Chapter Text
Ser Jaime Lannister's golden curls almost formed a halo around his head, contrasting with the dark color of the high-backed chair he was sitting in; a wide smile spread on his handsome features as he observed Sandor who stood in front of him, trying not to gape.
"Ser Jaime," he said politely, wondering what the Kingslayer wanted with him.
Tywin's son had invited Sandor in the Kingsguard's quarters and he had let him enough time to examine the large bedroom furnished with mahogany chairs and table and ancient weapons adorning the walls, before he started talking.
"Have you heard of the Mad King's plan to burn the city?" Jaime asked. "The wildfire, prepared by the Alchemists' Guild and hidden in caches throughout King's Landing? Of course, you have. Father told me you heard about it during his meeting with King Robert. Well, Varys' little birds reported that two pyromancers named Garigus and Belis escaped the Red Keep and now hide in the city. For some reason, Father told me to take you on this mission. Do you know why?"
His detached tone sounded a bit provocative, as if he wanted to test Sandor's reaction, but the boy knew better than to let some knight, even famous, impress him.
"Because I'm good at chasing people," he answered a bit too quickly.
Ser Jaime sneered. He doesn't take me seriously.
"So you're good at chasing people?" he said, stammering in disbelief. "You seem so young... Who did you chase?"
"The plunderers. The two men King Robert hanged in Fishmonger's Square."
The blond knight leaned forward, a half-smile on his lips.
"You mean the poor bastards my father served up to King Robert, in order to save my head?"
Sandor didn't know the correct answer, and the memory of the two men swaying from the gallows pole was too fresh not to make his stomach churn; he therefore decided to avoid Jaime's question.
"Your lord father caught them stealing, ordered them to stop and to follow us. When they gave us the slip, I volunteered and I went after them. With Master Symon."
Jaime sat back and crossed his arms about his chest.
"I talked to the old Symon, Clegane. He said you're a resourceful... and surprising lad."
With that, he drummed his fingers on the table where he had left parts of his armor. Sandor found the jangling of the gorget against the greaves slightly annoying. What did Symon tell him, exactly?
"Done. You'll come with me, Clegane."
He looked at Ser Jaime and tried to remember what Fat Jeyne had told him about Tywin's children, when he was in Casterly Rock. 'There's something weird about the twins, Sandor. Never managed to find out what it was... The truth is, they believe they're different. They share some secret and no one, even in the castle, knows what it is. The twins take pleasure in that, they love the idea that no one knows except them. Whatever it is, this secret makes them believe they're superior.'
He frowned. One who saw Ser Jaime or his sister Cersei – their blond hair, their noble features, their stately bearing – couldn't imagine their golden heads harbored a mystery. For some time, Sandor had pondered on Fat Jeyne's words, and thought the darkest secret Cersei could keep was the recipe of the ointment she used to keep her skin smooth. Mayhap I was wrong and she's more than a lady obsessed by her looks. Jaime pushed himself from his seat and began to check the pieces of armor on the table.
"We'll leave the castle as soon as we're ready," he announced, without ever looking at Sandor. "I'll meet you in front of the stables."
Chasing two men he imagined old, weak and unarmed, hiding in the biggest city of Westeros seemed strange. He did his best to conceal his increasing unease, as he left the room of the Maidenvault he shared with Master Symon, his long strides and the clang of his new armor arousing interest among the members of the Lannister host. Once in the inner yard the Sack had turned into a gigantic and messy encampment for the Lannister, Baratheon, Tully and Arryn troops – the departure of the Stark host to lift the siege of Storm's End barely helped and there were canvass tents everywhere – soldiers and idle Bannermen looked hard at him; he ignored them and he lengthened his stride until he reached the stables. Ser Jaime welcomed him with an approving nod.
"You look better with that armor than with the rusty equipment you wore when you arrived," he commented.
The young member of the Kingsguard made a flourish inviting Sandor to turn around so that he could see all the pieces of armor Sandor had bought in the upper part of the Street of Steel. Symon had helped him choose, and Sandor was rather proud of the armor he had picked; however, now that Ser Jaime made him spin on his heels, he felt like a stupid girl showing her new dress.
