Chapter Text
In the deep darkness of space, there was silence. A thousand thousand celestial bodies careened around each other in an endlessly expansive dance with no beat, no melody.
Within a spiral arms galaxy in a small patch of an infinite darkness, there was a ship. The light of a star that had died several million light-years away ran along the smooth contours of its hull, highlighting a faint tinge of blue within the black of its paint. Just underneath the nose, the paint was chiseled off in the shape of a massive stallion in mid-canter.
Within the jetty hull of this ship, there was a man. He sat within the cockpit, his long fingers steepled in front of him. A star map hovered just beyond his hands with several planets’ names tagged in the Common Tongue. He exhaled heavily. His breath came through mismatched lips. One side, though cruel seeming, was pale and well-formed. The other was a twisted mass of blackened flesh, with an unnatural flash of bone jumping out from its cradle of slick canyons and pits. What was left of his burned lip twitched periodically.
Sandor Clegane (for that was his name) removed his elbows from the console to massage his temples. The adrenaline had long since run out and now he was left with the consequences. He had no plan beyond immediate survival, but that wouldn’t keep the dogs off their heels for long. He smiled bitterly, turning the wretched side of his face even more monstrous. How ironic for the Hound to be hunted by lions.
It was all their fault, really. Joffrey decided to cut off Ned Stark’s righteous head, and the Lannisters allowed it. Joffrey had his betrothed beaten by several Knights, in front of the court, no less, and the Lannisters turned a blind eye. His own brother, Ser Gregor Clegane, rode through the Riverland System, raping and pillaging his way through the breadbasket of the Trident Galaxy, and the Lannisters condoned it behind doors that were purposefully not-so-closed.
And then, for the Imp to order him back into the hellfire of the Blackwater! He almost laughed thinking about the ridiculousness of it all. Four times he ventured into that godforsaken asteroid belt, and four times he fought against man and flame. That fucking Imp, he could have strangled him— setting those damn asteroids aflame in the middle of fucking space and watching them explode while he and his men were in the thick of it, fighting off Stannis and his armada of religious zealots. He wondered, briefly, what would make the flames green— iron and some kind of ammonia salt, maybe? He had not paid too much attention to his chemistry lessons— before he let the fury take over. He had shouted a barrage of orders to the men in his squadron and urged his vessel into the thick of the fray.
He was the Hound. His reputation was as black as his ship. He was (until now) loyal to a fault. He was dogged in his pursuit of his master’s enemies and once he had someone’s neck in his jaws, he never let go.
He lashed out with missile and laser in the center of that blazing asteroid belt, causing so many enemies ships to explode that he lost count. He was grateful for the familiar orange flare of combusting starships against the eerie green glow consuming the battlefield, but that spot of familiarity wasn’t enough to keep him.
“Get back to the field, Dog.”
Tyrion Lannister’s grotesque face popped up in the comm section of his HUD. The white light in the Imp’s bridge made a painful contrast to the red of his cockpit. Moron. He probably thought that stereotypical white light would make him seem more like a commander than a greenhorn. In truth it would fuck with his vision if he was brave enough to join the dogfight. He doubted it.
“You’re a member of the Kingsguard. You’re sworn to protect the king. Now get back out there, Dog!”
He pulled his eyes away from the navigation system and put the ship into auto-pilot. He stood; an unnecessary action, but one that would drive home his disdain for the stunted bastard. The Hound glared at the square containing Tyrion’s video feed. “Fuck you. Fuck the Kingsguard. Fuck the king.”
He pressed the button to cut off the link and started to block the wavelength that the Imp was using. A voice message got through, only a few megabytes large. His ship automatically opened the file, and the Imp’s voice filled the cockpit.
“They call me half a man. What does that make you?”
It had been all too easy to hack into the little bird’s room, even with his level of inebriation. The lock wasn’t terribly complicated and he had a knack for coding. Probably due to all of the hours he spent working on computers in the Lannister’s stronghold on Casterly Rock. There were few things to do at the Rock when you had no friends (Gregor’s reputation was mostly to blame, though his own temper didn’t help) and had grown tired of whores.
