Chapter Text
Sansa couldn't get the story out of her head, and she wept into her pillow, long after Sandor Clegane had returned her to her chamber. Gods, what had the scarred warrior been forced to endure! To be burnt by your own brother...
Sansa tried to imagine Robb or Jon or even Theon doing something similarly disgusting to their siblings, but failed. She couldn't even envision Arya of being able to harm her in such a way, mutual loathing notwithstanding. How depraved was a man who was capable of scorching his baby brother over a trifle like a puppet?
And to see such a monster raised to the position of a knight... no wonder that the Hound was such a bitter man and always growling as if he were an escutcheon animal come to life!
"I need to help the poor man. Or at least to cheer him up. I'm sure the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone would approve of that. And a true lady would neither look at the Hound's scars nor would she be upset by his grumpy behaviour or his bad wording. Hm... - but what could I do?"
Sansa started to ponder various alternatives.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It was the second day of the Tournament of the Hand. Sandor was in his little tent and in the process of putting on his armour for the upcoming fights. Of course, the tent - unlike the impressive constructions of the noble bigwigs - was neither big nor high enough for his tall frame.
"Careful with that breastplate!" Sandor snarled at his squire Grayle, and the lad winced and nodded.
A gentle cough caused Sandor to look up. His eyes widened. Was he seeing things... despite not having drunk a drop of wine in the evening, so as to be fit today?
But no, he was sober, his mind was focused... and that blasted redhead of a Stark girl was standing in the entrance.
"Ser Sandor..."
"I'm no ser. And since when do you intrude on men in their tents? Were you planning to see me naked before putting on my armour?"
Sansa Stark flushed bright red and made some spluttering sounds, like a bird you pressed under water. His squire didn't look much better than the lass.
He sighed and gave up.
"What is it, girl? What do you want? Chirp out what you have to tell me and be gone. I need to concentrate on the upcoming duels."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Grayle wanted to sink into the ground. If he had not been a bastard, and if he had had a chance to squire for a real knight he would have done so, but as it was...
Gods, his master was behaving like a hog again! How could anyone talk to the most noble and beautiful Lady Sansa like that!? She was betrothed to Prince Joffrey after all, no less!
But then again - what was such a goddess doing here in such a lowly tent? He shrank into the background and pricked up his ears.
Lady Sansa said: "I wanted to thank you for walking me back home to my room yesterday evening, and I'd like to give you this."
She held out her open palm. Grayle craned his neck and was flustered. The young lady was presenting his master the head of an arrow.
The Hound stared at the token in disbelief as well.
"Seems like the pretty, air-headed girl has forgotten the shaft. Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised a mollycoddled maid wouldn't think of a shaft."
Grayle wanted to palm his face in shame, but he remained as still as a mouse.
"My Lord..."
"I'm NO LORD, girl!"
Lady Sansa was crimson in the face now.
"I... it's just... this piece has been blessed by a septon of the Warrior. It's supposed to be a talisman for your duels today. I just wanted to wish you good luck."
The Hound looked at the arrowhead like a girl would at a dirty worm.
"I spit on the Seven and the Faith. On gods in general. Religion is nothing but Sweetsleep for the masses."
On hearing this, Grayle watched Sansa's face fall, and her lip started to tremble.
"Oh... I'm sorry if...," she managed to say before Clegane interrupted her: "Give it to me anyway."
And with those words, he snatched the token from her fingers.
Lady Sansa's eyes were a little teary now, but she still sported a shy smile.
"I'll watch you from the king's box. I hope you'll ride well today."
The Hound grunted.
The young lady looked as if she might have wanted to say something more, but then, she turned around and left.
Grayle didn't get it. A present from the prince's fiancée for this scarred, lowly...?
"If you breathe as much as a single word about this to someone else, squire, I'll crush your skull with my bare hands."
Clegane was staring at him now, and his slate gaze was piercing. Deadly.
Grayle breathed in.
"My lips are sealed."
He wasn't suicidal, was he? And he knew the Hound's words were no empty threat.
With trembling hands, the squire continued to fasten his master's breastplate.