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Chapter Text

Across the training field, he stood tall and fierce against two recruits. The man defended their weak blows with an effortless lift of the blade. 

It was only two weeks ago when you joined the Lannister guard. Your disappointment was immeasurable when you learned that Ser Barristan was relieved of his service, and replaced by Jaime Lannister. Gone was your opportunity to train beneath Lord Commander Barristan Selmy, the greatest fighter to walk the lands of Westeros. Instead, they assigned you to train under Sandor Clegane, the Hound. 

On your first day, the other trainees, mostly boys and a few men, informed you that Sandor would not be so bad. Trainees took their meals outside of the White Sword Tower, while Kingsguard and the Lord Commander ate inside. You stuffed your belly with bread and stew as the others shared their woes-- Ilyn Payne, despite his inability to speak, was cruel and unreasonable, Ser Boros unwashed and rank, and the rest just as bad. It seemed the best of the best were unavailable to train new recruits, such as Ser Jaime and Ser Mandon Moore. 

“You’ve got it lucky,” one man said, chewing through doughy bread with only seven teeth. “I train with Ser Gregor.”

You shivered a bit at the thought.

At first, you were happy with your assignment. If the other knights and Kingsguard were so wretched, and you wound up with the only tolerable master-at-arms, you thought to keep it that way and train your hardest. But things soured quickly.

Sandor hated you. 

When you met, he scrutinized your appearance, stating that you were not tall enough to be a knight. But you were stocky and well-built from the farmwork your father assigned you, and anyway, there were boys amongst your group shorter than you, and he never scrutinized them. This was your first sign that things would not go so well, but he allowed you to train anyway. In fact, he picked you first, putting you up against two others.

“Against two?” you had said, taking a wooden sword from the rack.

The Hound watched you closely. “Yes, against two. Do you think war will be fair?” he scolded as sweat dripped down his forehead. “Go on.”

You knew he wanted to see you fail.

The first man was tall, skinny, and unassuming. His two front teeth stuck out. The other was shorter than you, with thick black eyebrows that made him look perpetually angry. You braced yourself as Sandor counted down. 

The goal was to disarm, not to injure. The lanky man approached you first, unsure and shaky on his feet. He served the first swing. You blocked it easily, and managed to disarm him in less than a minute. 

The other, whose name you later learned was Randyl, had a different approach. He swung hard and fast, overpowered you in strength, and was difficult to evade. Randyl hit you hard in the chest before disarming you, the wood flying from your palm.

“Accident,” he muttered. 

If Sandor cared that the rules were broken, he did not show it. He moved on to the next set of men. You watched his pupils flick between the trainees, sizing them up, gauging their true ability. Then he noticed you and narrowed his eyes. 

Watching him now, you could tell that he was no teacher. He gave direct commands and vague comparisons, instead of encouragement and explanation of technique. Sandor went up against two trainees, a boy of thirteen named Jason, and a man whose name you were uncertain of. He made easy work of them, and was quicker on his feet, but never caused them harm. When either made a mistake, he tapped his wooden sword on their shoulder with a disapproving stare. 

You began to grow bored of this ordeal. Sandor was no better a fighter than Ser Loras Tyrell, or Ser Barristan Selmy, and you regarded his advice as pointless. Just as your mind started to drift, a white flurry of wings and beak appeared before your eyes. It was an egret, landing only a few feet away, its feathers vibrant against the crusted dirt. It let out a desperate crackling noise.

The bird fascinated you. You rose to your feet to get a closer look, but another trainee stepped before you. He lifted his sword and plunged it downward, into the egret’s soft belly. 

The twitching and struggling stopped. Blood pooled from the puncture, staining its beautiful feathers. You looked up at the aggressor, your face aghast, ready to curse him out or question his actions. But he simply turned to the other men and laughed. “Better to put it out of its misery.”

Your stomach twisted into something dreadful, and your throat closed up. Looking back at the bird, it seemed that the egret’s left wing was broken. You glanced back around at the other men, your face burning, when you spotted Sandor.

His attention was on you, eyes full of an emotion you could not discern. 

~

The Hound allowed trainees to use shields in the second week.

Naturally, the unfair treatment continued. He criticized you more than any other trainee, and after you made a few triumphs in the matchups that week, he instructed you to fight without a shield. “You will not always have one,” he reminded you when you protested.

Your arms and legs ached from the week’s farmwork, and you wanted more than anything to curl up in a bale of hay and let the heat lull you to sleep. But you knew he would not allow this. You dueled five different men that day; on any other day, you only fought two or three.

The fifth time, you went up against the same man from your first day, the tall, lanky one who resembled a rat. His skill improved, but so did yours. The man was quicker on his feet now, harder to strike-- you were permitted to strike now, instead of disarm. The exhaustion and heat seeped in, and soon thereafter, you found yourself atop the dry Earth, coughing up dust as sweat poured down your back. 

“Get up,” he spoke, waving you away with his arm. “What all of you lack is speed. Not quick enough on your feet, and no match for Stannis’s army.”

You positioned yourself on your hands and knees, still coughing. Sandor grumbled to himself and slid his arm around your midriff, hoisting you to your feet. “I said to get up. If you grow tired after four men, how do you expect to be a knight?”

“I--” you began, then broke into another coughing fit. “Why must I fight man after man, with no shield, but--”

“The world is not fair. Someone fetch wine.”

Your anger intensified. “You say the world is not fair, and maybe it isn’t, but you’re singling me out. Targeting me,” you told him. “Why?”

“Where do you think your complaints will get you?” he asked, his eyebrows raising. 

You stepped closer to him, wiping the sweat from your face. “You’re an excuse of a master-at-arms, not even a knight. Ser Loras could outmatch you, and so could Barristan Selmy with one arm!” You were aware that your outburst was childish, but you did not care for Sandor, and suddenly, did not care to be a knight at all. Coughing again, you turned and began to walk away, dropping your wooden sword behind you. 

The Hound caught up to you, his strides much larger than yours, a flask of wine in his hand. “You cunt,” he snarled, grasping your arm. He forced you into the White Sword Tower, empty at this time of day, and pushed you against the wall. He pressed the opening to your lips, essentially forcing the wine down your throat. You swallowed the liquid as he spoke. “You are foolish to think there is any honor in being a knight, even more so to walk away from training. You wished to learn, did you not?” He pulled the flask away and drank the rest.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I do not wish to learn anymore. You’ve taught me nothing.”

“What makes you think those great knights and swordsmen know a damn thing about teaching? Barristan Selmy would have no time for it. Barely do I. And Ser Loras, you would not look up to him if you knew his true nature.” Sandor capped the empty flask.

“His true nature? He is kinder than you, by far.”

“He likes to bugger other men. Or rather, let men bugger him.”

Your jaw slacked, astonished. “You made that up.”

“I don’t care for the whispers that pass through the Red Keep. But I hear them. I hear of the food that poor Tommen spewed onto his bedsheets, and of the letters that arrive and depart.”

“So you believe in rumors?” you asked, though you were partially convinced that it was true. “Why would Ser Loras do that, anyway?”

The Hound laughed again. “Because he can.” He lowered himself to your height. “You’re stronger than some of those men. But not all of them. And not me. You are dull-witted and foolish, just like the other men out there. Dull-witted and violent.” 

The burnt mass of flesh around his eye was clearer now, and you observed it in great detail. It was hideous. 

“I have every right to beat you bloody for insulting me. For walking away from the Lannister army. War looms over us, threatens itself at every moment. We have enemies to the east and to the north. Do you think I care if you walk away? Not a bit.” He stood taller, straightening his shoulders. Sandor unleashed his grip on you. “I’d rather be drinking or fucking whores than teaching that sorry lot of men. So walk away and stay out of my damned sight, or come back tomorrow and straighten up.”

He still did not answer your question. “But why have you targeted me? You must hate me.”

“I wanted to see if you could fight,” he replied, stepping out of the White Sword Tower. 

Chapter Text

You did not want to head home. Your father was a disillusioned man, prone to bouts of rage, and terribly upset with you for leaving the family business. Father worked as a cobbler for twenty years, and paid you a fraction of what he paid your sisters. He claimed that, while you did more work and repaired more shoes, your sisters’ work was of a higher quality. “That’s why women attend to needlework, and seamstressing,” he said that day, squinting down at a noblewoman’s boot. He took a shaky hand and pulled taut against the ripped leather. “Women have a greater eye for detail.” 

A month's hard work earned you fifty halfpennys, nowhere near enough to convert to a silver stag. You knew better than to argue with your father, so instead of staining leather and repairing old sandals, you wanted to fight for the crown.

Now, your chance was gone.

The streets of King’s Landing were scruffy and humid. You wandered the streets as you thought of what to do, straying far from the ladies’ shops and tailoring services. The incoming ships caught your eye, so you descended to the docks, imagining what it would be like to sail across the sea, to cast enormous rope nets and haul in fish.

While the men worked, a huron landed on the fence beside the dock. It reminded you of the egret that fell from the sky. Birds were not bound to land. They could flap their wings and ascend into the clouds, vanishing without a second thought. I think I’d rather be a bird, you thought. 

Even if you had found work at the docks, you supposed you would not last long. The smell of gutted lobster and trout made your stomach twist and curl. You felt the damp wooden boards buckle beneath your feet as you stepped across the beach. I could rest here until sundown. Father won’t know I left training.

You found a sedimentary rock and curled up beside it, beneath a row of trees, letting the shade cool you. You closed your eyes. 

~

Long rays of sunshine streaked across the beach as you sat up, rubbing your eyes. You stood to wipe the sand from your body, allowing your eyes to adjust to the harsh sunset. 

Father expected you to attend dinner, always served by one of your two sisters, and complete farmwork each day. You risked being put on the street otherwise. You trampled a man while rushing home, cursing at street vendors who dared to block your way.

Not poor enough to live in Flea Bottom, but not wealthy enough to own a great home, your father built a small house on the outskirts of town. You lingered outside, brushing sand from your tunic before stepping inside. The furniture was worn, but sturdy, the air thick with simmering potatoes and peppers. Years after your mother passed, after your sisters began to grow and change, your father gave them the bedroom. This left you to sleep on a makeshift hay bed beside the kitchen. Your father slept before the fireplace with only a pillow. 

“Won’t be ready for a long while,” your father grumbled. “Your sister was busy all day. Get to fixin’ the fences.”

Disappointed and starving, you spread cornmeal beside the water trough as dirty chickens flocked to you, pecking hungrily at the ground.

