FIC: Nearly Strange Kindnesses, for chacusha
Recipient: chacusha
Title: Nearly Strange Kindnesses
Author: tomboy_typist
Rating: Gen, rated PG, but see warnings
Characters: Sandor and Gregor Clegane, along with the Unnamed sister.
Word Count: 1099
Summary: It's not easy being related to the future Mountain That Rides. Sandor and his sister learn the hard way.
Warnings: Though it's probably redundant, it has Gregor in it. Warning for possibly triggery depictions of familial violence and language.
Author's Note: It was a great prompt. Thank you for requesting it!
When she saw the baby in the cradle, the first daughter of Lord Clegane smiled, and cooed, and made silly sounds. He was perfect. Perfect. Big, of course, like any child of their house, and his little hand was already a tight little fist around her pinky finger.
But baby Sandor was adorable, she decided, absolutely adorable, and she wanted to keep him safe and cuddle up to the sweet little thing until he slept peacefully.
The baby cried, and her six year old little brother who was already as tall as her jabbed young lady Clegane in the ribs.
“Ow,” she protested, but mildly. She'd noticed that the more one reacted to Gregor's provocation, the more he indulged. The monstrous six-year old reached under her dress and reached to pinch her shin. Sandor's big sister, a tall and smart girl of seven with beautiful black hair but a homely face, looked down (still, but not for much longer, she realized) at her brother.
“Go on, Gregor. Go play. I'm taking care of the baby.”
Gregor kicked her again and left after sticking his tongue out, eyes full of hatred. She sighed, snuggled the baby closer, and tried not to cry.
* * *
Sandor was walking, now. He was a fast learner, a tall baby with an iron grip but eyes that could be gentle. He was only a babe of three, she mused as she kept to her needle work. The septa had to go make water, and had asked her to watch over the boy for a short moment.
Watching her youngest brother was a pleasure - he wandered about, legs spread by his too fat diaper, one step at a time, confident like a little giant.
“Boom boom,” he informed her solemnly.
“Boom boom,” she replied, chuckling a little, amused. She noticed that there was nothing ill in his eyes, nothing other than childish curiosity, and found that reassuring. It hadn't been the same with Gregor. Then again, nothing was like anything, with Gregor, she told herself philosophically.
The young maid of ten was dreaming a little, wondering who her husband would be, when she would leave House Clegane. A demanding tug on her dress made her start - she was a flighty thing - and she pricked her finger with the needle.
“Sandor, you scared me,” she scolded the very small child.
But he was stretching his arms up towards her, demanding a hug, and she melted a little inside. She sat on the floor, hugged her little brother, and sung him a gentle, sweet song. For a moment, all was well.
* * *
Sandor was crying, screaming. The septa was yelling, “No, little lord, no, don't do that,” but she'd already been pushed off once by Gregor, and the silly, stupid old nurse simply couldn't stave off the large ten year old boy.
She came in, tried to pull him off their little brother. “Don't do it, or I'll tell Father,” she kept repeating, crying, screaming, scratching at Gregor who was already taller and stronger than her. “He's just a baby, don't do it,” she bellowed again, and held on to Gregor's legs with her body, curling up around them so that his big feet wouldn't reach the little boy who was crying on the cold stones of Clegane hall.
And then his hand descended upon her hair, and he tugged, and Gregor's toothy smile was cruel, ruthless, inhuman. “I'll kill you first, then,” he growled to his elder sister. “I'll kill you first, and then I'll kill him.”
“No you won't, Father will never let you, and I'll tell Lord Tywin, and I'll tell everyone and you'll be sorry for it,” she replied, and spat in his face.
He slapped her, and for a moment, her vision was nothing but stars and flashing points of light. At least it wasn't Sandor receiving the blow, she told herself when she wiped her bloody mouth.
Gregor gave her one hard look and walked away, leaving her to console their screaming, terrified little brother.
* * *
It was a beautiful summer day, and her hair smelled of fresh strawberries.
