fic
Title: Uncertain Territory
Author: maxamillion369
Characters: Hound/OFC
Rating: PG (language)
Summary: The Hound may have met his match in Seera.
Word Count: ~5000
Notes: Though the story based on the TV series, the age of Sandor Clegane more closely follows the book. This fic takes place between 10-15 years after the series, putting him about age 45.
“Hound! Hound!”
Seera could hear her children’s voices cheering happily from the entrance to their apartment. She emerged from her bedchamber to see a clamor of excitement as they greeted the towering warrior. Four year-old Cady attempted to scale him like a great tree, giggling manically, as her older brother, Jon, tugged on the man’s arm and explained each toy and possession in great detail. He looked, indeed, like an old, grizzled hound being harried by two puppies. She smiled nervously and cleared her throat.
“What are you doing to the poor man?” He looked at her and she nodded her head tersely. “Thank you for coming, Sandor. The children were, as you can see, eager to see you again.” He nodded in return but said nothing, allowing himself to be led by the attention-hungry pups to their toys. He was quiet with them as well, but did not look displeased. His scarred, scowling face was unreadable as usual. The only expression she had ever been able to discern in that burned, bearded visage was hatred and anger; when he didn’t display that anger it was merely blank. Ugly, but emotionless. Perhaps he had no feelings beyond anger. He watched dispassionately as her children cavorted around him and told him of all that had happened to them in the past few weeks.
In those weeks the children had asked repeatedly about him, like they would a favored uncle. Once the initial adjustment to their grandmother’s grand house had died down, they begged Seera to see him. Jon in particular craved a strong male role model. He would latch onto any man that would show him the least attention like a hungry babe to the breast (she blamed his absent father for that). The Hound was not, in the least bit, suitable as that role model. But he had been kind to her son-to both her children-on the long, perilous journey from the North to her mother-in-law’s home here in Oldtown.
It was odd seeing him now, here, in her apartment. It was her turf (well, sort of), and all was safety and prosperity. Not the dimly lit, stinking inns of the northern roads, the cold tent they sometimes shared. He was clean-though not the better-looking for it-and relaxed.
She indulged her children’s desire for his company, but she watched. She didn’t fear for their safety with him-he had certainly had plenty of opportunity to hurt them in the weeks that they traveled together-but she was wary of his influence on them. They saw enough of violence during their journey, witnessed him killing: she shuddered at the memory. She knew that Jon especially would be expected to be fierce and cold as a man, but as a boy she wished him to retain the innocent horror he felt at witnessing those things that frightened him.
And the language: the man could curse and swear with the best of them. Jon knew better than to repeat the words in front of his elders, but Cady, at her feisty little age, had already voiced a few choice phrases during her tantrums. And so she was relieved when she realized it was their bedtime and she had an excuse to pull them away, protesting fiercely, from the Hound, Sandor Clegane.
She was surprised to find him still there when she returned from tucking them soundly into their beds, assuring them against her better judgment that they would see the Hound again soon. He stood confidently in a corner, inspecting the furnishings like he knew something of their quality. Who was this man? He looked up at her. “Well, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” His voice was steel clashing on rocks. She raised her eyebrows at him and said nothing; she walked to the wine table and poured him a glass. If there was one benefit of living here in her cold, disapproving mother-in-law’s house it was the excellent vintage. After a second thought, she poured herself an extra-large helping.
Small faces peeked out from their rooms. She barked them back to their beds and gestured the Hound to follow her to the small sitting area adjoining her bedchamber. He hesitated at the threshold.
“They’ll just keeping getting up as long as they hear us talking,” she said. And he followed.
“They missed you, you know.” She paced nervously before sitting. He waited for her to settle before seating himself across from her.
She realized she was avoiding eye contact with him and forced herself to look up, her green eyes sharply focused on his. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
He snorted. “What’s wrong? Grandma isn’t tough enough?” His voice was mocking and contemptuous…as usual.
She sat back and contemplated his glowering face. “Oh, she’s tough all right,” she said, “though of course not in the same way.” Her mother-in-law, the matriarch of a noble family was snobbish and powerful. She had always regarded Seera with a certain amount of disdain. Seera had never met her before finally coming here, seeking the sanctuary of the South. Seera was never good enough for her son: a commoner, no matter how accomplished her father, was no match for a wealthy, noble heir. How noble he proved to be when, after the long and perilous winter, he left her and the children in a now anarchical and dangerous town. She had kept expecting him to write, to turn up, but he never did. Perhaps he was dead. She didn’t care now. She was just left with the acid taste of resentment that he left her, helpless and penniless, with an infant and a toddler. Always an independent and determined woman she did the best she could, but eventually she had to write to the old bitch, begging for help. It was she who had hired the Hound, a renowned mercenary of Oldtown, to escort Seera and the children south to safety.
“So whose idea was it for me to come here?”
“Mine,” she said. “Well, mine and the children. She would never encourage your influence on them.”
“Oh, sure,” he growled. “I’m good enough to drag your sorry asses around the countryside for weeks on end, but I can’t come and listen to them crow about all the shit she’s buying for them.” She raised an eyebrow at him, appreciating how he got the point exactly. The corner of his mouth turned up in an amused sneer. It did nothing to soften his appearance. “And what about you, eh? What does she think about your influence on them?”
She debated how much to tell him. It certainly was no business of his the tense relationship she had with her mother-in-law. “I should think that my actions would be a bit less concerning for her,” she stated simply as she sipped from her wine.
“What actions would those be?” he demanded, his voice growing fiercer. “I’d do nothing to hurt a child!”
