in his drunkenness. “Everything scares you, girl. Look at me. Look at me . I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them. Still can’t bear to look, can you? Was it all a lie, then, that you could bear the sight of me?”

“I’ll sing for you,” she insisted. Sandor realized he was holding a dagger up to the poor girl’s throat. “Please, I’ll sing.” Sansa began to sing a fragmented, small, thin, tremulous little melody, something about the bloody Mother (someone Mari would like, with all her bloody put-on piousness) , and Sandor began to weep, like a small, burned boy in the Westerlands he once knew. He removed the blade from her throat when she was done. He felt her hand gently touch his ruined cheek, and he pulled away, ripping off his Kingsguard cloak and unceremoniously depositing it onto her bed before taking his leave.

Feeling oddly more emboldened and of sound mind, he raced in the correct direction of his chambers, kicking open the barred door. He found Mari standing there, by the window overlooking the burning bay, her eyes wide with fright.

“Sandor? I knew you’d come!” Her once-sweet eyes stared up at him. “Are we… are we going now?” 

He scanned the room, noticing that she had packed a small satchel and appeared to be wearing a plain, grey, corseted riding gown and Northern-style leather boots that looked well-worn. His eyes lingered on the punctuated, barely discernible swell of her stomach beneath her dress. His heart felt shattered, indescribably heavy. Rage threatened to overcome him, and he clenched his fists tightly at his side. He was certainly drunker than he’d ever been, and though the dark voice inside him felt he had every right to throw her from that bloody window into the green fire below, Sandor decided on an alternate course of action instead.

 

MARIYA XXII

“Put on your fucking cloak,” her husband barked, his voice harsh, his words ever so slightly slurred. He’s drunk. Mari did as she was told, her eyes searching his, though within them, she saw nothing of her husband, only a beast —a feral, wild, and dangerous creature. Her hands began to shake involuntarily as she fastened the buttons at her chin.

Mari had watched the fire light up the bay from the sealed window, and her eyes had been lit anew by the grand spectacle of it. She could feel the tremendous heat emanating from the apartment, her skin feeling hot, as though she had been burned by a bright, sunny summer’s day, despite the stormy sky being nearly pitch black, now hauntingly illuminated by swirling neon fires. She had thought of Sandor then, in truth, her heart racing as she wondered how he was faring in the midst of such terrible burning. Such fires were wholly unexpected, but she had been bound to the keep long enough to suspect that the Lannisters had gleefully concealed such a wartime cheat for years. She had even watched a single ship sink beneath the waves, though she could not bear to look upon such a gruesome scene for too long, her mind wandering to stories of the Mad King’s brutality and of Targaryen fire.

“I packed everything. Brushes, a comb, chewing sticks, extra changes of clothes, your winnings, Renly’s token. I—“ It only took a few short strides, and he was upon her, roughly grabbing hold of her wrists, withdrawing the rope he had swiped from the stables, binding her hands tightly together. “ Hey, Sandor, what in the hells are you doing? Why are you tying me up? Are you drunk? Sandor, stop —” She seemed genuinely consumed, and yelped when he slung her roughly over his shoulder, taking her satchel from her, marching as fast as he could down the hallway in the direction of the stables. “Wait! What about Sansa?”

“Stark girl didn’t want to leave,” he barked, crossing the yard, flinging open Sandor’s stall, putting the spy and traitor atop it, promptly swinging up behind her, his senses both tingling and numb from the excessive drink. 

Once they both were properly mounted upon Stranger, Sandor gathered up the reins and kicked the roaring jet-black beast into a full gallop, one hand wrapping tightly over the girl’s breasts and sternum and over her swell, as she yelped, struggling to adjust atop his destrier and keep her balance while her hands were so tightly bound. He stank of drink, and Mari’s face twisted into a grimace as she bemoaned what she could have possibly done to anger him so. They rode on, pounding through the Iron Gate, in the direction of the North along the Rosby road. Glancing behind Sandor’s armored shoulder, she could see the fires only grow, all of King’s Landing lit in a green, glowing cloud of smoke. 

She, too, could hear the distant wails of burning men and women and finally shut her eyes, clenching her body tightly into Sandor’s tight, cold, impersonal grasp, praying to the Seven– any one of them– that all would be well, that they would survive the night’s ride into the unknown.

Notes:

I'm ngl, this was tough to write from a logistical standpoint. The battle is depicted in the books in a somewhat confusing manner (to say the least!!!), and it becomes even more confusing when compared to the show's pacing, which has obviously been adapted and modified to suit television better. But I did my best (not super great, but hey, this is a for-fun hobby).

Chapter 14: Fly [NSFW]

MARIYA XXIII

Mari and Sandor rode on throughout the night. She had watched the disappearing green glow of the Red Keep along the Rosby Road over Sandor’s shoulder, and, once it finally completely disappeared into the horizon, she began to develop a near-intolerable headache, pressing her face into the crook of Sandor’s arm, even as he seemed to be angry at her for whatever reason. His body was stiff, rigid, and unwelcoming to her contact, which wasn’t like the man she knew at all. 

Having dozed off slightly, she was jerked awake by Sandor lifting her by the hip, brusquely dismounting her from Stranger’s saddle, and placing her on the rocky ground beside the road. She rubbed her eyes with her bound fists, surveying the landscape, finding no landmarks, no buildings, no people, nothing, merely a green, rocky expanse shrouded by autumnal mist. It was just past dawn, and the sky was a brilliant expanse of pink and yellow, dusted by grey stormy clouds. They were due for rain soon, she realized, smelling the freshness of an impending storm dense and thick in the air.

“Sandor, where are we going?” He did not reply, merely glanced down at her with a dark look she could not place. “Why are you looking at me like that? Can you untie me?” He did not answer her, instead reaching into his saddlebag, withdrawing a wineskin, and taking a long swig. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Aye, I know all about your bloody lies,” he hissed, looking at her as though she were the most evil, despicable creature imaginable as he reached back into the saddlebag, withdrawing several ropes, which he then tied tightly around her ankles. 

“Hey, what are you–” Mari protested, trying to kick him away, but the man was tremendously stronger. Soon, she was completely immobilized, staring up at him with a slack-jawed expression, her face contorted in a look of complete and total shock and indignation. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“The eunuch told me everything.”

Mari felt as though the wind had been knocked from her chest. “What are you talking about?”

“Aye, he told me how you’re nothing more than a fucking spy. To think that you ever cared for me… what a fucking joke. Must’ve had you try and stab me, and then thought you’d be better put to use as a proper whore, no, a bitch in heat offered up to the ugly, burned Lannister dog. Doing your job, aye? A cruel idea for a joke… Not even my dim-witted brother could’ve come up with something so wicked.”

Mari opened her mouth to protest, but no air came out. Her head was swimming. She felt impossibly dizzy and began to feel her knees buckle beneath her as she tried to stand, the ropes binding her hands and ankles making it difficult to find her balance as she fumbled. “I do care for you, truly. You don’t know the full truth, Sandor.”

“You’re a fucking liar! What else is a lie, then? Lied about my brother cutting you, did you? You thought I’d take to you better, is that it? I should slit your throat and leave you to die out here.”

“That was for true,” she protested as she fell back down on her bum, realizing that tears were swarming down her cheeks. “And I… I…” She hardly realized that she had fallen into the grass, feeling a choking sob stifle her throat. “Please… what can I do for you to forgive me? Sandor, please…” Mari knew how desperate and pathetic she sounded, but, beyond the walls of the Red Keep, she knew her role no longer. She felt as though she were spiraling, desperate, lost. She clutched at the little babe in her belly, fighting back complete hysterics. 

Looking up, it broke her heart to see how he regarded her. He thought her a traitor, through and through. “Should’ve left you behind.”

“No,” she gasped, feeling short of air. “You don’t mean that. Listen to me, I can explain everything.”

“Don’t want to hear it,” he snapped, turning his back to her and making his way to the nearby stream, out of sight, leaving her tied up by the little fire he had built. It was a while before he returned, his face washed semi-clean of all the blood, his armor more or less passably scrubbed. Without another word, he helped her back on top of Stranger, swinging himself up behind her.

“Wait,” she gasped. “I’m going to be sick.” Her face burned with embarrassment and misery as she began to retch from atop Stranger onto the ground below, her eyes burning and her forehead prickling with droplets of sweat. “Oh, please, stop… Please, let me down…” They kept riding. “Please, Sandor. Let me down, unless you want me throwing up all over your fucking horse.” 

Sandor finally caved, dismounting and lifting her off the horse once more. She scurried over to the side of the road and began to retch horribly, nothing coming up besides the yellowish stomach bile of morning sickness. After several minutes of continued vomiting, her body began to shake from the effort as she wiped her mouth on the back of her fist once more, more tears streaming down her face. Swiftly, Sandor tossed her back up onto the saddle as though she weighed less than nothing. Then, they rode on. Just for a moment, Mari had wondered if he would truly leave her by the side of the road– something, then, had spurred him to continue to carry her with him, even if he fully believed her to be nothing more than a traitor.

They rode on for another week, stopping often in the mornings so she could be sick in the shrubbery. Then, Sandor would roughly pull her back atop his destrier, and they would gallop on. To where? He had claimed they were heading North, but Mari could scarcely get her bearings. Sandor had been a foot soldier for years and was a well-trained survivalist. She trusted him, even if he no longer trusted her. For the remainder of the initial journey, her hands remained bound— they had begun to chafe horribly, bleeding and stinging about the wrists. Sandor would feed her, help her drink, and help her relieve herself, but not once did he untie her. At night, when it grew too cold, they would cuddle for warmth, particularly during the times in which Sandor could not bring himself to start a fire, but there was no shared tenderness between them. Not anymore.

“When we get to a village with an Inn, I’ll untie you, for a time,” Sandor hissed in her ear on the seventh day. “But if you try to run, I’ll slit that soft little throat of yours. I don’t care if you claim the child is mine. And who knows if that isn’t a bloody lie, eh?”

“It is yours,” she cried, closing her eyes, a few streams of tears falling down her dirtied cheek. “I swear on my life. I have lain with no other man, ever.” He did not offer her a reply. It was the first verbal exchange they’d had in days. “I do not see why you are so intent on punishing me,” she whimpered. “I don’t know what more I can say.” He did not answer her.

Finally, as the sun began to set along the expansive sky, they found themselves at a quaint little village with a proper Inn of its own. Relief washed over her as she felt Sandor’s hands working to untie her wrists and her feet. It was the right choice, she thought. It would hardly suit him as a half-burned, toweringly imposing giant of a man in lands his brother had already thoroughly ravaged to come striding into town with a bound, pregnant young woman astride his saddle. Mari already knew she looked enough like a ravaged whore or absconded peasant girl, abducted by the fearsome man seated on the warhorse behind her, her face teary-streaked and dirty, her dress muddied.

They rode through the quaint little village marketplace, and Mari played her role, keeping still, her face even. Sandor dismounted, doing her the courtesy of letting her remain atop the horse, and found a stablehand, paying the lad handsomely for Stranger to be fed, watered, re-shoed (with an appropriate warning about the beast’s extensive history of biting), and thoroughly groomed. Then, he led Mari to the front of the Inn, where an old woman gave them both a funny look as she directed them to the most expensive room available, making good use of Sandor’s tourney winnings. Mari’s stomach growled with hunger, as did Sandor’s, and he barked a request to the Innkeeper to deliver roasted chicken, potatoes, carrots, and ale to their room as soon as possible. The Innkeeper was swift and efficient, and food was brought to them. Both ate quickly and in relative silence, although Mari felt as though she could cry. She and Sandor had eaten nothing but bread, cheese, bits of dried meat, and whatever small game– rabbits, birds, even squirrels– he could get his hands on for the past week, and a proper hot meal was truly a welcome relief.

She was surprised he was allowing her to eat a full meal, but she eagerly scarfed down her respective plate of chicken, potatoes, pickled greens, and carrots without daring to look over at her husband. Although she did not believe Sandor to be ruthless, Mari could hesitantly concede that there was still much about him that she did not yet know. Perhaps he would’ve starved her, under other circumstances. Instead, however, as they ate, he seemed to ignore her rather pointedly, hardly looking up from his own plate. 

By the time they had both finished eating, the silence between them was unbearable. Mari sat on the far side of the room, perched on a chair by a small wooden table. Sandor had remained close to the door, lest she have any funny ideas about escaping, perhaps. The room itself was wooden and plain, sparsely decorated, but had all the amenities both had evidently so desired– fresh, clean linen, a four-poster canopy bed (albeit made of straw, though Mari could hardly complain), a wooden tub for bathing– including a scrubbing brush, two bars of lemon-scented soap, and a comb included, although Mari had packed such things already– and, finally, a well-lit little window with a view of the local expanse of rolling green fields.