“Do you know,” she said without looking up from the flower she was slowly destroying, one petal at a time, “that one day I will be wed to a good and sweet lord?”
“Oh, really?” Sandor was all ears, eyes wide and earnest. Innocent.
“Oh, really,” she said, and reached to fuzz his hair despite the customary frown with which he graced her. She didn't care - she knew it was part of his ways. “And when I get married to a good and sweet lord, I'll take you away with me.”
Away from Gregor, she meant. But neither needed to say it.
* * *
When they brought her in from the ride, Sandor knew. He was only a very little boy, not even six, but the way her hand was limp and the way she didn't speak, or didn't sing, was enough.
He knew.
There were no words in the hall, that day. Not for a while. His father's face was grim and unhappy. Gregor was nowhere to be seen.
It was better that way. It was always better that way, but why wouldn't their sister wake, the little boy asked, over and over. When no-one would give him an answer, he started to scream and to push, to shove so that he could go hold her hand.
When he touched her hand, despite the septa's defenses, the little boy let out a heavy, heavy sob. “She's cold,” he informed the adults. “Why is she so cold?”
“She's sleeping,” one of them replied, it didn't matter who.
“When will she wake up?”
“We don't know,” his father said seriously. “Go play. This is not a child's concern.”
So Sandor went and played. Alone. He cried without his sister's comforting embrace for the first and last time.
* * *
For hours, the Hound had been lying in bed, eyes wide. He didn't need to sleep. Or couldn't. Didn't matter which.
“That's enough,” Sandor told himself, waking from his reverie. “She's dead. She's fucking dead and you did nothing to save her,” he told himself. He looked at his reflection in the unforgiving polished glass. His face. The half face that she would never see. Thank no-one for small mercies.
“Bugger them, bugger you,” he growled, and pounded his fist into the mirror. The pain grounded him.
Outside, the crowd was loud in King's Landing. Princess Myrcella was soon to be seen off to Dorne. Fucking fops. Pretenders. Fucking Joffrey.
Didn't matter. Never did to any stupid dog. Not now, not ever.
Title: Nearly Strange Kindnesses
Author: tomboy_typist
Rating: Gen, rated PG, but see warnings
Characters: Sandor and Gregor Clegane, along with the Unnamed sister.
Word Count: 1099
Summary: It's not easy being related to the future Mountain That Rides. Sandor and his sister learn the hard way.
Warnings: Though it's probably redundant, it has Gregor in it. Warning for possibly triggery depictions of familial violence and language.
Author's Note: It was a great prompt. Thank you for requesting it!
When she saw the baby in the cradle, the first daughter of Lord Clegane smiled, and cooed, and made silly sounds. He was perfect. Perfect. Big, of course, like any child of their house, and his little hand was already a tight little fist around her pinky finger.
But baby Sandor was adorable, she decided, absolutely adorable, and she wanted to keep him safe and cuddle up to the sweet little thing until he slept peacefully.
The baby cried, and her six year old little brother who was already as tall as her jabbed young lady Clegane in the ribs.
“Ow,” she protested, but mildly. She'd noticed that the more one reacted to Gregor's provocation, the more he indulged. The monstrous six-year old reached under her dress and reached to pinch her shin. Sandor's big sister, a tall and smart girl of seven with beautiful black hair but a homely face, looked down (still, but not for much longer, she realized) at her brother.
“Go on, Gregor. Go play. I'm taking care of the baby.”
Gregor kicked her again and left after sticking his tongue out, eyes full of hatred. She sighed, snuggled the baby closer, and tried not to cry.
* * *
Sandor was walking, now. He was a fast learner, a tall baby with an iron grip but eyes that could be gentle. He was only a babe of three, she mused as she kept to her needle work. The septa had to go make water, and had asked her to watch over the boy for a short moment.
Watching her youngest brother was a pleasure - he wandered about, legs spread by his too fat diaper, one step at a time, confident like a little giant.
“Boom boom,” he informed her solemnly.