“I didn’t say you would,” she responded with fire of her own. “But they’re a bit too young to be exposed to the violence they’ve seen at your hands!”
He stood up, glaring down at her from his full height. “You know full well I had no choice but to kill those men. The children are better off having seen that than being raped and butchered by that lot.”
The image that statement conjured in her pierced her brain like an arrow and would not leave her head. Her eyes grew hot and wet. She rose to escort him from the apartment but he stopped her with his bulk. He inched forward slowly, backing her into a table in the corner. Her eyes were level with his chest, his form blocking her view. “You’re a cold bitch if you don’t remember all I’ve done for you and your little ones. Sure I was being paid to bring them here to Oldtown.” His breath was hot in her face, sour with wine. “But I didn’t have to bring you, you know.”
She looked up at him, her eyes welling. She felt herself drowning in the memories of the road. She had, as was her usual way of dealing with stress and danger, put it away and donned a brave face. Stuffed it down and turned it away. For so long. And now it was all coming back in a flood. The constant danger and hardship of living alone, and then the cold, relentless, bloody trip-weeks and weeks of surviving and relying on this deadly man. The feeling of sticky, hot blood and brains spurting upon her and the children. She bowed her head again, avoiding his steely gaze, and shook her head slowly back and forth trying to rid her mind of the images and the whimpering of her panicked children.
Tears began to roll down her cheeks, her breath ragged and fast. Seera wrapped her arms around his massive back and crushed herself to him. He stood, stock still, unsure of what to make of her embrace. “Please don’t talk about it anymore,” she begged. “I can’t go back to that…those memories. I just want it to stop.” Slowly his great hands came up to rest on her. Awkwardly, gently, he pulled her to him and tangled his fingers in her hair. They stood like that for what seemed hours, but it was only minutes. She felt him harden against her stomach and she released him suddenly, pushed back against his chest. He dropped his hands but kept her cornered.
“I was right,” he growled. She looked up at him questioning, accusing. “You are a frigid bitch.” She sneered at him but said nothing, knowing full well that anything she could say would come out wrong. He backed off and began to laugh-a menacing laugh, no mirth in it, only loathing.
“It’s all right,” he chuckled. “I wouldn’t go for a man like me either.” He turned, averting the scarred side of his face.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she hissed.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he barked. “I spent plenty of time with you to know about who you are. It’s you who knows nothing of me.” He stomped out of the room, out of the apartment.
*****
Seera had spent the last three days, since the Hound had stormed off from her, in a daze. Why did she feel like she had to prove herself to him? What on earth had she been thinking about holding him like that? She knew that much of that was a welling-up of emotion and trauma from the past few months, past few years. But why had it come out then and with him? The sense memory of him holding her, his hands in her hair haunted her. What in Seven Hells was that about? Was she really so desperate for a man that she was ready to swoon in the arms of a foul-mouthed killer? Hardly likely. She knew that, despite being poor and no longer a fresh-faced girl, she was still attractive. Despite being still technically married, she would make a decent catch for many men. But she didn’t really want that, didn’t really want a man. Her useless husband had disabused her of the notion of lasting romance a long time ago. For the time-being, she would be able to live here, avoiding her mother-in-law when possible, and ensure her children would have the comfort and security of a good home and family.
But still, here she was, walking through the city toward the Hound’s lair.
She had found from questioning the house guards the general area where he lived. It turned out it was not in the best part of the town. Her path led her down from the beautifully trellised and sunny houses of the nobles and rich merchants, down, down into a warren of dark buildings which progressively blocked out the quickly sinking sun. Feral cats slinked beneath stalls, waiting patiently for the rats that would emerge at dusk. The cats weren’t the only hunters afoot: unwashed men began to leer at her, stalk her like prey. She wasn’t afraid, exactly. It took a lot to make her feel fear. But she was beginning to question the wisdom of wandering down here on her own.
She was just about to turn around, retrace her steps back to the more civilized section of the city when she saw him. Their eyes met and he squinted, cocked his head in puzzlement at her presence. She felt she probably was not hiding the relief in her eyes at having found him before she was knifed in a dark alley somewhere.
He strode up to her. “What are you doing here? Are you lost or just stupid?”
“You’re an asshole,” she spat. He smiled at that. She forced herself to hold his stare and put on a brave face. “I was looking for you, of course.”
He sniffed. “Of course.” He shouldered past her and began to walk away.
“Where are you going?” She demanded.
He stopped, but didn’t turn. “I’m hungry. Come on,” he snapped.
She trotted to keep up with him. She was a tall woman, but he towered above her. Conspicuously the men who had just moments ago ogled her menacingly shrunk back into the shadows of the street. At the tavern door, his massive bulk and ferocious looks made every patron turn, stare, and grow silent. The chatter and noise only restarted after they sat at a table.
Seera herself remained silent, as did the Hound. He ordered food and ale for them both. At last he spoke.
“Well? What do you want?” he asked. “Where are the children? I sure as shit hope you didn’t lose them in this stinking slum.”
“Their grandmother has taken them for a few weeks to her country home. She wants to develop their relationship since she never bothered to know them, or even write to them, when we lived up north.” She paused significantly. “I wasn’t invited.”
“And so you’re bored? Wanted to go slumming with me?” Why was it that everything he said was like a throwing dagger aimed at some vital organ? It wasn’t so much what he said as the way he said it. She sat back and sighed.
“Yes, as a matter-of-fact I am bored,” she admitted. She gathered her courage. “And for some reason it bothers me what you said the other day: about you knowing me and me not understanding you.” A flicker of surprise crossed his otherwise impassive face. “So here I am, trying to get to know you, and hoping for some reason that you will give me a little more credit.” At that point their ales arrived and he raised his mug to her, a toast. She toasted back and smiled slyly. Round one.