The day had been long and rough, but your shoulders slumped with relief. Soon, you would be inside, stomach full of potatoes and head atop a cozy pillow. You knew a difficult decision had to be made, but your head was too foggy with hunger to think.

“Father,” you spoke, sensing his presence nearby. “What will we offer as a dowry for Nysah’s marriage? We can't give away our rooster, we need more chicks.”

But your father was nowhere to be seen. Stiffening, you clenched the mallet in your right hand and surveyed the area. You heard a footstep nearby, you were sure. Maybe your sister wanted to check on you?

And then you spotted them-- a tall, sturdy figure in the distance, casting a long shadow against the falling sun. You squinted, tempted to hop the dilapidated fence and chase after them. 

Then they were gone.

From the Lannister army, you decided. They know I walked away from training, they aim to punish me.

Even if Sandor didn't care that you walked away from training, that didn't mean others would be so lax.

You set your gaze down onto the fence, tearing old, splintered wood from the fresh Earth. You considered the possibility that Sandor had been watching you himself.

No, you told yourself. He is Joffrey Baratheon’s shield. Far too busy to be watching me.

~

You woke up early the following day to feed the hens, repair the rest of the fence, muck the chicken waste, and walk to the training grounds.

The decision was made while you laid awake at night. You didn't want to return to the family business if it could be avoided. Plus, father was excited at the prospect of you receiving a silver stag at the end of the week. Your sister, Nysah, was to be married soon, and as a custom, father needed to offer a dowry. All he could offer were the family hens and perhaps a pair of sturdy leather boots for the groom, but expensive boots meant expensive materials.

Sandor sat only a few yards away from the entrance, slumped on a bench, no discernable emotion on his face. Only a handful of men acknowledged your return that day. The others gave you a weary glance, or an apprehensive side-eye. 

You took a wooden sword from the weapon rack, embarrassment from the prior day creeping up on you. Someone took your forearm in an iron grip. It was Sandor, towering over you. He pointed to a thin woman at the entrance of the White Sword Tower. 

"What about her?" you narrowed your eyes.

"You have a new duty today."

New duty? You frowned. "What is it?"

"Follow her."

They're going to put me in the stables, you thought. Or worse, scrubbing bedpans. But they can't make me. I could leave...

Sensing your hesitation, Sandor tightened his grip on your wrist and brought you forward to the entrance. The woman seemed to be in her early forties, with skin as rough as a lemon peel. 

They guided you up the stairs into the armory. A few chipped swords in need of repair hung beside the door, and armor, bloodied and dirt-caked from battle, lined the walls. 

The woman tilted her head toward you. "You are to clean and polish the breastplates and gauntlets. Tomorrow, you will clean the greaves and helmets." She bent down, then held out a sloshing bucket of cold water.

You took it. "For how long?"

She turned to the doorway, expecting Sandor to stay lingering there, but he was gone. She turned back to you. "I suppose until the trainees leave."

With a sigh, you placed the bucket at your feet. Inside was a small white rag. "Isn't there something better I could be doing?"

"It is a squire's job to clean armor, is it not? And to serve their knight?"

You sat on the floor, taking a muddy breastplate into your lap. "But Sandor Clegane isn't a knight."

She shrugged. "A sworn shield."

"Are you his servant?" 

"Yes," the woman replied.

She turned to leave the room, but you stopped her. "So why don't you polish the armor?"

"It is not my duty. He doesn't like me to touch his armor, anyway. He likes polishing it himself." She scanned the room. "His belongings stay in his quarters."

"Is this a punishment?" you asked. The woman looked as if she wanted to leave, but you were determined not to let that happen. You wanted some company while you worked, and better, some answers.

The woman shrugged again. "He instructed me to wait at the doors, and if you returned, to bring you here. You will eat with the other trainees at lunchtime." She turned away and descended the stairs before you could protest, and suddenly, you felt empty. 

You busied yourself with scrubbing the dirty armor, watching the water get browner and browner as you dipped the dirty rag into the bucket. Despite the stone walls, the outdoor heat seeped into the tower, causing beads of sweat to roll down your forehead and splatter onto the steel. 

You never heard the lunch bell ring. Over the hours, your eyelids betrayed you, and you found yourself slumped against the cool stone wall, gauntlets in your lap, rag on your thigh. 

~

The blazing sun sank below the long field, and you woke to footsteps climbing the stairs. You had no time to hide your sleepiness before Sandor came into view, sweating with the day's work. His discerning gaze dragged over you, but he was not angered. "So I was right."

You placed the rag into the bucket and sat up, rubbing your eyes. "I apologize, ser, I won't-- not ser, I mean... the heat got to me, and I did not sleep well the night prior. But this won't happen again," you explained, rising to your feet. 

He stepped closer to you, his long, dark hair swaying with each movement. "I followed you home."

"Did you?" Your voice caught in your throat.

"Yes. You don't plan on staying," he hissed. "You want the silver so you can give them to your pretty bride."

"You're mistaken," you said. "I don't know where you heard--"

"A girl named Nysah," Sandor went on. "Oh, I bet she is beautiful. A pretty pale virgin for you. Well, you won't receive your silver stags."

The thought made you nauseous. "Nysah is my sister." 

Your voice sliced through the air like a knife. Sandor's demeanor changed immediately. "Your sister?" 

"Yes," you frowned. "She will be married soon. I asked my father what her dowry would be."

The harshness disappeared from his face. "I see." He turned away from you, then folded his enormous arms. "But you've still deceived us. Your father is a cobbler, and he uses you to work on the farm. To make repairs. You won't train well when you're overworked." Sandor turned back to you, the mutilation of his face highlighted by the sunlight. "Go on home."

You wanted to lash out at him, but you slowed down. Sandor had to see reason. He had to be convinced. "But you were testing me, weren't you? You put me up against those men, without a shield. And, even overworked, I was still better. It makes no sense to cast me aside."

Sandor's expression showed no signs of success. You continued. "I'll stop working on the farm. My father will have to do it himself."

He shook his head. "Determined, are you."

"I am."

"The man looks frail. Your father will die soon, most likely." Sandor glanced down at the half-washed gauntlet, the dirty bucket of water. "Get home, and take care of him. Return tomorrow. You'll be my squire, but your workload will be reduced."

Your eyes widened with shock. This was not at all what you expected, or ever wanted. "Your squire... what exactly..."

"You won't be training with those half-wits anymore. That's what it means." Sandor rested his palm on the hilt of his sword, then turned away, his cloak swaying in the still air. He descended the stairs and left you alone in the humid room.

Realizing you were relieved of your work, you rushed home, eager to get something into your aching stomach.

Chapter Text

Four leisurely weeks passed. You managed the farm for your father in the evening, while working as Sandor's squire during the day. You had only a few duties, and Sandor was rather lenient with you when you did something the improper way. He was not the best teacher, but he was patient, and tried his best to explain whether on the field or within the castle.

Sandor's quarters were within the Red Keep, not the White Sword Tower, as you assumed it would be. But you realized Sandor must keep close to King Joffrey as his sworn shield, and suddenly you pitied Sandor. For him to take on new recruits and trainees in the day, then protect and serve the boy king, who was rather snotty and abusive, must have been a heavy workload for Sandor. So you kept your head bowed and did exactly as he said. 

In one of the final sweltering, summer days of King’s Landing before autumn would arrive, there was a disruption to your normal routine. It was Smith's Day, so training hours were cut in half, and Sandor returned to his quarters in the late hours of the morning. 

Sandor had multiple sets of armor, each for a different occasion. As it was a holy day, he wore the golden set with the King's crown imprinted on the breastplate. Naturally, you scrubbed and polished his iron gray set, and soaked the chainmail to remove bloodstains. Gigantic dents, like craters, were in the paldrons of his armor. You found a small mallet at his bedside and tried to pound the metal back into place.

He entered his quarters with a heavy sigh, then stopped, as if surprised to see you there on the floor. Remembering that he assigned you this task, he continued on and went to his chest of clothing. “You still want to train,” Sandor said, his voice low.

You raised your eyebrows. "But it's a holy day. Shouldn’t you see if the King requires you?"

Sandor turned to face you. "I know how to do my bloody job. You should focus on doing yours. So do you want to train or not?" he grumbled, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

Scrambling to your feet, you nodded and placed his breastplate and pauldrons on the lopsided oak table. "Where will we go? Do you have the energy?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Right here, boy. No sense in going to the training yard." Sandor unsheathed his sword, and suddenly, you believed he would strike you with it. 

"But I don't have a sword," you protested. 

Sandor held his sword by the blade and extended the handle to you. "Try to hit me, then. I'll use a shield."

You were hesitant to take the weapon, let alone strike Sandor with it. Sandor never let anyone touch his sword. He retrieved his iron shield from beside the armoire.

The handle was warm in your palm. The weight was so heavy that you had to wield it with two hands, and even then, it was too long to use in such a small room. "What if I break something?" you said.

"Then it will be replaced." Sandor raised his shield, gritting his teeth. You sensed he was angry about something; why else would he want to fight in his small chambers? But you wanted to train, and so did he. You took your first swing at him, the long, silver blade slicing through the humid air. It struck hard against the shield as Sandor blocked your attack.

He extended his shield arm, knocking the sword away. It fell from your hands and clattered to the floor. Sandor stepped forward and put two fingers to your chest. "There," he said. "You've died."

"No," you protested. "You don't have a sword."

"Then I strangle you, or bash you over the head with my shield. You die." His eyes trailed to the weapon on the ground. "Try again to hit me."

So you tried. It became easier to control the blade with time, but for a man his size, Sandor was oddly quick on his feet and full of an energy you did not possess. In your original opinion of the great knights of the Seven Kingdoms, it seemed you underestimated Sandor. As you tried to strike him with his sword, you wondered if Barristan Selmy, in his old age, could beat a young, fervent Clegane. 

"Clearly, you need a smaller sword," he huffed. Sandor extended his arm, expecting his sword back after you failed to strike him for the seventh time.

"Just once more," you insisted. "I'm getting... used to the weight."

"Whatever you say," he said, letting you keep the sword. "After this, fetch me some wine. I'll take the rest of the day off."

Your confidence dwindled as Sandor dodged every blow. He was in a full suit of armor, and quicker than you. You thought that even if you were to strike him, he would not be injured. So you put more effort into taking him down, and soon, Sandor was cornered beside his bedpost, shield held out in defense. 

You swung at his head, confident that he would duck to avoid the blade. And he did, but not quickly enough. Blood dribbled down the fine blade, and some splattered across your tunic and arms.

