Chapter Text
Sandor had never been a happy man or a cheerful one, but that day he was particularly displeased with himself and with his life in general. How could he not be? He was standing in front of a wide mirror, and a scarred face was returning his disgusted stare.
He was elegantly dressed in a black and yellow tunic and black breeches - fine, expensive garments. Too fine and refined for the second son of a landed knight, too much like those of a lord... and not at all fitting for the man who was wearing them, a ugly, scarred scoundrel whose bloody reputation among the Lannister always preceeded him.
Sandor knew he wasn't welcome in Winterfell, and did not resent those northerners who eyed him with scorn and obvious distaste.
After all, he was Sandor Clegane. His brother had so much to answer for, he doubted anyone - even the fucking Gods - could remember every corpse, rape and mischief he had left behind in his trail. And aside for him brother, he had his own crimes to answer for. He had killed countless men; always under orders, mayhaps, but Lannister orders.
It did not matter, therefore, that he was changed. It did not matter to those little buggers that he was not his brother, or the Lannister dog, or that he had saved Lady Sansa Stark from bloody Littlefinger. And he was fine with that - didn't much care for what people thought, anyway, and besides, he could not deny what he had done, and he did not wish to.
One could have argued that Jaime Lannister was not half so resented as he was, in spite of his having pushed Brandon Stark from a window, killed the king he had sworn to obey, fucked his sister and fathered the brat who had turned out to be the worst King after Aerys and who had chopped off Lord Eddard Stark's head - but then again, Lannister had a pretty face and a charming smile and he had forlorn his own family to serve the Starks, Winterfell, the North, the cause.
And he is not the new Lord of Deepwood Motte, Sandor mused to himself gloomily. Jaime Lannister was a guest at Winterfell and he had proved himself to be a fierce warrior, even after leaving a hand behind at Harrenhal. Aye, Rickon Stark - well, his advisors - had not judged it wise to let him have anything but his freedom - neither lands, titles or friends. Jaime didn't seem to care.
"I have sworn to protect a king, or a queen, and here I am. Let Tyrion have Casterly Rock and fuck all the whores he likes", he had said to Sansa Stark, "since we have defied him in both his marriages", he had added, bitterly.
Sandor could not guess why it would be different for himself, the Lannister Dog, the murderer. He was sure that his name had not been spoken to the Lord of Winterfell by his counsellors. ' tis the little Bird's doing, of course. Always courteous and proper, but now she has been taught to chirp like a mockingbird.
Little Bird.
As soon as her name crossed his mind he froze, and gritted his teeth as her picture surfaced, accompanied by memories. To think of her always made him uncomfortable, and it was a first to him. That a girl should make him so uneasy was annoying. Her ghost was haunting him, and it had since he had brought her back to her beloved Winterfell.
She's nothing more than a pretty bird, regardless of the songs she can sing, he told himself, but he could not fully believe it. It did not prevent his cock from stiffening, pressing against his breeches, as he thought of her swollen lips, full teats, and auburn hair. '
I have spent too much time around her, that's all', he said to himself. She was pretty, aye, but he did not care. He needed a good fuck, and he was going to find one as soon as he could. You're a sick fuck, dog.
Sansa Stark had been almost too kind to him since their journey had ended. She seemed to have forgotten all the terrible things that had happened to her because of him, all the horrible things he had said to her, when he had come to her that night, the Night o the Blackwater... but he knew she had not. And he could still picture her screaming his name, as she raised the great sword above her head...
She wanted to give me a reward - a gift to her dog, a pat on my head.
She was oddly fond of him, in a girlish sort of way Sandor could not even pretend to understand. For the short period of time he had spent as her sworn shield after their arrival in Winterfell, she had been kind, sweet, always looking at him with eyes full of gratitude and good-will. He still intimidated her, but she sometimes raised her head and looked at him right in the face without flinching.
It had been an easy task for her, to convince her little brother Rickon that there was no harm in having Sandor Clegane as a Stark bannerman and a Lord. It had been meant as a slight to their allies, honeyed under the pretense of a reward for him. None of the lords was to be trusted much, in Sansa's opinion; to let them have another castle, another land, would have been too much.