*****
She lay in bed late the next morning. Her mind reeled and roiled over the events of the previous evening. Nothing much had happened: no wild adventures and fights, nothing taboo. In fact, her initial goal of finding out more information about Sandor Clegane met with subtle evasions and nothing solid. She ended up telling him more about herself than she had ever intended to, and she felt none the wiser about his past. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to tell, but she doubted that. Someone of his stature, his reputation as a fearless killer, had to have a story. He didn’t exactly refuse to answer any questions, in fact he was unfailingly honest. But she had felt herself not even trying most of the night, instead pouring her heart out to him about her own struggles and doubts. She felt weak.
It was most likely the ale. She had had more than her fair share, for some reason doing her best to try to keep up with a man three times her size. A foolish, immature thing to do. She winced as she recalled her flirtatious looks toward the quiet, indulgent, and amused man who had escorted her back to her home. He had looked down on her with that mocking face of his, the burned side turned away from her, as she leaned wobbly on his arm.
“What the fuck?” She said aloud to herself. She found herself repeating the phrase to herself over and over throughout the day.
*****
“Is the bitch still gone?”
The voice somehow did not surprise her. She glanced up from her book and smiled slightly at the huge figure silhouetted by the light of the courtyard garden. The days had grown hot and humid-a welcome change from the still receding winter-and she had retreated to the shade of the trellised side walls. She had changed her usual loose trousers and long tunic for a loose white dress with bare arms. It was luxurious to bask in warmth.
“I thought I was the bitch?” She retorted. He walked confidently toward her. He always responded positively to her barbs and sarcasm; and somehow she was growing used to the volley of insults and self-deprecating remarks.
“I meant the old bitch.”
She smiled. “Yes, she’s still gone.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to have to put her in her place.” He stepped beneath the trellis and allowed his eyes to adjust from the glare. His gaze lingered on her figure beneath the light gown. “Seven Hells woman, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Seera felt herself color. Her initial impulse was to retreat and cover, but for some reason she fought it. She put her book beside her and stretched, catlike. “So what have you been up to?” She purred.
He grunted dismissively. “Working. Just a local security job, but it keeps me from drinking and whoring too much.” Always with him the provocation.
“You’re impossible, Sandor.”
“Likely.”
A comfortable silence broken only by the sound of birds and the shushing of the fountain. She smiled brightly at him. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to take me out to dinner again?” He looked genuinely taken aback. In fact he did take an actual step back from her. She was enjoying this, seeing him not in control. She cocked her head at him.
He didn’t respond well. He leaned close, menacing, his great hand grasping the bench as his dead, dark eyes peered closely at her. “Don’t toy with me, Seera. If I wanted someone to pretend they want me, I’ll pay a whore-they’re better at it than you are. What in Seven Hells do you want from me?”
The feisty side in her broke out. She pushed him back and slid out from the barricade of his arm. “You were the one who came here, Sandor! What the Hells do you want?” She realized it was silly to be shouting at the man’s massive chest and jumped up to stand on the bench. For once she was taller than he. She pushed him back again then, or at least tried to: as strong as she was the man was immovable. “You come around here and start poking and provoking. I respond and for once you get angry? Give me a break!” He was silent, staring with burning eyes-that look of anger she had seen so many times before. Unfortunately this time it was directed at her, but she was too incensed to be sensible and shut up.
“We’ve been clashing since I’ve met you, which I guess is no surprise. Always with you it’s attack, attack, insult, insult. But there’s one thing I bet you never thought I’d realize…shit, you probably didn’t even know you were so obvious.” Here she leaned forward and looked hard into his scarred face. “You never attack and insult anyone nearly as often or with such vigor as you do yourself.”
The burning eyes went dull, but still he said nothing. She relaxed her stance and reached out, hardly realizing she was doing it. He flinched but allowed her to rest her hand on his shoulder. She continued more cautiously, more kindly, “I don’t know who you were before the Winter. I don’t know why you’re scarred inside and out. But I can see…something beyond the bullshit you put forth to push people away.” She stepped down from her perch, allowing him the upper ground once more. He relaxed, almost imperceptibly. Again a silence took hold. She took his hand slowly and led him toward a table on the far side of the courtyard. She poured him a full goblet of wine, which he silently downed in one swallow. She felt a pressure on her hand, and looked down, surprised to see that he still held it gently in his. She refilled his glass and smiled slightly up at him.
Again she thought, “What the fuck?” But this time it was less with confusion and more with resignation.
They sat then, at last releasing hands, and looked out at the verdant courtyard. Once in a while she would glance cautiously up at him, but he held his gaze steadily out into nothing. The air cooled as the sun began to sink over the far wall but still remained warm and luxurious. Seera found herself struggling to recall the bone-piercing chill of that decade-long winter. It almost made her sad, the nostalgia. She had become so used to the chill and hardship it was alien to be sun-warmed.
Seera glanced up again and was surprised to finally see him looking down upon her; while still unreadable the gaze was softer, with no malice. She felt her breath catch. Finally she broke the uncomfortable silence.
“What?” She said. “What are you thinking?”
He looked away, disconcerted, returning his eyes to the garden. “I’m trying to figure out why a woman like you wants to sit here with a man like me.” His voice was its usual self-mocking growl. “Why? What are you thinking?”
She smiled slightly. “I was thinking the exact same thing.” He huffed at this, a short snort of laughter.
