Sandor Clegane's POV
The little shit prince was at it again, whining like a whelp with a thorn in his arse. We were stomping through Winterfell's courtyard in the cold, me following after the shitling, the only sound worth hearing was the distant clang of hammers and the grunts from the training yard. Joffrey's voice cut through all of it, high and petulant.
"This place is a frozen shithole, Hound. Boring as a septon's sermon. Dull stone walls, dull people, nothing but snow and savages. Can't wait to get my Sansa back to civilization."
I grunted, not bothering to mention the prince had never once sat through a sermon in his life, and kept my eyes ahead, though my mind wandered. Bugger the cold, aye, it bit at my scarred face like a thousand tiny knives — but there was something honest in it. None of the perfumed bullshit of King's Landing, where the air stank of shit and lies both. Reminded a man he was still alive, not rotting away in some silken cage. Gods, I might've even liked it up here, if it weren't for the company.
The duel from yesterday flashed through my head — Jaime Lannister, the golden prick, trading blows with that Stark pup, Robb. Tied, they did. Put me in a fine mood, watching the Kingslayer sweat for once. The boy moved quickly and strongly — showed some real skill, some fancy northern footwork, enough to keep pace with Jaime himself. Skilled, aye, more than I'd expect from some lordling his age. Made me wonder about his father, and whether he truly did best Arthur Dayne after all. The boy still wore the mark of a different fight, too — a clean scar along his cheekbone, barely healed, proof enough for me that the tale of some duel with a wildling war chief hadn't been dressed up for the singers. A man doesn't earn a scar like that standing still and looking pretty. The North had its uses, I decided, dropping my gaze back to the yard as Joffrey started up whining again.
"And the food! Gods, it's all stew and bread tough as leather. No proper fare, no tourneys worth watching. Just these barbarians grunting in the yard like common animals — even their gods are wrong."
Animals. That brought my eyes back to the guards, at their queer sort of training. Not the usual swordplay — nay, they ran back and forth like madmen, what they called "suicide runs," touching the ground and sprinting back again. Then hauling their heavy, armored arses up onto bars, "pull-ups," arms bulging with the strain. Tough lot, I had to admit, sizing them up — broad shoulders, steady breath. They'd put up a decent enough fight against me, maybe even last a minute or two before I cleaved through them. Better than the gold cloaks back home, those lazy, useless cunts.
Joffrey kicked at a snowdrift, face twisting. "Dog, are you even listening to me?"
"Aye, Your Grace," I rasped, not bothering to look his way. Listening? Bugger that. My thoughts had drifted back to Ned Stark. The Quiet Wolf, they called him. Word was he'd slain Arthur Dayne himself at the Tower of Joy — the Sword of the Morning, the finest knight who ever lived. If the pup Robb was anything like his father, and from that duel he certainly showed the makings of it, then maybe Honest Ned really had done it. No bullshit, the way the songs told it—just skill. Aye, and the father would be even more formidable than the son, honed by years the boy hadn't lived yet. I wouldn't want to cross blades with him myself.
And those direwolf pups I'd seen scampering after the Stark whelps — grey fur, yellow eyes, already the size of hounds. Vicious little bastards. Once they were full-grown? Shit, the gods help whatever poor fool got on their bad side. They'd rip a man's throat out before he even had the chance to scream.
Joffrey droned on. "Sansa's pretty enough, I suppose, but her family's a jest. That wild sister of hers, Arya? Should be locked in a kennel, if you ask me."
We rounded the corner near the armory just then, and there she was — the wild sister herself, hair a rat's nest, a wooden practice sword near as tall as she was gripped in both fists, scowling at one of the grooms like she meant to gut him with it. Small thing, all elbows and temper, but she held that sword as she'd actually been taught something, rather than just waving it about the way most highborn girls waved a fan.
"That one there," Joffrey said, curling his lip. "Gods, look at her. A proper lady, playing at swords like some hedge knight's daughter."
The girl caught his voice and turned, fixing the prince with a look that would've curdled milk. Didn't flinch, didn't curtsy, didn't do a damned thing a well-bred girl was meant to do around a crown prince and just glared, chin up, like she was deciding whether he was worth the effort of hating properly.
"She's got more spine in that scowl than you've shown all week," I muttered, low enough Joffrey didn't catch it.
We pushed on toward the hall, and I felt the wind pick up, slicing across my burns. Aye, the North had its perks, being this far from that shithole King's Landing, but this chill — fuck it. I changed my mind. This cold was seeping clean into my bones, and I found myself wishing we were back in King's Landing, shit-stinking air and all, before my balls froze clean off. At least there the whores ran warm, and the wine didn't taste like horse piss.
The feast that night was its own kind of misery. I took my usual place behind the little shit's chair, close enough to catch every word, far enough that no one troubled themselves to remember I was still a man and not simply part of the furniture. Suited me fine. A man learns more standing silent behind a prince's shoulder than he ever does sitting across a table trading pleasantries with cunts who'd smile at you while reaching for a knife.
I watched the Stark boy work the hall the whole night through, and it was work, whatever easy grace he wore over it. He had a word for almost every lord and worker who came near, seemed to know half their names and their houses' business besides, laughed at Greatjon Umber's crude jokes like he meant it, bowed to the Queen with just enough deference to avoid offense and not a hair more. I've watched courtiers spend a lifetime learning what that boy did without visible effort at fifteen. Made the back of my neck itch, if I'm honest about it. A man who can charm a hall like that, and beat the Kingslayer in the yard the same week, is either born lucky twice over, or he's working at something the rest of us haven't worked out yet.
Robert bellowed through his cups the same as always, hand finding some serving girl's hip, and the bitch queen sat there smiling that thin, poisonous smile of hers at everyone and no one. I've served worse tables. I've served better ones, too, though not many. When the King stood to announce his boy's betrothal, and the Stark girl's along with it, the hall roared up loud enough to rattle the rafters, Northmen banging their cups near hard enough to crack the wood.
I didn't cheer. But I found myself watching that Stark girl — Sansa, the pretty one, meant for my little shit of a prince — and thinking, not for the first time, that some poor birds never do get told what cage they're actually being handed over to. Not my business. Never has been. I poured Joffrey's wine when he demanded it, said nothing when he demanded I say something, and thought, as I always did on nights like that one, that at least the wine up here didn't have to be watered to keep a man's head clear enough to watch the room. Small mercies. A man takes what he's given.