Within mere minutes, the old Innkeeper woman brought in steaming buckets of hot water and filled the bath, taking a cue from the pair’s mud-stained, somewhat bloody clothes, and thankfully did not ask any questions, and hardly paid them a second glance as she hurried in and out. Mari felt dirtied and sore from seven hard days on the road, worse than she’d ever felt while traveling. She watched the rise of steam from the tub, and could almost feel herself sighing aloud at the idea of a good scrub and soak.

“Girl,” Sandor’s deep voice barked. He had maintained his silence with her throughout the marketplace and up to this point, and his voice caused her to jump. “Undress. Bathe yourself.”

“Wh– what?”

“Are you deaf, too, now? Go on. Take your fuckin’ clothes off.”

 

SANDOR XXII

Sandor watched the woman strip completely bare for him, dispassionately, and from across the room, her eyes fluttering toward him. She removed her outer hooded cloak, her grey gown, and then her silk chemise, all of which were quite horribly stained with mud and dirt from the road. She rolled down her wool socks next and removed her muddy leather traveling boots. Then, she took off his mother’s gold pendant, which he had nearly forgotten she still wore. She then carefully placed the necklace on the oak side table next to the four-poster bed. 

He watched her intently as she climbed into the steaming tub, picking up some of the lemon-scented handcrafted soap that had been left on the tub’s rim by the Innkeeper, beginning the effort of thoroughly scrubbing all the travel grime and patches of blood— both his own and that of Stannis’s men— from her rosy flesh until the skin seemed rub raw, watching as fresh redness bloomed across her flesh, which had noticeably become less plump in the week since their bold escape. She then proceeded to lather soap into her hands, thoroughly washing her scalp and long, waist-length hair, running her little fingers through it to detangle. 

Suddenly, she paused, her hair still bunched about her head, bubbled and lathered with soap. “Would you like to hear the full truth?” He did not reply, merely stared coldly at her. “I was recruited into Varys’s service after I attacked you in that alley that night. One of his ‘little birds’ saw that. I don’t know who; it doesn’t matter– perhaps it was a beggar child. Later, I had stood up for a blind boy, one of Varys’s other little birds, and he had recruited me as a handmaiden for the Lannisters, promising me gold and a better life if I served him. I told him everything I ever heard a single fucking lion so much as whisper within my earshot during those years. But, outside of my duty, I took comfort in the friendship we had cultivated, and your honesty, your spirit held a tender, dear place in my heart. I was just as shocked as you when King Robert had us wed, even if it was a result of Joffrey’s insistence and Varys’s scheming.” She paused to dunk her hair in the water, rinsing off the suds, coming back up for air, her dark red wild mane a mess around her fair face. “You were my first, I do swear it. I will confess to you that the morning after our wedding night, the eunuch came to me. He told me he had planned everything. He told me to be obedient to you and to await further instruction. He wanted your brother dead, too. Thought it good for you to take over his inheritance. It would 'bring peace to the realm,’ as he said. But no further instructions came.”

“Is that all?” he barked, his tone snarky, impertinent. 

“No, it isn’t,” she continued. “There was something else, too. All the little birds had been given a message, I believe, about Ser Arryn’s death. The mockingbird casts its line, the falcon drowns in a silver sea. I still don’t know what it means. Sosan believed it had something to do with noble houses. We found a big book on the subject in the library in the Red Keep one night. When we got there, Ned Stark came, and he wanted the book. We gave it to him. Later, he called me to his chambers; he wished to speak with me. Asked me why I was reading it. Said it was the last thing Ser Arryn read before he died while we were away paying a conveniently timed visit to Casterly Rock.”

Sandor paused. “Mockingbird is the sigil of Baelish’s house. House Arryn’s the falcon.”

Mari breathed in, quickly. Baelish. “But what of the silver sea?” Sandor didn’t answer her. “As we rode to the tourney grounds to be married, Sosan told me Baelish whispered his own version of the riddle. The mockingbird casts its line, the web is broken. I thought it was a threat. Then, of course… they killed her. Varys didn’t think it was worth saving her. That was what Baelish meant by a broken spider’s web, I suppose.”

“So she was a spy, too, for true?” Sandor let out a single sharp, biting laugh. “How does it feel, knowing you’ve kept your head then, girl? No arrow through your heart? Your little friend wasn’t too lucky. Could’ve been you.” 

She balked at him, eyes welling with tears. “You needn’t be so cruel to me. I’ve told you everything, every possible secret that I could have kept from you. I don't know what more I can do. There are no Lannisters around for miles left to spy on. My service is to you, and you only. Please, Sandor, please find it in your heart to forgive me for what I’ve done.” She then rose, bathwater splashing to the wooden inn floors around her, baring herself entirely to him. “For the child’s sake, forgive me.” He gritted his teeth at her, fists clenched to his side, forcing himself to look upon her, his gaze wandering up and down her body. 

“Come out of there,” he commanded. Mari did as she was told, stepping out of the bath. She reached for her shift, but he held up a hand. “Don’t dress yet.” She held still. “Empty the bathwater.”

He watched as he took her time, filling the wooden buckets brought in by the Innkeeper with the murky water, flinging it out the window, as the Innkeeper or any other common servant or serving girl would have done. Once she had finished, Sandor rose, cracking the door, barking at the old Innkeeper for warm water to be brought inside. He allowed Mari to hide herself, wrapping her body in the canopy bed’s curtains as an old woman carried in the steaming buckets, and Sandor handed her the empty ones. He then locked the door behind himself and turned to her. 

“Fill it,” he commanded. She did as he asked, filling the tub nearly to the brim. “Now, undress me.” 

Mari, still completely unclothed and bare to him, approached his side, hesitantly, almost fearfully, and began to unfasten his armor, removing his various plates until he was left in his rough-spun tunic and trousers, which she then, too, removed, her eyebrows rising as she noticed that he was already at half-mast. He walked over to the tub and climbed in, slowly, softly groaning as the hot water touched his dirtied skin and overworked muscles. 

“Come,” he rasped. Mari hurried over by his side. He could see her bare skin beginning to prickle with goosebumps as the water dried. He handed her a piece of the lemon-scented soap, his visage darkening as he gave her his final hushed command. “Wash me.”

So, she began to wash him, and he remembered just how many years she had served as a handmaiden. She was damned good at her little job as Sandor felt his skin nearly scrubbed raw from her attention. She scrubbed the length of his arms, his chest, his long legs, and even his face, working gently and meticulously through the crevices of his scar on his face, which he allowed. Then, she washed his hair, rubbing serene, careful circles along his temples, running the length of his skull, pulling through the tangles of his shoulder-length, slightly wavy dark hair. Then, he rose, presenting himself to her. She hesitated, pausing, unsure of what to do. His eyes were cold, fixed on her. So, she lathered her hand with the soap, running her hands up and down his length, trying to seem nonplussed, although her eyes remained fixed and attentive on his manhood, which, little by little, began to harden. 

When she finally looked up at him, again, through her godsdamned full blonde lashes, he found himself grabbing her roughly by the bare waist, hoisting her up into his arms, settling her in the water, not caring that it was murky and dirty with his filth. Still, neither of them cared as he pulled down her body flush to his. The water flooded over—he was already a massive man, and it certainly wasn't meant for two. He heard a mewling noise and looked down at Mari’s face to see that she had started to cry. He began to rub rhythmic circles on her back on instinct, quietly cursing himself under his breath.

“When I came to find you and Sansa, the eunuch came to me, and he told me about you. I’m keen to believe that he wanted to ensure we were gone,” Sandor whispered, his lips lingering on her ear, in her hairline. “Perhaps this was his dickless way of apologizing for your friend’s death.” He paused, pressing soft kisses along her head. “You know I cannot yet forgive you, little lamb. Just as you understand why I killed that butcher’s boy–  I’m no stupid man, I know it lingers in your heart. It’s the same dark feeling for me, but the other way ‘round.”

“I did not slay a child in cold blood, Sandor,” Mari whispered, pressing her face into the crook of his neck as Sandor's long fingers traveled down her impressive cape of thick, soaking hair. “But aye, I was tangled in that web. I’m sure many little flies were caught. Perhaps their deaths can be traced back to me, somehow. I can’t know for certain. I can never know.” She pressed a kiss to his clavicle, her hot, open mouth traveling along his broad chest. “Most men and women are monsters, then, I think. You, me, and everyone back in King’s Landing…”

He grasped her jaw, raising her face to his, her sea glass eyes locking with his. For an instant, the fragile lamb seemed to ready herself for a kiss, but he let her go. It was too early. The wound was too raw. So, he let her go, just for a moment, before lifting them both out of the bath, the water spilling onto the stone floor below.

It had been weeks since he had taken her. He was more than keen to do so again as he carried her wet, tired body to the four-poster bed, lying her down on her back, kissing at her lips, her eyes, running his tongue along her neck, biting at her clavicle, and then suckling hard at her sensitive breasts. Chest heaving, there she lay sprawled out on the bed, her hair a dark, lank red curtain around her, dampening the sheets, her grey-green eyes wide, watching him as he crawled over her, effectively pinning her down against the mattress. 

“Poor thing, married off to the bloody Hound,” he hissed above her, withdrawing from her while still keeping her wrists firmly pinned above her head. “You were the talk of the Red Keep, you know. Aye, Joff himself even asked me if I ravaged you.” She dared not speak, her eyes boring into his. “We’re all monsters, then, eh? All of us back in King’s Landing, every sworn shield and loyal servant to House Lannister?” She still did not reply, staring at him with a resolute, fixed expression. Then, in one swift movement, he took hold of her hips, flipping them both so he lay on his back and she straddled him, beads of clear water still dripping down her damp body as she breathed heavily above him. “You want him tonight, do you, little lamb?” His hands were running the length of her body now, up and down, kneading her full breasts.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she sighed breathily as his fingers moved to suddenly twist her nipple, making her squeak in heady pain and surprise. Quickly, he pressed his cock deep inside of her, without pretense or warning, finding her tight, keening, and groaning as she wantonly took him all the way. 

“I said, do you want the Hound?” he rasped beneath her. “Makes no difference to me, wench. I’ll have you, either way. But if you’re so keen to be degraded, to be fucked by an ugly monster, then you’ll be fucked by a bloody ugly monster.” He then let her go, resting his hands behind his head, gazing up at her. “I want you to touch your cunt. Now.” He offered her a shallow upward thrust, and she gasped. “I said, touch your fuckin’ cunt.” So, she did, pressing against her nub, just above her folds, stretched so obscenely wide as she began to roll her hips against him, her tight pussy contracting and quivering around him. "Faster, little lamb. Rub yourself faster. Do as I tell you," he hissed, commanding her as though she were a plaything paid for with good coin from a proper brothel. "And play with your tit." She did as she said, rolling her pink nipple in one finger, her hand coming to cup underneath her large breasts as her cunt clenched around him again, and she let out a high-pitched moan. She likes this.

"You like that, do you? You'll not take your pleasure perched upon my cock, selfish girl. You'll take it beneath me, as I fuck you deep into the seven hells, where you belong after what you’ve done," Sandor rasped, pulling her hand away from her folds. “Lie back on the bed, girl. I’m going to fuck you like the bitch that you are," Sandor commanded, his voice sending shivers up her spine as he grasped her tightly by the hips, flipping them around so that he was once again atop her. 

Then, he took her folds in his hands, pressing his mouth against her sweet cunt and feasting as she immediately jerked and screamed. He could hear her slap her hand over her mouth to quiet herself, and he smirked, knowing how the other patrons were sure to listen to them, and how this embarrassed her so. A fitting punishment, then. He licked her for a while as she moaned and jerked about, but then a different and far more devilish idea came to mind.

"Spread your legs as far apart as you can manage, wench," he hissed, watching as the girl did as was told, her thighs already damp and shaking profusely with the effort. "Open your folds," Sandor rasped, his tongue wetting his lips, her taste upon him still so tart and fresh, and his eyes boring intensely upon her seeping, swollen, beautiful, flowery cunt. 

Mari hesitantly placed her fingers upon herself and lightly pulled back her flesh, opening her entrance to him, as he took her in. A low growl rumbled in his chest when he moved a long finger through her wetness and pushed into her, his hand grazing her fingers as she held herself exposed. "Your sweet, delicious little pink cunt is so wet for me," Sandor rasped, pumping into her and rubbing against her inner wall with the calloused pad of his large finger, treating her like he would a whore paid with coin.

Mari’s head tipped back, and her eyes closed, a soft moan floating across her full, slightly swollen lips. The sudden withdrawal of his finger caused her eyes to snap back open, and her face to turn back to him when her pleasure was denied to her once more. 