“Let me know when you come up with an answer.” He turned back to her, and she let her smile broaden. She nodded. He rose then and held out a broad, calloused hand. “Come on. Let’s get that dinner.”
*****
They returned to the inn where they had eaten before, winding themselves through the same dingy, rat-infested streets. He was clearly feared and respected here for no one dared more than a passing glance at him or at her. The food was good in that dimly lit tavern, and he assured her the meat was what it was purported to be. They spoke little, but it was not uncomfortable. She made sure this time to not try to out-drink the Hound.
Unfortunately that was not the case with some of the other patrons. As Seera finished her meal, the room began to fill with the noise and stink of thirsty men who had finished a long hot day of work. Things became rowdy. Two separate fights broke out but were summarily broken up by the burly proprietress and a large cudgel. The Hound, of course, was nonplussed and barely registered the growing unrest. It made her feel safe, but it nonetheless became a not-so-relaxing evening.
“Let’s get out of this shithole. These fuckers are pissing me off.” He rose, and just then a drunken waterman with conspicuous sweat stains and greasy hair whirled around and collided with him. A full mug of ale splashed up into the Hound’s face and dripped down to soak into his clothing.
“You stupid cunt!” He barked. His fist cocked to strike at the still-reeling drunkard. Seera leapt up and grabbed his arm.
“Sandor don’t!” She hissed. “Hitting him won’t change what happened.”
“No, but it might feel good to break his jaw,” he replied. But he relaxed his arm and instead pushed past the man on whose face it was beginning to dawn just how close he had come to a truly painful night. The rest of the patrons gave Sandor Clegane a wide berth and looked on her with unveiled curiosity.
He stomped out the door and she hurried to follow. A few steps up the road and he turned on her, a look of annoyance clear on his face. She returned his stare steadily.
“Let’s go get you cleaned up,” she suggested. He nodded and turned down a side street; within a minute their trip through the darkened maze ended at a modest building with a soot-stained blue door. He unlocked it, entered, and lit a candle. The flat was cramped with only the basics: a miniscule table and single chair, a brazier, a rumpled bed.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Sandor, but you get paid handsomely for your services. Why do you live in such a shit hole?”
He turned and grinned slyly. “You like it, eh?” He huffed and began to remove his leather jerkin. “The truth is, I live here because I can. Nobody is going to bother me, the rent is cheap, and I don’t have that much shit.” He struggled out of his ale-soaked shirt, exposing a well-muscled chest. Seera tried to breathe steadily. She had certainly seen his exposed torso before on their journey together, but at that point she hadn’t considered him anything other than a fairly unpleasant companion. She wasn’t sure what she considered him now, but things were definitely different between them. “I’m not going to kid myself,” he added. “I’m not a young man anymore, and there’s no telling how long I can go on killing for a living.” He splashed the worst of the ale off of him from a water basin and found a clean (she supposed) shirt. “I've got my money saved up...”
He offered her a drink and she shrugged it off. She looked around awkwardly, noticed the state of the unwashed table, and decided to sit on the bed. He regarded her warily and sat down with her, leaning against the headboard, his long left leg stretched out behind her, the other dangling off the bed. Again the silence. He let his head fall back weary against the wall. She allowed herself to inspect his form: the broad shoulders and chest, the calloused fingers laced across his stomach, the unshaven face. The large expanse of burned flesh covered the right side of his face and down his neck, destroyed his hairline and mangled ear, rippling like a churning red river.
Seera started to creep toward him slowly. He opened his eyes to find her kneeling on the bed in front of him, leaning toward him. He lay still, distrustful as a wild animal, but held her gaze. She kissed him, softly, quickly and pulled back. The distrust remained in his eyes. She leaned forward again and kissed again, still softly but longer. This time he returned that kiss. His beard was rough and he still retained the odor of stale ale, but she didn’t care. He sat up and took her in his great arms. Their lips met again and again, passionately but tenderly.
“Sandor,” she breathed, “You’re too damn tall, my neck is killing me.” He smirked at her and then pushed her unceremoniously onto the bed and lay beside her.
“Is that better?” She bit her lip nervously then nodded, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
He considered her. “Maybe you aren’t such a frigid bitch after all.” She smiled and pulled him toward her again.
*****
They lay there entwined, quietly content. They hadn’t made love-she wouldn’t let him, and he didn’t push the issue despite his obvious desire-but they had kissed and grasped each other in a languid liberation of emotion.
“So, have you figured it out yet?” he asked.
“What?”
“Why you’re here with a man like me?” She could feel tension in his chest, his arm resting beneath her head.
“Yeah,” she replied in a whisper. “I love you.”
He pulled away some and looked sardonically at her. “Why would you go ahead and do something crazy like that?” he teased. “Why do you…?” He couldn’t even find it in himself to say the word. There was still teasing in his voice, but also the same self-loathing she had always heard. She pulled him close again and kissed him lightly.
“Because I do.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I love your ugly ass face.”
She kissed him again.
“I love your nasty temper.”
A kiss.
“I love how safe I feel in your arms.”
Another kiss.
“I love how kind and patient you are with my children.”
A deeper kiss.
“I love the way you kept me up for nights on end with your snoring.”
Kiss.
“I love how honest and reliable you are. And I love that in spite of everything I could say against you-or anyone else could say-and despite my better judgment, I am still here with you and I feel this damn good right now.”
He pushed her back crushing his weight against her, a great bear hug, until she begged him to let her catch her breath. “Get off me you great oaf!” she wheezed. He looked mischievously at her for a few seconds longer before relinquishing his hold. He lay back then, and she nestled herself against him.
