ASOIAF: King of Winter

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Chapter 39

[A.N: For those uninformed, I wrote this chapter over a month ago, it was experiment to see if my patrons would enjoy AI edited chapters, they didn't. Sorry if you find the phrasing awkward, I am planning to re-edit this soon. And no more AI editing.]

Sandor Clegane

Sandor Clegane rose from the half-barrel tub, water sloshing over its rough wooden sides and pooling in dark puddles on the stone floor. The warm steam hovered in the lantern-lit gloom, distorting shapes into dancing shadows. He glanced down at the water, almost expecting to glimpse something new in his reflection. Instead, he saw only that scarred face he had despised for so long—its surface as warped as the ripples.

He curled his lip. The steam condensed on his burned flesh, mingling with the sweat that always gleamed there. Sandor's mind wandered through the path of his life, all the missteps and grudges that had led him to this moment. He spat on the stone and thought, 'What is it all worth now? Nothing.'

Long ago, his single driving desire had been to kill Gregor Clegane, the brother who had given him these scars. Gregor had stolen Sandor's childhood in a burst of flame and pain. Every savage day spent in his shadow had left Sandor seething for revenge. So he'd sold his sword to the crown prince Joffrey—later king—because being a valued dog at court kept him in a position where the Lannisters could not discard him easily. If Gregor so much as set foot in King's Landing, Sandor would be there, ready to bury steel in his gut. Or so he'd planned.

But Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, had died on some distant battlefield at the hands of a Northman. Rumor said it was a gruesome fight, that the Mountain had lingered in agony, brought low by a warrior from Winterfell's cause. That was what rankled most: Gregor had been his kill to claim. Now that reason for living, that ambition which had propelled him through every battle and slight, was gone.

Sandor bared his teeth at his reflection, then dipped his fingers in the lukewarm water to wipe the grime from his cheeks. He snarled, voice low and bitter. "Huh. The one thing I wanted taken from me. By some damned northerner."

He pulled himself upright and reached for the threadbare towel, rubbing it over his broad shoulders and chest in short, angry motions. 'You're a dog dancing for scraps from a king's table,' he thought. 'And for what? Gregor's gone, and I didn't even get the satisfaction of watching him die.'

Piece by piece, he donned his armor. Greaves strapped onto his calves, then the cuisses for his thighs. The thick leather underlay squeaked as he fastened each buckle. Next came the mail shirt, heavy and ringing as it settled around his torso. The battered steel plates for his arms and shoulders followed, and finally he hefted his sword belt. The routine was as familiar as drawing breath—he'd worn armor more years than he cared to count.

He wanted to let out a laugh at the absurdity of it all: a sworn shield to a spoiled whelp he detested, standing guard in a rotting city about to be besieged by Stannis Baratheon, while the only real reason he'd ever worn this armor died in some far-off skirmish. 'Should ride away now,' he told himself. 'Better than waiting here to guard a brat-king who'd piss himself if I looked at him cross.'

He adjusted his gauntlets, testing his grip, when the door burst open. A maidservant stumbled through, nearly toppling over as she gaped at him. "Ser," she managed, though Sandor was no true knight. "Stannis's fleet has been sighted. They—they say it's more ships than we have by far. The bells…they'll be rung soon."

Sandor snorted and jerked his chin at her. "Get out," he said, his voice a low growl. "I heard enough."

She nodded, face pale, and backed out hastily, slamming the door behind her. Once alone, Sandor let out a breath. 'So it starts. Good. Let them come. Perhaps the city will burn.'

He scooped up his sword and left the chamber, forging a path through the corridors. Servants hurried past, all wide-eyed with fear. He saw hollow cheeks and trembling hands—hungry folk forced to work in a castle that might be doomed. 'This place stinks of fear. Only question is whether it's worse inside or out.'