"Father says you still grow up. It's a pity that such a fine armor will be soon too small and too tight for you," Jaime sighed.
He was not very comfortable with the idea of Tywin talking about him with his son – about my growth? – and he frowned. As they stayed in front of the stables, Sandor had to shield his gaze from the blinding sun.
"We're not here to talk about armors, are we?" he asked, then he wished he could take back his remark, so insolent towards his liege lord's son.
Jaime chuckled. There was something about him – his constant smile, his eyebrow raised, his haughty casualness – that warned people he might not be serious. Or that he mocks us. Jaime let his eyes fall away, a smile pulling the corner of his lips. "We're waiting for Symon, boy. I told him to come with us. Three horsemen hurrying through the streets of King's Landing, chasing pyromancers, as if the demons of the Seven Hells had been let loose. Tell me, Clegane, how does it sound?"
Sandor shrugged. He's a fool. Symon finally showed up and they came in the stables to pick their horses. Once on horseback, Sandor put his helmet on and followed Ser Jaime. At the gates, when the young knight explained why they left the castle, the sentries didn't recognize Sandor. They saw the brand new armor, the sparkling greathelm, the fine stallion he mounted, but they didn't saw the scars anymore. He was just a squire Ser Jaime had chosen for his uncommon strength and skills. It felt strange to go unnoticed for a change, under a thin layer of steel. My armor may reflect the sunbeams, it doesn't make me a knight in shining armor. Knights only exist in songs. It's just a lie commoners keep saying because they're buggers and because they like to delude themselves. And lords like it even more, because the stupid idea of a brave knight rescuing people justifies the power they have on smallfolk.
The gates opened and they entered the city. Its hustle and the rancid smell of the streets made him feel dizzy. Beggars and peddlers swarmed about the gates and they soon gathered around the three horsemen, some identifying Jaime and gesturing at him. Once more, the blond knight laughed, while Sandor tried to avoid the tiresome men and women; his horse's hooves slipped on the wet and dirty cobblestones.
"Where are we going to?" he shouted, the beggars' supplications half-covering his high-pitched voice.
"Where would you go, if you were an alchemist on the run?" Jaime retorted, leading his horse through the ragged crowd and seemingly enjoying the commoners' attention.
Jaime smiled at a toothless old woman who held out her hand in a begging gesture, then headed straight ahead to the nearest street.
"To the Guildhall of the Alchemists?" Symon suggested.
As they arrived in the street facing the gates, Sandor had to prick up his ears to hear his companions despite the noise.
"Certainly not!" Jaime answered, greeting a girl who stared at them from her balcony.
The young woman coyly smiled back and leaned against the guardrail, revealing the top of her breasts. Jaime swiveled on his saddle to look at her and bowed theatrically, to the girl's great pleasure. He just knows how to play the game, Sandor mused. The realization sent a pang of jealousy in his chest, before he felt Jaime's eyes on his figure.
"Do you intend to spend the day with your greathelm on?" he asked Sandor while pulling the reins so that the squire could catch up with him.
Sandor reluctantly lifted the visor of his helmet, holding onto the idea that, even without the piece of metal hiding his nose and cheeks, his scars were barely visible. Maybe I should wear it the next time I go to the brothel.
"So where are we going to?" he insisted, narrowing his gaze.
"Why don't you take a wild guess, boy?" Jaime teased him. "Since you're good at chasing people."
Sandor pulled the reins at the end of the street they were in; Jaime followed suit and Symon, turned around to join them as soon as he saw they had stopped.
"The men we're looking for... Do they have family in King's Landing?" he asked Jaime.
The young member of the Kingsguard shook his head.
"As far as I know, Garigus and Belis don't know anyone here."
"So they probably hide in some inn and we're going to check every tavern of the city?" Sandor said.
"You're right, boy! We'd better start right now, for there are lots of places to visit."
"That's something the Gold Cloaks should do!" Symon protested, imagining the number of taverns they would have to search.
"How can I put it, Symon?" Jaime sighed. "The ancient and noble organization of the Gold Cloaks has known some difficulties lately, since my dear father's arrival in King's Landing. It seems that the City Watch has been... decimated. King Robert appointed a new Commander who recruits and trains soldiers, but in the meanwhile, we'll do their job."
