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It had been a particular broody night in the eternal, warm summer when it happened.
A knock on your door, and the next thing you knew was that perpetual emptiness that you immediately knew would likely never leave, as immediately as your handmaiden knew; the moment she saw torn silk and bloodied linen, she screamed. You closed your eyes and wondered if this pain would be any less if you had managed to do the same.
You came from a small house in what now seemed like a small world, which was reduced to your chambers when all of your dreams of ever stepping out of the keep and discover any and all corner on Westeros were chained by fear; your parents were kind and compassionate, which you had been too not so long ago, thus it was your brother who took it upon himself to impart the cruel torture of steel, fire, and rats, before landing the killing blow. He was younger than you, barely a man, and somehow that made you feel guiltier, to feed him blood so early in life. If only you had not opened that door-
It took less for a heart to stop and a soul to be forgotten than it did for you to step out of your chambers. After you wailed and ran and rolled onto the ground when told a knight still had to care for you at all times, your mother had coaxed your father into handing two daggers to the closest of your handmaidens and teaching them how to handle them. You were now escorted everywhere by two girls, which was enough in the keep, not that you wished to ever leave it, but the lack of hospitality in your house was soon to be questioned. Experience had taught you not the toughest of wills would stop a hungry man, especially if he was to take entrance, course, and dessert.
Your parents had called for Ser Brienne of Tarth, hoping they had enough gold to pay for her services, but to no avail as they could not locate her. So they moved down the list, a man, he was, but one that guaranteed to be defeated with your bare hands and the flint and steel your dad handed to you when unraveling the news. 'He doesn't know a crime other than killing.' he had said in an attempt at comfort.
The Hound was a huge, imponent man, and you questioned the truth in your father's words, about ridding of him with the smallest of arifacts, now tucked away in your undergarment; but his reaction when fireplaces or torches were lit one inch too close was unmistakeable. Rejection, predisposition, a glimmer of fear. You knew all of those way too well. If you could have pitied a man, perhaps you would pity him.
It wasn't pity. You told yourself the first time you offered him a napkin with a small pastry over it, not a word spoken, your hand extended towards him. Sandor had refused, but your hand remained still until he accepted the napkin, doing his best to keep impartial when his hand got a bit too close to yours and you almost threw the bread at him in the rush of retrieving your arm.
That time, too. When he had left your side for a minute to take a piss and almost made you fall off your chair in the library when he suddenly appeared by your side. You had looked at him the way a sheep in wolf's fur would, it seemed to him, before walking out with heavy steps and locking yourself in your chambers. Sandor would have sworn he heard you crying at the snap of the lock.
Sandor kept that thought close. A sheep in wolf's fur. Showing teeth you didn't have. Claws breaking from what were meant to be the softest of paws. Why? Had it something to do with the way you had thrown the apple pie at the cook's face when he presented it to your family in hopes of it being served for the guests arriving next week? How you had cursed him out with words no Lady should know? It was a savagery Sandor recognized, rooting on fright, a rage fed by pain. He knew what it was like.
Not that it hadn't dawned on him that you were a pained woman. He had heard your screams and cries when you threw stuff at times when you were alone with your parents or handmaidens and he had to wait outside the room. He had seen you snap at cutlery that didn't grasp the food quite right, throwing the silver accross the room; he had seen you pull and break precious jewelery when it itched a bit too much; the dresses you had torn because they just didn't feel right. Sandor looked at the portraits of a little you on the walls and wondered in what moment those rosy cheeks and bright smile had turned into this frightened beast, a ticking demise people had learned to fear, even people loved and close. What fire had those precious bracelets melted into your skin in scars you didn't know he had noticed. What had broken you.
The Lord, his Lady, and their three spawns arrived on an early morning. Your family clad in a strict line, prepared to greet them, all smiles and fake courtesy. However, when it was your turn they all became skittish, whether it was because of Sandor's firm presence behind you or what was rumoured you didn't care. You didn't wish to shake any hands, but only in case you were forced to, you had worn your thin leather gloves. You weren't touching any man's filthy hand.
The guests had endured a harsh journey to arrive, your parents had thanked them and ensured they were shown to the guest wing as soon as possible, with supper and dinner served to their doors. You watched them from afar, barely keeping yourself from shivering, the guest wing was closer to your chambers than the service one.
Dusk came over the keep, soon followed by darkness, and Sandor was keeping post out of your door when it opened. You had never spoken a word to him, and you weren't about to start now, he assumed when you silently extended a small sack of coins towards him.
"What's this for, girl?" he asked, not grabbing the bag until he knew what he was being bought for.
"Don't leave until the next guard takes post." your words were softer at him than they were at the poor cook, but not for that were they more than polite. Sandor could even swear you dreaded talking in general, at least to anyone but your maids.
"D'ya think you close that door and I'm gone? I know how to do my job." you still held the sack, and he showed no intention of grabbing it this time.
"There's some time in between the moment you take your leave and the next guard comes." Sandor grumbled at that. "I ask of you to wait for the next guard here." You shook the sack, insistent.
"I always do." Sandor gruffed. "No need for any of that shit." he pointed his chin at the sack. You stared at him for a moment before nodding curtly and stepping inside again. Fuck him, even your eyes looked like a sheep's.
Next day's dinner was a nightmare you had dreaded since you were told guests where coming over. There had gone that fancy dornish vase. Your handmaidens dressed you and occasionally rubbed your back in quiet support, being especially gentle with your hair, fixing it in what they knew was the hairstyle you hated less. You sighed and stepped outside, barely acknowledging Sandor as usual before walking to the dining hall.