He cut through a courtyard thronged with men mustering around the Mud Gate. Ribbons of sunlight, already edging toward late afternoon, fell upon helms and spears. The smell of stale sweat and unwashed bodies mingled with the tang of pitch from the catapults.

Tyrion Lannister stood near the gate, struggling with a strap on his mismatched armor. The dwarf glanced up and greeted Sandor with a fleeting smirk. "You're late," he said, tapping a small spiked helm under his arm. "We've important business, you know."

Sandor shrugged. "You can fight them yourself for all I care, Imp. Where's your sellsword bodyguard, that Bronn?"

Tyrion's lips twitched in wry amusement. "Preoccupied," he replied, tone dry. "I've heard conflicting reports. Either he's securing one of the quays against infiltration, or he's extorting old Mistress Tanda for more coin. Possibly both at once, knowing him."

"Then you're left with me," Sandor said without humor.

"So it seems." Tyrion gestured to a nearby cluster of gold cloaks, hedge knights, and sellswords. "I'm putting you in charge of these. If they run, cut a few down. That ought to scare the rest into staying. Remember—there's one important head in all this that must remain firmly attached: King Joffrey's."

Sandor gave Tyrion a dark look. "I know my duty." He spat in the dirt. 'For all the good it does,' he thought. 'He'll probably get himself killed from sheer stupidity.'

No sooner had he voiced that thought in his mind than Joffrey strutted up with his retinue. The boy king was clad in golden mail that shone too brightly, more decorative than practical. Meryn Trant wore his Kingsguard whites, though smudges and stains showed he'd done some fighting or at least scuffling. Trant's eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Sandor. Sandor stared back, recalling how the so-called knight beat girls at Joffrey's whim. 'Gregor never pretended to be good,' Sandor thought with disgust. 'This one pretends at honor while doing worse. Pathetic.'

Joffrey gave an imperious tilt of his chin toward Sandor. "Hound," he said, "you'll keep these men from running, yes? If they try to desert, make an example." He sniffed as though the notion pleased him.

"Aye, Your Grace," Sandor replied, though the words tasted bitter. 'If only I could see you skewered instead, you worthless little beast.'

Joffrey, satisfied, turned away, exchanging words with Meryn Trant. Sandor set about forming the men, surveying them with a practiced eye. They lined up in ragged columns, though discipline was clearly lacking. He mentally counted off their meager strengths:

A thousand men from Stokeworth and Rosby—those seemed halfway decent. Their arms were uniform, and they marched in unison. The rest were a sorry mélange: five thousand or more gold cloaks, many malnourished and undisciplined, plus a hundred and fifty hill tribesmen who took orders only when it suited them. Three hundred hedge knights, arrogant and overconfident, all dreaming they were hero material. And eight hundred sellswords who might betray them if the winds of war changed direction. 'They'd sooner cut my throat than follow me if it got them a bag of coins from Stannis,' he thought. 'Better keep a close watch on them.'

He turned his mind to the overall defense of King's Landing. Their fleet? A paltry fifty-some ships, minus those that had conveniently vanished after their last "resupply run." Tyrion suspected bribes from Stannis. Against them, Stannis boasted two hundred warships or more, many crewed by hardened veterans from the Ironborn Rebellion. Then there was Stannis's main host, perhaps fifteen thousand cavalry and close to five thousand infantry, seasoned men from Dragonstone and the Stormlands. Worse, King's Landing had precious little food left, and the smallfolk were a breath away from riot. The only real advantage the Lannisters had was the city's walls and gates—plus the catapults, scorpions, ballistae, and a monstrous chain across the river, all of it tied to Tyrion's scheme with wildfire.

The horns on the ramparts sounded then, a deep, mournful note that made Sandor's stallion paw at the ground in agitation. From the parapet, he could see black sails gliding into view on the waters of the Blackwater. The sun hung low, painting the horizon in red and gold. Stannis's fleet unfurled in precise lines—ten columns, each with about twenty ships. The first three columns showed war galleys from the royal navy that had defected, or from lords sworn to Stannis. Behind them were smaller Myrish vessels carrying troops to be landed. And after those came the supply ships, cogs and lumbering carracks no doubt filled with foot soldiers, horses, and siege equipment.