"Sandor?" you asked. He covered his face and neck with the iron shield, but the damage had already been done. 

Sandor lowered the shield, his mouth set in a nasty scowl. A deep, red gash appeared on his cheek, stopping on the bridge of his nose. 

You dropped the sword, stepping closer. "You're bleeding," you said, pressing your index finger below the cut to catch some of the blood. 

"Of course I'm bleeding, you half-wit," he growled. "Were you trying to kill me?" Sandor threw the shield across the room. It crashed into the wall and clattered to the floor. You flinched.

You took a step back, afraid. "I didn't mean to cut you!” you said, staring down at your tunic. You ripped a large strip of fabric from your clothing, and with shaky fingers, attempted to press it to his wound. "I wasn't trying to kill you."

Sandor smacked your hands away, resisting the fabric. "What do you think you're doing?" Too stunned to move, he pushed you out of his way. "I'll fetch a maester myself. You're more useless than a servant girl." He crossed his small quarters and threw the wooden door open, then slammed it so hard you could've swore there was a new crack in the oak. 

"Ah," you said to yourself, glancing at your bloodied hands. Suddenly, you did feel like a half-wit. Obviously Sandor wouldn't want to wrap the wound before disinfecting it, and you should've had the foresight to call on a maester. 

You decided the next best thing you could do was draw a bath, so you hauled steaming buckets of water to his quarters and began to fill the sunken tub. Then you filled his flask with strong red wine, and brought a plate with bread and cheese. 

Just as you were leaving the quarters, Sandor opened the door, stopping you. The wound was bandaged, and he held a bundle of fabric in his hand. 

"I'm sorry. I'm not stupid," you sputtered. "And I was just leaving. I drew your bath, and brought you the wine..." you said, trailing off. "Goodbye." 

You tried to slide past him through the small gap between his large frame and the door, but he put his arm out, stopping you. 

"I dismiss you," Sandor scolded. "You don't get to decide when you leave."

So you stayed, despite being convinced that he wanted you gone, that he never wanted to see your face again. "I'm sorry this happened," you said again, watching him cast the bundle aside and remove his gauntlets. 

"My face wasn't so pretty to begin with," he said, shaking his head. "I should have moved faster."

You frowned, surprised. Was he truly not blaming you? "But I should have never--"

He held his palm up, silencing you. "Help me out of these heavy fuckin' things, and then make yourself useful. Bring me a fresh linen."

Your hands shook as you undid his armor buckles, though you were too short to lift the breastplate from him, so he did it himself. "Stop shaking," Sandor commanded. "I'm not goin' to beat you."

Still, your hands continued to shake as you tried to get him out of his armor. It took you a while, but soon, he was out of his golden armor and in his plainclothes. Sandor removed his sweat-drenched tunic and threw it aside. With your stomach in a knot, you were determined to get out of that room and find the linens.

Upon returning, you found Sandor in the bath, resting his head on the stone wall. The humid room smelled of fresh castile soap, dirt, dust, and sweat. You began to gather his dirty underclothes in your arms, but he opened his eyes, lifting his chin at you. 

"What is it?" you said.

"Wash my hair and face. But be careful," Sandor spoke, eyes narrow.

Washing his hair was no challenge, and he closed his eyes, grunting softly at your fingers against his scalp. But when you went to take a wet cloth to his face, Sandor stiffened.

You started with his jaw, scrubbing his beard and neck. Avoiding the cut, you started to wash around his mouth and ears. 

Before you could clean his burnt, scarred forehead, you paused.

His teeth were clenched again, his jaw quivering. Sandor closed his eyes, refusing to meet your gaze. "Just get on with it."

You dabbed at the burnt tissue, your shoulders tense. Beneath you, his breathing turned shallow, quick.

"You're done," he hissed. "Drop the cloth."

The cloth plopped beside him in the water. You stood, putting your wet arms around your stomach.

"Get out."

Frowning, you noticed the flask, bread, and cheese-- all untouched. "Are you certain? I could bring your clothes to the--"

"You’re dismissed, boy," he said. "Now go!" Sandor's eyes were on you now, fiery and raw, brimming with anger. 

You bowed, leaving Sandor alone in his steaming bath. You walked slowly down the castle steps. 

It was all your fault. You should have stopped when he wanted his sword back.

Sweat poured down the back of your neck as you walked home that afternoon, the taste of saliva bitter in your mouth. 

When you entered, you found your father and sisters in a sullen mood. Your younger sister burnt the old hen that father killed that morning, so the meat was dry. The vegetables were unsalted and mushy.

You went to lay in your hay bed when father stopped you, laying an old, wrinkled hand upon your shoulder.

"You will give me that silver stag, boy," he told you. “Tomorrow.” 

Part of you expected this. "For Nysah's dowry?" you asked.

Your father inhaled, his voice shaky. "Yes." He narrowed his eyes at you. "And the next stag will go to finding you a bride."

The food turned solid and hard in your stomach. "What do you mean? But that will be another mouth to feed," you protested. "Having Nysah married off will be--"

"I will not die before my son gives me a grandchild," father said. "You'll inherit this little house, and you'll make use of it."

Frowning, you stared at your father's leather boots, encrusted with mud. "And who did you have in mind?"

"Any old village girl will do. Find a pretty one, and buy her some pretty things in town." Father turned and headed for his small pillow by the fire, a new limp in his step. 

Laying on the hay bed, you sighed to yourself. Any old village girl would not do. You didn't wish for father's death, but if he were to pass, the decision would be easy: you would never marry.

Chapter Text

A great sense of guilt weighed you down the following day, your day off. Nysah paraded in and out of her bedroom with different hairstyles as you dried and salted meat for the winter alongside your father. Your youngest sister went out to buy bread, so you were the natural victim of Nysah's incessant questions. "Should I braid flowers into my hair on the day of the ceremony?" Nysah asked, excitedly spinning in a circle.

Still, thoughts of your little sister on her wedding day were replaced with those of Sandor, his face scarred and angry. Even throughout the weeks you worked as his "squire"-- a pathetic title to cover up that, really, you were a servant-- you learned so little about him, and weren't sure what to expect upon return. Surely he would be angry, but would Sandor go as far to dismiss you from service? Hold trial against you?

Fear lumped in your throat as you hung the salted meat to dry. You knew your option was to return and face Sandor's treatment, however harsh.

~

The day could not have gone worse. You entered the city on an empty stomach-- neither father nor either of your sisters woke early enough to start breakfast-- and when you passed through the iron-wrought gates to the training grounds, you were dismayed to see Ser Gregor in Sandor's place. He absorbed some of Sandor's trainees among his own. You crossed the field and climbed the endless steps to Sandor's quarters within the tower.

His bed was unmade, oak chest left open. You skittered back downstairs, chewing your dirty nails. Sandor must have expected you to show up at the scheduled time, so where could he be? You realized something must be very wrong.

"Looking for Sandor Clegane, boy?"

You turned to the source of the voice. It was Meryn Trant, with his pink, ugly neck and thick eyebrows. Ser Meryn squinted against the scouring sun, taking a step closer to you.

"He's with the boy king today," he spat. He looked as if he still wanted to speak, but you made an abrupt turn and cut him off. You needed no ridicule, and were hungry to know if Sandor had dismissed you. That measly silver stag was necessary for Nysah's wedding in two days, and if you couldn't supply it, you'd have to find some other labor in King's Landing.

Just as you neared the small council chamber, the queen mother Cersei Lannister emerged from the arched doorway, fine silk dangling from her wrists. Ser Boros, who stood guard, moved out of her path. Then came the other members of the small council-- Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, then Lord Commander Jaime Lannister, and some others you didn’t recognize. But last was King Joffrey, and finally, Sandor, by his side.

The gash was crusted and scabbed over with deep maroon and an alarming shade of black. He followed Joffrey through the hall before laying eyes on you. Sandor's mouth twisted into an uneasy expression. Your heart hammered in your chest. It was obvious, you thought, that he would dismiss you.

"Not now," the Hound grunted. "We have to gather Ned Stark's guard, his men, his daughters..." Sandor stopped in the hall to look at you. "Go to my chambers. Go..."

King Joffrey turned, his boyish mouth twisted into a frown. "What is it, dog?" he snapped, then switched his attention to you. "So you dismissed your servant girl for this--"

Sandor's mouth twitched, and suddenly, he stumbled backward, falling onto a passing nobleman. The man yelped as Sandor crashed to the stony ground. Swiftly, Sandor rolled onto his side and let bile spew onto the smooth floor.

"Clegane!" the King said, attracting his mother's attention. Before you could blink, Cersei Lannister ordered a handful of large men to help Sandor to the infirmary, and commanded you to find Maester Pycelle.

~

You sat at his bedside, watching Sandor's stomach rise and fall beneath the linen while chaos erupted outside. No one quite explained to you why Ned Stark and his guard were to be rounded up, but Cersei, Joffrey, nor Pycelle seemed concerned.

Gnawing on the inside of your cheek, you watched as the Grand Maester inspected Sandor with shaky, unstable hands. "The cut," he began, clicking his tongue, "is too deep. You should have... have been seen to immediately, Ser."

"Not Ser," Sandor grumbled. “And I did see to it. I cleaned it up myself.”

"Ah, right," Pycelle murmured.

The Grand Maester took an unnecessary amount of time dabbing Sandor's face with a strong antiseptic before Sandor slapped the cotton away. "Let me do the damn thing," he hissed, teeth bared. 

Pycelle shuffled away. Sandor held the wet cotton between his fingers. 

"It won't do you any good," you said. "It's scabbed over. Nothing--"

"You think I don't know that, boy? Sit still and shut your mouth," Sandor said, but his voice held less bite than usual. "I'm goin' to vomit again. Where has the old fuck gone?"

You rose to your feet and passed through the infirmary, searching for Pycelle’s old, hunkered silhouette somewhere along the cabinets. The residents made you uneasy; some stared at you, others coughed, or wailed and writhed with pain. You hoped Sandor would not become one of them.

It seemed that Pycelle left the infirmary entirely, so you pushed through the heavy wooden doors in search of him. You considered turning around to tear at Sandor’s scabbed cut and apply the antiseptic yourself, but didn’t want to cause more bleeding, and knew little to nothing about treating wounds.

You climbed the stairs and rounded each corner, turning more frantic in your search as time passed, picturing Sandor feverish and sick in the infirmary.

The halls were not abandoned, but populated sparsely with noblemen and ladies, and the occasional servant with dirty linens. There was a loud crash somewhere outside. You rushed to the open arch to see the source of the noise.

