Chapter Text
Alayne knew they expected her to be afraid, when the Hound came.
The maids were out of their wits with terror. They shook and moaned and spoke of his brother the Mountain and his three murdered wives; the trail of carnage and rape he left wherever he trod. Alayne would have been shaking too, had the Mountain come to the Vale.
She could hear them all, whispering of Saltpans, a whole town butchered and torched. Of his capacity to butcher, Alayne had no doubts. But he wouldn’t set a town alight. He wouldn’t.
Her father’s guards spoke in edgy tones of the rumours that the Hound had died. Alayne had heard nothing of this, and she was glad of it. Such a thought would not have given her any comfort at all, though she was sure the rest of the Seven Kingdoms must have felt very differently.
The guards spoke as though the Hound had been resurrected, and Alayne prayed that it was so, prayed that he could cut his way through them to her side as he had during the bread riots. There were only ten guards, the others having been slain during an attack by outlaws two weeks past. Ten of them to one of him, and yet Alayne knew they were almost as frightened as the maids. Even Petyr looked worried, though he did his best to hide it.
Alayne wasn’t afraid. Not in the least. And not because she was bastard-brave, either. A spark kindled in her tummy the moment she heard them speak his name – a spark that had been extinguished for so long, ever since they beheaded her father, or perhaps even before that, perhaps when they killed Lady. The spark had nothing to do with Alayne. It was born entirely of Sansa.
Sansa Stark knew Sandor Clegane. She knew of his scars and his fears, knew the terrible things he had done, knew how to bring tears to his eyes. She knew his great strength, tempered and clawed at by his consuming weaknesses. And she knew, with an iron certainty that filled her very bones, that he would not hurt her.
Part of her wondered if he had come to rescue her.
‘No need to fear, sweetling,’ said Petyr. He stroked her cheek. ‘Famed warrior he may be, but he is only one man. The guards will take care of him.’
The guards did not.
Sandor Clegane strode into the room clad in no helm and no armour, but instead in a brown roughspun robe more suited to a wandering brother than a warrior. He held a plain wooden shield and wielded a great shining sword. He did not glance her way, but Alayne’s pulse quickened at the sight of him.
His burns were as terrible as ever; twisted and blackened and gnarled, with that awful piece of bone poking through his skin at the jaw. The good side of his face was still harsh and hard, his grim laugh scraping out like steel on stone. Yet Alayne could not rip her eyes away. He was here, he really was, it was him. He was methodically cutting his way through Petyr’s guards, moving with effortless and impossible grace. Killing’s the sweetest thing there is, she thought, as every deathly blow he dealt brought him closer to her and closer.
The last of her father’s guards fell. Beside her, Petyr sucked in a breath. His hand groped for hers and held it, but she barely noticed. The Hound’s gaze had fallen upon her, and she had never seen him look at her so.
‘Little bird,’ he rasped, and she needed to hear nothing else. Sansa Stark yanked her hand away from Littlefinger, ran across the stone floor, and flung herself at Sandor Clegane.
He did not stagger, did not even flinch, though she could feel the tension in his body, see the bewilderment in his face. She did not give him a chance to speak.
‘You’ll take me away, won’t you, my lord?’ Sansa begged him, her knuckles white and clenched around the front of his robe. ‘You don’t care about my claim, I know you don’t. You won’t make me marry anybody. You won’t hurt me. You’ll keep me safe. If anyone tries to hurt me, you’ll kill them, you said so. Please – you’ll never lie to me, I remember. You’ll protect me, you always did. I’ll do anything you want, I swear it. I’ll kiss you, as often as you’d like. I’ll sing you a song every day if you wish it, just please don’t leave me again, my lord. Please take me with you.’
Sandor Clegane stared down at her in absolute shock. Her outburst had rendered him speechless. Petyr too. Sansa revelled in it. She gazed breathlessly at the Hound, her chest pressed against his, and watched as his gaze darted to her lips, to her breasts, before he seemed to shake himself a little. The familiar rage returned to his eyes, but she was past fearing him. She felt a large hand at her back, holding her to him and stroking clumsily at Alayne’s long brown hair, and she buried her face in his chest, breathing in deep. He smelled of sweat and blood. Not wine.
‘What have you done to her?’ she heard him snarl above her head.