The Dreadford had been assigned to Brynden Tully, and Karhold, though formally destined to Sansa herself, was now used by Stannis to be near to the Wall. Some other fortresses remained, however, and Deepwood Motter, after the fall of House Glover, had been one of them.
There you are now, dog. Never wanted to be a fucking lord, but it looks like you don't have a choice. That thrice damned brat, Rickon Stark, had laughed heartily when Sandor had declined his offer. "I will be King of the North one day. This is a command, San- Clegane, not an offer. I wish you to be rewarded for your services to my sister, the Lady Stark. And besides", the boy had said, cheerfully, with a vicious smile, "I cannot wait to displease all these liars I'm surrounded with." The boy was quite smart for his age, if a little wild. Skagos had taught him to be strong.
The Little Bird had been there too, clad in a green dress - the one that let her shoulders bare, giving him a good opportunity to look at her neck and admire her. Her hair had been braided and decorated with green ribbons. She was beautiful, but then, the girl always was. She had looked at him, half in hope, half in perturbation, a slight blush on her pale cheeks. And that had settled the matter.
Sandor looked at his reflection once more.
I should have never accepted. Seven hells, what the fuck an I doing? he thought, feeling a strange kind of rage building inside of him. All that time he had spent on the Quiet Isle had not changed him as much as he might have wanted. His brother was dead now - twice - depriving him of the very cause of his anger, but also leaving an emptiness which...
Fuck. What am I thinking?
Sandor had always been a man of action, and proud to be so. He knew that the process of thinking too often lead people to wrong convintions. To him, there was no right or wrong, no lies and no truth. The world was as grey as the eyes with which Sandor watched, unnoticed and unsought, from a corner.
Lord Sandor Clegane of Deepwood Motte. That would be his title after the ceremony, but he hated it. All he wanted was - he did not know it himself, but it didn't matter. Sandor Clegane was not a deserving man, much less a lucky one. He never got what he wanted.
"Not the white dress, surely" Randa said, vehemently. "The blue one, I say. It suits you and matches with your eyes. You know how beautiful your eyes are, my sweetest Sansa"
"The blue one is too tight" Sansa said. "I have trouble breathing. Besides, it is a perfectly indifferent matter to me, whether I will be pretty or not. It will not be a very mundane occasion"
"Therefore, everyone will be bored, and will seek some comfort and amusement looking at the ladies - and you are the prettiest. Do you not want to be pretty?" Randa teased her.
Sansa blushed, feeling conscious but now knowing about what. "Of course I would want to look fine. As the Lady of Winterfell, isn't it my duty to please?". That explanation sounded lame to her own years, and Randa laughed. "Aye, and a very grievous duty it is, isn't it?".
Sansa smiled too. "Still, the white dress will do, I think"
"For going to the Godswood? It would be a shocking waste of Lysenian silk, if you ask me. Such a nice fabric, and your maid sewed a very pretty dress out of it, though a little too chaste in my humble opinion"
That argument had a certain weight, she could not deny it. "Very good then. But the blue dress is not appropriate, and besides, the fabric is too light. I will catch a cold"
"Why don't you put the yellow one on then? Cleagane will wear black and yellow"
Sansa laughed, nervously. "I cannot wear his colours. It would look queer" she argued, but she caught herself wondering whether he would like her in yellow. What would he think of her? He would tease me for my nonsense and tell me not to behave as in my songs, of course. He is always so displeasing when I try to be nice, she thought. Still perhaps he would be pleased with her, knowing that she had tried to be pretty for him, and would give her a gruff compliment disguised as mockery.
"These are things men like, though" Randa said. "Not even the fiercesome Hound would be indifferent to a maiden clad in his colours"
"He hates courtsies" Sansa remarked, shaking her head, "and besides, I am not scheming to impress him"
"Aren't you, really? Perhaps you should" Randa said, her lips stretching in an even bigger smile.
Sansa looked at her, shocked to hear such am insinuation. "How did such a thing first come into your head?" she cried. "To encourage one who is so much below me would only be cruel, while he - he has been very kind to me".
