Chapter Text
If there is one thing your father taught you to beware, that was conceit, and the spiteful child they named ‘king’ is always full of it.
He feeds off violence, shows no mercy and convinces himself he’s above all. You bite your tongue, keep quiet like you’ve been warned to do, time after time.
Yet when his cruelty turns to Sansa, something snaps inside you. Joffrey’s eyes turn to you, green and cold just like his mother’s, but filled with such hatred that you’re certain you won’t make it out alive.
“You should know better than to interfere when I’m addressing my bride, although such behavior is to be expected of savage northern whores…”
His hand reaches for your face and grasps your jaw almost painfully, forcing you to look at him, to fear him.
“…perhaps I should take it upon myself to educate you.”
Your sister’s cries are distant and your body jerks towards her but his grip doesn’t waver.
“Ser Meryn, why don’t you go ahead and teach her some manners?”
The larger man does not need to be told twice.
The strike is sudden and hard, it sends you to your knees and echoes in the room with its high pillars and majestic dome, all built at the expense of others. The taste of blood reaches your mouth, one you haven’t experienced in years, ever since you fell off your horse while racing John.
“It’s a shame really, to mar a lovely face. Thank the gods you won’t be mine to look at.”
And when your dress is half-ripped from you, no one bats an eye. You don’t have the strength to look up, hands busy conserving what’s left of your dignity.
The grand door opens and heavy steps sound, but your ears are ringing so loudly, it’s all muttering to you.
But then you feel hands on your forearms, heavy fabric being laid on you for the sake of your modesty. The man’s breathing is soft in your ear as he gathers in you in his arms, like the wounded bird he thinks you are.
You hear the youngest Lannister speak counted, educated words so unlike the spiteful ones of the child king. It all fades in the background once you’re out of the throne room.
You curl into the giant man, something so unlike you and any other Stark. It’s funny really, your father called you ‘girl’, your mother called you ‘woman’ but in this godforsaken place, you feel like neither. Sparks seem to ignite inside you every so often, lighting the fire of survival.
And at times like this, you feel helpless. You’re a girl now, no doubt.
So you curl into the Hound’s arms and wait. For what, you don’t know. Maybe another act of violence, some hateful word to fall from his lips or for him to dismiss you when you need him so badly. He’s nothing to you, but he’s all you got now.
When he places you back on the ground, his gaze is soft, driving your eyes away from the angry scar.
“You think you can stand on yer own, little bird?”
You only nod and it’s timid… tired.
“Good. Off you go then, you should get that thing looked at.”
On pure instinct, your hand reaches for your face, pressing down the numb area where Trant struck. The blood is sticky on your hands but the pain has not kicked in yet.
“Go on now, you wouldn’t want to get a scar on such a pretty face.”
You move to unwrap his cloak from your shoulders, modesty be damned, but he stops you. His hand moves to your cheek, right above the red print of a hand that he should rip off, and dripping blood that he wipes away with a swipe of his thumb.
“I’ll send a maester. Now go.”
He’s not sure if it’s a ‘thank you’ you mutter, but he watches you go, his songbird with broken wings.
As night gathers he returns to your hallway, seats himself in some dark corner. Close enough to keep an eye on you, far enough to not attract any attention. A handmaiden comes and goes, always walks a little faster when their gazes meet.
He drinks plenty, watches the sunrise from the high window.
When you finally emerge, clad in a new dress and thicker skin, he’s not there.