A smug smile on his face, Jaime led his horse to the junction of three streets.
"Wait a minute!" Sandor exclaimed, immediately ashamed by the commanding tone he had used with Tywin's son. "We should visit all the jewelers' shops and ask the usurers, instead of searching the taverns."
"Why in Seven Hells should we do that?"
"Because they were in a hurry when they escaped the Red Keep," Sandor explained. "When you're on the run you don't take any chest of gold, if you have one. So they took jewels or precious items they found in the castle and could hide under their clothes, and now they'll try to sell these things, especially if they want to fly from the capital."
Jaime puckered up his full lips, slightly nodding his head. Is he skeptical or does he agree with me?
"The boy is right," Symon rasped.
"Sounds like you already planned your evasion," the blond knight commented, laughing.
Stone-faced under his greathelm, Sandor didn't move and held his stare. Symon cleared his throat loudly, as if he wanted to warn Jaime it was a slippery matter. The clothes and boots I wore were the only things I took from Clegane's Keep, the day I ran away.
He shifted nervously on his saddle and clutched to the pommel, trying to regain his composure. The young man seemed to realize his blunder and went serious.
"You're very observant. Uncle Gerion told me that," he said, by way of apologies. "We're going to Coppersmith's Wynd."
In the usurers shop, the musty smell made the Kingslayer wrinkle his nose. Symon stayed outside with the horses, observing the surroundings while Jaime and Sandor came in to question the usurer. As a matter of fact, there were two men sitting behind a small table, talking quietly. Sandor didn't understand what the men said, and guessed it was Valyrian. As the only opening was small, darkness engulfed the room in shades of brown, but a tallow candle burning on the small table lit up the usurers.
One had deep wrinkles and a grey beard, while the other one was smooth-faced; both had the same piercing gaze under shaggy eyebrows and a rugged jaw line. A father and his son, living and working together. He remembered how the servants kept repeating he looked like Lord Clegane, before he got his scars; neighbors and customers told this young man he was the spitting image of his father, and he probably didn't care about it. Bugger. He doesn't know how lucky he is. As Jaime stopped in front of the table, Sandor felt his fingers slowly curl into balled fists.
"Welcome, Sers. How can we help you?" the son asked with a hint of foreign accent, while standing up.
Perhaps they had recognized Jaime, for the father hastily got on his feet and gave him a nervous bow. A Lannister paying a visit to an usurer was both unexpected and ironic.
"We have a few questions about your customers," Jaime announced. "Did you notice something strange since King Robert's arrival? Something unusual?"
The two men looked at each other, confused. The greybeard asked his son a question in Valyrian and his son immediately turned to Jaime.
"My father asks what you mean by 'strange', Ser."
"A man, rather old, looking like he was going to shit his pants, trying to sell jewels or plates," Jaime explained.
After the Sack, some servants of the Red Keep had reported that the precious tableware Aerys used had disappeared and Jaime had made the connection after Sandor suggested to ask the jewelers and moneylenders. Another muttering in Valyrian forced a smile out of the young knight; he sensed that, after several inconclusive visits in jeweler's shops, they would finally learn something. Without any warning, Jaime took the purse hanging from his belt and put it down on the table. Hearing the coins jingling, the two men briefly turned to look at the heavy purse, then went on talking. The young knight crossed his arms about his chest and sighed.
"Boredom should always be noisy and demonstrative," he confessed, glancing at Sandor.
"Well, Ser... Such a man came here..." the young man answered.
In the meanwhile, his father extended his arm to take the gold Jaime had left on the table, but the knight's commanding tone stopped him before he could reach the purse.
"Don't be so hasty, old man. I want proofs."
Once more the usurer and his son exchanged a puzzled look, before turning to Jaime. The father touched the young man's arm in an approving gesture and let him go in the back shop. During his son's absence, he stared at Jaime, then at Sandor, caressing his beard and very solemn in his patched tunic. The young man came back with a purse bigger than Jaime's and deftly untied the strings. Then, with a sigh, he emptied the purse on the table, near the tallow candle. Sandor gaped.
