Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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SANDOR CLEGANE FOLLOWS Joffrey around like his shadow, or better yet, his dog. The prince wishes to take a stroll around the grounds of the Red Keep and visit his ladylove. After all, he is expected to woo and win Sansa Stark's affections, and now he'd need to try harder after what happened on the Kingsroad. His arm is almost healed, but the wolf's bite will leave him scarred. Cersei tells him a king should wear the marks of his battles with pride. The Septa greets the pair at the Tower of the Hand and goes to fetch Sansa.

Anya Stark descends from the stairs before Sansa does. The Hound shifts on his feet —the sight of her puts him at unease. No doubt the gods fashioned her to be a world of paradoxes. He hates her for that. Today, she dresses as a proper lady with a fresh dress and stained lips and cheeks. The scent of freshly cut roses lingers in the air around her. She offers the prince a kind greeting but ignores Sandor, as every other highborn in the city does.

You're just like the rest of them, Sandor thinks, two-faced. His stony expression gives away nothing but callous disinterest, yet a part of him is angered and dismayed at her disregard. They spoke as friends in Winterfell and on the Kingsroad until he cut down the butcher's boy that night at the crossroads inn. She didn't blame me, though he reminds himself. The sweet scent of her perfume still hangs in the air. Sandor Clegane feels as though he suffocating in it —in her.

Sansa comes down the stairs, fresh-faced in a plum-colored dress with long and flowing sleeves. She'd even done her hair in a more ornate style —as the ladies of the south wear. But her smile fades when her bright blue eyes settle on the man standing behind the prince. Joffrey looks back at Sandor and makes a shooing gesture with his hand —still wrapped in bandages from the incident on the Kingsroad. "You're frightening my lady, dog." The Hound backs off a few paces but doesn't let the two stray out of his sight as they make their way around the grounds of the Red Keep.

The prince stops at the entrance to the gardens and plucks a budding rose free, presenting it to Sansa. She blushes, cheeks almost red as the rose petals, and chirps the pretty words her mother and Septa have taught her. Sandor's attention strays to the ramparts, and he finds Jaime fucking Lannister escorting Anya along the walls like a proper knight —arm in arm. I bet you like that, don't you, little lady?

He's never been so distracted in his life —all because of a fucking woman. A wolf bitch, no less. Whatever relationship had formed in the time since their initial meeting in the stables of Winterfell has all but vanished. She's a stranger to him now, just when he was foolish enough to believe she might have considered him a friend. He wouldn't've known if she did, though. People avoid him —even the whores are reluctant to take his coin. Sandor Clegane watches as Joffrey leads Sansa Stark down one of the paths deep into the gardens and slowly realizes he's never had a friend —only masters.

She'd been distraught at Lady's needless death and appalled at the butcher boy's death. Even when he approached her about it all, she didn't blame him, though. The boy's blood stained his hands, just as it stained Cersei and Joffrey's. Any one of the Lannister men would have cut down the boy just as he did given the command. But there'd been something in Anya's voice when she called him a dog, though. It struck him dumb. The feeling still lingered —just like the smell of roses. You're a dog, Clegane. He reminds himself. That's all you'll ever be.

The prince says something to make the Stark girl laugh —a polite and ladylike giggle. Sansa wears the innocence of youth, her blue eyes still twinkle, and she dreams of honorable knights and true love. Ignorant of how the real world is. She doesn't know any better. For a moment, Sandor pities Sansa Stark.

By the midafternoon, Sansa is returned back to the Tower of the Hand to give her time to prepare for the night's feast, and Sandor escorts Joffrey to his own chambers. The little prick looks up at his sworn sword with aversion —even he could tell something's different about him. "What's the matter with you, dog?" The prince asks. "You've been licking your wounds like a kicked pup."