Armed men surrounded the border of the castle, capturing and fighting against pale Northerners; Ned Stark’s men, you realized. Sandor can defend himself, you thought. 

But what if he couldn’t, in his state?

You rushed back down the stairs in hopes of making it to the infirmary before the Northerners; there was little chance they would seek out Sandor, but you didn’t want to risk leaving him there.

Just as you were turning the corner to a large, spiraling stairwell, you bumped into the Grand Maester. The man was bony and smelled of sour sweat, and he fell a few feet backwards. 

“Maester!” you shouted, rushing to help him, but Pycelle was caught by someone behind him. You met eyes with Cersei Lannister, whose expression was locked into a scowl.

She lifted her chin and made a noise of disgust. “How dare you?” Cersei snipped, grabbing you by the hair. “You nearly took my Maester out! Imagine if I hadn’t been there to catch him!”

Pycelle steadied himself on the stairwell railing, then lifted a finger, pointing at you. “He mean-... means no harm, my Queen. He was just looking for me. I was treating--”

“Nonsense,” Cersei said, her golden hair flowing as she jerked her neck to look around. You stood still, afraid to move. She spotted a guard nearby. “Godwyn, take this peasant to the cellars. Keep him there until I say otherwise.”

Your eyes widened with panic as the guard approached you. The man was not intimidating, but he wore the red and yellow colors of House Lannister, and wielded a sword like the others. 

“Wait,” you said, shaking your head as Cersei released her grasp on your hair. “It was an accident, your Grace,” you pleaded. You glanced at Pycelle for support. He met your eyes, then looked away.

“Not another word. Or I’ll have your tongue out,” the Queen spoke, chin still raised and eyes downcast as the guard escorted you away. 

Your face burned with humiliation as the guard propelled you forward, binding your wrists together with his tight grip. You received attention from onlookers, and they likely assumed you were one of the Northerners from House Stark, despite your lack of armor. 

Once the Queen was out of sight, you turned to look at the guard. “Am I really going to the cellars? I didn’t even hurt him!” you said.

“Queen’s orders,” Godwyn replied. “I have to follow them.”

Your wrists ached as the guard kept them still, and you came close to tripping over your own feet a few times. The guard led you down to the cellars, amongst the Stark men and some petty thieves from Flea Bottom. Once he showed you to your cell, you hesitated. The air was damp and musty, and reeked of piss and fecal matter. 

“How long will I be down here?” you asked. “I didn’t try to… kill him. And he’s unharmed,” you reasoned.

With a shrug, he started to pull the gate closed. You wedged yourself between the gate and metal. “Wait! You can’t-- let me speak to Sandor first. Or Pycelle. You can’t lock me in here!”

But before you escaped the gate, Godwyn pulled his sword on you, and kicked you back into the cell with his boot. “Come any closer,” he threatened, as the fiery torches flickered behind him. 

You stood in place, watching with terror as the gate scraped to a close. Godwyn locked the cell, then pocketed the key and wandered off.

Your stomach growled, and you pictured Sandor alone in the infirmary, unconscious. All because of you.

You sat on the dirt floor, ignoring the jeers and shouts from the men around you. They weren’t talking about you-- their focus was on the captured Northerners-- but the noise was distracting.

Would Sandor know where to find you?

Worse, would your father know what happened to you?

Swallowing your spit, you laid and pulled your legs into a fetal position. Hopefully the Queen would change her mind and release you before nightfall.

Chapter Text

When you woke up the following day, shivering, you discovered that rats had chewed on your tunic as you slept.

The cellars were nothing short of miserable. You preferred your thin hay bed at home to the hard, packed dirt that wrecked your back. Without a blanket, you could easily tell day from night; mornings were chilly and frigid, afternoons were suffocatingly hot, and nights were bearable, but humid.

A servant boy kicked a tray of food beneath the cellar grates. The glass of milk tipped over and started to spread in the dirt. You crawled to the tray and drank what was left. The heel of bread was dry and hard, and the vegetable scraps looked like something your father would feed to a pig. You ate the entire tray.

As the servant walked away, two pairs of footsteps clattered down the stairs. You watched the milk spread amongst the dirt, hoping Queen Cersei Lannister would find your cell and release you at last.

Instead, it was a Lannister guard, escorting a new prisoner to his cell. You lifted your eyes to look at the man. He didn’t protest as the guard led him to the cell directly opposite yours. You frowned-- you had liked having a bit of privacy, but now, there was to be a set of eyes directly across from you, watching your every move. The guard removed the man’s shackles and fumbled with the keyring at his belt, locking the man away.

You made eye contact with him.

“What are you in for?” he asked, scratching his scraggly beard. The man was skinny, with sharp elbows and thin calves. 

“A misunderstanding,” you told him. “The Queen will release me sometime today.”

The man laughed in your face. “Will she, now? Me, well. I killed my father.” He gave you a wide grin, showing some of his blackened teeth. 

You swallowed your spit. You’d do anything to see your father and sisters again, to explain what happened, to tell them where you are. “Why’s that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

But the man didn’t respond. Another prisoner was brought in, and as he passed your cell, he twisted at his shoulders and elbows. “The Hand of the King has been beheaded!” he cried, trying to break free from the guard that bound his wrists. “Ned Stark is dead!”

The men erupted into conversation; the initial hours of the morning had been somber, quiet, but the news was startling. “Beheaded?” someone shouted. “Beheaded, why?”

The prisoner began to explain what he saw, and rehearsed King Joffrey’s words from the beheading, but his words fell short on your ears. All of the chaos and distraction could only mean one thing: Cersei and Sandor were too busy to think of you.

~

You pulled your legs to your torso, staring at the dark splotch in the center of your cell, the sunken milk.

Ignoring the dirty jokes about Ned Stark’s young daughters, you began to think about your own recklessness. If only you never cut Sandor’s cheek, and later, hadn’t ran through the halls of the Red Keep, you would not be in this position. And if you hadn’t betrayed your father by training to become a solider, and learned to perfect your craft as a cobbler, you could be home now, preparing for Nysah’s wedding ceremony. It was to take place tomorrow, and with your current situation, you were bound to miss it.

~

That night, after a tray of stale bread and smoked trout, the men turned silent as the heavy metal door swung open. The man across you rushed to the bars, then laughed. “Someone’s goin’ to get their teeth kicked in! It’s the Queen’s dog!”

You frowned as the looming shadow made its way down the hall. “And it’ll be your teeth,” Sandor Clegane threatened. He stopped in front of the man’s cell. “Gods, someone must have beat me to it,” he said, noting the man’s unsightly mouth.

While you were tempted to laugh at Sandor’s joke, you kept quiet, too startled at his sudden appearance. “Sandor…?”

He turned, not expecting you behind him.

“How long will I be in here?”

Sandor’s expression became uneasy. “Your trial is next week.”

Your eyes widened. “Trial?”

Sandor grabbed one of the bars of your cell door. “Come here.”

As you moved closer to him, he spoke in a low, uneven voice. “Cersei is trying for the death punishment.”

You couldn’t hold back your shock. “But she--”

Sandor forced his palm over your mouth, silencing you. “Be quiet. She wants you gone. Here’s what you need to do.” His hands smelled of rusted metal and old leather. For a fleeting moment, you considered biting.

“Tomorrow is your hearing. When asked how you plead, say innocent, and ask for a trial by combat.” He kept his hand in place, widening his eyes.

You nodded, but didn’t understand. Trial by combat?

Sandor removed his hand, allowing you to speak. “What if I lose?” you whispered. “She’ll choose someone stronger, and I haven’t had much food.”

“It’ll be me,” he whispered back. Then he walked away.

You were desperate to reach out and call to him, but it was no use. Sandor wanted this meeting to be private, and now that his message was delivered, you understood he couldn’t risk lingering in the cells.

The man in the opposite cell chewed his lip, then spit in the dirt as the iron door screeched to a close. “So you’re the one who gave the Hound a fresh wound. Surprised he let you live.”

You released your grip on the metal bar, then pulled yourself away into the corner. 

It’ll be me.

But what did he mean by that? Would Sandor volunteer to fight in your favor, or worse, fight against you? 

You had plenty of time to think as the torches flickered through the night. 

Chapter Text

“Bring him in.”

There was a cavernous pit in your stomach as the guard accompanied you to the head of the throne room. He thrust his spear against your side, threatening to impale you. You lifted your eyes to the throne, expecting King Joffrey. Instead, you found Queen Cersei, with Pycelle at her side, and a few other council members.

Every step you took echoed through the throne room. The emptiness was unnerving. The floors were neatly swept, long curtains parted just enough to aid your vision.

The Iron Throne is ugly, you thought. The steel needs to be cleaned, polished, and buffed.

You studied the Queen’s face. Each of your limbs were sore to the bone, your knees weak, your head swimming with thoughts. You ached for food and a soft place to sleep. But according to Sandor, Cersei wanted you dead.

She lifted an eyebrow at you, then waved the guard away. “My Grand Maester will be giving his testimony at your trial. It will take place in fourteen days. Who would you like to call to testify as your judge of character?”

Your father’s name nearly slipped from your mouth, but you stood upright, and remembered. “I request... ah… a trial by combat. Please, your Grace.”

Cersei Lannister’s smug expression turned flat. “A trial by combat?” she said.

The air in the throne room turned stiff, and so quiet, you could hear Pycelle’s labored breathing and the gentle clinking of his heavy chains. “Yes.”

She hummed. “What an interesting request.” The Queen looked you up and down, then stood, long maroon sleeves draping and hanging beside her wide hips. “You stand little chance at winning this trial."

You opened your mouth again, but she interrupted.

"Has someone volunteered to fight in your stead?"

Your throat went dry. Sandor’s instructions had been unclear; had he meant to fight for you, or against you? “Ah. Yes, your Grace… I think…” you murmured. “Sandor Clegane.”

Queen Cersei scoffed, then waved her hand, dismissing you. “That old dog will not fight for you. Not after what you did to him, peasant,” she said. When you refused to move, she directed her attention to the guard. “He’s dismissed. Move quickly, I have important matters today.” The Queen's face was smooth and pale, like an egg, or a statue carved in marble. You were forced to piss and shit in a bucket and eat a child's portion of food once a day, while Cersei Lannister draped herself with the finest silks and poured the smoothest wine into her golden goblet.

“No,” you said back. Your throat was dry, your voice unsteady. Anger boiled in your chest. “Sandor will fight for me. I want him to be my champion.” 