“I love you, too.”
Author: maxamillion369
Characters: Hound/OFC
Rating: PG (language)
Summary: The Hound may have met his match in Seera.
Word Count: ~5000
Notes: Though the story based on the TV series, the age of Sandor Clegane more closely follows the book. This fic takes place between 10-15 years after the series, putting him about age 45.
“Hound! Hound!”
Seera could hear her children’s voices cheering happily from the entrance to their apartment. She emerged from her bedchamber to see a clamor of excitement as they greeted the towering warrior. Four year-old Cady attempted to scale him like a great tree, giggling manically, as her older brother, Jon, tugged on the man’s arm and explained each toy and possession in great detail. He looked, indeed, like an old, grizzled hound being harried by two puppies. She smiled nervously and cleared her throat.
“What are you doing to the poor man?” He looked at her and she nodded her head tersely. “Thank you for coming, Sandor. The children were, as you can see, eager to see you again.” He nodded in return but said nothing, allowing himself to be led by the attention-hungry pups to their toys. He was quiet with them as well, but did not look displeased. His scarred, scowling face was unreadable as usual. The only expression she had ever been able to discern in that burned, bearded visage was hatred and anger; when he didn’t display that anger it was merely blank. Ugly, but emotionless. Perhaps he had no feelings beyond anger. He watched dispassionately as her children cavorted around him and told him of all that had happened to them in the past few weeks.
In those weeks the children had asked repeatedly about him, like they would a favored uncle. Once the initial adjustment to their grandmother’s grand house had died down, they begged Seera to see him. Jon in particular craved a strong male role model. He would latch onto any man that would show him the least attention like a hungry babe to the breast (she blamed his absent father for that). The Hound was not, in the least bit, suitable as that role model. But he had been kind to her son-to both her children-on the long, perilous journey from the North to her mother-in-law’s home here in Oldtown.
It was odd seeing him now, here, in her apartment. It was her turf (well, sort of), and all was safety and prosperity. Not the dimly lit, stinking inns of the northern roads, the cold tent they sometimes shared. He was clean-though not the better-looking for it-and relaxed.
She indulged her children’s desire for his company, but she watched. She didn’t fear for their safety with him-he had certainly had plenty of opportunity to hurt them in the weeks that they traveled together-but she was wary of his influence on them. They saw enough of violence during their journey, witnessed him killing: she shuddered at the memory. She knew that Jon especially would be expected to be fierce and cold as a man, but as a boy she wished him to retain the innocent horror he felt at witnessing those things that frightened him.
And the language: the man could curse and swear with the best of them. Jon knew better than to repeat the words in front of his elders, but Cady, at her feisty little age, had already voiced a few choice phrases during her tantrums. And so she was relieved when she realized it was their bedtime and she had an excuse to pull them away, protesting fiercely, from the Hound, Sandor Clegane.
She was surprised to find him still there when she returned from tucking them soundly into their beds, assuring them against her better judgment that they would see the Hound again soon. He stood confidently in a corner, inspecting the furnishings like he knew something of their quality. Who was this man? He looked up at her. “Well, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” His voice was steel clashing on rocks. She raised her eyebrows at him and said nothing; she walked to the wine table and poured him a glass. If there was one benefit of living here in her cold, disapproving mother-in-law’s house it was the excellent vintage. After a second thought, she poured herself an extra-large helping.
Small faces peeked out from their rooms. She barked them back to their beds and gestured the Hound to follow her to the small sitting area adjoining her bedchamber. He hesitated at the threshold.
“They’ll just keeping getting up as long as they hear us talking,” she said. And he followed.
“They missed you, you know.” She paced nervously before sitting. He waited for her to settle before seating himself across from her.
She realized she was avoiding eye contact with him and forced herself to look up, her green eyes sharply focused on his. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
He snorted. “What’s wrong? Grandma isn’t tough enough?” His voice was mocking and contemptuous…as usual.
She sat back and contemplated his glowering face. “Oh, she’s tough all right,” she said, “though of course not in the same way.” Her mother-in-law, the matriarch of a noble family was snobbish and powerful. She had always regarded Seera with a certain amount of disdain. Seera had never met her before finally coming here, seeking the sanctuary of the South. Seera was never good enough for her son: a commoner, no matter how accomplished her father, was no match for a wealthy, noble heir. How noble he proved to be when, after the long and perilous winter, he left her and the children in a now anarchical and dangerous town. She had kept expecting him to write, to turn up, but he never did. Perhaps he was dead. She didn’t care now. She was just left with the acid taste of resentment that he left her, helpless and penniless, with an infant and a toddler. Always an independent and determined woman she did the best she could, but eventually she had to write to the old bitch, begging for help. It was she who had hired the Hound, a renowned mercenary of Oldtown, to escort Seera and the children south to safety.
“So whose idea was it for me to come here?”
“Mine,” she said. “Well, mine and the children. She would never encourage your influence on them.”
“Oh, sure,” he growled. “I’m good enough to drag your sorry asses around the countryside for weeks on end, but I can’t come and listen to them crow about all the shit she’s buying for them.” She raised an eyebrow at him, appreciating how he got the point exactly. The corner of his mouth turned up in an amused sneer. It did nothing to soften his appearance. “And what about you, eh? What does she think about your influence on them?”
She debated how much to tell him. It certainly was no business of his the tense relationship she had with her mother-in-law. “I should think that my actions would be a bit less concerning for her,” she stated simply as she sipped from her wine.
“What actions would those be?” he demanded, his voice growing fiercer. “I’d do nothing to hurt a child!”