Blood was spattered all over his hands and armor. He had killed a man in the docking bay, one of those up-jumped Gold Cloaks, starving for recognition. What better way to gain infamy than to slay a rogue Hound? The man had been laughably easy to kill. It was too bad Slynt was recruiting rats to play at being glorified watchdogs. He could have used a decent fight. Instead he settled with shoving his vibra-knife into the man’s neck and watching the blood vaporize as it spewed from his jugular. Luckily, the man had a thermos full of wine that he was all too happy to relieve him of. He wouldn’t need it in hell anyways.
He thumbed at the weapon at his hip. When activated, this particular vibra-knife glowed a soft yellow from whatever fluorescent material they used in its manufacturing. He preferred to use tried-and-true steel, but retro weaponry (with the exception of Valyrian steel) couldn’t slice through Knightly armor, so he went with the vibros. He didn’t fully understand the technology behind it, but something about the vibration of the blade super-heated the material of whatever it was cutting and stabbed straight through it. They were multi-purpose tools in the right hands, though an unskilled user could easily find himself with severed fingers (they’d be cauterized at the very least).
Red strips marked the door handle where he grasped it. Mad King Aerys had a love for old things, non-automatic doors included. He renovated the Red Keep to reflect his obsession when he wasn’t otherwise occupied by raping his wife. Robert Baratheon hadn’t had time to retrofit Maegor’s Holdfast before his “untimely” death.
The Hound crooked his elbow and used the exposed material of his bodysuit to wipe away the blood as best he could.
The little bird wasn’t in her room. Whatever. Didn’t matter. They were all fucked. The king was fucked, he was fucked, she was fucked— well, not yet, anyway. But she would be if he had anything to say about it. If he was going to die, he would die with her maiden’s blood on his cock. He had never raped anyone before, but the mechanics couldn’t be much different. More tears and screaming than he was used to, to be sure.
His stomach turned. Wine after fighting in zero-g was always a bitch. He felt his intestines start to curl, and resisted the urge to vomit. The bed wasn’t far away. He’d just lie down until his guts decided to stop doing flips.
Gods, but he was tired! His very bones felt like gelatin. While he was lying down, he might as well close his eyes. Just for a minute, until the little bird got back…
His lizard brain woke before his consciousness. Awareness of another being floated to the back of his head. The coarse hairs on his arms rose beneath the tungsten-kevlar weave of his body suit. Footsteps. Light and even. Female, or that bizarre eunuch-creature-thing they called the Spider. He inhaled as deeply as he dared. Perfume. Light and sweet, but not cloying. Hint of… citrus? Maybe? He wasn’t as deft at detecting all the minute little components of a lady’s perfume as the courtiers, but at least he didn’t have to shove a wench’s hand up his nose to do it. Grandad used to joke that their family had spent so much time around dogs, they were becoming dogs themselves. “I have proof, Little Hound!” He would point to the baby’s drooling and laugh and slap what was left of his knee. But then he died, and there was no one left to protect him from Gregor.
“Lady…” a voice whimpered.
His guts tightened. It was her, the little bird, his little bird once he claimed her. He opened his eyes to the darkness. Copper filaments gleamed in the dim light. Her hair was woven with them, no doubt. As if she needed help to look like her mane was made of flames. Would it feel like being burned again if he buried his face in it while he moved inside her?
He waited, carefully, quietly, for her to move away from the open window and within striking distance. Typical stupid girl, assuming that she was safe. Life was not a song. Nothing guaranteed that a man like him wouldn’t break into her room to do horrible things to her.
He launched forward, snatched her arm, and threw her onto the bed. She cried out, but he quickly covered her mouth with his blood-stained hand. Let her try to bite him, if she dared. She’d break all the pretty little teeth in her head before she penetrated his body suit’s fiber. The Hound straddled her with his heavily muscled thighs. He grabbed both her wrists with his other hand and pinned them above her head. There would be no escape for her. “Scream and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
She nodded her head frantically, her eyes wide with fear. He unpeeled his fingers from her mouth and pulled his vibra-knife from its sheath. He held the point of the blade close enough to her neck that she could, no doubt, feel the immense heat. Over the knife’s lazy humming he rasped. “You promised me a song. So sing. Sing for your little life.”