"You understand that if Sandor does not show, you will be expected to fight for yourself. Against a champion of my choosing.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

The smirk returned to her face. “Very well. Our first trial by combat in… how long has it been?” she asked, turning to her subordinates. The castle guard took this as his cue to stand and escort you away, his spear extended, its sharp point against your spine.

You did not have a good feeling about your trial by combat request. But you tried to convince yourself that this was, indeed, the best option; Cersei had Pycelle wrapped around her finger.

Either way, the trial could result in your death.

~

Seventeen long, miserable nights passed without seeing a familiar face. On occasion, you determined that the Queen had long forgotten about your trial by combat request, and that you would be sentenced to the cellars forever; other times, particularly after eating, you kept your hopes high by imagining your trial by combat in the arena, Sandor fighting to save your life.

Your desires drifted from killing Cersei, to killing the man in the cell across yours, or killing yourself.

When the day did come, you were unsuspecting and unprepared. You left before the first feeding, stomach twisted, empty, and clenching, your wrists bound.

~

In the past month, you had grown so accustomed to the dark, drab cellars, that the blazing sun scathed your pupils. You were unable to shield your eyes with your hands, so instead you closed them, blindly stumbling through the halls of the castle 

The Lannister guard, irritated with your drunken stumbling, held you upright. You proceeded to step on his boots a few times, which angered him enough to throw you off balance.

“Open your eyes. The sun is just rising; it will not become any darker,” the guard hissed.

Now back on your feet, you squinted through your eyelids. Every muscle in your body screamed, urging you to turn back and curl up inside your cell. You wondered if the trial would be postponed if you did not show.

The noise from beyond kept you alert. You were able to open your eyes a bit more as the guard led you beneath an awning. It had only been a short walk from your cellars, but with the blazing sun and your lack of strength, you may as well have trudged all the way to Riverrun.

You waited beneath the awning for what felt like two hours, your eyes adjusting to the light that was once blinding. The chains were heavy on your wrists, and the smell of dry, crusted dirt made you more desperate for a meal and a goblet of wine. 

Suddenly, you remembered that Sandor was supposed to fight for you. You scanned the surrounding faces for him, but didn’t see anyone you recognized, except for the Queen. 

Her hair was pinned into a fancy up-do, and she wore a maroon gown with the shoulders cut out. You seethed, remembering how her decision had kept you away from her family. She couldn’t be bothered to send anyone to speak to your father. What if he thought you ran away? Thought that Sandor killed you in a fit of rage? 

You were smarter than to assume your imprisonment was only about rushing into Maester Pycelle-- but of course, you had never slighted Cersei in any way, only Sandor. 

So why did Cersei want you dead?

Soon enough, your opponent arrived on the battleground. To your surprise, it was Gregor Clegane; you hadn’t expected Queen Cersei to bring a Kingsguard member to fight in a petty trial by combat, enacted by a peasant. You stiffened. Gregor’s battered sword was almost the height of your whole body, and as wide as your head. Even with his stature, you wondered how he could wield the sword.

There was no sign of Sandor yet. You tried not to worry, but it was no use. Blood and sweat trickled down your chin as you bit your lip too hard, and pressed your fingernails into the palm of your hand. There was hardly a crowd. You tried to make eye contact with your guard, tried to drag your chains around to get his attention, but he refused to look in your direction. 

Just as you were beginning to lose hope, hushed gasps emerged from the small gathering. They were too far away to see their faces, but from their clothes, you assumed they were a mix of commoners and nobility. 

Sandor arrived at last. You were glad to see him in his armor, thankful that he was fighting for you, but he lacked his usual energy. The Hound crossed the field, boots treading the cracked dirt. His face and hands lacked their usual color, but his wound seemed to be healing correctly. He closed his helm, bracing his hand on his sword belt.

The first few minutes were a haze for you; Cersei was tasked with the official proceedings, in which she informed everyone that the trial by combat could end under four circumstances: the accuser’s champion dies, the accused champion dies, the accuser withdraws their accusation, or the accused pleads guilty. Her voice was stern and strong. You seethed, thinking of the fresh, savory meals she ate each night before nightfall, while you were left with kitchen scraps. It was no wonder she sounded so strong, that she had far more energy than you…

Sandor was slow to draw his sword against his brother. You pressed your fingernails even harder into your sweaty palms, almost unable to remain upright. There was a stale, metallic taste on your tongue.  The heat and sun beat down so heavily on you that you feared you would pass out. 

Then the trial began.

Gregor made the first swing. Sandor dodged, then stumbled; you had a feeling you knew how the fight would play out. Sandor would anticipate each of Gregor’s moves and dodge. But did he have the strength to make it each time? Was he strong enough to deliver the final blow, to knock Gregor to the ground?

It became glaringly obvious that something was wrong as the fight progressed. Watching Sandor stumble around could only mean that he was still ill-- despite how healthy he seemed during your meeting in the cellars-- or, Sandor was biding his time, waiting for Cersei to rebuke the accusation so she wouldn’t lose one of her prized Kingsguard members. A thin, heat-crazed smile crossed your lips; it made perfect sense. Cersei would not stand to lose Sandor, especially knowing how strong he was, how intelligent… and how Sandor was King Joffrey’s favorite.

Just as Joffrey came to mind, you spotted him beside his mother in the spectating area. To your surprise, he glanced your way, then watched Sandor with a disgruntled frown. Slowly, he leaned in to whisper to his mother. The Queen’s expression was stiff, and once again, you imagined her likeness sculpted into a marble statue.

You swallowed what little spit populated beneath your tongue, then licked the salty sweat from your upper lip. The trial was at a slow crawl. Gregor carelessly swung at the Hound with a low roar, and Sandor slid out of his grasp.

How long could they go on for?

The King began to whisper to his mother again, with urgency this time, his hand outstretched to gesture at the Cleganes. Yes, you thought, yes, he’ll stop them.

But still, Cersei’s lips remained in her smug, all-knowing smirk. She was ignoring her son.

Bile rose in your throat.

Now, Gregor seemed to be losing stamina, and Sandor was making erratic swings at his brother. Most attacks caught him off guard, but being hit didn’t deter him. There were rumors that Gregor never felt pain, rumors that Cersei used blood magic to keep him strong, but it was only the talk of starving men from Flea Bottom.

An eternity passed. Your mouth felt dry, eyes scorched. You despised the sticky sweat that clung to you. Sandor was holding his ground well, and you wondered how long the ordeal could last if he were in better health. In any case, watching Sandor fight stirred something in you; a longing for a sword in your hand, or a splash of wine on your tongue.

He fought for you best he could, but as the time wore down, so did he. Sandor’s swings became weaker, and he failed to dodge, almost becoming another of Gregor’s victims. His head hung low.

“You must rebuke the accusation, Mother, this isn’t quite fair.”

The voice came from the King, and traveled to your ear in the wake of silence. All that could be heard now were the songs of birds, your own heavy, thrumming heartbeat, the Clegane brothers’ footsteps, the clashing of steel on armor.

The Queen Mother whispered into Joffrey’s ear, her hand cupping the space between her lips and his head.

“But…” the King protested, his golden curls flattening against his forehead from the sweat.

It was then that Gregor had Sandor in a weak spot. Joffrey sensed it before you did, rising to his feet in an instant. Sandor threw his armored forearm to shield his neck from Gregor’s blade.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

Gregor heaved, lifting his sword to attack again. You struggled to stand against the hunger and heat.

You saw how slow Sandor was to move.

Fearing for his life, you shouted, “Guilty! Stop, stop! I plead guilty!”

The King locked eyes with you. It seemed that his voice overlapped with yours when you begged to stop the trial. You stood directly across from him, your parallel. A euphoric feeling filled your body, spreading through your chest, down to your fingertips and toes. Joffrey had more power than his mother as King. He could pardon you.

“Stop!” the King commanded again. “Drop your swords, men, in the name of your king!”

Neither Gregor nor Sandor complied. Gregor tried to strike Sandor down again, but his blade caught on chainmail.

Despite your wrists being bound, the chains were long and gave you a wide range of motion. You rushed forward into the combat field, the guard following close behind. “The King said stop! Drop your weapons!”

Sandor threw out his gloved hands to defend himself, but by the time Gregor saw you, the assault was over. The enormous man threw his sword to the ground, dust puffing up beneath his boots.

You met Sandor on the field, chains dragging behind you. Small drops of blood littered the dry soil. “Are you hurt?” you asked, crouching down to his level, wrenching open his Hound’s helm to see his face.

Sandor’s eyes were dull, gloved hands shaking. His scar was covered in dried, blackened blood. 

“What an unfair match. The dog is obviously ill,” King Joffrey scoffed. “Mother, how could you permit this?”

“Sandor?” you said again.

Sandor coughed.

Queen Cersei placed one hand on the wooden banister. “The Gods decide what happens in a trial by combat, my dear, and you have interfered with their ruling.” She spoke between gritted teeth, quiet, yet scolding. She adjusted her long hair with her free hand.

A pair of hands clasped your wrists, and the guard pulled you upright. Your eyes lingered on Sandor as Cersei addressed you.

“Well,” she said. “It seems there’s been a confession.”

Fear sparked in Sandor’s eyes. You swallowed your spit. “No, your Grace…”

Cersei laughed. “Maybe I’m mistaken, but I thought I heard you confess to your crimes.” She narrowed her eyes. “If there’s been no confession, then the trial may continue.”

“You-- wait!” you stammered, aware of Cersei’s eyes on you, the King’s, the crowd, the guard… “But this isn’t fair, your Grace. The King said it himself.”

“Not fair?” Queen Cersei questioned, eyebrow raised. “You chose Sandor Clegane to be your champion, did you not? And it just so happened that you injured him before your imprisonment. Maybe this is the Seven’s punishment against you. You will confess to your crime of attempted murder, or the trial will proceed.”

Each of Cersei’s words were like a hot coal, pressing against your throat and chest. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes. Of course. It has to be him or me, you thought.

Without meeting Sandor’s eyes, you lifted your chin and wiped your eyes with the back of your hands.

Sandor deserved to live.

“I’d like to repent for my crimes, your Grace.”

Chapter Text

Sentenced to death.

Your hope in escaping faltered with each day. There was no way to appeal to Joffrey or Cersei from your cell in the dungeons. No one came to visit. You did not bathe, you only had a small bucket to piss in, and your food was delivered beneath a small slot in the gate. 

Sometimes you laid atop the damp dirt and wondered what the verdict would be if you accepted the traditional trial. Maester Pycelle could’ve came to his senses and revoked his accusation, or Sandor, your sisters, and your father could arrive and testify to your character. Then, you could get maybe five or ten years, instead of a death sentence.