“I didn’t say you would,” she responded with fire of her own. “But they’re a bit too young to be exposed to the violence they’ve seen at your hands!”
He stood up, glaring down at her from his full height. “You know full well I had no choice but to kill those men. The children are better off having seen that than being raped and butchered by that lot.”
The image that statement conjured in her pierced her brain like an arrow and would not leave her head. Her eyes grew hot and wet. She rose to escort him from the apartment but he stopped her with his bulk. He inched forward slowly, backing her into a table in the corner. Her eyes were level with his chest, his form blocking her view. “You’re a cold bitch if you don’t remember all I’ve done for you and your little ones. Sure I was being paid to bring them here to Oldtown.” His breath was hot in her face, sour with wine. “But I didn’t have to bring you, you know.”
She looked up at him, her eyes welling. She felt herself drowning in the memories of the road. She had, as was her usual way of dealing with stress and danger, put it away and donned a brave face. Stuffed it down and turned it away. For so long. And now it was all coming back in a flood. The constant danger and hardship of living alone, and then the cold, relentless, bloody trip-weeks and weeks of surviving and relying on this deadly man. The feeling of sticky, hot blood and brains spurting upon her and the children. She bowed her head again, avoiding his steely gaze, and shook her head slowly back and forth trying to rid her mind of the images and the whimpering of her panicked children.
Tears began to roll down her cheeks, her breath ragged and fast. Seera wrapped her arms around his massive back and crushed herself to him. He stood, stock still, unsure of what to make of her embrace. “Please don’t talk about it anymore,” she begged. “I can’t go back to that…those memories. I just want it to stop.” Slowly his great hands came up to rest on her. Awkwardly, gently, he pulled her to him and tangled his fingers in her hair. They stood like that for what seemed hours, but it was only minutes. She felt him harden against her stomach and she released him suddenly, pushed back against his chest. He dropped his hands but kept her cornered.
“I was right,” he growled. She looked up at him questioning, accusing. “You are a frigid bitch.” She sneered at him but said nothing, knowing full well that anything she could say would come out wrong. He backed off and began to laugh-a menacing laugh, no mirth in it, only loathing.
“It’s all right,” he chuckled. “I wouldn’t go for a man like me either.” He turned, averting the scarred side of his face.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she hissed.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he barked. “I spent plenty of time with you to know about who you are. It’s you who knows nothing of me.” He stomped out of the room, out of the apartment.
*****
Seera had spent the last three days, since the Hound had stormed off from her, in a daze. Why did she feel like she had to prove herself to him? What on earth had she been thinking about holding him like that? She knew that much of that was a welling-up of emotion and trauma from the past few months, past few years. But why had it come out then and with him? The sense memory of him holding her, his hands in her hair haunted her. What in Seven Hells was that about? Was she really so desperate for a man that she was ready to swoon in the arms of a foul-mouthed killer? Hardly likely. She knew that, despite being poor and no longer a fresh-faced girl, she was still attractive. Despite being still technically married, she would make a decent catch for many men. But she didn’t really want that, didn’t really want a man. Her useless husband had disabused her of the notion of lasting romance a long time ago. For the time-being, she would be able to live here, avoiding her mother-in-law when possible, and ensure her children would have the comfort and security of a good home and family.
But still, here she was, walking through the city toward the Hound’s lair.
She had found from questioning the house guards the general area where he lived. It turned out it was not in the best part of the town. Her path led her down from the beautifully trellised and sunny houses of the nobles and rich merchants, down, down into a warren of dark buildings which progressively blocked out the quickly sinking sun. Feral cats slinked beneath stalls, waiting patiently for the rats that would emerge at dusk. The cats weren’t the only hunters afoot: unwashed men began to leer at her, stalk her like prey. She wasn’t afraid, exactly. It took a lot to make her feel fear. But she was beginning to question the wisdom of wandering down here on her own.
She was just about to turn around, retrace her steps back to the more civilized section of the city when she saw him. Their eyes met and he squinted, cocked his head in puzzlement at her presence. She felt she probably was not hiding the relief in her eyes at having found him before she was knifed in a dark alley somewhere.
He strode up to her. “What are you doing here? Are you lost or just stupid?”
“You’re an asshole,” she spat. He smiled at that. She forced herself to hold his stare and put on a brave face. “I was looking for you, of course.”
He sniffed. “Of course.” He shouldered past her and began to walk away.
“Where are you going?” She demanded.
He stopped, but didn’t turn. “I’m hungry. Come on,” he snapped.
She trotted to keep up with him. She was a tall woman, but he towered above her. Conspicuously the men who had just moments ago ogled her menacingly shrunk back into the shadows of the street. At the tavern door, his massive bulk and ferocious looks made every patron turn, stare, and grow silent. The chatter and noise only restarted after they sat at a table.
Seera herself remained silent, as did the Hound. He ordered food and ale for them both. At last he spoke.
“Well? What do you want?” he asked. “Where are the children? I sure as shit hope you didn’t lose them in this stinking slum.”
“Their grandmother has taken them for a few weeks to her country home. She wants to develop their relationship since she never bothered to know them, or even write to them, when we lived up north.” She paused significantly. “I wasn’t invited.”
“And so you’re bored? Wanted to go slumming with me?” Why was it that everything he said was like a throwing dagger aimed at some vital organ? It wasn’t so much what he said as the way he said it. She sat back and sighed.
“Yes, as a matter-of-fact I am bored,” she admitted. She gathered her courage. “And for some reason it bothers me what you said the other day: about you knowing me and me not understanding you.” A flicker of surprise crossed his otherwise impassive face. “So here I am, trying to get to know you, and hoping for some reason that you will give me a little more credit.” At that point their ales arrived and he raised his mug to her, a toast. She toasted back and smiled slyly. Round one.