She trembled beneath him, silent tears trickling down her cheeks. “F—f—f—” her voice quavered.
“I said ‘sing,’ not stammer!” He snarled and brought the knife closer. In the blade’s yellow glow, he could see her skin start to redden. His guts clenched, and he pulled the knife back.
She licked her lips, and started anew, but the song that came forth wasn’t that of Florian and his cunt. “Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…”
Mercy. He was holding a vibra-knife to her neck and she was begging for mercy. Stupid, naïve creature probably didn’t expect what he was planning on doing either. It would be so simple to rip through her cerulean samite bodice and lose himself in the softness of her flesh, turn her sweet melody into a cacophony of weeping. He would do what Joffrey failed to do with a single thrust.
Could he, though?
She was so soft, so sweet, so innocent. She couldn’t look into his eyes, but she always addressed him with courtesy, even when he shoved the brutal truth in her face.
She never called him Dog.
Could he break her? Could he manage to take his pleasure of her while he listened to her cries of pain and violation, knowing that he was the source, and be unmoved? He was able to lose himself on the battlefield and tune out the sounds of his comrades dying. From the first time Joffrey had her beaten and he wiped away her blood with his own hands, he found that he couldn’t block out her anguish, no matter how hard he tried. Yet, he was contemplating hurting her worse than anyone else ever had.
He was a monster.
He was no better than Gregor.
Warm fingers brushed against his face. He had not noticed when he released the little bird’s wrists and flicked off the knife. She cupped his cheek, thumbing away the tears falling from his eyes. He leaned into her touch. “Little bird…”
He sheathed the vibra-knife and got off of her. She quickly sat up. Her fingers probed the skin where he held the blade too close. He paced in front of her unlit fireplace. What to do, what to do…? He didn’t want to die, not here, not now. Fuck.
He stopped his frantic steps. “Don’t you want to know who’s winning?”
She flinched. “Who?”
“I only know who’s lost. Me.” A thread of mirthless laughter escaped from his chest.
“Lost?” She repeated numbly.
“Everything. All of it. “He resumed his pacing. “Fucking dwarf. I should’ve killed him myself. It’ll be too late now. I’m going.”
“Going?”
“Chirping little bird, repeating everything thing she hears,” he snapped. “Yes, going.”
“Where will you go?”
“Away from the fire. Away from this system. Somewhere. Anywhere.”
“But the queen—”
He stopped again. “Fuck the queen. No one can stop me with this.” He grabbed the pommel of the greatsword at his hip. “I’ll cut through any man that tries.”
She was silent, her face scrunched up from trying to process everything. Eventually, she said “Why are you here?”
He came before her and kneeled. Her eyes were lowered, her face turned as far away from him as she could turn it without being discourteous. The burned side of his face started twitching. “Look at me. Look at me!”
She obeyed as slow as she dared. “I could keep you safe.” He rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”
She closed her eyes and shuddered. He sighed. “Can’t bear to look, can you?”
Not that he could blame her. Fighting the sickening feeling in his stomach, he stood and turned his back to her. Fuck it all. Especially Joffrey and his Kingsguard. He tore off the clasps holding the white cloak to his black chrome-plated pauldrons. Fuck it all.
He made to leave, but was halted by a little voice crying “Wait!”
He stopped dead in his tracks. The bed creaked from the release of her weight. “You wouldn’t hurt me.” It was more a statement than a question.
“No, little bird. I wouldn’t.”
“Take me with you. Please.”
His chest filled with ice. He turned to look over his shoulder. She was standing there, trembling, with tear-stained cheeks, clutching his cloak to her breast, asking him to rescue her. Like a Knight in one of her stupid songs.
He faced her and grabbed one of her slight forearms. He rubbed the rich material of her dress, then yanked the sleeve off. She reeled away in renewed fear, her eyes wild and questioning. He ripped a jagged tear through the fabric. “We need something to throw them off the scent. Give me one of your pins.”
“Pins?”
“Seven hells, a hair pin! You’re going to get us killed if you stand there gaping any longer!”