"Take your ankles in hand. Hold your legs apart," Sandor commanded, watching her legs lift into the air before him, and spreading open. Sandor's chest rapidly rose and fell as he ran his hand along her inner thigh and down to her woman's place, tracing around her labia and inner thighs delicately, barely touching her, his hand no more than a dark, lustful whisper on her most sensitive of places. "Do you want my cock, girl?" Sandor rasped, swiping his thumb over her folds once more. "Good serving girls answer a question when a man asks it of them. Do you want me to fuck you with my cock?" Sandor rasped, stilling his thumb against her nub.

“Yes, p-please,” she gasped. “Oh, gods, p-please fuck me. I’m sorry, Sandor, please… just fuck me…” Leaning forward, he took her hand and wrapped her little fist tightly around his rock-hard cock, moving her hand up and down for a moment.

“Rub it on your cunt,” he hissed. She did as he asked. “Now, put it inside.” 

She did as he asked, slowly filling herself with his girth, her breathing growing all the more strained with the effort. He grabbed hold of her wrists once again, pinning them above her as he thrusted roughly inside her, as roughly as he could manage, the poor little woman nearly hitting her head on the headboard above her. Then, he did it again, and again, and again, rutting deep and hard inside of her, as though they both were mere animals, fatalistic and brutal. 

“You like being fucked by the Hound, you like being my fucking bitch in heat, don’t you?” he growled, biting down on her soft neck as she jerked and screamed, her eyes rolling in the back of her head as he felt her release.

Then, Mari let out a gasp as he suddenly withdrew from her, jerking his cock in a few quick strokes before spilling his release across her breasts and belly, the thick ropes of come leaving her drenched and debauched, her face and chest reddened with the exertion as she gazed up at him, half-lidded and exhausted, bits and pieces of reddish and dark brown baby hairs stuck across her face and forehead. It was the first time, he realized, that he had not come inside her, but on her, as though she were a woman for coin, not his wedded wife. Prior to her, he had never come inside a woman, and had been more than careful to avoid such a thing. His eyes then settled upon the barely discernible mound of her lower abdomen, and he felt… guilty.

“I’ll need to bathe again,” he heard her say softly as she slowly rose to a sitting position after a few moments, her face drawn, her eyes vacant as she padded over to the bath, climbing inside, not bothering to change the water as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, sinking down to her neck in the large wooden tub. 

They stayed in relative silence for a time, and it seemed to grow dark outside within a matter of minutes. Sandor heard Mari rise from the water and light a candle by the bedside table, illuminating her body in the dim orange glow. Then, she turned to him. “Have you yet forgiven me?” she asked, her voice trembling and piteous, a quick, barely noticeable tear falling down her cheek.

He hesitated, feeling the words of his reply heavy along his tongue, though no sound passed his lips. He said nothing as she crawled into the bed, wrapping the blankets tightly around herself as she curled into a ball, turning away from him, as though she, too, feared him, like all the others. Sandor joined her, then, wrapping himself tightly around her, pressing his head into the grove of her soft neck, kissing along the bruised spot where he had so fiercely bitten her.

“Aye, I forgive you, little lamb. And, if I were a more pious man, I’d pray to the gods that you’ll forgive me, too, for all my many sins,” he whispered, pressing a kiss along the shell of her ear. He then reached around her, holding onto her little swell tightly, breathing in deep the scent of her soft flesh as they fell asleep in each other’s arms. “I’d pray for both our sins, if I believed.”

Then, he heard her muffled sobs and took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. She had begun to cry piteously, her body wracked with open-mouthed sobs, her limbs slack, her eyes clamped shut. Then, she wrapped her arms around herself, her chest heaving. Taken aback and not wholly sure what to do, Sandor lay there, watching her as she cried, her body shaking, as though she were letting go of a tremendous, indescribable weight of pain and suffering upon her shoulders. 

“Mari…?”

“Everything is lost…” Sandor could barely hear her whisper. 

Sandor stilled, wondering, panic rising in his chest as she rolled further and further away from him, wrapping herself tighter in her own arms, not his. “I should not have taken you thus.”

“No, it isn’t you…” she gasped. “You’re not to blame. They’re… tears of relief, I think…”

Still, she cried and cried, the relief and exhaustion flowing from her in waves. Finally, Mari let him hold her, and her body softened as she fell into what seemed to be a light slumber. He held her tighter, pressing her body against his, softly running his hands along her bare skin, breathing in her soft, sweet scent. Sandor had not cried since he was a child, since he had been burned, and he remained resolute as he, too, eventually fell asleep.

Notes:

A rollercoaster!

 

Shout out to my one friend who was very patient (heh) listened to my conspiratorial Sandor rant about this fic and allowed me to use her lil' 'lemon-scented soap' moment from her own respective world-building... LOL. yeah xx

Chapter 15: Electric Funeral

MARIYA XXIV

They had quickly learned from murmurs and gossip in various villages that Gregor was stationed at Harrenhal, and that they would need to travel around God’s Eye, the largest lake of the Seven Kingdoms, heading west as opposed to straight north. This, as they knew, would add another week or two to their ride to Riverrun to plead and hopefully join with Robb Stark and the Northern forces. Mari was still insistent on the idea, though Sandor knew very well that the risk of his imprisonment was high. However, she was insistent that the man would, if he were the honorable Lord Stark’s true heir, have room in his heart to accommodate them. She, too, seemed to hope there was some sort of plea to their shared Northernness to be made. 

“You’re one of the most capable warriors in all of Westeros,” she had said affectionately. “He’d be a fool not to want you to fight as his bannerman. You just need to prove your fealty. Put on a smile. Try not to curse so much.”

“I could say the same to you, with your bloody tongue,” he scoffed. “You’re out of luck then, little lamb, I’ll not change my temper or tone for any man, even if he claims to be the true King.”

“Even if you’re petitioning your service?”

“Aye, even then.” Mari rolled her eyes at that.

Sandor took her to a village and yet another Inn, where they made short work of entangling their limbs, her husband taking her again and again, pushing and spilling deep inside her, roughly and equally gently in a variety of positions and angles. Mari was keen to relish this, to learn more about her body and the sensations he helped her discover about herself. She had since forgiven him for his roughness, as well as their unusual resolution of their disagreement and miscommunication. Now, be it in the wilderness or in peasant villages where nobody knew them, there was a sense of calm and freedom to their travels after the passing of previous animosities. 

When they decided to leave the next town and Inn, Sandor thought it wise to make use of his tourney winnings and purchase the girl a steed of her own. It was already slowing them down enough to double-ride Stranger, and, although the warhorse was well-built and powerful, both he and Mari knew they were running on borrowed time, both concerning her rapidly progressing pregnancy and their need to find Robb Stark and petition Sandor’s service to the King of the North.

Sandor had found a traveling horse seller in the last town and brought Mari along to see his wares. “Pick whichever beast your heart so desires,” he said, glancing at the collection of mares and geldings available as swift-footed travel palfreys. Mari knew that Sandor was well aware of how she herself was educated about horses and would choose rightly and well. 

He watched her as she wandered up and down the collection of stalls, reaching out her hands to offer bits of grain, her mossy eyes clever and discerning as she duly surveyed the horses for sale. Finally, near the end of the stable, she stopped, her face suddenly bright, eyes drawn in on a particular horse just out of Sandor’s line of vision. He strode up to her, examining the horse for himself.

It was a white gelding, roughly fifteen or so hands in height, not too small nor too large for the girl. It appeared to have a serene, even temper, its dark lashes prominent against its glowing coat. It had a single defined sock on its front right over black gradient legs, and a little snip upon its black nose. The merchant selling the palfrey claimed he was eight years of age and had been ridden into one lone battle in his time.

He watched as Mari fed the gelding a bit of borrowed grade from the tradesman, the medium-sized palfrey nickering at her as she rubbed tenderly at his snout and face. “Oh, you’re a handsome young thing, aren’t you?” Mari cooed at the gelding. “Oh, he’s delightful. He’s got beautiful, sturdy legs. I can tell he has a graceful, smooth jaunt, too.”

“Aye, but his coat,” Sandor rasped. “A glowing white steed might make you catch the wrong man’s eye, little lamb.” She offered him a pathetic, wide-eyed, glistening, pleading look, and he sighed. “If that’s the one you want, I’ll get him for you.” A wide smile flashed across her face as she folded into his chest, hugging him tightly, his own hands settling along her back, rubbing against her in slow circles as he reached into his purse and withdrew the appropriate coin, the horse merchant eyeing them both with a mix of fear and suspicion, though he quickly accepted Sandor’s shiny gold coin.

Sandor then took her to the village blacksmith, paying for her Lannister blade to be sharpened. The homely smith gave the adorned blade a curious look, glancing up to Sandor, quickly becoming meek and fearful as he took to the task of reviving the rusted blade. By the time it was returned to Mari, the metal was shining, the gold of the hilt freshly polished to the point where it appeared there were two white glistening stones, likely topaz, embedded in the eye of the lion design all along. To Mari, it felt like some grand secret had been revealed– all this time, the knife had been even more valuable than she had ever thought it to be. 

“If it’s to be your only means of self-defence, I want it to be bloody sharp,” Sandor had explained. “I’ll show you how to properly kill a man one day, little lamb.” She smiled up at him, her heart racing and fluttering.

Not every hour on the road with Sandor Clegane was a pleasant one, however, as she was quickly coming to learn. Mari would be lying if she denied her concern at the sheer quantity of Sandor’s drinking. She knew it had been a bit of an issue with him for years and years, but whenever there was a particular gloomy look in his eyes, she always knew he would drink excessively, ordering ale upon ale upon ale, to the point of absurdity and excess. He never tried to have his way with her when he was in a drunken state, nor did he seem keen to even speak or look at her. Instead, his dark grey eyes became glazed over, listless and devoid of life, as he would often stare into the depths of a nearby hearth or just at the shaded corner of a room, his hand engulfing a mug with a particular tightness and aloofness that made Mari feel quite sad. 

During such moods, he would hardly speak to her, either, though he did not want her to go to whatever room they were renting alone. Mari didn’t particularly mind waiting around by his side throughout the night. However, on one or two occasions she did fall asleep at the table and awoke later in the early morning or the next day, sleeping soundly in a bed by Sandor’s side, though sometimes he would be off at its foot, meticulously cleaning various pieces of his armor and sword to the point of excess, his head hung heavy, the scent of drink strong, wafting from his large silhouetted frame.

She knew there was a heavy sadness about him, one that Mari had sense enough to recognize he did not dare reveal to many. In fact, Mari knew she was likely the only person in the entire world whom Sandor allowed to see in this state, in this recurrent, strange, morose, wistful period of moodiness.

“Are you going to show me how to use the knife?” she finally asked on the very last night of their stay in the previous village for miles upon miles as they lay in bed together.

“Later.”

“You promised you would show me after you had it sharpened.” He did not reply.

Finally, they were set to leave the final Inn before they were to trek through the wilderness for nearly a week off-road, avoiding any potential scouts from King Joffrey. Mari was more than happy to get to properly ride her new horse for the first time, though she was still unsure of what to name him. Sandor, on the other hand, seemed oddly quiet, taciturn, his gaze resolute, his eyes steeled and focused. 

She and Sandor set out early in the morning, riding for a full day before the wilderness felt all too dark. Then, they found a large willow tree and set up camp. Mari groomed and watered both horses, feeling pleased at owning a steed of her own, and one so comfortable to ride at that. As Stranger and her white palfry drank their fill, Mari ran her hands along her slight swell, trying to quell the racing, panicked voice deep within her mind as the moon and stars shone through the hanging branches of the vast, ancient tree above and around them.

 

SANDOR XXIII

Having traveled out for a time, they found themselves a sheltered willow tree a long enough way off from the kingsroad, surrounded by ample grass. The two horses– Stranger and the white gelding he had purchased back at the village for her– seemed to get on well enough, as the palfry was a most subservient, placid-tempered creature who Stranger didn’t seem to pay any mind to. 

It had been a time since they had needed to camp out in the wilderness, though in their pursuit of the North and their avoidance of main roads would have inevitably necessitated it. There was not to be an Inn for nearly a week’s ride more. Furthermore, Sandor knew it was best to avoid such places, so as not to be seen. Surely, every instance of stopping in a village would trickle back to the crown and, most certainly, to Varys. Sandor was not naive to the fact that the Spider’s network was vast and that it was likely they were being tracked, though he had no means of even remotely guessing how sought-after they were. For all he knew, Cersei and Joff could give a rat’s arse about either of them or, perhaps, their swift departure had been more of a grave offense than he assumed. 

Feeling comfortable enough to remove his armor, sword and scabbard, and leather jerkin, he worked to set up camp, pitching a small little tent and putting the bedrolls inside it, withdrawing some bread, cheese, and chicken and handing off the task of preparing food to Mari, who did not hesitate to strike two stones together to promptly make a fire and warm up their meal. She, too, removed her outer cloak and corset, as it was an oddly warm, humid night for the autumnal season. 