Sandor eyed the newly built watchtowers at the river's mouth and saw the faint glint of the chain in the water. 'So that's the trick the Imp's pinned our hopes on,' he thought. 'If they come in too far, they won't get back out.'

From the city, the first volley soared overhead—pots of pitch trailing smoke, stones from the trebuchets and catapults. A few crashed short, sending up jets of water. One cask smashed into the deck of a galley, smearing black pitch across planks and men alike. Moments later, fire arrows rained down, igniting small patches of flame. Stannis's fleet pressed on, oars beating a steady rhythm, sails bellied by the wind. Confident in their numbers, they advanced, planning to crush the tiny Lannister fleet that withdrew upriver in a feigned panic.

Tyrion's plan hinged on luring them in. He had stuffed several ships with wildfire, waiting for the right moment to detonate the infernal substance. Sandor had caught a glimpse of the alchemists' store once. He shuddered to recall the sickly green glow in those sealed clay pots. True fire was already horrifying enough; wildfire was a beast of nightmares. 'Keep it away from me,' he prayed, lips curling.

The horns blared again, and the watchers on the walls shouted. Sandor peered out to see the Lannister ships pulling back still, luring the first lines of Stannis's fleet deeper into the bay. Then came the sign: one of the trailing Lannister hulks, apparently crippled, drifted broadside. As the enemy closed, the hulking ship erupted in green flame, the wildfire blossoming like a demon's flower across the surface of the water. Screams carried across the bay as men leapt from their decks, aflame even in the sea. In seconds, half a dozen more wildfire caches ignited, turning that stretch of water into a searing green inferno. Stannis's ships in the rear, still coming forward, had no room to maneuver. That was when Tyrion's chain was cranked into place, sealing off their retreat.

The watchers on the ramparts cheered, though many also gaped in horror at the devastation unleashed. 'Hell on water,' Sandor thought grimly as he witnessed a galley's mast snapping, the men aboard flailing like rag dolls. 'By the gods, if that touches the shore…' A shiver ran up his spine.

Some ships managed to land on the south bank, out of the wildfire's reach. A few beached under the city walls and disgorged archers, cutthroats, whatever soldiers they carried. From his vantage, Sandor saw that these men now threatened to open a path into King's Landing or cause chaos while Stannis advanced. Tyrion shouted for a sortie—someone had to push them back from the gates.

Balon Swann, a fellow Kingsguard knight, found Sandor among the swirling ranks. "Come, Clegane," he said, visor up to show a face set in determination. "We'll ride out with the men-at-arms. Drive them back into the water."

Sandor gave a terse nod, though his gut tightened at the notion of battling near flame. He strode to his stallion. The black horse tossed its head, sharing in the tension that lay over the city. Together, they rode out through the Mud Gate like a wedge, Balon on Sandor's flank, a ragged swath of sellswords and gold cloaks straggling behind. The moment they emerged onto the banks, smoke assailed them—a choking, bitter haze that made eyes water. Fires burned on the water, green patches swirling with the currents and drifting ever closer to the shore.

"There!" Balon pointed. A group of archers from a half-burned galley was forming up on the muddy bank, trying to loose arrows at the city walls. Sandor set his jaw and spurred the stallion, raising his longsword. The men behind him let out ragged shouts.

Arrows whistled by. One struck the man at Sandor's right, toppling him from his saddle with a grunt. Another grazed Sandor's thigh, but it failed to punch through his mail. He reached the archers, his sword flashing in a deadly arc. He split one archer's skull with a single blow, yanked the blade free, then rammed his horse's shoulder into another, sending him sprawling. The rest scattered, and the men from King's Landing quickly overwhelmed them.