Your parents and their guests were already seated when you arrived, so you sat too, at the right of your mother and in front of the oldest of the spawns, a man a bit older than you, with a vulgar face, a vulgar smile, vulgar hair, a vulgar cock in his breeches waiting to be freed and unleashed at whatever weaker being got in its way. You had lost your appetite.
"Ah, two things certainly caught my eye today." lord vulgar said, his vulgar gaze traveling to your cleavage, the double sense in his words becoming obvious. You stabbed your steak with your fork. He went over some poor excuse about the garden's flowers. "Miss, you seem rather quiet, have you a particular favourite flower I seemed to forget?" stab. The fork clanking on the plate as you poked the meat again, shoulders tensing beneath Sandor's gaze as he stood behind you. Your father apologized for your lack of manners when you didn't make a peep as to respond. Stab. Stab. Stab.
The dessert was brought next. To your dismay it became the next topic in the discussion. It was a pie, but a plum pie, you could live with plum pie. You took a reluctant bite. If not for what it meant it would've been delicious. The words around fell to your deaf ears as you tasted a bit more. Hells, you could have finished the small piece if not for someone's vulgar mouth.
"You know, My Lord? This is truly delicious, but..." don't say it. "...my favourite sort has always been apple pie." STAB. Plum splattering your plate as you strongly drove your fork into the dessert.
This time everyone turned their heads to look at you, the drag of your fork on the plate filling the silence. Your mother called your name in a soft warning, but you were far away from there, lost in a broody summer night.
"M'lady, goodnight. I'm sorry for bothering you at such a late hour." the moment you opened that door.
"What're you doing here? " why in the seven hells had you smiled so sweetly?
"I was just working late." a stupid chuckle. How come you didn't ask why this was happening at the guard's change?
"Is that so?" so sweet, you had been, why hadn't you been meaner, colder, sharper?
"Mhm. Just some apple pie. Would you wish to try it? I want your opinion on it."
"Of course." a smile as you grabbed the plate, odd, it was cold. "Did you bake it just..." then came the knife, pushing you inside. The same knife that had torn your nightgown next.
Sandor thought he'd have to grab you as your brother did when you snapped at the cook when you stood up, menacing, knife and fork clenched tightly in your hands. You looked at Lord vulgar not with the eyes of a sheep this time, maybe closer to the wolf for once, killer nature and a fire that made Sandor almost think of taking a step back. But it was just a coincidence, right? A really painful one at that. You slammed your cutlery down on the table before storming out, your father calling after you in a stern voice, your mother apologizing for your behavior.
"Hey." Sandor called, yes, he had to protect you but it was your father who paid. You jolted at his deep voice, walking quicker. "Girl!" A sheep runs when its scared.
Prey drive made you sprint through the hallways. Sandor hadn't ever laid hand on you. The old cook hadn't either. A fireplace. Your fear whispered as you heard the thumping steps behind you. The horror was shattering, unreasonable and all consuming. Why were you running? You didn't know if it was yourself or Sandor asking, you didn't stop. Maybe you were running from Lord vulgar, maybe you were running from Sandor, maybe from your father, from the ghost of the man that had raped you. You weren't able to scream that night. You weren't able to kick. To move. To breathe. But now you were, and no matter which man was after you, or for what reason at first, your fate was written and all you could do was run.
You found the library first, and hurled yourself to the carpet close to the fireplace, you grabbed the tongs with a shaky hand and pushed the steel into the fire, hoping, praying they would get hot enough soon enough. The moment Sandor stepped in, though, your bravery disappeared, you tried to grab the tongs and brandish at him, but your sweaty palms and stiff fingers couldn't take hold of the steel. You grunted in desperation, though it came to Sandor more as a whimper.
"What's gotten into you?" he asked, stranged by your behaviour, probably the only person other than the guests that found it unusual. "C'mon, Lass, your old man wants you back in there." he said sternly as you stood there, chest heaving, limbs stiff. At the lack of reply he went for your arm. Mistake he regretted as soon as you found you voice.
"Don't fucking touch me!" you yelled, though it was more a screech, tears spilling furiously.
Sandor didn't know when you had reached under your skirt, all he registered was you holding flint and steel in you shaky hands, ready to sent a spark to the very flammable carpet beneath the both of you. He took several steps back, his hand didn't travel to his sword, it just stayed there as he stared at you, sobbing uncontained.
You stared back, the threat clear in your face. You were shaking, not able to explain to yourself how were you even standing on those legs, and crying, crying wildly, not able to keep your deep sobs to yourself. About to tell Sandor to step back and leave, you opened your mouth, but the knot in your throat held your words long enough to notice Sandor's gaze.
In those deep, brown eyes that held witnesses to the death of many, you saw pain, you saw hurt and betrayal and heartbreak. But deep down, though at the very center, was fear. The same fear you had for his being, for his kind, he held for the objects in your hands. Sprouting from the same place of broken trust, of lost innocence in the hands of who you least expected to be the thief. The thump of the flint and steel against the carpet brought you back, you lowered your hands slowly and didn't move when Sandor took a step towards your trembling form, then another, until he was holding the underside of your arm in his big hand. You stayed still, but it was not for the cold fright in your veins, but this time to engulf the sweet, harmless warmth of his hand against your arm. Sandor stood tall in front of you, and you dropped your forehead on his shoulder, crying.
He didn't touch you further, just held you straight by the arm as your nails digged into his armor. When he spoke, it was as quiet as he could manage.
"C'mon, little dove, let's get you to your nest."