“You brought wineskins and ale with you,” she remarked. Sandor felt his jaw tighten, a surge of defensiveness rising within his heart. 

“Aye, I bloody did.” He gave her an annoyed glance, uncorking one of the wineskins and taking a hearty swig, drowning half the thing within mere seconds.

“You need to be more careful with your spending,” Mari pressed, her mossy eyes backlit by the fire she sparked before them, glowing, beautiful, he thought. Too bloody beautiful for someone like me. “It attracts the wrong sort of attention.”

“It’s my fuckin’ coin,” Sandor snapped back, feeling a little bit bad at how his voice grew louder as his irritation worsened. “I’ll spend it how I want to, woman. Weren’t you the one who insisted on buying a bloody white glowing horse? Aye, right, I’m the one who attracts the wrong sort of attention. Bugger that.”

Mari sighed, stretching back against the log, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her eyes lost in the flame, her mind presumably wandering. Sandor huffed, taking another swig and tossing the wineskin to the side, into the overgrown rocky grass. He could not deny that he was in a sudden sour mood, and was beginning to feel the germinating seed of doubt deep in his heart towards the aims of this mission– if one thing were to go wrong, of course, they’d be utterly fucked beyond belief. 

“I imagine you’re not going to show me how to use the knife, then.”

“I told you– later.”

“When is later?”

“When I bloody feel like it, woman,” he snapped, trying to close his eyes. “Stop pestering me.”

“I wasn’t pestering you. I asked once. Politely, too.”

“Aye, you were pestering me.”

“Was not.”

“Now you’re just whinging.”

Sandor felt an angry but weak slap against his shoulder. “I don’t understand why you’re being such a dick to me,” she said, her voice harsh and cold. “What did I bloody do to you? I thought we… I thought we resolved… I thought we moved past this…”

He paused, the little, cruel, stupid childish voice in the back of his mind telling him to say something rude, to cuss her out, but Sandor was still just barely capable of biting his tongue. “I’m sorry, little lamb. Forgive me. Again. Always mucking things up, I am…” He felt her soft hand return to the place on his shoulder where she had hit him. 

“You are always mucking things up,” Mari sighed, pressing her body against his, burying her face underneath the crook of his arm. “We’ll do it tomorrow, then. First thing in the morning. No ifs, whens, or buts about it.”

“Aye,” he conceded, the burned half of his face twitching in a half-smile. “Tomorrow.”

Then, as Sandor lay back against his knapsack, Mari tucked against his left side, his vision blurred as sleep threatened to overtake him, and he heard the sound of barking dogs. Sitting upright, albeit dazed, he soon saw they were surrounded by an array of well-trained dogs– black mastiffs, lean wolfhounds, black-and-white sheepherders, and shaggy brindled hounds, all of which pointed their noses square in his bloody direction.

“Sandor–” he heard Mari’s voice to his left, utterly terrified.

Then, before them stood a stocky, balding, weak-chinned man wearing tanned leathers, his dark brown eyes resolute, determined, hateful. The dogs were undoubtedly his – Sandor knew well how hounds treated their masters, as his father had kept up his grandfather’s tradition of keeping and breeding wardogs in the home. In the following moments, all of which felt like a dream or a nightmare, they were quickly flanked by twelve or so men, all of whom varied tremendously in age, size, and apparent knowledge of how to properly carry or wield a weapon. 

“Well, well, well… this certainly is not Jaime Lannister…” one of the men chuckled, withdrawing a poorly forged sword from a mismatched scabbard. “But a blessed and utilitarian discovery, nonetheless. R’hllor looks favorably upon us, he does.”

Sandor was too slow in his state, watching as the men snatched up his sword in its scabbard, his purse with a fair portion of his tourney winnings, as well as the various pieces of his armor, picking apart their camp. One of the men, whom Sandor felt he knew but couldn’t quite recognize in his drunkenness, pulled Mari to her feet, her face turned away from him, twisted in a grimace. 

“Now, now, now, who’s this?” a brawny man with a bushy brown beard and a harsh, cruel, deep voice wearing a hooded yellow cloak said, pulling Mari closer to him. “Stolen from a tavern, were you? A bit far from your village, eh, girl?”

“Let go of me!” Mari shouted, jerking away from the man, who held onto her steadfastly.

Sandor began to rise to promptly hack the bushy-bearded man, touching his woman to bits, before he felt the soft press of an arrowhead against his temple. Turning to his right, he saw a lean, lanky, ginger-haired and freckled young man with a drawn bow, pointing it directly at his bloody brains. 

“Move an inch more, and I’ll let my arrow fly, Hound,” the young archer said stoically, his voice slightly foreign and accented.

“Know who I am, too, then, eh?”

“The dogs know, too,” the stocky balding man in tanned leather spat in Sandor’s direction. “What a day it is.” Sandor then realized the huntsman was peering into his purse, his dark eyes momentarily widening at the sight of his coins, which were swiftly snatched up by the bushy-bearded man, who seemed to be acting as the de facto leader.

“Now, Hound, get up,” the man in yellow barked. 

Sandor still couldn’t quite make out his face in the darkness, only barely illuminated by the fire the others were quick to douse out. Sandor rose and realized three men were already quickly working to tightly bind his wrists. The little ginger boy still held the bow up at Sandor’s head, now at an absurd and otherwise hilarious angle given their incredible height difference.

“You think you’re good with that bow, you little twat?” Sandor taunted the freckled archer with a Dornish accent who led them both to what seemed to be a covered wagon made of wood, typically used for transporting goods and perishables. 

“Better than anyone you’ve ever met,” the young man replied with a chuckle. Won the archery competition at the Hand’s tourney. Remember watching you there, dog. Got ten thousand dragons from that. Sure you’ve got something stored away in that little purse of yours…”

“Bow’s nothing but a coward’s weapon. Better to fight up close. I like to see a man’s face when I put the steel in him,” Sandor spat.

“What, so you can give him a kiss?” the young man mocked, the others bursting into raucous laughter. “Now, apologies, but you’re one ugly fucker and I’d rather not see you no more,” the red-haired archer said. They had trust something over Sandor’s head– likely an old feed bag– and tightened the ropes binding his hands behind his back. 

He heard a similar shuffling sound and presumed they had done the same to Mari, which made his blood boil. Even the thought of one of these blundering fools touching her was enough to send him into a rage, though he knew all efforts would be futile. Biting back his anger, Sandor stilled himself, jerking only when the men had the gall to grasp at him too roughly for his liking.

Of course, the scrawny little ginger idiot went on to slam Sandor’s head against the top of the wagon and let out a hideous guffaw of uproarious laughter. “Watch your head, Hound. Off we go.”

Inside the covered wagon was what appeared to be a semi-built-in crow cage. Sandor could feel the bars around them, and his headache roared as his drunken stupor met his suppressed rage at such a catastrophic turn in their material predicament. Instead of fighting his way out, of raging and berserking, his head hurt beyond belief. 

“Where are you taking us?” he heard Mari ask innocently, followed by the sounds of her climbing up the wagon to join them. Then, the metal doors were shut, and he could make out the barely discernible click! of a lock.

“Somewhere that’s our little secret,” the man said, his voice laden with a repulsive sort of flirtatiousness that made Sandor’s stomach flip.

“Well, you’re going to need to stop this bloody wagon every few hours so I can take a piss.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you, some sort of powdered and perfumed Targaryen princess on the run with your handsome, gallant knight?” The men burst into another fit of laughter.

“I’m pregnant, ya dick.” The men were momentarily silent– Sandor could practically bite the renewed tension in the air around them. “Well? Would you rather I pissed a fuckin’ pond in this crow cage, then? And where are our horses?”

“Huh. Thought you were just a pudgy lady. Horses will be coming with us,” he heard the archer reply. “And… well… I’ll make sure to have them stop when you ask. But no funny business, got it?” Sandor groaned, pressing his thumbs into his temples as he felt the cart below them begin to move. 

 

MARIYA XXV

They had bound Sandor’s wrists with hempen rope, strung a noose around his neck, and pulled a sack down over his head, and had done the same to her in quick succession, although she knew they hardly regarded her as a threat, one of the smaller of the dozen or so men who had cornered and captured them beneath the willow tree loosely holding onto her by the elbow. Mari dared not fight against them, instead listening for Sandor’s lead. She could hear him squirm and thrash against his binds, but, to her surprise, he seemed far more resigned to being captured than she could have otherwise anticipated.

The air around her felt denser, moist, and cold. Judging by the reverberations and echoes of the many voices within, she guessed that they must be inside a cave, potentially one that was underground. The ride in the crow cage had taken around two and a half days, but neither knew which direction they were heading. They could very well be going the way they came, for all Mari or Sandor knew. 

Mari had slept poorly in the cramped wagon on the final night of their travel, and her back and ankles hurt terribly. To make matters worse, she had to piss more than she ever had in her life, not having been allotted only a few select instances of reprieve during the half a day’s worth of travel. Sandor, as she knew, was massively hungover, his mood only growing fouler and fouler. During the journey, they barely spoke or acknowledged one another, offering a somewhat strange reprieve from chatter.

“Now that is an uncommonly large person. How does one manage to subdue such an uncommonly large person?” a man’s voice asked in the reverberating cave. Mari didn’t recognize it and felt disoriented as the echo made her head pound. She heard the whish! of the sack removed from Sandor's head to her right, and the room erupted in gasps. “Not a man at all. A Hound!” The men then began to howl in jest. 

“The dogs caught his scent. He and the whore were sleeping half-naked underneath a willow tree, if you’d believe it!” their yellow-cloaked captor laughed. “Like something out of a knightly fuckin’ ballad… Mayhaps the Bear and the Maiden Fair. Ha! What’s more, the bitch is with child, just look at the size of her! Poor fuckin’ thing.”

“Betrayed by his own kind,” the other man laughed. “Never thought you would be the type to take whores on your adventures, Clegane.” Mari grit her teeth, wanting nothing more than to punch this criminal in the jaw, knowing full well Sandor felt the same. “Welcome to our humble hall, dog. It is not so grand as Robert’s throne room, but the company is far better.”

“I know you,” she heard Sandor say to the second fellow, her head turning to face them, struggling to hear if she could recognize the man’s voice.

“You did know me, once. In melees, you’d curse my flaming sword, through thrice I overthrew you with it,” the man laughed in reply.

“Thoros of fucking Myr. That’s right, I almost didn’t recognize you there. You used to shave your ugly fire-worshipping skull.” Mari recognized the same. She knew of the man, had seen him from afar. He was once part of Robert’s court. Then, she remembered that he was the one who had been sent to slay Gregor alongside Beric Dondarrion. She recalled how gravely it had upset Sandor at the time, how he had believed the men to be incompetent, too small, and too weak.

“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth, my heart was vain. Besides, lost my damn razor in the woods. I am less the man I was in King’s Landing, but, dare I say, now I am more. A time in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and all the pretty maids would shower me with kisses.” 

“Aye, all the blind ones.” Mari couldn’t help but laugh from beneath the grain sack still over her face.

“Now, dog, I’m not the false priest you once knew. The Lord of Light has woken my heart. Many powers long asleep are waking, and forces are moving in the land. I’ve seen them in my flames.”

“Fuck your flames. And the whole lot of you, too. You keep queer company for a holy man.”

“You keep unusual company, too, dog,” Thoros replied, yanking the hood from Mari’s head. She had to blink a fair amount to adjust to the roaring fire in the center of the cave, which was almost painfully bright. The man observed her keenly, his eyes resting on the distinctive bump of her abdomen. “Oh, she’s not that hard on the eyes. Are you the one who knocked her up, then, Hound? Or did you steal her from some innocent, bawling smallfolk to do with as you wish?”

“She’s my wife,” Sandor growled, looking at Mari with such fierce tenderness it almost made their predicament bearable. “She was wedded to me on the order of King Robert I Baratheon, if that means anything to you all, since you’re so fuckin’ loyal to the one true King of dirt and worms. Hardly thought it right to leave her behind.” Mari rolled her eyes, a flicker of a grin across his shadowed and fire-lit face.

Thoros seemed slightly taken aback by this, examining Mari more closely, but evidently not recognizing her face from his own time at the keep. “These men are my brothers,” he went on to explain. 

“How long have you been hiding in this stinking hole?”

The bushy-bearded man leaped forward proudly. “Ask the goat if we’ve hidden, Hound. Ask your brother. Ask the lord of leeches. We’ve bloodied them all.”

“You lot? Don’t make me laugh. You look more like swineherds than soldiers.”

“Aye, some of us were swineherds,” a short, elderly man groaned, stepping forward into view. “And some were tanners or singers or masons. But that was before the holy war to come, the one which we have predicted, which was spoken to us on R’hllor’s very own flames.”

“Fuck your holy war,” Sandor barked. “And fuck whatever the hells an Eh-roe-lore is.”