A brooch and a golden chain had landed on the worm-eaten table with a jangling sound. The chain's thick links imitated a rope. The brooch depicted the Targaryen sigil, with its tiny rubies forming a three-headed dragon standing out against obsidian. Jaime turned to Sandor, a triumphant smile on his face, then locked eyes with the usurer.
"What did that man look like?" he asked, stepping forward so that he almost towered above the old man who had sat down again behind the table.
"Well..." the young man replied, glancing at the purse. "He was smaller than you, with a short beard... His hair and beard were white."
"Belis," Jaime whispered. "What happened?"
"He said he wanted to sell these jewels and my father gave him a good price."
"It goes without saying," Jaime commented, his voice exuding contempt and irony.
"Then the man walked away and he disappeared."
"But where did he go?" the blond knight insisted.
He glared at the usurers, disappointed by their lack of cooperation.
"We don't know," the old man said firmly, stressing the last word. It sounded like it was the only sentence he knew in the Common Tongue.
"Was he afraid?" Sandor asked abruptly.
As he had been quiet from the beginning, his question surprised the usurers and Jaime. They all turned to him.
"Did you see him in the neighborhood before his visit or after he came?"
The old man shook his head while his son observed Sandor carefully.
"The man seemed rather... nervous," he said, visibly looking for words. "We had never seen him before that day and we didn't see him since he sold these jewels. He came yesterday."
"When he entered your shop, was he breathless? Or sweating streams?" Sandor asked again.
"No. I don't remember he was sweating."
The young man's eyes fell on the purse again, but Jaime was quicker and seized it.
"I'm afraid that's not enough information, my good fellow. Maybe I'll change my mind if we get hold of this man, but meanwhile I'll save my gold for someone else."
He spun on his heels and went to the door, leaving the two usurers frustrated. Sandor followed in Jaime's footsteps. Outside, Symon welcomed them with impatience and expectation in his eyes; all this vanished when the master-at-arms noticed Jaime's discomfiture.
"Belis was here," Jaime explained, chuckling darkly, "but those fools don't know where he's hiding. Why don't usurers ask questions to their customers?"
"Probably because they are usurers, Ser," Symon offered, patting his horse's neck.
"And what were those questions about a breathless Belis?" Jaime asked Sandor, frowning.
"If you had soldiers after you – including a member of the Kingsguard – would you choose to walk half an hour in the streets or would you go to the nearest moneylender's shop? Would you take your time or would you walk as quickly as you can?" Sandor's reasoning seemed to convince Jaime, who slightly nodded his head.
"He's not very far," Symon rasped. "We should examine the neighborhood with a fine-tooth comb."
There were half-a-dozen taverns in the streets surrounding the usurer's shop; they searched each one, Jaime asking questions to the owner and one of his companions coming in with him while the other one stayed outside. Symon and Sandor silently agreed on escorting Jaime to the tavern one after the other. As they visited the fourth tavern – a timber frame house with its façade on the street and the gable on a back alley – it was Sandor's turn to wait in the street, keeping a close eye on their horses. The Sack had been an ordeal for the inhabitants, not only because of the violence they had suffered that day; the destruction and fires had ruined the population, disorganizing handicraft and trade, forcing the poorest fringe to beg and to pilfer. The fine horses of the royal stables, even after exhausting weeks spent on the roads of the realm were tempting for them, and Sandor didn't want one of the animals to end up in a bowl of brown.
All of a sudden, a throaty scream inside the tavern startled him. Then there were more shouting and Sandor wondered if he should come in and help his companions, though Jaime had forbidden him to move away from the horses. When he heard more noise on the third floor of the timber frame tavern, his eyes scrutinized the façade, trying to understand what was going on and if Jaime or Symon were in danger.
"Here he is!" Symon exclaimed. The master-at-arms' raspy voice came from an open window of the third floor.
"He escaped!" Jaime bellowed in frustration and Sandor immediately spotted an old man bestriding the guard rail of a balcony in the back alley and trying to reach the window of the house across the back alley; it was not completely reckless, even for a man of his age, as the balcony nearly touched the building across the narrow street.