*****
She lay in bed late the next morning. Her mind reeled and roiled over the events of the previous evening. Nothing much had happened: no wild adventures and fights, nothing taboo. In fact, her initial goal of finding out more information about Sandor Clegane met with subtle evasions and nothing solid. She ended up telling him more about herself than she had ever intended to, and she felt none the wiser about his past. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to tell, but she doubted that. Someone of his stature, his reputation as a fearless killer, had to have a story. He didn’t exactly refuse to answer any questions, in fact he was unfailingly honest. But she had felt herself not even trying most of the night, instead pouring her heart out to him about her own struggles and doubts. She felt weak.
It was most likely the ale. She had had more than her fair share, for some reason doing her best to try to keep up with a man three times her size. A foolish, immature thing to do. She winced as she recalled her flirtatious looks toward the quiet, indulgent, and amused man who had escorted her back to her home. He had looked down on her with that mocking face of his, the burned side turned away from her, as she leaned wobbly on his arm.
“What the fuck?” She said aloud to herself. She found herself repeating the phrase to herself over and over throughout the day.
*****
“Is the bitch still gone?”
The voice somehow did not surprise her. She glanced up from her book and smiled slightly at the huge figure silhouetted by the light of the courtyard garden. The days had grown hot and humid-a welcome change from the still receding winter-and she had retreated to the shade of the trellised side walls. She had changed her usual loose trousers and long tunic for a loose white dress with bare arms. It was luxurious to bask in warmth.
“I thought I was the bitch?” She retorted. He walked confidently toward her. He always responded positively to her barbs and sarcasm; and somehow she was growing used to the volley of insults and self-deprecating remarks.
“I meant the old bitch.”
She smiled. “Yes, she’s still gone.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to have to put her in her place.” He stepped beneath the trellis and allowed his eyes to adjust from the glare. His gaze lingered on her figure beneath the light gown. “Seven Hells woman, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Seera felt herself color. Her initial impulse was to retreat and cover, but for some reason she fought it. She put her book beside her and stretched, catlike. “So what have you been up to?” She purred.
He grunted dismissively. “Working. Just a local security job, but it keeps me from drinking and whoring too much.” Always with him the provocation.
“You’re impossible, Sandor.”
“Likely.”
A comfortable silence broken only by the sound of birds and the shushing of the fountain. She smiled brightly at him. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to take me out to dinner again?” He looked genuinely taken aback. In fact he did take an actual step back from her. She was enjoying this, seeing him not in control. She cocked her head at him.
He didn’t respond well. He leaned close, menacing, his great hand grasping the bench as his dead, dark eyes peered closely at her. “Don’t toy with me, Seera. If I wanted someone to pretend they want me, I’ll pay a whore-they’re better at it than you are. What in Seven Hells do you want from me?”
The feisty side in her broke out. She pushed him back and slid out from the barricade of his arm. “You were the one who came here, Sandor! What the Hells do you want?” She realized it was silly to be shouting at the man’s massive chest and jumped up to stand on the bench. For once she was taller than he. She pushed him back again then, or at least tried to: as strong as she was the man was immovable. “You come around here and start poking and provoking. I respond and for once you get angry? Give me a break!” He was silent, staring with burning eyes-that look of anger she had seen so many times before. Unfortunately this time it was directed at her, but she was too incensed to be sensible and shut up.
“We’ve been clashing since I’ve met you, which I guess is no surprise. Always with you it’s attack, attack, insult, insult. But there’s one thing I bet you never thought I’d realize…shit, you probably didn’t even know you were so obvious.” Here she leaned forward and looked hard into his scarred face. “You never attack and insult anyone nearly as often or with such vigor as you do yourself.”
The burning eyes went dull, but still he said nothing. She relaxed her stance and reached out, hardly realizing she was doing it. He flinched but allowed her to rest her hand on his shoulder. She continued more cautiously, more kindly, “I don’t know who you were before the Winter. I don’t know why you’re scarred inside and out. But I can see…something beyond the bullshit you put forth to push people away.” She stepped down from her perch, allowing him the upper ground once more. He relaxed, almost imperceptibly. Again a silence took hold. She took his hand slowly and led him toward a table on the far side of the courtyard. She poured him a full goblet of wine, which he silently downed in one swallow. She felt a pressure on her hand, and looked down, surprised to see that he still held it gently in his. She refilled his glass and smiled slightly up at him.
Again she thought, “What the fuck?” But this time it was less with confusion and more with resignation.
They sat then, at last releasing hands, and looked out at the verdant courtyard. Once in a while she would glance cautiously up at him, but he held his gaze steadily out into nothing. The air cooled as the sun began to sink over the far wall but still remained warm and luxurious. Seera found herself struggling to recall the bone-piercing chill of that decade-long winter. It almost made her sad, the nostalgia. She had become so used to the chill and hardship it was alien to be sun-warmed.
Seera glanced up again and was surprised to finally see him looking down upon her; while still unreadable the gaze was softer, with no malice. She felt her breath catch. Finally she broke the uncomfortable silence.
“What?” She said. “What are you thinking?”
He looked away, disconcerted, returning his eyes to the garden. “I’m trying to figure out why a woman like you wants to sit here with a man like me.” His voice was its usual self-mocking growl. “Why? What are you thinking?”
She smiled slightly. “I was thinking the exact same thing.” He huffed at this, a short snort of laughter.