“Lord Stark sent us out,” interjected another man, wearing a hodgepodge of armor and a ragged black cloak speckled with stars matched by an iron breastplate dented by a hundred battles, a thicket of red-gold hair hiding most of his face, overgrown and wild, save for a bald spot by his ear where he seemed to have had his head bashed in. “But he was sitting on the Iron Throne when he gave us our commands, so we were never truly his men, but Robert’s.”

“Robert is the King of the worms now. Is that why you’re down in the earth in this godsforsaken cave, to keep his court for him?” Sandor taunted.

“King Robert is dead, but we are still his men, though the royal banner we bore was lost at the Mummer’s Ford when your brother’s rats fell upon us.” He touched his breast with a fist. “Robert is slain, but his realm remains. And we shall be the ones to defend her.”

“You’re Ser Beric Dondarrion…” Mari interjected with a gasp. “I remember you at the Hand’s Tourney. You… you were sent to kill Ser Gregor under Robert’s orders, just before the hunt.”

The scarecrow Ser regarded her for a moment. “Have we met, my Lady?”

“No,” Mari said. “We haven’t.”

Beric approached her, examining her features with suspicion. “You do look familiar, girl. I am starting not to believe that you’re a whore snatched up by the Hound at all… Is it true that you are his wife? Or was that some kind of lie? Are you a whore, then? The Lord of Light knows such truths. It would be no use lying, not to me.”

“Aye, I’m his wife, not his whore,” she answered immediately. “I was a handmaiden to Queen Cersei and her daughter, Princess Myrcella.” Mari glanced over at Sandor, who looked at her contemplatively. “And I was a servant to Lord Varys, the eunuch. Now, I have no master. He doesn’t, either.”

“You’re a bold girl to speak of such masters to us,” Beric scoffed. “How are we to know if you’re any different than your man here?”

“I’m fuckin’ pregnant and held captive by a gang of men with my hands bound. I’ve had to travel a whole night with no bloody sleep. I have to piss again, and it’s a miracle I haven’t soiled myself yet or vomited on one of your men, ya dick. If you think I’m some sort of conspiring–”

“Enough, girl,” Beric snapped, his eyes still suspicious. “Certainly, you can understand our concerns with you and with your husband, at the very least. We have long since hunted Sandor Clegane once we caught word that he had gone rogue. We are merely doing our duty to defend the realm from those who wish to pillage and destroy it.”

“Rocks and trees and rivers, that’s what your realm is made of. Do bloody rocks need defending? Robert wouldn’t have thought so. If he couldn’t fuck it, fight it, or drink it, it bored him, and so would you, you brave companions,” Sandor taunted. Mari shot him a dark glance. Of course, Sandor had to go and fuck everything up for both of them on account of his damn temper.

“Call us that name again, dog, and you’ll swallow that thick tongue of yours!” One particular soldier stepped forward and withdrew his longsword, his gaze vicious, far moreso than the others. Mari had enough sense to remember his face and to remember that damn lemon-yellow cloak.

“Here’s a brave man, Lem, bearing steel on a bound captive. Aye, all right and sobered up, and I recognize your ugly face. Untie me, why don’t you? We’ll see how brave you are then.” He glanced at the balding, angry-faced huntsman behind him, the one with the pack of scent-seeking dogs. “How about you? Or did you leave all your courage in your kennels?”

“No, but I should have left you in that crow cage.” The stocky huntsman drew a knife. “I might still.” Sandor burst into raucous laughter, causing Mari to startle and jump in her binds.

“We are brothers here,” Thoros of Myr declared. “Holy brothers, sworn to the realm, to our god, and each other.”

“Knights?” Clegane made the word a sneer. “Dondarrion’s a bloody Ser, but the rest of you are the sorriest lot of outlaws and broken men I’ve ever seen. I shite better men than you.”

“Sandor, shut up…” Mari hissed between her teeth.

“Any knight can make a knight,” said the scarecrow that was Beric Dondarrion. “Every man you see before you has felt a sword upon his shoulder. We are the forgotten fellowship, a band of men who seek to do what is righteous and good, for the sake of the realm that you speak so ill of, Clegane.”

“Send me and my wife on our way, and I’ll forget I ever saw you lot, too,” Sandor rasped. “But if you mean to murder me, then bloody well get on with it. You took my sword, my horse, and every damn piece of gold to my soiled name, and you’ve captured and bound my woman, so take my life and be done with it– let her bloody go– but, please, spare me this pious whinging.”

“Sandor!” Mari gasped. “Shut up!”

“You will die soon enough, dog, but it shan’t be murder, only justice in the name of the Lord of Light,” Thoros said, taking a step forward. He paused and turned to Mari. “We have no qualm with you, woman. Your sins are your own. You and your unborn child, even if it is a Clegane, have a right to live.”

“Death is a kinder fate than you deserve, Hound,” another man said. “At Sherrer and the Mummer’s Ford, girls of six and seven years were raped, and babes still on the breast were cut in two while their mothers watched. No lion ever killed so cruelly.” Mari shuddered, knowing full well they spoke of Gregor. “No, no lion, but a mad dog.”

“I was not at Sherrer, nor the Mummer’s Ford,” the Hound told him. “Lay your dead children at some other door, and leave my wife and babe out of your rotten, toothless, feckish mouths.”

Thoros answered him. “Do you deny that House Clegane was built upon dead children? I saw them lay Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys before the Iron Throne. By rights, you should bear two bloody infants in place of those three ugly dogs on your House’s sigil.”

“Do you take me for my brother? Is being born Clegane a crime? You say you’ll spare my wife and child, but your words carry the weight of misplaced vengeance. What will it be, then?”

“Murder is a crime.”

“Who did I murder? Pray, oh noble knights of the one true realm, do bloody tell! I’d love to know!”

“Lord Lothar Mallery and Ser Gladden Wylde,” a man shouted.

“My brothers Lister and Lennocks,” declared another.

“You all speak of Ser Gregor, the Mountain That Rides, not Sandor,” Mari interjected, her voice shaking and rising to a near-shout. “I was there during the raids during the rebellion, but I was a child myself. Gregor Clegane cut down my parents. He raped my mother, slicing and peeling her corpse apart for sport.” The men momentarily hushed, then the cave became thick with the reverberations of hushed chatter, men gasping, expressing shock and dismay. “This was not Sandor’s crime. He has no blame for Ser Gregor’s actions, no blame but his own.”

“Enough. Enough of all these bloody names. Who were these people you lot claim I murdered?” Sandor growled, his anger clearly beginning to grow into a heated rage.

“They were good people,” Beric hissed. “Good people and bad people, who died on the points of Lannister swords, much like the very same one you carry now. It's a cruel gesture to force yourself on a young woman whose family was slaughtered in your House’s name, Clegane, under the banner of the Lannisters. But if she were a spy for the Spider, then it hardly surprises me that she, too, is a sell-out for quick gold. Had quite a lot on you both, didn’t you? Did you steal it from them before you fled from battle like a coward, dog?”

“You talk a lot about things you don’t know even half the truth about,” Sandor hissed.

“You served the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. You and that woman were meant for each other, perhaps,” Thoros of Myr added, glancing over at Mari, meeting her eyes, his own fiery, withheld.

“I don’t bloody steal,” Sandor spat back. “We both served the Lannisters once. Me, her, and thousands more. Is each of us then guilty of the crimes of the others? Then you ought to charge my wife with the crimes of my brother, the man who slaughtered her family. See how that makes no bloody sense? Maybe you are all knights after all. You lie like them. Maybe you murder like them, too.” Mari watched as his eyes came to rest on the suspicious, heavy-shouldered fellow whom he’d referred to with the name Lem. “Then what would that make you lot? If a knight is just a sword with a horse, so you all can shove your swords up your arses. I’m the same as you, but I don’t lie about what I am. So kill me and my wife, then, but don’t call me a murderer while you stand there telling each other that your shite doesn’t fuckin’ stink.”

Suddenly, Mari heard the petulant, impassioned little squeal of a girl’s voice break through the crowd. “You are a murderer! You killed Mycah, don’t say you never did. You murdered him! He was a butcher’s boy, and you killed him. Jory said you cut him in half, and he never even had a real sword. You are a murderer!” Something about this girl seemed eerily familiar, but Mari couldn’t quite place it. 

However, Sandor’s grey eyes steeled with immediate recognition, a grin flickering across his face. “Seven hells. The little bloody Stark sister. The wolf-girl brat who tossed Joff’s pretty sword in the river. Don’t you know you’re supposed to be dead? You’re awfully scrappy for a noble brat, aren’t you?”

“No, you are!” the girl barked back, beginning a charge at Sandor before being withheld by one of Dondarrion’s knights. 

“Do you deny killing this butcher’s boy, then, Clegane?” Mari felt her heart in her throat, remembering that day when she herself witnessed the hacked, bloodied body of that little boy. She had run, and Sandor had consoled her that he did such a thing to avoid his inevitable torture before admitting, for the first time, that he had been quietly in love with her for years. Looking upward, she saw that Sandor’s eyes were firm on her for a moment before returning to the Stark girl.

“I was Joffrey’s sworn sword. The butcher’s boy attacked a prince. I heard it from the royal lips. Not my place to question princes. This one’s own sister told me the same little story when she stood before your precious King Robert, Dondarrion.”

“Sansa’s just a liar. It wasn’t like she said, I swear it! She just wanted to marry Joffrey. The Hound is a murderer!” the girl protested, still being restrained by one of the men. Two more men had gathered up the girl, pulling her aside as Ser Beric stepped forward once more.

“Sandor Clegane, you stand accused of murder, but no one here knows the truth or falsehood of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light may do that now. I sentence you to trial by battle,” he declared. Mari felt almost relieved, looking to him, to offer him some glance of assurance, but saw that his eyes were fixed upon Thoros of Myr, flickering with flames. “Prove your innocence with an honest blade, and you and your wife will be free to go on your merry way.”

 

SANDOR XXIV

“Are you a fool or a madman?” Sandor spat back, appalled by the sheer absurdity of the predicament they had somehow gotten themselves swept up into. One of Beric’s men slashed through his rope binds, freeing his hands. He quickly went to rub his raw, bloodied wrists, his thoughts lingering on Mari and his treatment of her. Is this penance, then? “I’ll need my sword and armor.”

“Your sword you shall wield, but your innocence must be your armor,” Beric answered. Sandor swore he could feel his eye twitch out of his rising irritation.

“My innocence, eh, Beric? My innocence against your scarecrow plate, is that it?” he hissed, glancing over to Mari’s, whose wide grey-green eyes had grown suddenly horrified, for me.

Sandor practically growled as a fair-haired boy, no more than twelve or thirteen, scurried up to Beric, removing his hodgepodge of absconded plates and armors. The quilting beneath the knight’s had rotted with age and sweat, and fell away when the metal was pulled loose, revealing an expanse of elaborate, borderline-rotting scars, his ribs outlined starkly beneath skin, a puckered crater tracing along his breast just above his left nipple, as though he had been pierced again and again by mortal wounds. Yet, he was still standing, still bracing himself with hand-to-hand combat against the bloody Hound. The boy fetched Beric his sword belt and a long, black surcoat, which was typically meant to be worn over proper armor, though it still bore the forked purple lightning of his House.

Thoros then approached him, offering his sword, still in its swordbelt. “Does a dog like you have honor? Now, Hound, if you try to run, know we have three archers poised at the ready for the first sign of any treachery. I’ll not promise your wife’s safety, either.” Sandor ripped his sword from his sheath, casting the man a feral look. “First, we pray. Lord of Light, look down upon us… protect us in the darkness… shine your face upon us… Light your flame among us, R’hllor… for the night is dark… and full of terrors…” Sandor’s eyes lingered on Mari’s face, watching as she paid rapt attention to the prayer, her expression almost curious, her lips loosely forming words as she followed along with the damn recitation. Pious little fuckin’ lamb, he thought, grinding his teeth.

“The cave is fuckin’ dark too. But I’m the terror here. I hope your bloody god’s a sweet one, Dondarrion. You’re going to be meeting him shortly,” he said, feeling the madness and rage he so often channeled for combat welling up in him, fizzling in his blood, beneath his skin, his hands wrapping tightly around the hilt of his greatsword. I hope you lot burn in seven hells. You, Beric, and Thoros, too, and all you cunts. Especially you, Lem. You’re a fuckin’ dick. Never could stand the sight of you. Can’t bloody wait to cut you all down.” Then, of course, he watched in shaking, silent terror as Dondarrion lit his sword, which erupted almost spontaneously in brilliant, gut-wrenchingly orange and red flickering flames.