Of course, you would never know. 

~

You never quite adjusted to the loud, crude nature of the cellars. The men sometimes kept you awake, talking amongst themselves, and the harsh, putrid stench kept you from eating on occasion. With each day that passed, you wished harder and harder to be free, or put to death. Staring at the filthy walls for hours on end was worse than a beheading, you imagined.

Men came and went. With new prisoners came new stories, a new energy in the air. According to a lanky boy imprisoned for rape, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, started a rebellion and won a battle at Riverrun. Another man claimed Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, was the new Hand of the King.

And what felt like a month later, a group of bandits arrived in the cell beside you, spreading stories of Renly Baratheon’s death.

There was no telling how much was true. But as your arms turned thinner, your tunic hung limp on your shoulders, and your ribs started to show, you had no choice but to entertain these ideas in your head. You fantasized about Robb Stark holding siege on the Red Keep, ambushing Cersei, and letting you free at last.

After weeks of careful deliberation, you were certain Sandor was dead.

~

With each day, more prisoners were ushered into the cells. At high capacity, the guards became careless. A Lannister servant unlocked your door one day.

You didn’t have the energy to attempt an escape.

The light-haired guard shoved two people into your cell; an elderly man with deep folds in his wrinkly, crepe-like skin, and a middle-aged woman with an infant at her breast. Seven hells-- an infant, in your cell.

“You can’t do this!” the mother protested. “I was going to pay him, I swear by the gods, I swear it!” She cradled the baby’s head as she recovered, rising to her feet and approaching the gate.

The iron grate screeched shut yet again.

The old man turned to look at you, expression incredulous. “The crooked Lannisters begin to rule, and this is what happens. Innocents thrown in the cellars… left to rot!” he shouted. “What did you do, young miss?”

“I took some bread. But I was going to pay! I had the coppers in my coinpurse!”

You grit your teeth as the voices in the dungeon began to blend together. A baby in the cellars meant long, sleepless nights, and a worse smell than ever before. “Keep that thing quiet,” you hissed through half-lidded eyes.

“A baby!” someone exclaimed from another cell.

The man across from you stepped forward, gripping the iron bars. “Men and women in the same cell. The City Watch has become lazy!” He smiled a wide, toothless grin. “That can only mean one of two things…”

You let out a deep breath, disgusted by the man’s rotting teeth and leery eyes.

“Winter, or war.”

The woman gasped in disbelief. “Certainly not. Not so soon after Renly Baratheon's death." The baby stirred in her arms, looking down at you on the dirt floor.

“They’ll stop feeding us first if under siege. King Joffrey wouldn't waste a crumb on us smallfolk, much less a whore caught stealing bread.”

Her face aghast, the mother began to defend herself. You dreamed of being anywhere else.

~

It seemed the man with the rotting teeth had been correct; as the outside noises grew louder, so did the poor infant, uncomfortable and scared. The mother faced the wall to breastfeed, and to give her privacy, you were forced closer to the cellar door.

“They’re Renly’s men. Come to get revenge.”

“It’s Stannis Baratheon, you half-wit. He has more claim to the title, until Joffrey comes of age.”

“Aye, too early for Stannis to attack. They got to build ships first, you know? Got to be Renly’s men, on foot. How many trees do you reckon they have on Dragonstone?”

You listened intently this time, surprised no one was suggesting Robb Stark’s army, or Daenerys Targaryen’s Dothraki horde. You heard a rumor long ago that the Targaryen girl married a “khal,” and gave birth to his child. But how would Dothraki riders fare on a sea vessel?

You shuddered as a loud crash disrupted the conversation. Voices cried out from above, but through the stone and soil, you couldn’t be sure of what was happening.

The older man in your cell, pacing between the walls while he still had enough energy to do so, began incoherently rambling. “The boy king… that Lannister heathen… and his harlot mother… they’ll kill us all,” he rambled. “No mercy. They’ll kill us…”

“It could be nothing,” you said to him, pulling your legs to your chest. “We have more soldiers, more knights, more ships. What can Renly’s men do without a ruler?”

“Avenge him in the name of our true king!” the man said, hands shaking. 

“The brothers should have combined their armies!” someone shouted. “Then Cersei’s head would already be on a spike!”

You pressed your palms against your face in exhaustion. 

Heavy, hurried footsteps clattered against the shifting wooden steps. You wondered who it could be at this time of night.

The castle is ablaze.

A light hint of smoke lingered in the air for hours. Someone was arriving to evacuate the prisoners... or, perhaps only one prisoner that Cersei wanted to keep alive.

“What’s goin’ on out there?” someone shouted.

Laughter-- from a woman. “You’re here to free us, right?”

You turned to the mother. "Hide him beneath your cloak," you said, unsure why you were offering advice at all. You didn't care for the woman or her wriggling baby, but there was a tense, hostile presence in the air, and you pitied the baby.

She rocked the infant in her arms, glaring at you. But soon, she thought better of it, and lifted the arm of her brown cloak over the child.

The stranger grew closer. You anticipated each footstep, the clinking of metal, and wondered what was happening outside.

A metallic, scraping noise made you jump. Slowly, you lifted your eyes; his shadow was heavy, his figure looming over you. You gasped as you met Sandor's weary gaze. You felt small and empty on the floor, but suddenly, you were overcame with energy.

Before you could speak, Sandor unsheathed his sword and swung. You reflexively lifted your hands to your face before realizing he was hitting the padlock. The padlock to your cell.

He was here to free you.

“The key!” you shouted, over the clashing of metal and shocked voices. “You need to get the keyring from--”

Sandor ignored you, and from the blazing torches against the wall, you could see a mixture of sweat and blood on his scarred face. He swung again, rattling the chain harder.

“What’s happening!?” a prisoner cried out. 

“Please,” you said. 

Sandor breathed heavily and unevenly.

With the third swing, the rusty chain collapsed, taking the padlock with it. He wrenched the iron door open. You rushed to your feet, though the older man was the first through the cell door. The man took off down the gritty hallway and up the stairs. 

You doubted he would survive.

You staggered, nearly falling back against the wall. Gripping the iron bars, you approached Sandor, lips parted in astonishment. What was there to say?

“Is the Red Keep on fire?”

He pulled you closer. “Yes. Let's get going, boy. Now.”

“Thank you, Ser,” the woman said, bowing gently as she slid past you to exit the cell, still hiding her baby beneath the cloak.

“I’m not a knight,” he grunted, gripping his sword and walking down the hall with great, long strides. “Stay close. You won't survive on your own."

The woman’s eyes widened, but she carried on.

“Come on, let some of us out!” the others jeered. Sandor paid them no mind as he turned the hall and ran up the stairs, his enormous hand in a tight grip hold around your upper arm.

Sandor reeked of sweat, smoke, and blood.

The smell of death.

Chapter Text

The dark sky wrapped around you like a blanket. The last time you were outside, the sunlight was harsh, beating down on your neck. Now, the humidity was a welcome sensation.

Leaving the Red Keep was the easiest part. It was everything outside that proved an issue. Green flames leaped up from Blackwater Bay, and it seemed as if your eyes betrayed you. But Sandor’s expression confirmed what you saw; it was all real.

The twitching corpses of unlucky men lined your path to the outermost stables in King’s Landing. The fire raged on. You didn’t want to look back to see the devastation of each scream and crash. Sandor rushed through the madness with his sword at the ready, creating a path for you and the new mother. She had no problems keeping up, despite the crying baby, but you struggled, fearing your legs would fail you. 

You arrived at the stable just in time.

“That’s my stallion,” Sandor rasped, approaching the Lannister soldiers that crowded the stalls. Two men were already atop their own horses, but the third one was unmounted, trying to lure Stranger away with an apple.

The soldier scoffed. “What are you doing, Clegane? We need all the horses we can get. King’s orders.”

“Shouldn’t you be fighting? Protecting your King, Kingsguard?” another soldier said, before turning and riding away on the horse, a dark brown destrier with an untidy mane.

Without hesitation, Stranger jerked forward and bit the stranger’s ungloved hand, ignoring the ripe apple.

“Seven hells!” the soldier screamed, yanking the afflicted hand away. Sandor lifted his sword in a threatening gesture, which was enough to scare the man into retreating.

Amidst the chaos and crumbling city, Sandor glanced between you and the new mother. He nodded towards her. “Do you know how to ride a horse?”

“No, ser,” she whispered, lowering her gaze.

“Then we can’t help you.” Sandor braced his palms together and bent over to help you onto Stranger.

“Can’t help me? But I have--!”

You stepped onto his hands and used his shoulders to steady yourself, hoisting your weight onto the horse.

“You can’t ride a horse, can’t hunt or defend yourself, and you have a little one. He’s bound to cry through the night.” Sandor sighed, then climbed onto Stranger himself. “The boy won’t survive where we’re headed. Find a safe place in the city to hide.”

The woman’s lips parted with disdain. She opened her mouth and began to scream obscenities at Sandor, but he was quick to get Stranger going and traverse through the heaps of corpses.

~

The night was long, and by the time Sandor stopped for rest, the sun was already creeping up beyond the horizon.

It had been difficult to keep your eyes open, but Stranger’s rough gallop never let you rest for long. On occasion, you fell backward onto his chest, but would quickly wake and lean forward with embarrassment. 

Sandor didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk.

Neither were you.

Sandor slid out of the saddle and procured a thick, fraying rope from his saddlebag. He knotted it around an old oak tree, then secured it to Stranger.

“Where are we?” you said, hesitating. Never having left King’s Landing before, you were clueless with your sense of direction.

“The Kingswood,” he answered. “We’ll head to Dorne.”

“Dorne?”

You wavered unsteadily atop the horse, then swung your right leg over Stranger’s head to get off. You blinked, then found yourself in the dirt, forearms aching as they dug into the roots of the oak tree.

“Food,” Sandor said, lifting you. “And rest. They won’t find us here,” he assured you.

You stared at him. Up close, he was considerably healthier than before. The life glimmered in his eyes, and color returned to his flesh, re-animating him just the way you remembered him.

Laughing, you let him hold you upright. “You’ve healed… Gods, I owe you. I owe you…”

“Silence, boy.”

Together, you rested against the tree, splitting bread and tearing at dried, stringy meat. The hard food felt foreign against your teeth. After eating, Sandor picked some green apples from a tree, storing them for later.

“But I do owe you,” you began again, letting your muscles relax against the stiff ground. “You took me out of there… you fought for me.” 

His eyes flickered over your thin frame. Sandor’s lips twisted into a frown. 