With shaking hands, she slid a copper rod out of her intricately coiled hair. He admired the artful curl of dark sapphires on the pin. “Don’t scream,” he commanded.
He flipped over her left hand and used the pin’s sharpened tip to prick her thumb. “Ow!”
“Quiet.”
He stuck the pin into his belt. Blood was welling up on the pad of her finger. He grabbed the digit and squeezed until the blood started to run down her palm. He smeared the blood on her torn sleeve, then entangled it in the bush of roses that sat in a flower box just beyond the window sill. “Take only what you need.”
“But my instruments…!”
He grimaced. She was an accomplished musician, a growing rarity among the nobility in their increasingly technology-driven society. Asking her to leave them would be like asking him to leave behind his sword. It couldn’t be helped.
“Your harp or your life.”
She turned away from him, sniffing. Trying not to cry, pitiful thing. She pulled a suede knapsack from the chest at the foot of her bed and started throwing things in. He hoped she would be practical.
He advanced on the door, vibra-knife back in hand. He reveled in its comforting buzz before shoving it into the door handle. It took all his willpower to keep from flinching away as sparks flew out. The door handle and its manual lock were quickly reduced to slag. He gave the same treatment to the door’s computer.
When—there were no if’s about it— the Lannisters started sniffing around, they would hopefully be confused by the melted computer and handle. A high-class soldier like himself would have hacked into the room. Any without the knowledge or resources to hack (of which there were many) would probably start at the computer, since the automatic doors in the rest of the Red Keep would usually open if their comp was fried. Not so with ordinary doors. There were many that thought they could benefit from disposing of the traitorous Young Wolf’s sister Add to that the wide availability of heat-inducing tools and a scrap of cloth with DNA from one Sansa Stark, and the Lannisters would be too busy searching for a rat amongst themselves to even think about looking for their rogue Hound. Few would suspect she would be with him. Her fear was common knowledge. I guess she’s more afraid of Stannis, he thought bitterly.
“I’m ready, ser,” the little bird piped.
“Fuck your sers. Come on.” He seized her hand and pulled her behind him into the hall.
He growled directions at her while they made their way to the docking bay. “Follow me at all times. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. We get into a fight, you find somewhere to hide until I get you. We get captured, you tell them I kidnapped you. Understand?”
“But what about you?”
He laughed. “Fuck me, little bird. I’m as good as dead already. Quitting the field’s a death sentence. Better that at least one of us lives.”
“I won’t leave you!” she cried.
“This isn’t one of your songs, stupid girl!” He barked. “You do as I say or get left behind, simple as that. I say run, you run. I say hide, you hide. I say you leave me to die and you fucking do it!”
She started crying again. All she did was cry. Gods, maybe she would have saved herself by now if she ever stopped crying long enough to think properly.
He shoved her into a hallway at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were too close to her room for him to dispatch anyone with his knife, for fear of what they would do with the evidence. He drew the copper pin from his belt and, before the guard knew what was happening, stabbed the pin through the man’s eye. Bits of the guard’s optic nerve came out when he withdrew the pin, so he wiped the end on the man’s tabard.
“Come on out now,” he called.
The little bird emerged from the hallway, her eyes screwed up shut. She reached out for him blindly. “My lord, I’m afraid—”
“You’re afraid to look death in the face,” He interrupted nastily while grasping her hand again. “That’s fine. All you highborn ladies let others do your killing for you. Why should you be any different, even if you’re a Northerner?”
She kept quiet, though, just like he told her to.
They made it to the docking bay without too much interference. The little bird’s dress was covered in dust from ducking behind a row of old tapestries while he took care of another Gold Cloak, but was otherwise intact.
They were almost to his ship, when a man’s voice shouted “Ser!”
He pivoted on his heel, placing his body between the intruder and the girl. “What do you want?” he challenged.
“By order of the Queen Regent, no one is allowed to leave.”
He grinned maliciously. “I’d like to see you stop me.”
“There’s no need for violence, ser. We can have a rational conversa—”
The Hound stabbed his vibra-knife into the center of the man’s skull and watched as his grey matter liquefied, then evaporated. “Conversation’s over.”