Sandor glanced sideways, searching for more threats. A fresh dread seized him at the corner of his vision: wildfire creeping across the waves and seeping toward the wooden wharfs. Sparks carried on the wind, threatening to set the entire shoreline ablaze. Fire. It was always fire. His breath grew shallow, sweat collecting under his helm. 'Don't look at it,' he told himself. 'Keep killing, dog. Focus on the fight, not the flames.'

But the fire was too near, the heat licking his exposed skin. The memory of his face pressed into hot coals flared, more vivid than the screams around him. His stallion shrieked, rearing back from the rising flames. Sandor couldn't quell the surge of panic that hammered in his chest, forcing him to freeze.

Balon Swann's voice drifted through the haze, muffled: "Clegane! We need—" But Sandor hardly heard him. His eyes were locked on those creeping tongues of green. It was as though the flames alone existed, devouring any sense of reason he had. Then a splintering crash rang out—part of the old jetty cracked under the rising heat, sending a blossom of sparks into the air. The wave of scorching air slapped him.

'Too much,' Sandor thought. He seized the reins, yanking the horse around. He heard men calling after him—some cursing, others in panic—but it made no difference. He kicked his mount into a gallop, fleeing the water's edge, pounding back through the open gate. The city swallowed him up, distant from that inferno. Yet the taste of terror lingered, an acrid dryness on his tongue. He almost retched at how hard his heart hammered.

At once he found himself confronted by Tyrion in the courtyard. The dwarf was half-spattered with someone's blood, helmet askew, a wild look in his mismatched eyes. "Where are you going?" Tyrion demanded, voice sharp with disbelief. "Get back out there, you coward—"

Sandor dismounted with a snarl, nearly stumbling in his haste. "Fight it yourself, Imp. I'm done." He pushed Tyrion back, causing the dwarf to stagger.

"We need—" Tyrion started, but Sandor cut him off.

"Need me?" Sandor let out a cold laugh. "I've hacked and killed and done every dirty deed this city required. I won't burn for your king." He tore the white cloak from around his shoulders, the one that marked him as Joffrey's sworn shield, and flung it onto the ground. Its fabric smeared in the mud. "Here's your loyalty, Lannister. Here's your honor. Fuck the king."

Tyrion's face twisted in rage and desperation, but shouts from the walls erupted again, telling of fresh attackers. The dwarf spared Sandor a final glare, then wheeled about to direct other men. No one dared bar the Hound's path; in the chaos, who would enforce the will of a half-man over a rampaging warrior?

Sandor stalked up the winding roads toward the Red Keep, weaving around frantic smallfolk clutching at sacks of meager possessions. A mother wailed as she dragged her children away from the danger. Guards brandishing spears herded the crowds and prevented them from storming the castle gates. Sandor kept going, silent, letting his presence and size clear a path.

At the upper gate, the red walls loomed. The guards there stepped aside instantly, faces pale. They recognized the Hound, and none had news of his desertion from the battle. Sandor slipped into the courtyard and made for his chambers. Inside, he heard a distant, dull roar from below as the next wave of chaos thundered across the docks.

He entered his sparse room. A single lantern flickered, throwing weak light on the bare walls. Sandor rummaged in the battered wooden chest near the bed, pulling out a sack of gold coins, all he possessed after years of blood-soaked service. 'Enough to buy a new horse, maybe bribe a few men if I need safe passage out.' He also took a dagger and stuffed it in his belt, then grabbed a heavy cloak to conceal his face and armor. 'I'll ride away from this damned city tonight.'

He slung the bag of coins over his shoulder, stepping back into the corridor. The keep felt strangely hushed, as if the massive walls were cocooning them from the battle at the gates. Only the faint clang of bells and the muffled boom of catapults told of the war raging outside.