Forgetting Jaime's orders to stay near the horses, Sandor ran to the front door of the house where the pyromancer had sneaked in and he took two steps at a time in the wobbly staircase; he nearly shoved a little girl, but when he heard shouting and protestations on the third floor, he understood that his prey had accidentally met the house's inhabitants. Sandor violently pushed open the door, leaving it swinging back and forth on its hinges. From where he was, he saw a woman threatening the alchemist with a poker; a child hung on tightly to her ragged skirts while an old man, older than the pyromancer and probably ill, was lying on a pallet.
"Who are you?" the woman asked Sandor, glancing at him, but still keeping the intruder at bay.
"The king sent us to catch this man. He's... a criminal."
Despite the fact that Jaime seemed to burden himself with the pyromancers' arrest instead of following Robert's orders, Sandor thought preferable not to give her more details. Sensing the woman's hesitation was perhaps his only chance, the bearded man stepped forward; she threw herself on him and struck him with the poker; despite his arms raised in a protective gesture, the pyromancer couldn't avoid the blow. The woman missed his head but her makeshift weapon landed on his forearm with an awful noise. The alchemist fell on the floor, screaming, while Sandor subdued the woman: she flailed at first, then stopped moving and dropped the poker.
Still holding her firmly, he noticed the fine lines on her stubborn forehead; she might be still young, but hardships had left their marks on her face. Around him, he saw what most of the inhabitants of King's Landing worked for: a small room, with two windows and its quasi-absent furniture. There was a fireplace near the pallet, with scorched vegetables in a blackened pot. The only ornament was a big green stain on the white washed ceiling, because the roof leaked. That detail reminded him of a saying in the Westerlands: 'rain always falls harder on a leaking roof'. Sandor wondered how they managed to live there. They live on the brink of destitution, he thought. No, they barely survive. The little boy he had seen hanging on his mother's skirts was now huddling up against the old man's side, and his feverish gaze told Sandor that these people didn't eat their fill. He let go of the woman, who stared at his armor and immediately gave him a sheepish look.
"I didn't know, Ser. Forgive my-"
"I'm no Ser," he answered curtly, wondering how he could help them and realizing that there was nothing he could do.
She took in his face – partly hidden by the greathelm – and gaped when she noticed how young he was.
"Thank you for protecting us from-" she said tentatively, pushing aside her jet-black hair.
"Don't thank me," he replied a bit more stiffly than he intended. "Seems that you protect yourself very well."
He grabbed the alchemist's shoulder and forced him to stand up; the man whimpered softly and hardly struggled as they left the small room to go downstairs. Sandor looked up before reaching the second floor and he saw the dark-haired woman observing him with a curious gaze. She's a fool, he thought. We don't protect anyone, we just let them live their miserable life and look at them struggling for food in a half-ruined city.
Sandor shoved the alchemist out of the building, then inside the tavern where Jaime and Symon waited for him. The customers had deserted the place and the owner stared at them from the kitchens, instinctively putting as much space between himself and Jaime as possible.
"How did you do?" Symon asked him, glancing at the pyromancer's broken arm.
Sandor shrugged and kicked the old man so that he fell on his hands and knees, crying and begging.
"Too late, Wisdom Belis," Jaime announced, stepping forward.
He had unsheathed his sword – one of the most beautiful weapons Sandor had ever seen, though he found it a bit too sophisticated for real fights – and the blade was covered with blood.
"No! Ser Jaime, please... Listen to me!" The alchemist's protestations sounded like the squeak of a mouse. "I- I have gold," he stuttered, trying to sit up and looking at his captors one after the other. "I have gold upstairs. Spare me and you'll be rich."
Still holding his sword, Jaime raised one eyebrow in disbelief.
"Remember me, Belis? I am a Lannister. I am as rich as can be."
His way of articulating words was almost precious when he expressed his contempt, as if he took his time and enjoyed this feeling. And his voice is soft, when he addresses someone he despises, like Tywin's.
"Your proposition is nearly an insult," Jaime added.
A desperate look in his eyes, Belis didn't seem to understand his words. "I have gold," he repeated, pleading.
"And I have steel," Jaime replied, leaning over the miserable pyromancer and stabbing him.
It all happened very quickly, Jaime's left hand seizing the old man while his sword dug deeply in his chest. The man who wanted to destroy King's Landing with wildfire collapsed on the floor and Jaime removed hastily his blade from Belis' torso before wiping it.