They boarded the ship, the Hound jumping into the captain’s seat and beginning the launch sequence. She took the Navigator’s seat and buckled herself in. “Lift off in t-minus 20… 19… 18… 17…” the computer’s voice drawled in a calm, masculine voice.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
We. He liked the ring of that. “I’ll figure that out after we’ve cleared Crown space,” he said while double-checking the fuel gauge and vitals. Oxygen-scrubbers had been replaced a couple of months ago, CO2 filter was in good condition, as was the water recycling system.
“12… 11… 10…”
“I’m frightened.”
“Everything frightens you, craven,” he replied distractedly.
“I am not a craven!” she protested. “I’ve just never been on a ship this— this—”
He barked his laughter. “This small? This cheap-looking?”
She opened her mouth again, but her words were swallowed by the roar of the engines catapulting them out of the atmosphere and into space.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
They had caught the edge of a minor skirmish. There were too many asteroids and wrecked ships to risk going into hyperdrive. The Hound spun his ship around another piece of a destroyed cruiser. Three bogies sat on his tail, another two dead ahead. He barrel-rolled towards the port side, dodging a flurry of laser from behind. He was unable to dodge the debris from a shattered asteroid, however. Chunks of space rock scraped against the hull, destabilizing their center of gravity. “Seven fucking hells!” He strafed towards starboard to avoid a pack of missiles. The ship’s combat AI caught them on target and obliterated the missiles with a well-aimed laser.
“Shit. We’re not getting out like this.”
“What will we do?” The little bird asked, her hands clutching the seat belts as if her life depended on it. She had likely not experienced zero-g in a combat vessel before.
“We aren’t going to do anything. I am going to slag these whoresons and get us out of here, and you are going to do what you do best.”
“What I do best?”
“Look pretty and shut up.”
She gasped in fear as a laser scraped across the ship’s nose. He cursed again and executed a different set of evasive maneuvers. The enemy ships were closing in quickly, but they didn’t have nearly enough raw speed or agility to match him. If he just timed things right…
Opportunity jumped out at him like a sex-deprived whore. A huge asteroid, at least ten times the size of his ship was hanging in front of him. The two bogies that had been behind him were now engaged with a Lannister ship, as evidenced by the flamboyant red and gold accents along its hull. Their three comrades were too close to him to stop properly, but not close enough to ram into his tail end.
Gritting his teeth, he slammed the accelerator as far forward as it would go. The ship leapt forward with a violent snarl.
“Ser…”
“Shut up.”
“But ser…”
“Shut up and let me concentrate.”
The asteroid was uncomfortably close now. He hoped the three pilots weren’t especially skilled. It was unlikely that they were— the only ones that were close to him were Gregor and the Kingslayer— but there was always the off chance that someone would get lucky.
“Warning… collision imminent… Warning…” the ship’s computer droned.
Yellow and black exclamation marks flashed on the bottom of the HUD. Not yet… just a little closer…
He nose-dived at the last second. The aft cameras went white from the three-pronged explosion of the bogies striking the asteroid. “Oh thank gods!” the little bird exclaimed in relief. “How did you do that?”
“Destrier-class ships are powerful, but they’re too weighty to stop or turn quickly.” He grinned maliciously.
“This isn’t a destrier?” The puzzled quirk of her brow was oddly endearing.
“This is a courser-class.”
“Oh… It doesn’t seem that much smaller.”
“It’s smaller where it counts.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Stranger— don’t unbuckle yet.”
Her hands froze on the clasp.
“We’re not out of the asteroid field yet.”
“Not out—?” Realization dawned on her face. “You’re not actually going to try piloting through that, are you?!”
He shrugged. “Only way we’re going to avoid the main forces.”
“Don’t you know the possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field?” Her voice keened with renewed fear.
He diverted his attention from the screens long enough to fix her with a withering stare. “Do I look like a calculator to you?”
He’d show her a thing or two. Or they’d be dead. Either choice would be preferable to facing execution on terra firma. He turned back to the controls and lost himself in the feel of the ship.