“Let me know when you come up with an answer.” He turned back to her, and she let her smile broaden. She nodded. He rose then and held out a broad, calloused hand. “Come on. Let’s get that dinner.”
*****
They returned to the inn where they had eaten before, winding themselves through the same dingy, rat-infested streets. He was clearly feared and respected here for no one dared more than a passing glance at him or at her. The food was good in that dimly lit tavern, and he assured her the meat was what it was purported to be. They spoke little, but it was not uncomfortable. She made sure this time to not try to out-drink the Hound.
Unfortunately that was not the case with some of the other patrons. As Seera finished her meal, the room began to fill with the noise and stink of thirsty men who had finished a long hot day of work. Things became rowdy. Two separate fights broke out but were summarily broken up by the burly proprietress and a large cudgel. The Hound, of course, was nonplussed and barely registered the growing unrest. It made her feel safe, but it nonetheless became a not-so-relaxing evening.
“Let’s get out of this shithole. These fuckers are pissing me off.” He rose, and just then a drunken waterman with conspicuous sweat stains and greasy hair whirled around and collided with him. A full mug of ale splashed up into the Hound’s face and dripped down to soak into his clothing.
“You stupid cunt!” He barked. His fist cocked to strike at the still-reeling drunkard. Seera leapt up and grabbed his arm.
“Sandor don’t!” She hissed. “Hitting him won’t change what happened.”
“No, but it might feel good to break his jaw,” he replied. But he relaxed his arm and instead pushed past the man on whose face it was beginning to dawn just how close he had come to a truly painful night. The rest of the patrons gave Sandor Clegane a wide berth and looked on her with unveiled curiosity.
He stomped out the door and she hurried to follow. A few steps up the road and he turned on her, a look of annoyance clear on his face. She returned his stare steadily.
“Let’s go get you cleaned up,” she suggested. He nodded and turned down a side street; within a minute their trip through the darkened maze ended at a modest building with a soot-stained blue door. He unlocked it, entered, and lit a candle. The flat was cramped with only the basics: a miniscule table and single chair, a brazier, a rumpled bed.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Sandor, but you get paid handsomely for your services. Why do you live in such a shit hole?”
He turned and grinned slyly. “You like it, eh?” He huffed and began to remove his leather jerkin. “The truth is, I live here because I can. Nobody is going to bother me, the rent is cheap, and I don’t have that much shit.” He struggled out of his ale-soaked shirt, exposing a well-muscled chest. Seera tried to breathe steadily. She had certainly seen his exposed torso before on their journey together, but at that point she hadn’t considered him anything other than a fairly unpleasant companion. She wasn’t sure what she considered him now, but things were definitely different between them. “I’m not going to kid myself,” he added. “I’m not a young man anymore, and there’s no telling how long I can go on killing for a living.” He splashed the worst of the ale off of him from a water basin and found a clean (she supposed) shirt. “I've got my money saved up...”
He offered her a drink and she shrugged it off. She looked around awkwardly, noticed the state of the unwashed table, and decided to sit on the bed. He regarded her warily and sat down with her, leaning against the headboard, his long left leg stretched out behind her, the other dangling off the bed. Again the silence. He let his head fall back weary against the wall. She allowed herself to inspect his form: the broad shoulders and chest, the calloused fingers laced across his stomach, the unshaven face. The large expanse of burned flesh covered the right side of his face and down his neck, destroyed his hairline and mangled ear, rippling like a churning red river.
Seera started to creep toward him slowly. He opened his eyes to find her kneeling on the bed in front of him, leaning toward him. He lay still, distrustful as a wild animal, but held her gaze. She kissed him, softly, quickly and pulled back. The distrust remained in his eyes. She leaned forward again and kissed again, still softly but longer. This time he returned that kiss. His beard was rough and he still retained the odor of stale ale, but she didn’t care. He sat up and took her in his great arms. Their lips met again and again, passionately but tenderly.
“Sandor,” she breathed, “You’re too damn tall, my neck is killing me.” He smirked at her and then pushed her unceremoniously onto the bed and lay beside her.
“Is that better?” She bit her lip nervously then nodded, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
He considered her. “Maybe you aren’t such a frigid bitch after all.” She smiled and pulled him toward her again.
*****
They lay there entwined, quietly content. They hadn’t made love-she wouldn’t let him, and he didn’t push the issue despite his obvious desire-but they had kissed and grasped each other in a languid liberation of emotion.
“So, have you figured it out yet?” he asked.
“What?”
“Why you’re here with a man like me?” She could feel tension in his chest, his arm resting beneath her head.
“Yeah,” she replied in a whisper. “I love you.”
He pulled away some and looked sardonically at her. “Why would you go ahead and do something crazy like that?” he teased. “Why do you…?” He couldn’t even find it in himself to say the word. There was still teasing in his voice, but also the same self-loathing she had always heard. She pulled him close again and kissed him lightly.
“Because I do.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I love your ugly ass face.”
She kissed him again.
“I love your nasty temper.”
A kiss.
“I love how safe I feel in your arms.”
Another kiss.
“I love how kind and patient you are with my children.”
A deeper kiss.
“I love the way you kept me up for nights on end with your snoring.”
Kiss.
“I love how honest and reliable you are. And I love that in spite of everything I could say against you-or anyone else could say-and despite my better judgment, I am still here with you and I feel this damn good right now.”
He pushed her back crushing his weight against her, a great bear hug, until she begged him to let her catch her breath. “Get off me you great oaf!” she wheezed. He looked mischievously at her for a few seconds longer before relinquishing his hold. He lay back then, and she nestled herself against him.
“I love you, too.”