"As I said," he shouted to the owner, "I'll send someone with a cart to take the corpses and bring them back to the Red Keep. Don't move the bodies. How did you catch him, resourceful boy?" the blond knight said, turning to Sandor, before walking to the door.
Sandor still looked at the alchemist's dead body; Symon patted his shoulder and led him outside. Jaime's deep green eyes insisted and Sandor complied.
"I didn't really catch him," he explained. "Belis sneaked in a room where there was a woman, a child and an old man. The woman was threatening him when I came in. She broke his arm. I just prevented her from killing him."
"Surprising wench," Jaime commented, straddling his horse. "Was she to your liking?"
"I don't know," Sandor mumbled, making both his companions laugh.
"Do you know what happened upstairs?" Jaime went on, as they led their horses through the dirty streets. "These fools had stayed together. At first, they thought of taking different paths, but Belis was a coward and he finally stayed with Garigus, according to him. Anyway, they arrived together in this tavern, asked for separate rooms and always ate upstairs. The owner was growing curious about them and they would have moved before tomorrow."
He went silent for a short while, as a palanquin sheltering two rich women moved past them.
"Garigus wept for mercy," Jaime added, with a faraway look. "I gave him a quick death, which was rather merciful, compared to the alchemists' plan to burn the city."
Jaime stopped talking, but Sandor wondered why; was it because a peddler sang and shouted to sell his fish or because he was not as proud of himself as his words conveyed? He couldn't tell.
The sun set fire to the horizon when they crossed the gates of the Red Keep and Jaime insisted on telling his father the good news. Thus, the three of them ended up in the most comfortable room of the Maidenvault, where Tywin had his quarters; he listened to them from his armchair next to the empty fireplace, which carved mantel drew arabesques behind his head. In the end, once Tywin's curiosity was fulfilled, he told his son and his master-at-arms they may leave; Sandor stayed.
The boy tidied the room, arranged the numerous scrolls his liege lord had received since the Sack and got ready for serving the supper when Tywin stopped him.
"That will be all for tonight," he said softly. "We'll soon go back to the Westerlands and you should probably enjoy your time in the capital, boy."
Tywin pushed himself from his armchair with a sort of lazy sigh and went to the chest where he kept his gold, under Sandor's puzzled gaze. When he turned around to face his squire, the lord of Casterly Rock held a small purse; he weighed it up, staring at Sandor with a half-smile as if he still hesitated and finally crossed the room to put it in the boy's hands.
"Thank you, my lord," Sandor said mechanically, before realizing that, whether there were stags or dragons inside, he had never owned so much money.
Tywin stayed there for a heartbeat, observing the boy's surprise, and tentatively brushed his shoulder. The gesture in itself was strange, though it had nothing to do with Sandor's uncommon height – he was already taller than his master. It seemed unreal, because the last thing he expected from Tywin was endearment – even as a clumsy beginning of a pat on his back. His liege lord sensed the awkwardness of the moment: Sandor could tell it from the way his green eyes suddenly avoided his. He bowed slightly and walked away.
Sandor went back to the room he shared with Master Symon, sat down on his pallet and reflected; Tywin had given him money, had told him to enjoy his time in King's Landing. He was not a child anymore, he could read between the lines and take it as an encouragement to visit a pleasure house. Or he could save this money for rainy days, for the moment when he would avenge his family and himself by killing Gregor. Maybe I'll need better weapons than these I already have. Maybe I'll need a horse to flee. The images churned in his head again: his father, Ivy in her shroud... No, not now. He needed to get used to all this: the loss, the orders that lead you to kill people without asking questions, even the bite of steel when mail scratched his bare forearms...
Sandor clenched his jaw and got on his feet. He had to freshen up before striding along the Street of Silk. Not that he tried to satisfy some need or endeavored to do what Tywin expected from him; he wanted to prove himself that he could go whoring and behave as a soldier. His unease on the way to the brothel a few days ago and the persistent feeling of humiliation during his visit to Emerald had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He needed a sort of revenge.