You couldn’t help yourself. You had to know. “Why did you leave? They’ll be searching for us.”

He fed Stranger a handful of oats and stroked his dark mane, his back to you. “And why do you think we’re headed to Dorne? I can wear a bloody veil or scarf over my ruined face, no--”

“It’s not ruined,” you interrupted. “But they have darker skin than us. Won’t we stand out?”

“I’ll kill any man who questions us. We’ll put oil and dirt on our faces. You’ll carry a spear.” He shrugged. “Or we’ll sail to Essos. Cersei can’t reach us there.”

You turned over onto your side, a pit in your stomach. If the Queen caught wind of Sandor’s escape to Essos, she would make an attempt to track him down, that was certain.

And you were uneasy about abandoning that poor woman in King’s Landing, with the babe on her hip. The time you spent with her wasn’t long, but you wished you had done something.

One thing was clear: Sandor prioritized you. Sandor took risks for you.

He cared. That’s all you wanted.

Chapter Text

The sun pressed against the sky in full force, trickling down between the branches and leaves of the forest. Sweat slid down the back of your tunic. You sat up and rubbed your groggy eyes.

Sandor was a few feet away, brushing Stranger’s mane and feeding the stallion oats from his palm. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said aloud, without fear of being overheard. “We’re headed to Essos.”

Essos? you thought. You weren’t sure if they spoke the common tongue in Essos, or if they took kindly to foreigners at all. What an atrocious idea. “Sandor, we—“

Without warning, he gathered you in his arms and lifted you onto Stranger, who pawed at the dirt with his hooves. “We’ll catch a boat while the sun is up. You said you owe me,” he reminded you, voice raspy and low. “So you do what I say.”

Your mouth was dry. You reached for Sandor’s flask, which hung against Stranger’s neck, and uncapped it, pressing it desperately to your lips. Sandor adjusted himself in the saddle behind you. “Is there anything you’re good at?”

You gulped down the sour red wine, then capped the flask. “What?” you said, offended. “I’m good at plenty of things.”

He took hold of Stranger’s reins, shaking his head. “I mean, for work. What can you do for money?” Sandor’s eyes were small and squinty against the humidity. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead in clusters from the sweat.

You held onto Stranger’s bridle. “My father was a cobbler. I can stitch, engrave, repair shoes…” you said, gazing into the swaying branches of the forest. He was serious about it then; setting up shop in Essos, making a living. But the relief that you expected did not come.

“Then I’ll steal tools and leather,” he murmured. Within a few minutes, he had Stranger going at a steady pace, but you were too self-aware to let yourself fall onto Sandor’s chest again. An uncomfortable, unsure feeling rose in your chest. You couldn’t picture him taking you like a virgin maiden or a whore, but this was no friendship. He belittled you, smacked you down at every opportunity, and then humiliated you by assigning you to act as a glorified servant.

But he fought for you. And saved you from that rotting cell.

Sandor stopped Stranger before the upcoming river. He stared into the gushing water. “Coming south was a mistake,” he grunted. “Should’ve gone north. We could be in Duskendale by now, on a ship headed to Pentos or Braavos.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, taking in the new surroundings. You felt watched. Uneasy. The shadows of branches shifted and swayed along the dirt path.

“Did you bring something to cover your face?” you asked.

Sandor brought Stranger into a slow trot, then scoffed. “You think they need to see my face to know who I am? All they have to do is glance at my Kingsguards armor, or my horse, and know that I’m the bloody Hound. I’ll kill anyone who gives us trouble.” He leaned forward. “Gods, I’m hungry. We have the coin to eat, and get us on a boat, if we can find a port.”

“Why did you come back for me?” you asked.

Part of you expected a grumbling excuse, but he sat still, breathing heavily. You were too afraid to turn back and see his expression, so you remained stiff, upright, thighs and hips aching from the saddle.

“You saved me,” Sandor said. “So I saved you.”

You shook your head. “I almost killed you.”

“You pled guilty so my brother wouldn’t slit my sorry throat. I was in no state to be fighting. The damned Queen--”

“Why did you fight for me at all?”

He grunted. “Better if I don’t say.”

“But you have healed?” you asked, turning to see his face. “You’re stronger now?”

His eyes were narrow, facial hair unkempt, skin dirty with ash and blood. “Yes.” Sandor’s gaze burned into your own.

You swallowed your spit and turned back around. You felt like a naive child.

~

The sun dwindled beneath the horizon, and you were still in the Kingswood. You found no taverns, no pubs or brothels, and no ports or traders with ships, but Sandor found the bridge to cross the Wendwater. That felt like progress to you.

Stranger became slower over time. You felt for him, aware that the weight of two men was tougher to manage than the weight of one. When Stranger began to show more signs of distress, Sandor ventured off of the main path and slid out of the saddle, then helped you after.

Your calves cramped as you dismounted, causing you to stumble down into the dirt. You had no option but to kneel in place and bare the pain as Sandor made the proper arrangements for eating. 

When the pain eased, you looked up at him. “What city is closest? Do you know what direction we should travel tomorrow?”

Sandor sighed. “I don’t have a map. I’ve never been this far east.”

Your stomach grumbled. “Maybe we could see if someone will sail us to Dorne.”

He turned to you, lifting an eyebrow. “You think we’ll be better off down there?”

“We can’t speak the languages in Essos,” you reasoned. “They partake in slavery. What if they make us slaves?”

“I’d like to see them try.” He took two apples and a hunk of bread from the saddlebag, offering them to you. 

You weren’t satisfied; dried meat and crumbly bread wasn’t enough to satiate you anymore. “Let’s kill a rabbit.”

He frowned. The woods were alive with the sounds of night, cicadas buzzing all around, a lone bird crying into the darkness. “No fire.”

“Why?”

Sandor refused to answer, instead sitting and sinking his teeth into the ripe fruit. 

“We will run out of food,” you said. “It’s better to save the dried meat and kill something fresh now.”

He lifted his chin, shreds of apple skin still between his teeth. “We won’t be resting here for long. We have to ride through the night.” He swallowed the fruit, then licked the juices from his fingers. “Making a fire will cause smoke. People will see us. We could set the entire forest ablaze,” he said, sighing. “I’m tired of fire.”

You curled up onto your side in a fetal position. It was hard to keep hope; you had nothing but the clothes on the back and the food in your stomach. Sandor had his armor, sword, saddlebag, and horse, but if he abandoned you, you wouldn’t stand a fighting chance in these woods. 

The next few resting hours were long and miserable. With every unfamiliar noise, you jerked, afraid that Lannister soldiers were waiting to ambush you.

But no one came for you. Even after loading back onto the horse, the only trouble you faced were a few thieves, who were dumb enough to threaten Sandor for food. Sandor took great pleasure in dismounting Stranger, brandishing his longsword, and slaughtering the men. 

While Sandor searched their corpses, you leaned forward, idly stroking Stranger’s dark mane.

You were yet to kill a man.

~

As you rode through the night, you still couldn’t fathom why Sandor would risk his life to fight for you or save you from the cells. 

At the first sign of daybreak, you dismounted and helped Sandor out of his heavy armor. Stranger drank cool water from the nearby stream. When you finished, you laid Sandor’s armor and chainmail in a heap beside you. Then you laid on your back beneath the tall oaks, staring into the brightening sky. 

“You would have a better chance of surviving without me,” you said.

Sandor laid beside you. “Would I?”

You turned onto your side. His eyes were closed, his sword beside him in the dirt. You thought about your father, how you never got to say goodbye. Perhaps he thought you were dead.

“If we went back…” you began, “Cersei wouldn’t forgive you? The King likes you.”

“You’re dumber than I thought,” he spat. Sandor opened his eyes. “You think Joffrey has any more power than his mother? That boy sleeps, eats, and shits when she tells him to.” 

You blinked back tears. “But how will we—“

“You want to go back in that cell? You want me to be beheaded, like Ned Stark? The Lannisters don’t forgive.” He cursed under his breath. “Thought you’d be grateful for all I’ve done.”

“I never got to say goodbye to my father,” you said. Your hands shook. “Or my sisters. They don’t know what happened to me. What if they think I’m dead?”

He rolled onto his side, staring you in the face. “And you’ll really be dead if we return, boy. You can take that risk. Go back if it pleases you. But I won’t help you a single step of the way.” He grunted with annoyance. “Your father can’t protect you. I can.”

Your throat was dry and scathing hot. You swallowed your saliva. “I just don’t understand… are you planning to sell me?”

The corner of Sandor’s mouth twitched. “You seem awfully bent on me abandoning you. If you don’t trust me, go your own way.” 

He laid back down, closing his eyes against the sun.

You turned onto your other side, pulling your legs inward. Beside Sandor, you felt like a child, or a woman. Yes, you were afraid; why shouldn’t you be?

You couldn’t help the sobs that racked through your body. Pressing your palm over your mouth did little to hide your heavy breathing, and you stiffened, afraid Sandor would hear you crying. 

After wallowing in your negative feelings for a few minutes, you heard Sandor saying your name, his hand on your forearm.

“What?” you murmured, wiping your eyes and turning onto your side. Snot hung from your nose.

He met your eyes and opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. Sandor stared at you, searching for the right words.

“You miss your family. I understand,” he said. “But it’s better this way.”

You shook your head, choking back a sob and wiping your eyes again. “It’s all my fault. I should’ve stayed with my father…”

“I would have left anyway,” Sandor rasped. “The bay. It was on fire.”

You frowned. “I remember. But how…”

“It was green fire.” Sandor sat up. “Cersei’s doing.”

You sniffled and sat up. You knew of the red priestesses who worshipped the Lord of Light, but had never heard of green fire before. How could Cersei create a new form of fire? “Are you sure?”

“You want to doubt me?” Sandor said.

A bug crawled onto your leg, and you flicked it off. You cringed at the built up sweat and dirt caked onto your face. Not only were you disgusting, but weak from imprisonment, and hungry.

Hesitating, you chewed on your bottom lip, studying the scars and marks of Sandor’s skin. You always wondered about his face, but couldn’t bring yourself to ask.

“My brother did it,” Sandor said, as if reading your mind. “He held me against a brazier. Does that satisfy you?”

“What?”

“I was seven.”

Your body tensed with shock. You couldn’t come up with anything to say, so you closed your mouth, nodding along as he spoke.

“I started all of this. I singled you out.” Sandor stared off into the trees. “And I should’ve won that bloody trial by combat, and split Gregor’s skull in half. But I didn’t, and now I owe it to you to get you out of this mess.” He locked eyes with you. “We will go to Dorne.”