The Hound kicked on the gravity simulator and the hyperdrive not long after they breached the Blackwater. Stranger’s autopilot AI was fairly intelligent (given that he had designed its mainframe), so he allowed it to take over.
He swiveled around in his seat to look at the little bird. She was curled up in the Navigator’s seat as comfortably as possible, which wasn’t saying much. Her head was pillowed on her right arm, and her knees were pulled up to her chest in an awkward pantomime of a fetus. The stress had likely been too much for her.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Battle lust could only sustain a man for so long. He was on his way to crashing, and crashing hard. A few hours of sleep would serve as the best remedy, but he didn’t foresee going to bed any time soon.
Stranger was designed to accommodate a crew of three, but he had repurposed the living quarters for the other crew members into a second cargo hold. He never expected to have anyone on the ship long enough to necessitate maintaining another room. He should have known trading off a set of beds for the ability to run longer missions would have bit him in the ass.
The Hound sighed and unbuckled his seat’s harness before walking across the pit. He stood before the little bird for a minute, watching her sleep. Her youthful face looked even younger in repose; she was even drooling slightly. Stupid dog, she’s hardly more than a girl, he chastised himself. The swell of her breast said otherwise. Younger than him, to be sure, but the ever growing width of her hips ended any thoughts he might have had about her being just a child.
He briefly contemplated waking her, but decided against it. Let her have this small kindness; she would have to deal with him once she woke. He pressed the release clasp and pulled her arms out of the straps as gently as her could. She moaned softly when he lifted her out of the seat, but didn’t stir otherwise.
The captain’s living quarters were at the beginning of the hall, as far from the thrumming engine as possible for such a small vessel. The automatic doors parted before him, revealing their Spartan interior.
Sandor Clegane was not one for frills or grandiosity. Utilitarianism was the name of the game when it came to running any of the ships in the Steed category without undue stress, and none played as well as he did.
The walls were a somber gray, several shades darker than the main thoroughfares, and housed no windows. There was a desk, nightstand, and wardrobe, all made of a hardy black carbon fiber. The bed was the most ostentatious article in the room. The frame was carbon fiber like the other furniture, but the bedding was far more luxurious. The sheets were a rich yellow satin underneath a wealth of millet hull-stuffed pillows of black satin with yellow trim. On top of the sheets rested a giant, black goose feather comforter, also in black, with hounds embroidered along the edges in gold.
They were the most expensive things he owned, besides Stranger and his gear. All of it was a nameday gift from the Lannisters many years ago. He suspected that Cersei was the one most responsible for it, as evident from the style of embroidery. Much as he loathed excess, it was more effort to get rid of the bedding and buy a new set, so he continued to make use of it.
The pillows had been thrown off the bed during the dogfight. Thankfully, the blanket remained mostly on, sparing him the effort of trying to pull it back with the girl still in his arms. He laid her in the bed, not ungently, and drew the covers over her before leaving.
The Hound resumed his vigil in the captain’s throne. He popped two caffeine tablets with a swig of recirculated water. Gods what he wouldn’t give for some thick, sour Dornish red. There were several casks of his favorite vintage in the cargo hold, just waiting to be opened… But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to keep alert, had to stay sharp. They weren’t out of the blast zone yet.
He brought up the star map and stared at the multitude of galaxies rotating slowly. A bright blue marker showed their position in the Crown Galaxy, while several yellow markers displayed locations he had bookmarked. It would be possible to refuel in one of the Riverland ports and then make a decision about where to go from there. He had already decided against crossing through the Westerland solar system, even if it meant forgoing cheap supplies at the hunk of rock his house claimed as home. Better to spend the extra gold and risk facing Gregor than travelling through Lannister territory.
He zoomed out of the Crown Galaxy to look upon the space that comprised the Westeros Empire territory. The spiral arms Crown, Reach, and Storm galaxies; the elliptical North, Gold, and Trident galaxies; the irregularly shaped Vale and Sand galaxies; and the Iron System. The Free Space of the Essos Republic extended languidly beside Westeros, and the vastly unexplored reaches of Sothoryos space lay beyond that.
A thousand thousand stars and more glittered just beyond his fingertips, hanging before him in utter silence.
Sandor Clegane watched and waited.