The burning sword rose to meet the cold steel, fire trailing behind like torn banners. Steel rang on steel. Sandor’s first swing was checked, his second smashed into Beric’s shield, spraying splinters across the ground. He knew he was driving too hard, too early—but he wanted it to end. He couldn’t stand the fire’s nearness. Blades came fast, cutting from every angle, and Beric met each one. His flaming sword left ghosts in the air, red and yellow streaks burning with every strike, until it seemed he fought from within a cage of fire.

“You’re cheating,” Sandor spat between blows, forced back under the smaller man’s assault. “Need sorcery from your little god to match me, do you?” He caught a stroke high on his shield and countered, but Beric pressed him, flame snapping close enough to scorch his skin. Panic gnawed at him. He stumbled back until the firepit’s glow flared against his legs.

Still, he hacked, sweat dripping, breath ragged, while Beric drove him step by step toward the blaze. A furious rush of strikes shoved him to the edge again, and this time his balance went. Fire licked at his thighs, and he roared, cursing, swinging harder and harder, trying to batter Beric down with sheer force. The flames lashed at his eyes. Then his foot slipped, and he fell to a knee. Beric closed instantly, his sword howling down in a storm of fire. Sandor threw up his shield just in time. Oak cracked apart, flames curling up its length.

Through the smoke and sparks, he caught Mari’s seaglass eyes, and fury lit his veins. He surged back to his feet, hammering reckless counters. The shield burned on his arm; he tore at it, wood breaking apart in flaming shards, but the fire clung to his sleeve, climbing higher. The crowd’s shouts—“Finish him! Kill him! Guilty!”—rang in his ears, steadying his focus like cold iron. Then the fight slowed. Beric stepped in, blade raised, fire streaming behind. Sandor moved first. With a ragged scream, he swung with all the strength left in him. His sword split Beric down to the breastbone, black blood erupting in a stinking spray that soaked Sandor’s tunic and dripped down his legs.

Immediately, he leaped into the dusty mud of the cavern, rolling in the dirt and mud, scooping at the earth, and covering his burning arm. A sting of tears prickled in his eyes as the weight of his childhood came flooding back, channeling his mind instead to the sensation of horrible, excruciating pain he felt, distracting all such associative memories while doing so. Looking up, his gaze was fixed on Mari, whose broad, mossy eyes were marked by streams of fresh tears; her hands were clasped together, as though she were in prayer. She bloody well was, of course. Then, he turned to Dondarrion, whose knees folded slowly, hands open, as if preparing for a prayer of his own. His black, uncanny humors of tar-like bile seemed to be absorbed into the very ground itself, the man’s face fixed, solemn, almost restful.

“Is he fucking crying?” Sandor heard one of the men laugh. “The Hound is crying!” A hand that hardly felt like his own reached up to touch his face, finding wetness there. “I say we take him back to Stoney Sept and put him in a crow cage.” He realized he had been crying out, begging for someone to help him, but the words hardly seemed to have passed through his lips. 

Then, he could feel that Mari was near him, her hands working on his arm, stripping and tearing away the remaining fabric of his tunic near the injury. Still, he found that he could hardly move, his body rigid, jaw open, eyes seeing nothing but the childhood brazier as his face was pressed so tightly against it by an overpowering, unrelenting grip on the back of his hair. 

“R’hllor has judged him innocent…” Sandor could hear some bastard say, but the sound was muffled, strange, as though he were underwater. “The Lord of Light has taught us–” He watched, half in a daze, as Mari and another woman (he swore some man had called her ‘Melly’) tended to his arm. 

There was a strip of pink where the leather strap had clung, but above and below the flesh was cracked and red, bleeding from the elbow to the wrist. When Sandor’s eyes met the little wolf’s, his mouth twitched. “You want me dead that bad? Then do it, wolf girl. Shove it in. It’s cleaner than fire.” He tried to stand, but as he moved, a piece of burned flesh sloughed right off his arm, and his knees went out from under him.

“You killed Mycah. Tell them. You did. You did,” the little wolf girl barked, so very insistent.

“I bloody did,” he snapped, his whole face twisted. “I rode him down and cut him in half, and I bloody well laughed. I watched them beat your sister, too, and watched them cut your father’s sorry head off.”

“Sandor, enough–” Mari said, trying to interject, to silence him as one of the bannermen joined her and the woman Melly, trying to help him to his feet as he continued to stumble, his whole body shaking, wracked with the pain of his now-mutilated, burned arm. 

“Go to hell!” the girl shrieked.

“He has, my child,” Sandor could hear Beric murmur to Arya. “He’s been to hell, and he’s come back. Sandor Clegane, you are free to walk and to take your wife with you. We will return your horse, your armor, and your belongings, but we will confiscate your gold and the little Baratheon trinket your wife carried.”

“You–” Mari gasped, indignant. Sandor turned to see her face suddenly twisted in a look of pure shock and rare. “How dare you! That’s our rightful earnings. We will have nothing.” Beric gestured to Thoros, who handed him a quill, ink, and a scroll. He took a knee and began to write furiously, producing a mediocre-penned promissory note, which Mari practically snatched from his hands. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me. Who in the hells would accept this?”

“We’re letting you both leave with your lives, girl,” Thoros warned. “You’ll keep your horses and your rations. Consider it a well-deserved time for humility, reflection, for abandoning the material pleasures of this world…”

“You all are fucking insane, then,” Mari snapped. “Abandoning the material pleasures of this world, my arse, I’d rather not starve to death! And I’m no faithless woman. Is this typical of you, fire-worshipping lots?” Sandor watched as Mari’s eyes settled on the girl, a glittering in her mossy gaze indicating some surprising foreplanning. “We’ll take your promissory note and something else of yours, then.”

She moved surprisingly quickly for an untrained smallfolk, grasping tightly around the little wolf girl’s chest, pressing her spontaneously produced Lannister dagger into the soft jugular of the girl’s pale neck from where she evidently kept it well-concealed and tucked in her high wool socks. They didn’t even bloody search the girl for a weapon! Pious fools! “Do you all want to see this girl die? Or me, would you harm a woman with child, one who has never spilled fresh blood before? Now, let us take the girl to her brother. Let us go.” Sandor followed Mari’s cues, quietly impressed by her fortitude, courage, and even a bit by her borderline insanity, jerking away from the other woman, his arm bandaged in a linen sling as the pair backed into each other, Mari’s grip still firm on Arya Stark.

“Robb Stark will not want you in his legion, Hound,” Thoros of Myr said calmly. “Even if you bring him his bound, bloodied little sister. Your reputation grows worse and worse, as the rumors grow and the smallfolk talk as your brother ravages the countryside. And you, woman, you doom yourself and your unborn child if you step so carelessly back out into the world. There are other ways. It does not have to be like this.”

“None of your concern,” Mari bit back. “We’ll be on our way. Gold or not.”

“Help me! Help! Help!” Arya called out. Several of the bannermen were wide-eyed, poised, seemingly ready to brawl, but Beric extended a single hand, and they did not make a move. Sandor watched as Mari gently, applying barely any pressure, pressed the sharp end of the blade into the girl’s neck, a small trickle of blood flowing against the shine of the Lannister-forged steel. About time the girl was bloody shut up.

Sandor could hardly think straight as he and Mari walked back to their horses. “Give me rope, Sandor,” Mari hissed. Sandor reached back into his saddlebag, withdrawing the ropes he had previously used to bind her, and wrapped them tight around the Stark girl’s wrists. Grabbing the girl from Mari’s hands, he tossed her up onto the saddle, making quick work of mounting. Mari did the same, though he winced as he watched her struggle to find her balance atop the white palfrey he had purchased for her, her slight swell making it awkward and difficult. “Now, Sandor, ride.”

He needed no cue, in truth, as his horse pounded beneath him. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that Mari followed close behind, riding in the style of men, as though she were born to do so, her lengthy hair flying freely behind her. It had begun to storm terribly, yet still they galloped deeper and deeper into the heart of the all-encompassing, humid, swarming, thunderous darkness of night.

Chapter 16: Cannock Chase

MARIYA XXVI

When Mari, Sandor, and Arya Stark reached the top of the ridge and saw the river, Sandor reined up hard and cursed. The rain was falling from a black iron sky, pricking the green and brown torrent with ten thousand swords. The tops of half a hundred trees poked up out of the swirling waters, their limbs clutching for the sky like the arms of drowning men. Thick mats of sodden leaves choked the shoreline, and farther out in the channel, she glimpsed something pale and swollen —a deer or perhaps even a dead horse, moving swiftly downstream. There was a sound too, a low rumble at the edge of hearing, like the sound a dog makes just before he growls. Mari had watched in terror as Sandor had torn away the sling the Brotherhood’s girl, Melly, had put together for him, instead donning a steel vambrace over the wrapped wound, which was still bloody and seeping, for some semblance of protection. Her husband hardly expressed any pain or discomfort, though Mari knew the injury itself was likely near-maddening for him.

“Is this the Blackwater Rush?” Arya finally asked, her voice weak, tired after two straight weeks of nonstop riding.

“It’s a river we need to cross, that’s all you need to know, little wolf.” Sandor would answer the little Stark girl from time to time, but he had warned her not to talk back. He had given her numerous warnings that first day. “The next time you hit me, I’ll tie your hands behind your back,” he’d said. “The next time you try to run off, I’ll bind your feet. Scream or shout or bite me again, and I’ll gag you. We can ride double, or I can throw you across the back of the horse, trussed up like a sow for slaughter. Your choice, little wolf.”

“I’d rather ride with your whore. I’m sure she stinks a lot less,” Arya whispered, loud enough for Mari to hear. “Even if she did try to slit my throat.”

“I did no such thing,” Mari scoffed. “It was only a scratch. Just needed you to shut up for a while. And, remember, I caught you trying to bash in Sandor’s head this morning with a rock. I would say we’re even. But if you’re stupid enough to try that again, girl, I can’t guarantee mercy.” Her hand went up to touch the Clegane pendant she wore around her neck, tucked beneath the collar of her dress. That Brotherhood hadn’t gotten their hands on it, either.

“I wish you would just kill me like you killed my friend, Mycah,” Arya sighed.

“Girl, if you say that boy’s name one more time, I’ll beat you so bad you wish I’d killed you,” Sandor hissed. Mari sighed and rolled her eyes. “Now, the fords will all be gone, and I wouldn’t care to try to swim over them, either. Harroway town isn’t too far. Where Lord Roote stables Old King Andahar’s two-headed water horse. Maybe we’ll ride across, then.”

It wasn’t far past noon, but the sky had already grown dark. Though she dared not complain, Mari was beginning to feel the terrible soreness she had so often heard about when it came to being with child. She knew now that it was improbable the babe had been conceived on their wedding night, and it was far more probable it had been several months into their marriage, what with her irregular menses and all. In truth, Mari had no idea how far along she was – a midwife’s examination would have been necessary to determine. Sandor’s height compared to hers also made such an estimation challenging to make, as she knew she was carrying larger than she imagined she would with a child whose father wasn’t a bloody giant. Regardless, they were, undoubtedly, on the run on very borrowed time.

Furthermore, she was painfully saddle-sore and began to feel a growing itchiness in her hair. Looking just ahead of her, she saw the girl– and, finally, Sandor– began itching as well. “Next time we stop, I’m keen to check our scalps,” she called ahead. “I fear we may all have gotten bugs from the girl.” Not only was Mari keen to investigate this, but she also knew well that Sandor’s wound would only grow worse. “I’ll have to comb them out later.” He seemed to neglect the injury, perhaps from a place of pride. However, the balm she had packed in anticipation of their flight during the Battle of Blackwater Bay was not nearly enough to coat an entire forearm every day or so. They were running dangerously low on supplies and food, to boot.

That day, the three outlaws rode beside the river for hours, splashing across two muddy vassal streams before they reached the place that Sandor had spoken of. “Lord Harroway’s Town,” Sandor said over his shoulder to Mari, and then, he saw something, “Seven hells!” 

The town was drowned and desolate. The rising waters had overflowed the riverbanks. All that remained of Harroway town was the upper story of a shabby inn, the seven-sided dome of a sunken sept, two-thirds of a stone round tower, some moldy thatch roofs, and a forest of chimneys. Mari’s heart sank, and her body felt sorer and all the worse for wear. Her abdomen ached terribly, and her breasts were sore and painful. Had they been in the proper cradle of civilization, she’d have been given some sort of gauze, tape, or a brassiere to support herself. Then, it started to rain heavily. The itch on her scalp felt worse with the dampness. Strangely enough, tears prickled at her eyes as she fought the urge to burst into a fit of tears, her emotions having run even wilder since that day she wished so badly to throw herself from the window overlooking the bay. To say she was silently suffering and in constant pain would be nothing short of a vast understatement.