You laid beside Sandor for what felt like hours, unable to rest. 

You quietly rose to your feet to not wake Stranger.

There was not much to do in the forest. You pissed in a bush, then wandered off through the trees and came before the stream.

Removing your boots, you sat in the dirt and dipped your feet into the cool water. You didn’t want to abandon Sandor in case of an emergency, but you were filthy. 

You squinted into the rushing water. Only small fish swam in the river, but even if you caught them, you would not be able to eat them; Sandor would not be happy if you started a fire.

Feeling the cold water on your feet, you tried to imagine how swelteringly hot the Dornish desert would be. It seemed that your mind was rushing from one thing to the next, and before you could hesitate any longer, you stripped out of your clothes and dropped down into the rushing water. 

It was so freeing to wash the cellar scum from your body, to be out in the open air, inhaling the smells of the forest. A bird flew from a towering oak as you splashed in the water, rubbing your face vigorously with your hands.

You still felt watched, as if soldiers were tracing your every movement. But was that even possible within all of the confusion and war? There was a chance each of those golden-haired Lannisters were long gone, their fine silks splattered with dried blood, heads decomposing on a stake somewhere. And Stannis Baratheon or Robb Stark wouldn’t have the resources or knowledge to go after you— the thought was soothing.

Leaves crunched somewhere behind you. You turned, eyebrows furrowed. But you couldn’t see anyone. You squinted into the distance, hoping to see a buck or fox dart away.

“Trying to get away from me?

You turned swiftly against the current, eyes wide as water dripped from your hair into the river. Sandor watched you from the shade of the trees. You weren’t sure how long he’d been there. “I’m not,” you said. “I wanted to clean myself..”

“And what if someone wanted to steal our food?” Sandor said, stepping closer to the edge of the water. He crouched down, staring at you. 

“I could see you from where I am, you know. And Stranger would’ve made a noise.” You turned away, strangely aware of the bare, exposed skin of your back and shoulders. 

“Right.”

You inhaled and stared off into the distance, hoping Sandor would leave so you could get back into your clothes. But he didn’t. Instead, he sat down in the grass. 

“How long have you been watching me?”

Sandor released a deep, gravelly laugh. The sound soothed you; you wanted to hear it again. You were desperate for his approval.

But he didn’t answer your question. You turned back around, dunking your hair in the water again. “You’ll have a better view in a Dornish brothel.”

“Those girls wouldn’t get as red as you do.”

You frowned, looking away in embarrassment. There was no way you were really blushing. You opened your mouth to speak, but Sandor did first. “No use in going to a whorehouse. Even the best actors fall short when they see me.” He narrowed his eyes at you. 

Wading closer to him in the water, you scoffed. If I was a whore, I wouldn’t turn him down, you thought, then recoiled. What were you thinking?

“Look away.” The water splashed around your waist, but you didn’t want to emerge any further until he turned around.

Sandor laughed again, but his gaze darkened. “Go on, get out. I won’t stare. Too much.”

Heat rose to your face, and now, you really were blushing. “What do you mean by—“

“Don’t leave the horse and our bags unattended again. Wake me up next time you want to do something stupid.” Sandor rose to his feet and began to walk away.

As you emerged from the river, you tugged your trousers over your cold legs in a panic, hoping Sandor wouldn’t turn around to see you. You bent down to retrieve your shirt. 

“Sandor,” you said.

He stopped to look at you.

You hesitated, unable to find the right words. “You did all of this for me, because… you want me?” you asked, your voice shaky. As soon as the words left your lips, you regretted everything. Confronting him was terrifying. You clenched your eyes shut.

Though you couldn’t see, you heard him step forward, felt him moving closer to you. “Maybe I do.” Sandor spoke in a low, quiet voice.

Your throat closed up around your words. Oh, you thought. After all this time, you couldn’t believe the answer could be the simplest one. There was something about you that he wanted; but you were as average as anyone else. 

He took your forearms in his hands, and you opened your eyes to see him just in front of you, scrutinizing you with his eyes. “Stop that. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already.” Sandor’s tone was critical, offended. “How many times do you think I’ve thought about it? Stuffing your mouth with my fingers, and taking you raw in my quarters? Pushing you up against one of those trees and having my way with you?” He gripped your arms tighter. “Don’t act like I’m some kind of monster for feeling the way I do.”

Something began to tingle in your stomach. Your brain rushed with thoughts, none of them coherent. “Why haven’t you?” 

“Because you would never forgive me.” He let go of your forearms, letting them drop down to your sides. 

You almost smiled, dizzy with the thoughts of what he could do to you. You caught his hand. “Wait.”

Sandor glared down at you, his eyes cloudy with anger. He lingered just a second too long. “No.”

“No, what?”

“We’re not doing this.” Sandor slipped his hand out of your grasp.

You scoffed. “Doing what? Let me talk to you.”

He pushed you up against the oak tree, his breathing uneven. Sandor kept his hands in place on your shoulders. “You can’t undo this. Once you say it.” His dark pupils flickered over each of your features, scanning your face for… fear? Regret?

“I want you to,” you murmured. Yes, you were afraid, but you were more afraid of never admitting the truth, going the rest of your life wondering what could have been. 

His voice was rough. “You don’t mean that,” Sandor said, his tone low, a warning. 

You lifted your hand, pressing your palm against his cheek, your fingertips brushing the unscarred portion of his face. Sandor’s rough beard poked your wrist. He hadn’t shaved in weeks.

“You…” he began. “Tell me to stop.” Sandor pressed harder up against you.

He’s more afraid than I am.

“When did you first start thinking about me?” you whispered.

Sandor licked his bottom lip, thinking as his hands slid around the waistband of your breeches. “When I caught you sleeping,” he said. “In the tower. While you polished my armor.” He seemed cautious, hesitant, gauging your reaction.

“Oh,” you said, allowing your body to sink into his touch. It was bizarre to think that Sandor wanted you so long ago, before you stopped hating him, or even that he wanted you at all. “And… I first wanted you when…” you trailed off. You weren’t able to determine a time or place, but something had been there all along, that twinge in your gut, that instinct that kept your eyes glued to him. Sandor was always there in the back of your mind. 

Hungrily, he tore your breeches away, leaving your lower half exposed to the humid summer air. Sandor shoved his knee between your legs. “And I’m goin’ to keep thinkin’ about you. Especially after this.” Sandor stared down at your stiff, leaking cock. “Gods…”

He spun you around, lifting your damp tunic up and over your arms. You pressed your hands into the rough bark.

You felt unprepared, caught off guard. What if travelers decided to ambush you? What if someone saw? What if he…

The thought was cut off as you felt him press into you with a slicked finger; his other hand was placed firmly on your rear. If you were blushing before, you were blood red now, humiliated and arching your back for a man twice your size and strength.

You were drunk with the knowledge that wanted you, thought about you, dreamed of you.

You clenched your teeth as he stuck another finger inside, stretching you wider. Something brushed against your neck; a strand of his hair. You expected him to whisper in your ear.

Instead, he bit you.

“Hells! Why—?”

“Quiet,” Sandor scolded. He covered your mouth with one hand, using his other to direct the tip of his slick, spit-covered cock inside you.

Your neck throbbed where he bit you. After the initial shock, you realized he hadn’t bitten you hard, not enough to break skin anyway. And… you liked it. The stinging of his cock tearing you apart was worse; you hadn’t seen him erect before, but could only imagine how big he was, how obscene it looked for his girth to be pressing into you.

“Mmmhhf,” you grunted behind his hand, your lips grazing against his fingers. You threw your head back as he pressed further inside. Sandor reached around and took your throbbing cock in his enormous hand, rubbing your tip gently with his thumb.

Your toes curled in response, hands aching from the rough bark. He breathed hard against your neck, then grazed his teeth against your skin. You let out a whine, and hoped it would encourage him to keep going, to sink his teeth into your skin and let you take him entirely.

He sucked on the soft skin of your neck, leaving a small circle of saliva that turned cold when he pulled away. Sandor trailed his fingers over your face, pulling your lower lip down. He forced his fingers into your mouth.

His hands tasted of dirt and metal. You licked his fingers greedily. 

“Gods,” he said, continuing to curse under his breath as he pulled back, rocking his hips against yours. You closed your eyes, then gasped as he stroked your erection, Sandor’s hand in a tight grip around your length. “I’m goin’ to have you now. You’re mine,” Sandor breathed. “No pretty bride for you.”

“Please,” you managed to get out around the fingers in your mouth. “Mmm… more..” The desire to submit to him was hard to ignore. You wondered if he would take you every night, and you could picture it then, Sandor having his way with you in the rocky hills of Braavos or atop the sand in Dorne. You pictured his fingers digging into the flesh of your waist as he fucked you, hard, leaving marks along your collarbone, your neck, your thighs…

The air was thick with pollen and the smell of upturned dirt. The river flowed somewhere behind you, and Sandor edged you closer and closer to release. You squeezed your legs together to keep them from shaking. You couldn’t think straight, couldn’t form a coherent thought; all you knew was Sandor, the way he touched you, the way his body pressed into yours.

You grunted and let your forearms support you against the tree. Streams of thin, white fluid spurted from your tip; it went everywhere, covering Sandor’s fingers, the tree bark, dripping into the grass below. Soon after, you felt Sandor release. He pulled you closer by your waist, holding you in place as his chest heaved and stomach clenched. 

You were dizzy again. He kept you in his arms as cum leaked out of you, his cock still twitching.

“Sandor,” you murmured.

“What?” He sounded as tired as you were.

You blinked, palms stinging. “We…”

He pulled away from you, his sticky cum turning cold on your body. Sandor retrieved your clothes and dressed you, pulling your tunic over your sweat-slicked arms.

“We…” you repeated, then swallowed your spit.

“Get some rest.” Sandor helped you into your trousers and laid beside you in the original spot.

You scooted closer to him despite the heat, hiking your leg up over his thigh and throwing your arm over his torso. The corner of Sandor’s lips twitched, but otherwise, he showed no discomfort.

“Sandor,” you breathed.

He turned to look at you with tired eyes. “Get on with it.”

“I think I needed you.”

Sandor didn’t react. He looked away, placing his arms together on his chest. 

Your eyelids began to close themselves, and you let yourself be carried away into the darkness.

Before you drifted away, you thought you heard him speak, whispering into your ear. But you couldn’t be sure. 

You dreamt that you were a God in a hidden temple, and all the doves and egrets and hummingbirds and crows reported to you with the secrets of humans.