He turned a corner and almost collided with a slight figure standing just beyond a flickering sconce. Sansa Stark. She wore a large, dirty cloak that draped over her slender frame, but there was nothing meek in her stance. She stood tall, and in her hands, she held a massive greatsword, the ripple of Valyrian steel catching the torchlight. Its pommel bore a direwolf's head. 'Ice?' Sandor's mind reeled. 'How in all the seven hells—'

He froze. Her eyes were not the eyes of a frightened child. They were resolute. She looked at him with a set jaw, firm though her knuckles whitened from gripping the hilt of that enormous blade.

He remembered how that sword was rumored lost—how Ser Ilyn Payne had carried it since Eddard Stark's execution. But rumors had been flying these last days, darker than crows: Ilyn Payne had died, hacked apart by some faceless killer in the Red Keep's bowels. The whispers said the scene was so gruesome that few believed a single man could have done it alone. Sandor exhaled, thinking, 'Whoever butchered that mute headsman must have been working for the Starks—and they gave her Ice.'

For a moment, he could not speak. Sansa Stark, the little bird, stood before him with her father's ancestral greatsword in her grip, so incongruously large that it dwarfed her slight figure. Yet she looked more determined than he had ever seen her. There was none of the trembling fear from earlier weeks and months, when Joffrey's cruelty had left her cowering.

Sandor tightened his hold on his own sword belt. He saw no sign of tears or frailty in Sansa. Her gaze flicked to the bag slung over his shoulder, to the battered cloak draped around his armor. Understanding lit her features.

She did not speak, but her lips parted. His body tensed, wondering if she meant to challenge him. To stand in his way. He swore he could see the flicker of fury in her eyes, a strength he had never credited her for possessing. 'So the little bird is done singing sweet songs in gilded cages, is she?'

He took one step closer. Her grasp on Ice tightened, but she made no motion to swing. He realized she was not brandishing it at him, not exactly—she was simply ready, in case. Sandor let out a slow breath. 'Gods, but this is a sight. An unarmored slip of a girl with a sword bigger than her body, facing down the Hound.'

In the corridor's flickering torchlight, they stared at one another. Her cloak shifted, revealing bruises on her arm—tokens of the many abuses she had suffered. But she held herself with a new, rigid pride. The tall steel in her hands gleamed with lethal promise.

Sandor found himself more unsettled by her resolve than by any man he had cut down in battle. 'You've changed,' he thought. 'Or maybe I just never knew you at all.' He realized with a faint shock that he didn't know if she meant to kill him or join him or beg him for help escaping.

Voices drifted from an adjacent hallway—servants or guards, likely. Sansa's expression shifted, as if she too heard them. She stepped away from the sound, moving deeper into the shadows, but she never took her eyes off Sandor. Her lips pressed tight together, her chin lifted. A question seemed to hang on the air.

He felt his throat tighten. The plan had been simple: gather what he needed, slip away, leave the city to burn behind him. But seeing her like this… 'She's no lamb for the slaughter, not anymore.' The memory of her beaten face at Joffrey's hands flashed in his mind, and a surge of anger rose unbidden in his gut. 'She should have never been here.'

Clattering footsteps echoed around the corner. In the distance, someone shouted orders. The castle was not safe; nowhere was safe. They still had some fleeting moment of silence here, but that would soon vanish. His breath rasped against the inside of his helm.

He tried to speak, but the words stuck. Finally, he managed a low, rumbling question: "Little bird…you going to kill me with that?" He inclined his head at the Valyrian steel. The use of his old nickname for her was almost gentle, despite the tension in his voice.

Sansa's lips parted again. The anger, the defiance in her eyes did not fade, but her voice—when it emerged—was quiet, firm. "If you try to stop me," she said, "I'll do what I must."

Sandor let out a short, humorless laugh. "Stop you from what? I'm not your jailor, girl." He took another step closer, so they were almost face to face, the length of Ice between them. "Where'd you get that sword?"