‘I’ve been protecting her –’
‘Protecting her so well she threw herself at me?’ The Hound let out a terrible laugh. ‘She wouldn’t even do that when she was betrothed to Joff. I’ll ask again, Littlefinger. What. Have. You. Done?’
‘I tell you, I’ve been caring for her. You know they married her to the Imp? Whatever she suffered at his hands, she hasn’t been right since. There are times when I worry for her sanity, you know. So I hid her, kept her tucked away safe with me. I’m not surprised she ran to you. You wouldn’t be the first man to taste her kisses.’
Sansa reared back.
‘That’s a lie!’ she cried. ‘My lord husband never touched me, you know he didn’t! You’ve been waiting to annul the marriage so you can marry me to Sweetrobin, or to Harry the Heir, or to you for all I know, because you want my claim to the North!’ She turned from Littlefinger, sickened, and stared at Sandor Clegane. She was unable to look him in the eye for long, but this time it was not because of his eyes, but because of her own shame. ‘I... I didn’t want to kiss him. He called me Alayne and he said he was my father, but a father should – a true father would not touch his daughter like that.’
She did not dare to look at him now. She was petrified that he wouldn’t want her any more. Perhaps Petyr was right. Perhaps she had begun to lose her mind. At times Alayne had certainly felt that way; as though she was drifting and lost, her head wrapped in fog and her feet barely touching the ground. The world had seemed less threatening, but was that only because she had truly taken leave of her senses?
She felt the Hound grip her closer, and dared to peep up at him. His jaw was clenched hard.
‘Where could I take you, girl?’ he said. ‘There’s nowhere safe for you. The number of buggering knights looking to find you... you’re worth a fat purse of dragons from the eunuch, at the very least.’
‘It’s safe here,’ said Littlefinger. ‘The Vale is barely touched by the war, the Eyrie near impregnable. I know your worth, Clegane. I have just seen it demonstrated against my guards. Stay with me and Sansa. Enter my employ, and I’ll reward you with far more than a fat purse of dragons. Far more than anything Sansa could give you, for that matter. Is that to your liking?’
‘Might be,’ said the Hound.
Sansa’s tummy dropped, and she could no longer look at him. She swayed and guttered against him like a snuffed-out candle. Every man has a price, she thought dully. She had been foolish to think he was different, to think he might care for her. How many times must I put my faith in the wrong man?
‘You’ll have gold – double whatever the eunuch is promising – and wine and women. Lands and titles too – marriage, if you wish it. And if you long for a sweeter prize... it’s true Sansa must remain a maid until she’s been wed to a more suitable husband than the Imp. But after that... well. Who’s to say what might happen?’
Sansa trembled. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. She wondered if she might faint.
‘You’d whore out the Stark girl for my sword.’ The Hound’s voice was flat.
‘That’s not how I’d put it,’ said Littlefinger. ‘And I think you and I both know that’s not just any sword, Clegane.’
The Hound said nothing. He ran his hand up through Alayne’s hair and over her shoulder, until he was holding her chin impossibly gently. He lifted her face to meet his. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her face petrified with fear, her whole body shaking like a leaf. She knew he hated to see her like this, was sure he would snarl and snap at her for being small and weak and afraid, but she met his eyes as best she could and waited. There are no true knights.
‘Shall I kill him for you, little bird?’
Sansa started, and stared.
It’s his eyes, she realised. He is still angry, but something is different. He isn’t angry with me. In fact, Sandor Clegane was looking down at her with something akin to tenderness. When was the last time anyone had gazed at her in that way? It softened his face completely. She would never have been frightened of him in the least, if only he had looked at her like this.
‘Yes,’ she said faintly.
The Hound disentangled himself from her and strode across the room. Petyr Baelish protested and bargained; offered more gold, more power, more lands, even Sansa’s hand, but it was all for naught. Sansa thought she knew what Sandor Clegane wanted, but it was nothing that Littlefinger would ever think to offer him.
Sandor eased the sword into Petyr’s heart almost lovingly, and Sansa watched him die. He was smaller in death. She had never noticed how much shorter than her he was. She supposed it had never really occurred to her that he could be killed.
The Hound wiped his sword on Petyr’s tunic.
‘Best we leave, little bird,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep you safe. I swear it.’