“Boom boom,” she replied, chuckling a little, amused. She noticed that there was nothing ill in his eyes, nothing other than childish curiosity, and found that reassuring. It hadn't been the same with Gregor. Then again, nothing was like anything, with Gregor, she told herself philosophically.
The young maid of ten was dreaming a little, wondering who her husband would be, when she would leave House Clegane. A demanding tug on her dress made her start - she was a flighty thing - and she pricked her finger with the needle.
“Sandor, you scared me,” she scolded the very small child.
But he was stretching his arms up towards her, demanding a hug, and she melted a little inside. She sat on the floor, hugged her little brother, and sung him a gentle, sweet song. For a moment, all was well.
* * *
Sandor was crying, screaming. The septa was yelling, “No, little lord, no, don't do that,” but she'd already been pushed off once by Gregor, and the silly, stupid old nurse simply couldn't stave off the large ten year old boy.
She came in, tried to pull him off their little brother. “Don't do it, or I'll tell Father,” she kept repeating, crying, screaming, scratching at Gregor who was already taller and stronger than her. “He's just a baby, don't do it,” she bellowed again, and held on to Gregor's legs with her body, curling up around them so that his big feet wouldn't reach the little boy who was crying on the cold stones of Clegane hall.
And then his hand descended upon her hair, and he tugged, and Gregor's toothy smile was cruel, ruthless, inhuman. “I'll kill you first, then,” he growled to his elder sister. “I'll kill you first, and then I'll kill him.”
“No you won't, Father will never let you, and I'll tell Lord Tywin, and I'll tell everyone and you'll be sorry for it,” she replied, and spat in his face.
He slapped her, and for a moment, her vision was nothing but stars and flashing points of light. At least it wasn't Sandor receiving the blow, she told herself when she wiped her bloody mouth.
Gregor gave her one hard look and walked away, leaving her to console their screaming, terrified little brother.
* * *
It was a beautiful summer day, and her hair smelled of fresh strawberries.
“Do you know,” she said without looking up from the flower she was slowly destroying, one petal at a time, “that one day I will be wed to a good and sweet lord?”
“Oh, really?” Sandor was all ears, eyes wide and earnest. Innocent.
“Oh, really,” she said, and reached to fuzz his hair despite the customary frown with which he graced her. She didn't care - she knew it was part of his ways. “And when I get married to a good and sweet lord, I'll take you away with me.”
Away from Gregor, she meant. But neither needed to say it.
* * *
When they brought her in from the ride, Sandor knew. He was only a very little boy, not even six, but the way her hand was limp and the way she didn't speak, or didn't sing, was enough.
He knew.
There were no words in the hall, that day. Not for a while. His father's face was grim and unhappy. Gregor was nowhere to be seen.
It was better that way. It was always better that way, but why wouldn't their sister wake, the little boy asked, over and over. When no-one would give him an answer, he started to scream and to push, to shove so that he could go hold her hand.
When he touched her hand, despite the septa's defenses, the little boy let out a heavy, heavy sob. “She's cold,” he informed the adults. “Why is she so cold?”
“She's sleeping,” one of them replied, it didn't matter who.
“When will she wake up?”
“We don't know,” his father said seriously. “Go play. This is not a child's concern.”
So Sandor went and played. Alone. He cried without his sister's comforting embrace for the first and last time.
* * *
For hours, the Hound had been lying in bed, eyes wide. He didn't need to sleep. Or couldn't. Didn't matter which.
“That's enough,” Sandor told himself, waking from his reverie. “She's dead. She's fucking dead and you did nothing to save her,” he told himself. He looked at his reflection in the unforgiving polished glass. His face. The half face that she would never see. Thank no-one for small mercies.
“Bugger them, bugger you,” he growled, and pounded his fist into the mirror. The pain grounded him.
Outside, the crowd was loud in King's Landing. Princess Myrcella was soon to be seen off to Dorne. Fucking fops. Pretenders. Fucking Joffrey.
Didn't matter. Never did to any stupid dog. Not now, not ever.