Then, Mari saw smoke coming from the faraway tower. There was a boat with a dozen oarlocks and a pair of great carved wooden horse heads mounted fore and aft. There was a wooden house with a sod roof right in the middle of the deck, and when Sandor cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, two men came spilling out. A third appeared in the window of the round tower, clutching a loaded crossbow, aiming it at the two horses. “What do you lot want?” he shouted across the swirling brown waters. “To cross the river will cost ye… gold!” 

“Sandor, no…” Mari whispered, realizing that her husband meant to withdraw the note from Beric, which she had immediately given him the first time they made camp after they escaped from the Brotherhood’s cave. It was all they had left. “We can find another way.”

“There’s no time, and no other way across,” he hushed her over his shoulder. “I’ll pay!” he shouted back at the men.

The ferrymen seemed to be chattering amongst themselves again. Finally, they shouted, and six more men seemingly appeared from out of nowhere, pulling up the hoods to keep the heavy rain out of their faces as they undid the boat’s chains and took up long poles, sloughing heavy poles through locks. The ferry swung about and began to creep to the shore, the two horses bounding down the hill to meet them there. Stranger balked at the edge of the water, but Sandor offered him a few soft-spoken words and a gentle kick, and the stallion moved forward up onto the gangway. Mari’s white gelding did the same, though with marginally less hesitation, more keen to follow the raven-black courser than not.

“We can get you across,” he said sourly. “It will cost you a gold piece. One for your woman. Another for the horses. A third for your son.” Son? Bugger… Mari wondered just how old and haggard she must look at the age of only three and twenty, on the verge of starvation, dirty, and wet from the heavy rainfall.

“Four entire gold dragons?” Sandor gasped. “For four dragons, I should own the bloody ferry.”

“Last year, maybe you could. But with this river, I’ll need extra hands on the poles and oars just to see we don’t get swept a hundred miles out to sea. Here’s your choice. Four dragons, or you teach that warhorse of yours how to walk on water.”

“I like an honest brigand. Have it your way. Four dragons, aye, I’ll give you... When you put us ashore safely on the north bank. Here’s your choice. Gold on the north bank, or steel on the south.” Mari bit her lip as she watched her husband withdraw his blade. Stupid, stupid, no, no, don’t do that…

“I’ll have them now, or we don’t go.” The ferryman thrust out a thick, callused hand, palm up. “How do I know you’ll be good for it, Ser?”

“Knight’s bloody honor,” Sandor said with a devilish smile. Mari fought back the urge to roll her eyes before the men, and little Arya seemed to be struggling not to do the same.

“They’ll be a brazier inside, where your wife and son can get warm–”

“I’m not their bloody stupid son!” Arya suddenly shrieked.

“Please, forgive my little girl,” Mari said, once the horses were aboard and she managed a somewhat clumsy dismount, grabbing onto the scruff of Arya’s soiled shirt collar. “She refuses to dress like a proper lady. Thinks it’ll help her ride and roughhouse better. Also needs to work on her manners, too, I reckon. Don’t you, my dear?”

“Get in there and get dry, you two, like the man said,” Sandor barked. 

Mari nodded at Sandor and took Arya inside the main cabin as the ferryman directed. The big iron brazier was glowing orange-red, filling the room with a sullen, suffocating heat. “You’re itching your head again,” Mari noted, watching as Arya began to furiously scratch at a spot just above the back of her neck.

“Am not,” the girl snapped back, though her itching only became all the more furious. Mari glanced just outside the cabin, watching as Sandor struggled to calm Stranger. It was a grim scene– the nervous stallion always seemed consoled by the words of his master, but not on this evening. Above, the sky darkened, and lightning and thunder cracked and roared, the boat almost shaking.

“When we dock, I’m going to need to comb through your hair,” Mari continued. “I brought a good study comb with me, made of real whale’s bone, from King’s Landing. Thinking I’ll just need to chop off mine, just to have a fresh start. Spent too much time doting on it while on the road… a bloody waste of time.”

“I don’t care about you or your ugly hair,” the girl snapped. “You’re nothing more than a stupid bitch.”

“Well, only one of us has fleas and gave it to everyone,” Mari retorted, her anger rising. “If I’m such a stupid bitch, then you’re nothing more than a flea-ridden pup. Now shut it.” This seemed to, to Mari’s shock, shut the girl thoroughly up, as Arya remained quiet for the remainder of the ride. That is, of course, until they heard a sudden snap!

The ferrymen lunged forward, poles gripped tight. For a heartbeat, she could not grasp the danger. Then they all saw it: an uprooted oak, massive and dark, sweeping down upon them. Its roots and broken limbs jutted like the arms of some deep-sea beast. The oarsmen dug backward furiously, fighting to keep clear of a blow that might shatter hull or roll them under. The old man heaved the rudder, the horsehead prow swinging with the current, but not fast enough. Wet bark gleamed brown and black as the tree came at them like a siege ram.

It was scarcely ten feet off when two boatmen caught it with their poles. One shaft split in two, the crack sharp as thunder, making it seem the ferry itself was breaking apart. But the second man shoved with all his strength, turning the trunk just enough to send it sliding past. Branches scraped across the prow like clawed fingers. They thought themselves safe, yet a high limb struck the side with a heavy smack. The ferry shivered, and Mari gasped as Arya slipped, the girl dropping to her knee with a sharp cry. The man whose pole had snapped was not so fortunate. The churning water swallowed him whole, gone before Arya pushed herself upright, shaking off Mari’s offered hand. Another ferryman snatched a rope, but there was no one left to cast it toward.

They made land two miles downstream from their usual crossing. The boat struck the bank with such force that another pole broke, and both girls stumbled hard. Mari rushed from the cabin to seize her horse’s reins, steadying the white gelding, whose patience had at last worn thin. She mounted with care, her body aching, balance unsteady. Sandor lifted the Stark girl to Stranger’s back as if she were no heavier than a doll. 

The ferrymen stared at them, eyes dull with weariness, save for the bent old man, who thrust out his hand. “Seven dragons,” he rasped. “Three for the fare, and three for the life of my men we’ve lost.”

Sandor dug through his pouch and shoved a crumpled bundle of parchment into the man’s palm. “There. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty...”

“What’s this?” the ferryman frowned.

“A dead man’s note, worth nine thousand dragons or near enough.” Sandor swung into the saddle behind Arya, grinning. “Ten of it’s yours. I’ll come for the rest one day, so guard it well.”

“Writing? What’s the use of that? You swore by your knight’s honor, Ser!”

“Knights keep no damned honor, old man. Time you knew the truth of it.” He spurred Stranger and galloped off through the downpour. Stones and curses flew after them, but Sandor paid no heed, and soon the ferry and river lay lost in the dark behind. “That raft won’t cross till morning,” he muttered. “And they’ll not take paper promises from the next poor fools. If your hunters trail us, they’d best be strong swimmers.”

They rode hard into the storm. Even ten feet back, Mari could hear the Stark girl coughing and shivering, her teeth loudly chattering about in her mouth. At last, they stopped in a stony clearing. Mari sank onto a boulder while Sandor and Arya scrounged for kindling. The wood was sodden, sparks dying each time. 

“Seven hells,” Sandor spat. “I’ve no bloody love for fire.” 

He tore off the vambrace from his scarred arm and unwrapped the burn. Mari hurried to his side, cleaning and soothing it with rainwater, sparing what balm remained. She ripped a strip from the lining of her shift to bind it, as most of Sandor’s spare clothes had already been used. Then she pulled supper from the saddlebag: stale bread, moldy cheese, and sausages, slicing with the Lannister dagger that she now permanently kept tucked in her high wool sock.

Arya’s eyes caught the glint of steel. Mari snapped, “Don’t even think of it. And remember this, girl – Sandor never laid a hand on your sister. That was the courtly knights.”

“Aye,” Sandor said low, not meeting their eyes, his gaze fixed on his plate. “At least the little brat looks at my face. I’ll give you that, she-wolf. How do you like it?”

“I don’t like it. It’s all burned and ugly,” Arya spat, glancing over at Mari. “I don’t understand why she likes you.” Her eyes remained fixed on the dagger, and Sandor took notice. “You’re the ugliest, meanest man I’ve ever met.”

“You’re a little fool. What good would it do you if you did get away from us, little wolf? You’d just get caught by someone worse,” Sandor murmured between bites. 

“There is no one worse than you.”

“You never knew my brother then. Gregor once killed a man for snoring.”

“I did so know your brother. Him and Dunsen and Polliver, and Raff the Sweetling and the Tickler. I met all the Mountain’s men.”

Sandor stopped eating and looked up at the little girl with incredulity. “And how would Ned Stark’s precious little girl come to know about the likes of bloody them? Gregor never brought his pet rats to court.”

“I know them from the village. The village by the lake where they caught Gendry, me, and Hot Pie. They caught Lommy, too, but Raff the Sweetling killed him because his leg was hurt.”

“What the fuck’s a Lommy?” Sandor scoffed. Mari couldn’t help but snicker under her breath, pressing a hand to her mouth, still full of sausage and bread. “And my dim-witted brother caught you? That sonofabitch didn’t know what he had, then. He couldn’t have, or he would have dragged you back kicking and screaming to King’s Landing and dumped you in Cersei’s lap. Oh, that’s bloody sweet. I’ll be sure and tell him that, before I cut his heart out.”

“You want to kill your own brother?” Arya gasped. “Killing your kin is one of the greatest sins there is.” Mari and Sandor exchanged a particular look between them, as, more or less, a cruel, morbid inside joke of sorts. “He’s your brother.”

“Aye, he’s my bloody brother. Killed my wife’s family. Raped her mother. Destroyed her bloody life. Ruined mine, too. So, I’ll slay that cunt and stick his ugly skull on a pike. And I saved your sister, I’ll have you know that. Hate me all you want for cutting your little friend in two– I’ve killed far more than him, and he surely won’t be the last. Saved your sister after the bloody mob pulled her off her chestnut mare during Joff’s procession; they tried to have their way with her, too, I’m sure.”

“You’re lying!”

“You don’t know half as much as you think you do. The Blackwater? Where in the seven hells do you think we are? Where do you think we’re going, girl? Not back to King’s Landing, I can damn well guarantee you. Fuck Joffrey, fuck Cersei, fuck the Imp. I’m done with their city, done with the Kingsguard, done with the Lannisters, done with all bloody lions. I am never going back to the Westerlands. I’m a dog with no master now, and there’s nothing anyone can bloody do about it.”

Mari was silent for a moment, her hands fiddling with the bottom of her dress. “Tomorrow, we should reach the kingsroad, right, Sandor? Then we’ll take the girl to the Twins. Hand her over to her mother. We’ll speak to Robb Stark. It should only be a few more days.”

“My brother would never accept you two,” Arya spat. “Even if you are pregnant and starving. I’ll tell him you’re both monsters.”

“Then we’ll take all the gold we can carry,” Sandor hissed. “Ride off somewhere. Maybe see Mari’s family north of the Neck.” His eyes momentarily softened as they rested on Mari’s beaming face, then her stomach, which she had come to rest a hand upon gently. “But maybe your brother and mother will have the courtesy to invite us to your uncle’s wedding.”

 

SANDOR XXVI

They had stopped by the side of the kingsroad, safe enough and out of sight behind a large pile of mossy rocks. There, Mari had requested his dagger, and he had given it to her. He felt confident enough in the girl to know that her loyalty to the Spider wasn’t all that different than his relationship with the Lannisters– merely transactional. Doing dirty work for a wage. That was most labor, then, wasn’t it?

He watched as she flipped her hair over until she was dangling herself upside-down. Then, she gathered up her locks in a fist, slicing roughly in one fell swoop. Had Sandor known this was what she aimed to do with her knife, he would have stopped her. By the time she flipped back up, a long ponytail of her hair in one tightly clenched fist, her hair was suddenly shoulder-length, curling up towards her ears; her forehead and face were framed by crudely chopped bangs that immediately curled in on themselves. 

“Mari–” he gasped. “What in the seven bloody hells are you doing?” Loath to admit it aloud, especially before the little wolf girl, but he had loved his wife’s hair.

“I’m going to tend to this lice,” she snapped immediately, her spare hand scratching at her head. “Can’t have such long, wild hair on the road, anyhow. Far too much upkeep and work.” Perhaps his face conveyed his devastation, as her eyebrows lifted, eyes turning glossy as she looked at his expression. “Oh, Sandor, please. It’ll grow back. It’s just hair. I’ve seen you scratch, too. You’ll not be spared from me and my soap, in due time. Arya, get over here, girl. I can hear a nearby stream. I’ll scrub you down there, get rid of those bloody bugs, be done with all this itching and madness.” Arya reluctantly hurried over to Mari’s side, watching her intently as she gathered up a few spare shifts from within her bag. “Sandor will stay here, girl. No need to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Arya spat, still following close by Mari’s side, the two girls disappearing just over the hill, out of sight. 