Her expression hardened. "From the one who avenged my father." Her knuckles tightened on the grip, but there was no tremor. "Ser Ilyn paid for his crimes."

Sandor took that in, remembering the rumors. 'A Stark agent indeed, and they gave her Ice. So she's carrying her father's blade. She's…like a ghost of House Stark come back to haunt these halls.' He found the notion strangely fitting.

Another crash echoed from outside, and a faint roar signaled fresh trouble at the gates. Sansa glanced away for the barest instant, her composure flickering. Then she looked back at Sandor, eyes fierce. "Are you deserting them?" She did not call him a coward—her tone was too neutral. But the question hovered, unspoken: Why are you running?

He hissed softly. "Aye. I'm done with their battles, done with their filthy city and their spineless king. Let the flames take them. I owe them nothing."

Sansa's mouth set in a straight line. She didn't argue the point, didn't call him monstrous or craven. Instead, she lifted the sword with an effort, resting its huge blade against her shoulder. "Then you'll have no reason to stop me from leaving," she said quietly. "I'm done with them too."

Sandor felt something twist inside his chest. He had half expected to see her cowering in a corner, or scurrying to the queen's side. Instead, she was forging her own path. He did not know if he admired that or resented it. "They'd kill you if they found you with that blade," he said. "Or throw you to the mob."

Her grip on Ice did not waver. "Then they'd better not find me."

A heavy moment of silence, broken only by the distant cacophony of war. Sandor felt the weight of his armor pressing on him, along with the confusion swirling in his head. Finally, he let out a breath, adjusting the bag of gold slung over his shoulder.

"Go," he muttered, not quite sure why. "Or come with me. I don't care. Just don't stand here waiting for them." He turned, prepared to move down the corridor, half-expecting her to slip away in the opposite direction.

Yet Sansa took a tentative step after him, not quite closing the distance. Her expression still flared with that resoluteness, but there was a flicker of uncertainty too. No longer the shy bird in the cage, but a fledgling unsteady on new wings. Her father's sword was a tangible testament to her boldness—and a reminder that she was dreadfully out of place in these halls.

Sandor's heart thudded, and for an instant, he glimpsed the swirl of possibilities. He could try to help her escape. Or he could walk away and let her find her own fate. He still hadn't decided. But for the moment, they stood at an impasse, breathing the same smoky air, while outside the city roiled in pandemonium.

Beyond the corridor, torchlight wavered. Boots pounded somewhere close. Sandor clenched his teeth. 'No more time for this.'

With one last look, he saw the steely resolve in her eyes, her fingers clenched around the hilt of Ice. He had never seen Sansa Stark so sure of herself, nor so willing to risk all for freedom or revenge. The little bird was no more; in her place stood a young wolf, perhaps, or something equally fierce. And yet…

He could not find the words. He gave a short, rough nod, acknowledging her stance, her choice. Then he turned away, steps echoing as he strode into the gloom, uncertain if she would follow or flee elsewhere. But in that last glimpse, he recognized that she had changed—and so had he. Gone was the obedient dog. Gone was the timid bird.

He might have told her that the world outside was cruel beyond measure. He might have warned her that men would kill to reclaim Ice or to hurt her in the name of the Lannisters. But the words never passed his lips. Instead, he left the corridor behind, the roar of battle creeping closer. Behind him, the last thing he saw before turning the corner was Sansa Stark standing tall, blade in hand, the faint glimmer of torchlight reflecting in her eyes.

And as the tumult of the city enveloped him, Sandor Clegane found himself thinking, 'Burn, King's Landing, for all I care. I've no more part in your madness.' Yet in the back of his mind lingered the image of that girl, resolute and unyielding, carrying the sword of a dead lord. It was a sight that shook him almost as much as the flames had.

So he went on, with no answers, no direction, just the echo of her stance etched into his thoughts—unable to forget her or the steel she bore. And the city thundered with war and wildfire, echoing behind him as if the gods themselves were tearing the night apart.