He ignored the drummer's protestations about the festivities the Lannister host planned and crossed the gates – again – as a cart arrived in front of the sentries: a servant of the Red Keep brought back the corpses of the pyromancers. He looked ahead while the servant negotiated with the soldiers and moved forward, the heels of his boots hitting the cobblestones at a rhythmic pace. Inside the city, the restlessness ensuing the Sack had waned: the smallfolk kept struggling for food like before, except that they bustled about in a landscape where the most exquisite mansions stood alongside ruins.
Brushing the purse hanging from his hip with every step, Sandor lengthened his stride as he approached the Street of Silk. He soon identified the thick wooden door with a mandrake painted on the sign swaying above, and he used the door knocker. The old Naya opened and welcomed him with a knowing smile; he didn't pay any attention to her obsequious chatter and looked around. There were probably fewer customers that night than the first time, for most of the girls were in the entrance hall, including the natives from the Summer Isles, wearing see-through dresses of different colors, fake smiles plastered on their faces. Among them, he recognized the plump whore named Heeva and Emerald; as soon as she saw him, the brown-haired girl puffed herself up, triumph provoking a small tug at the corner of her lips. She knew I would come back.
Naya had finally stopped talking after announcing the price she required: she waited for him to make his choice and to say a name. Sandor ignored the whores who tried to draw his attention by their giggling, ignored Emerald's insistent gaze and locked eyes with Naya.
"I can't remember her name. She goes by... I think it's a gemstone," he said.
Pretending not to remember Emerald was rude, but he didn't care. As if she remembered the name of every man who fucked her.
"Oh, of course," Naya simpered, "you mean Emerald."
The old woman grinned and turned her head, ready to call the girl who had humiliated him. Sandor didn't need to look at the girls to know that Emerald strutted about, anticipating the money she would earn.
"No. She's not the girl I want to see tonight. I'm pretty sure there's another girl whose name is also a gemstone."
His peremptory tone left Naya dumbfounded. He could tell that the old woman remembered his visit – how could she forget a customer whose facial burns had allowed her to charge a bigger price? – and expected him to choose the same girl who had taken his virginity.
His decision looked like a whim, still, she swallowed and said quietly: "We have a Jayde. Maybe Jayde is the girl you remember."
Sandor nodded and raised his eyes to see the bunch of girls who had stopped whispering. Emerald, very straight in her pink see-through gown, seemed offended. When a rather plump girl with chestnut hair stepped forward, he gave Naya the stags she demanded and casually followed the whore. As he moved past Emerald, they locked eyes for a second and each one could measure the resentment the other one felt. Sandor had bottled up so much frustration and anger he couldn't envision what had just happened like a trick he had played on her, or like a victory. In the end, there's no winner. Only a bitter girl who thought her beauty would bring her more coin tonight. And a bitter boy.
Jayde led him to a room similar to the one he had visited a few days ago: the bed was so large he almost filled the room. The girl tried to chatter at first, asking where he was from and what was his name.
"I didn't came here to hear you talking," Sandor answered and the girl's outward confidence vanished.
Wordlessly, she took off her shoes, removed her dress without making a fuss and lay down on the bed. Her plump legs and her sagging tits with large brown nipples didn't arouse him as much as Emerald's thin body, but it was too late. He felt like he had to do this, like a test proving he was as manly as anyone else in the host, and the whore's appeal didn't really matter. With an incline of his head, he motioned her to get on her hands and knees, then he positioned himself behind her. The girl let out a sigh but he didn't care. Emerald wanted him to fuck her that way. Like a dog.
On his way back to the Red Keep, Sandor realized it was late when he saw the waning crescent moon high in the sky; most people were asleep or locked themselves in their houses. In the deserted streets, his footsteps echoed strangely and he found the silence comforting. Silence is so rare in King's Landing. For a fleeting moment, he fancied himself in the quiet woods surrounding Clegane's Keep, in the chestnut grove where he had spent hours during his childhood. When he closed his eyes, he could almost believe there were tall trees instead of the lopsided buildings: only the noise made by the soles of his boots against the cobblestones reminded him he was in the biggest city of Westeros and not in the secluded wood he loved so much when he was ten.