Sandor sat alone, for a time, listening to the sounds of birds and animals, of the whispering wind of the Riverlands, feeling unsteady in the stillness. He thought of Mari, how she’d suddenly seemed to become massive nearly overnight, her belly protruding, completely indistinguishable by now. He thought of her fate had she remained at court, how she’d have been gawked at or– Seven forbid– harmed or beaten. Eventually, enough time had passed that he rose, an almost anxious, neurotic voice deep in the back of his mind suddenly growing fearful. In a few lumbering strides, he followed the girls’ path, peering around the rock. 

There, he watched as the Stark girl, wearing one of Mari’s oversized but clean off-white linen shifts, was sitting cross-legged beside the stream as Mari, sitting near stark naked and shivering in the misty autumnal chill, wearing a still-stained and too-small semi transparent shift, likely her oldest one, was roughly running her comb through the girls hair, pausing from time to time to rinse it off in water, beginning her careful, attentive, and somewhat harsh ministrations again and again. Her face was twisted in a look of intense focus. 

“You can name my horse, if you’d like,” he heard Mari say. “I was never any good at names. My cousin Keeran was the one who named all our horses back home. Do you know how to ride horses, Arya?”

“Of course I can,” Arya snapped, still irritable, though her tone had softened, somehow. “I’d like to name him… Death.”

Sandor’s lip quirked as he heard Mari let out an exasperated sigh. “He’s far too sweet to be called that.”

“But he’s got those scary black-rimmed eyes.”

“Aye, he does. But I still don’t think it’s a fair name.”

Arya let out a resigned sigh. “What about Smith?”

“Smith?”

“Yeah. And you’ll be the red wanderer, what, with your stupid hair, and all. And then you and the Hound will have Stranger and Smith together. I think it’s funny.”

Mari laughed. “Aye, then we’ll call my horse ‘Smith,’ then. I thought the Starks kept the old gods. What do you know about the red wanderer, girl?”

“I know how to read, that’s what,” Arya said. “The maester at Winterfell taught me all about religion. Thought it would do us good, before we went south.”

“I’ll have you know I can read, too, even though I’m lowborn.”

Sandor’s eyes then lingered on Mari’s stomach – now noticeably distended and rounded, marked by silver and purple-blue lines; he could even see the outline of a few ribs peeking through, visible even through the thin, slightly dampened fabric she wore. The sight made him anxious, far more than he would care to admit. He then disappeared back behind the rock and returned to the camp, where he tried, and failed, to light a fire. 

Within the hour, he heard Mari crying out his name. Jolting to his feet, he sprinted over to the girls, just to find them both dressed in fresh linens, their dirty clothes thoroughly scrubbed and sun-drying on a nearby rock. “Sandor, come here. Your turn.” Arya gave him a dark look as he walked over to Mari, sitting cross-legged by the stream just as they had done, his back to Mari as she lathered up the soap in her hands, beginning to roughly scrub at his hair before picking through the strands with her wide-tooth comb. “Lucky you, you’re not nearly as infested as the pair of us.”

“He has less hair,” Arya sneered. “Whole patch of it is missing where he’s burned.”

“Aye, you’re a smart little girl, saying what’s so fucking obvious to anyone with two bloody eyes that can see,” Sandor hissed. He could not deny that his hair was something of an insecurity to him, having kept it long and parted in a particular way, covering his burned half, as he hated the sidelong glances and fearful terror his appearance so often invoked in most people when not, at the very least, partially concealed.

“Cut it out, you two,” Mari snapped, continuing her attentive and borderline painful pulling, combing, and picking at his scalp. “I’ll send the girl back to the camp and try to clean your clothes and armor, Sandor. Care to do us a favor and light a fire, Arya?”

Sandor watched as the Stark girl, to his bewilderment, suddenly seemed far more keen to follow Mari’s orders, nodding as she bounded back over the hill to the campsite. “Been making friends with the little lady, have you?”

“I cared for Myrcella and Tommen; I’m good with children. Arya lashes out because she’s a lost, sad little girl,” Mari whispered. “She’s been through so much. I see a lot of myself in her. I was quite the troublemaker for my uncle, back when I was a wee thing.” Finally, after another ten or so minutes, Mari seemed satisfied with her work. “All done. Now, take off your armor. I ought to give your tunic a wash in the stream, and I can do your other trousers later. And, wait–” She paused, coming around Sandor’s bulk, and withdrawing a small stick, rubbing it aggressively in his mouth for a while. “There, there. Now your teeth are all shiny and clean. Lucky you. Not many have such straight teeth. Haven’t lost any either, have you?” She then pecked a chaste but affectionate kiss on his lips. 

As Mari began to move away, Sandor reached up, cupping the side of her head with his palm, pulling her close to him, pressing his forehead against hers, and closing his eyes. He could feel the dampness of her curls against his hand. She smelled fresh and clean, like the scent of greenness and tilled earth. He felt a sudden surge of terrible fear and horror, wondering if he was doing the right thing by taking them to the Twins, or if he had somehow muddled everything up beyond repair.

“You’ll be alright, Sandor,” her soft, soothing voice whispered into his lips before pressing a tender, deep kiss against his mouth. “Shh, you’ll be alright.” Finally, she pulled away, sitting back on her haunches, her mossy eyes wandering to the nearby trickling stream. A sudden calmness swept over her features, one that Sandor recognized when she fell deep into thought, when the wanderings of her mind were beyond his reach or understanding.

“I’ll show you how to use your dagger properly. Like I promised you,” he finally rasped, adjusting them both so they were standing. Mari beamed, running over to the folded pile of her clothes and belongings, the knife sheathed and still tucked between several piles of freshly washed linen fabrics. “This blade is double-edged. Cuts in both directions. If someone swings a weapon at you with a high, forehanded motion, then you cut the inside of his arm. You can cut the tender muscles, veins, and tendons that way, so he’ll bleed out.” Sandor took hold of Mari’s wrist, his other hand tracing along the line of her inner arm to show her where he meant. “You’re limited in your reach, especially against a bigger man with a bigger blade. Smaller weapons do require more skill in combat, but are good if you are trying to sneak up on someone. Like I’d imagine you would, little lamb.”

“She’s already tried to slit my throat,” Arya suddenly interjected, bounding back over to them from behind the small hill. “I had my own sword, once. But one of Gregor’s men has it, now.” Her voice was oddly wistful, melancholic as she spoke of her lost blade. Then, she turned resolutely back to Sandor. “I was taught swordsmanship from the greatest to ever live, Syrio Forel, the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos. He called it ‘water dancing.’”

“Dancing? Maybe you ought to put on a dress then, she-wolf. Ha! You’ll get yourself killed if you dawdle around like that. That’s no way to bloody fight. Braavos. Greasy-haired little bastard, I bet. They all are over there.”

“What do you know about anything, you big ugly jerk!” Arya spat.

“I bet Syrio Forel’s hair is greasier than Joff’s cunt.”

“Sandor–” Mari interjected, to no avail.

“It was not!” the little wolf protested.

“Was? He dead?”

“Yes…”

“How?”

“He was killed.”

“Who by?”

“Meryn Trant.”

“Meryn Trant? The greatest swordsman who ever lived killed by Meryn-fucking-Trant? That fat, stubby little whoring bastard? Oh, aye, any boy with a sword could beat three Meryn-fucking-Trants.”

“Syrio didn’t have a weapon or any armor.”

“The greatest swordsman who ever lived had no bloody sword, then?” Sandor burst into raucous laughter. Mari looked on, unamused, her hands crossed tightly across her chest. “Your friends and family are all dead, girl, and Meryn Trant’s not ‘cause Trant had armor. And a big fuckin’ sword.”

“Are you lot finished?” Mari sighed. “We ought to dress and be on our way before we run into anyone.” She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, her arms broken out in gooseprickles in the chilly autumnal air, looking around at the vast expanse of rolling green and misty nothingness surrounding them for miles. 

Sandor left them to dress as he began to pack up the tent, making sure the horses were groomed as best as he could manage with such limited supplies, gathering up the horses before hoisting up a dressed and readied Arya atop Stranger with one hand. Mari followed shortly behind, though his eyes could not help but linger on how long it took her to mount her gelding, how her center of gravity seemed weighty, how her face changed into a minuscule twisted expression of pain as she adjusted her weight in the saddle, taking a moment to ensure her feet were secure in the metal stirrups.

They rode on for a few hours in total silence, going a bit slower than he would have otherwise preferred to accommodate Mari, who seemed pained whenever they rode at a trotting pace, preferring to canter when possible, though such a gait tended to tire out the horses faster and needlessly. Finally, off in the distance, they caught sight of something along the kingsroad, where they were heading. It appeared to be a wayn pulled by two slow-moving mules, having come to a complete standstill. Sandor held out a hand, indicating for Mari to stop riding, and then dismounted Stranger, flipping the stallion’s reins over its head, leading them all over to the man. Upon closer inspection, it appeared the wagon had been partially flipped to one side, a wheel stuck in a particularly deep crack in the wet, muddy road.

“Sandor, what are you doing?” Mari asked behind him.

“No other reason to head north along the kingsroad than to go to the wedding,” he said back to her, his gait picking up as they began to approach the man. He paused only to pull Arya from the saddle and hand her off to Mari, who was already following his lead and dismounting Smith. “Now, remember, girl, I’m your father and I’ll do the talking,” Sandor hissed to Arya. “And you, wife, stay back with her. I’ll not have you both intervening.”

Sandor approached the man, making sure to keep his hand from the hilt of his longsword. The farmer momentarily stilled at the sight of Sandor’s looming shadow, but his face brightened when he saw Mari and Arya standing just behind him. “The roads have gone right to hell, haven't they? Cracked three spokes this morning.”

“Need a hand?” Sandor offered.

“Need about eight hands. Got to get this salt pork to The Twins in time for the wedding,” the farmer explained as Sandor lifted the cart all on his own, righting it. “Many thanks. Why, you’re quite the big fellow, aren’t you?” As the man smiled, Sandor withdrew his sword, placing it directly in the pig farmer’s heart. He could hear Mari and Arya gasp behind him. 

“A robber!”

“No, a forager. Be grateful you get to keep your small clothes. Now take those boots off. Or I’ll take your legs off. Your choice.” The farmer was nearly as tall and hefty as Sandor, but he chose to give up his boots and keep his legs. “I’ll be needing your cart. You can keep the bloody horse, we have our own.” The farmer reluctantly handed Sandor his farmer’s boots and the large, wool-hooded cloak he wore.

“Odd thing, for an honorless sellsword to do his dirty work ‘front of his wife and son,” the farmer began. “May the Seven guide and protect–” Before the man could finish his little prayer, Sandor stepped forward, knocking the farmer square in the face with his free gauntleted hand, and knocking the old man out cold.

“Sandor!” Mari objected, her voice shrill and incredulous. “Really!”

“Don’t!” Sandor’s eyes nearly rolled into the far back of his skull as he heard the little wolf’s petulant whines as he moved to put away his sword. “Oh, don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!”

“Had no plans to kill him, girl,” Sandor groaned. “But now that you mention it… aye… dead rats don’t squeak… now do they?”

Suddenly, Arya leaped before him. “You're so dangerous, aren't you? Saying scary things to little girls. Killing little boys and old people. A real hard man you are. I know a killer, though. A real killer. He would kill you with his little finger. You’d be like a kitten to him.” Sandor took a step toward the man, but little Arya spread her arms wide, her face twisted in anguish and upset. “No, stop! Don’t kill him!”

“You’re too kind, little wolf,” he laughed. “Someday it’ll get you killed.”

Behind her, the farmer seemed to regain consciousness, fumbling to stand. Taking Sandor by surprise, Arya proceeded to grab a piece of spare wood from the cart, swiftly knocking the man across the face as he fell unconscious again. Mari let out a shrill gasp of horror as Sandor meandered over to the cart, opening several of the wooden containers and taking a hearty bite of the pig's feet.

“No one’s going to believe you’re a real hog farmer if you eat them all,” Arya said.

Sandor waved one of the partially gnawed feet in Arya’s direction, mockingly. “Aye, but it’s the best part of the animal.”

“Leave the poor farmer his old mules, at least,” Mari begged Sandor, who shrugged, cutting the two grey mules free, watching as they wandered off in entirely differing, seemingly random directions. Mari cast him an incredulous, annoyed look, but went to collect Smith and Stranger to properly attach them to the front of the rickety wayn.

Notes:

Random asf, but each chapter is thematically oriented around a song (see ch 2 for the playlist) and I will say... "Cannock Chase" by Labi Siffre is perhaps one of the greatest songs ever written, in my opinion. Spellbinding, magical, even. I force everyone on road trips, as the designated chronic passenger princess, to listen to it on loop. It's the perfect little somber adventure song to listen to while taking in vast, expansive rural landscapes and feeling a deep longing in your heart. So, yeah. Just living my truth and being a cornball, etc.