As she spoke she endeavoured to keep her voice calm and indifferent. The Hound had not only been kind to her - he had been her friend and preserver, had rescued her, had taken her home. He and Jaime Lannister had snatched her from Littlefinger's claws, and they had risked their lives countless times to protect her, even knowing there could be no reward for them.
I thought they were all dead. Bran and Rickon and Arya and Jon, I thought they had all left me.
Yet they had stayed.
They were there when she first heard of Jon's death, when she thought even her last brother had disappeared.
They were there when Littlefinger had sent Lyn Colbray and his men to take her back.
They were there when Robert Strong had appeared, a black giant born from fear, hate, death.
Why are you sad now, you silly girl? She thought, feeling an unwelcome lump in her throat. This is a happy day. It was you who persuaded Rickon to give Clegane a lordship. He deserves it.
"What a little prudish thing you are, Sansa" Randa smiled. "Men will like you all the better for it, you know - it lets them think they are the predator, not the prey". She patted her cheek, gazing at her fondly. "I was merely suggesting you might find a great pleasure with him. After all, I'm sure he at least likes you very much, and he would be glad to be your lover"
Sansa blushed and tried to picture the Hound bowing towards her, kissing her - not like that time, but slowly, gently. To imagine it was enough to make her uneasy, and she could not - would not dwell upon it. The Blackwater night was still fixed in her mind - green emeralds of fire exploding in the sky, cries of pain and horror reaching the Red Keep, and his cruel mouth pressed on her.
Alayne Stone had recalled that many times, trying to escape the truth of her condition, but when she had seen Sandor Clegane again she had almost forgotten that kiss at all, or the fear she had felt when he had threatened her with the knife.
A long time ago it had been, and Sandor Clegane had never touched her improperly again. Rude and mocking he had been, but she had felt safe all the same, and for that she was grateful.
He is not the Hound anymore, but he is still a killer. He is no knight. How could I love a man like him?
No, she could not, and she was sure - she was quite sure Clegane must feel the same. He had told her she was pretty once or twice, when in his liquours, but she knew she was. Mayhaps he might look at her with some partiality and find her good to look at, but she had never seen love in his eyes.
"Neither I nor Sandor Clegane would dream of such a thing. He is coarse and ugly, and besides, he thinks I'm still a child" she shook her head. "And you forget I am a maiden still"
"Well, maiden or not, you'd still be a good catch for any big lord" Randa said, and she shrugged in a very unladylike way. "So you are quite determined not to have him"
"Quite so" Sansa said, firmly. She felt she had to convince her friend of it now, before she could take a fancy on that idea. It would be dangerous to have her believe it, for Randa was always very bold and forward, and used to have her own way. If she thinks I love him, she'll try to bring us together, one way or the other.
"I see" Randa said, nodding. She seemed persuaded, which pleased Sansa very much. "Well then-" she seemed to entertain another thought, then, because she stopped mid-sentence and her expression changed many times, so quickly that Sansa could not read though them.
"So" Randa Royce said, after a while. "Have you decided what you are going to wear?"
Sansa was relieved to find her friend did not wish to push the matter further. "I think you are right - the white gown would not do for the Godswood. The purple one would be more appropriate"
"Very much so" Randa said, even though the purple dress was too chaste to be one of her favourites. "Excellent choice, my dear. Will you keep your hair down?"
"I don't think so. I think I'll have Tansy do my hair - nothing too much, something in the northern fashion" she said, lightly.
"You know, Sansa, perhaps I should try to wear it like that too" Randa said, thoughtfully. "I wonder if it would suit me or not"
"I told you it would" Sansa laughed. "But you always refused to try". Randa's mood and decisions changed almost daily, Sansa knew, and so abruptly she was always taken aback by it.
Randa laughed too. "What am I supposed to do with you, Sansa? I shouldn't have a friend with such a good memory - it becomes too easy for you to shame me"
"You are sharp-tongued enough to prevent me from winning any oral dispute that may arise between us" Sansa remarked. "Therefore, it is I that should beware of you"
"Aye, and tonight every other woman will beware of us both" Randa said, raising from her seat and collecting her needlework from the small table, "for we will outshine them in both beauty and charm"
Giggling, they parted.