He dreamed of feats of arms and chivalry at that time. I was a fool. I thought I could became as good a knight as Florian or Aemon the Dragonknight. The forest was his refuge, his realm, and whenever someone disturbed the peacefulness of the chestnut grove, he knew it could only be Gregor, looking for him. Tracking me, hunting me as if I was a prey. He had learned to go unnoticed in the woods and to stay perfectly silent, hidden in the trees, while his brother lost his temper in the undergrowth. Most children in Westeros loved to play hide-and-seek with their siblings. Not Sandor. For it was not a game.
The sentries let him cross the gates without asking any question now that he was known as Lord Tywin's squire and he made his way through the Tully tents sheltering soldiers of the Riverlands. As he progressed toward the Maidenvault, he heard people singing and laughing; as Talbert the drummer had said, there was another feast celebrating the so-called victories of the Lannister host. He almost sneaked in to avoid the drunken men who would certainly ask him where he was and why he came back so late. Now that he had left the brothel, he wondered what Fat Jeyne would have said about his wanderings in the Street of Silk. She's a fool as well. She behaved as if she could prevent all these things to happen to me, but she couldn't. The man who will make me a better person isn't born yet.
Once the biggest room of the Maidenvault and his noisy occupants were behind him, he relaxed his shoulders. It was only when he heard music and roaring laughs coming from an open door on his left that he realized there was more than one feast in the Maidenvault that night; he lengthened his stride.
"No, Clegane, please come!" a merry voice suddenly shouted as he walked past the door.
He stopped mid-stride, realizing it was Jaime; ignoring his liege lord's son was not an option. Maybe I can just come in and stay in some corner, before escaping once they'll be in their cups. He cautiously stepped in the vaulted room, where servants had brought trestles and benches. Apart from the musicians, there were only members of the noble families of the Westerlands, eating and drinking with Jaime. At least, Gregor isn't here. He noticed Lord Marbrand and a maid, engaged in heavy petting in the darkest corner of the room.
Sandor stayed by the door, leaning against the wall, observing Jaime's guests, but the tipsy blond knight clearly wanted to draw attention on him. Forgetting the flagons of wine he had knocked back, Jaime got on his feet and walked around the trestles to have a good look at Sandor; all the Bannermen's eyes were on him as he welcomed Sandor with a drunken grin. Tywin's son's golden curls stuck to his damp forehead.
"Where have you been, boy?" Jaime asked him. "We were waiting for you!"
If the contemptuous gaze of Lord Sarsfield and the sneering laugh escaping Lord Hamell were any indication, Jaime Lannister might be the only man of the assembly who really enjoyed his presence. Sandor shrugged and the raucous laughter went on.
"Dear friends," Jaime announced, turning to his guests and patting Sandor's shoulder, "I know some of you thought that he's young and inexperienced. I made the same mistake at first... But he has a good nose for certain things, he knows how to find a runaway, how to track him down."
One of the lords barked loudly, making the assembly laugh.
"Congratulations, boy!" another one exclaimed, apparently impressed.
"My lords, may I- may I present you the younger son of the late Lord Clegane," Jaime added, the heavy dose of alcohol he had drunk making him stammer.
Some men barked along, like their sons did in Casterly Rock whenever they wanted Sandor to get pissed. Jaime swayed and leaned on Sandor for fear of collapsing on the glazed tiles; then, the boy saw the blond knight's smile widened in anticipation of his next joke.
"May I introduce the young Clegane!" he shouted. "The boy who hunted down Aerys' creatures in King's Landing with me, who proved to be as gifted for hunting as the dogs of his sigil... My lords, I give you the Hound!"
Bewildered, Sandor turned to Jaime who patted his back and congratulated him. People had given him various names: 'Monster', 'Freak', 'Burnt boy' but no one had called him 'Hound' so far. In Jaime's mouth it could be either a good jape or the recognition of his skills; with his constant smile, nobody could tell.
"The Hound! The Hound!" the guests bellowed, slamming the table with their fists.
Sandor was at a loss, ignoring if it was an insult or a nickname, or both. All he knew was that once a member of the host earned a nickname, he kept it for years. Might as well get used to it.
"The Hound! The Hound!"
With a mischievous smile, Jaime tousled his hair, nearly scratching the area behind his good ear. Like a dog.