what hell is truly like.

Elaenys imagined in her mind that a steward or perhaps a servant, even a handmaiden would come looking for her to take her to her new chambers in the Red Keep, but when she saw The Hound, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes and bit her lower lip. She knew his story, every one in the Seven Kingdoms did. He wasn’t a Ser, he was just a dog who did what his masters demanded of him. She had actually met him in a tourney to celebrate Olenna Tyrell’s name day. “So, this my welcoming party?” she snorted. “The Hound himself, the dog of Lannisters and Targaryens alike”. She got closer to him barely reaching his chest. “Speak to me in that tone again and I’ll burn the other half of your face”, Elaenys said with a smile before walking past him.

He strikes her as familiar - a name even comes to mind. Elaenys Rowan, he thinks. All he can remember about her is how strange the woman was when she approached him after a tourney. Women rarely did so willingly, not that anything came out of it. Beyond that, he doesn’t remember much about her. Certainly nothing that clues him into why he’s the one walking her to he chambers, at least nothing beyond convenience for the Queen. Her mocking of his name and his loyalty doesn’t earn her a thing. He’s heard it all before, nothing if not redundant.

The Queen’s order that the Clegane dog provide escort as he traveled to the Keep’s rookery inflated Aurane’s ego as much as it garnered frustration. On the one hand, it was a sign of what he wanted: the Queen favored him in some capacity, and did so enough to make a small public showing of it. It was neither grandiose, nor was it subtle enough to be missed by those with a keen eye. It promised a small victory to the Driftmark bastard, and he coveted those. On the other hand, the public display threatened his relationship with Daenerys, who opposed his interactions with the Queen openly. He could talk his way out of her suspicion, he wagered, but not earn her trust any sooner. He doubted he could have a way into her bed without such a thing. 

Perhaps with the Queen’s bed, he could win both things. 

Pondering on the issue quietly, he offered a smirk to the scarred guardsmen and nodded his head. “To the rookery,” he voiced, though the man had already been made aware of the destination. He set off cheerfully, and tossed a glance back at the man. “Unable to escape silver hair even after being given leave from your Targaryens, eh?” As he made the comment, he recognized that the Hound’s Targaryen charge bore blonde locks, the same as his mother. All the same, he thought his humor stuck nicely regardless. “I won’t keep you long, Hound.”

The sooner this is done and over with, the sooner he’ll be dismissed. With Daemon otherwise occupied, he doesn’t suspect that Cersei will want him towering over her for long, but the Hound has never been one for wishful thinking. With so many extra faces still in the Capital, he’s been put to more guard work than he cares to have. Whether or not it’s more tolerable than his usual routines with Daemon, Sandor doesn’t bother to compare. He closes the door behind himself, usual scowl on his face in the hopes that this one doesn’t care to make conversation with him.

            Another growl from his harsh lips that made Sansa wish to curl inwards. Instead, she tilted her chin to look at him plainly, trying to focus on his eyes rather than the scars. When she’d been angry with Arya, she always found it hardest to say cruel things while looking her in the eye. It was easy to bite when her sister looked away, it made Sansa feel less accountable. Maybe The Hound felt the same way, though she very much doubted it. “No, se- no.” Yes. Most men were eager to show Sansa kindness, be it to earn her favour or Lord Eddard’s. The Hound had no such ambition. “I’m not nervous, only easily startled.”

She tried very hard not to react to his words. Be it with shock or apprehension. “Everyone believes in something.” She pressed before she found the wit to stop herself. When he swung that sword and another man swung back, who did he ask to spare him? Before he slept, was he grateful for anything? “I pray…. I pray for my family, for their health and happiness. For the King and the Queen and their children. For the people, I left behind in Winterfell. For those, I’ve met here.” To be Queen someday. She trailed off, knowing that he didn’t truly care what she wished for.

When she bites her tongue, stopping herself from calling him a Ser, he doesn’t know if he’s thankful she’s learning or still irritated that it crossed her mind. His usual hard gaze continues to bore into her, watching as she tries to keep her eyes on his. Maybe she is braver than most. Or maybe she’s just more afraid. Her excuse isn’t easily bought by him, but he doesn’t challenge her on it. If she’s lying, she knows it, and maybe she knows that he does too. If she’s easily startled, he will be able to read it on her face if she ever grows close enough to Daemon to learn his true nature. “You need to grow a thicker skin if you mean to stay here, girl.” His words are harsh, mocking, but there is true advice underneath it just the same.

Surprise coloured Brienne’s face. Rarely did she meet anyone her height or taller than her, and this man was the latter. Though she had never met him, or even seen him before, the terrible scar on his face gave his identity away. “You’re the one they call the Hound.” 

Brienne pinked immediately, chastising herself for the stupidity of the bald statement. She knew that it made her sound ridiculous rude and dull, and she was enough of those things to people as it was. Her next words no doubt did enough work on that front all on their own.  “I prefer fighting to watching.” Though not in armour, she had dressed for it, leather and linen the same as many man would wear to wield a sword. “My apologies Ser, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Brienne of House Tarth, Lord Selwyn’s s- daughter.” Her hands twisted of their own accord and she fought to not glance away in embarrassment at her near slip of words.

He’s not surprised by her outburst. His reputation partnered with his easily identifiable appearance makes it easy for anyone in the Seven Kingdoms to spot him. The Hound has never wanted fame or glory, only blood. Most assume his scars were garnered on the battlefield, but he’s never said anything about it. Nor will he. If anything, the moniker and the stories attached to it helps keep people away from him, and it helps people fear him. “And what do they call you?” He asks, his voice a low bark.

Sandor’s never heard about someone matching her description, but he’s sure there’s one of her out there. A woman, tall as she is, dressed as she is, and wanting to fight? It’s no common thing, and he knows what it’s like to be no common thing. His face, his loyalty, his fighting, it has always been up for scrutiny.

But he doesn’t care about any of that. What has his face twist is her use of the title Ser in reference to him. “I’m no Ser,” he corrects her without missing a beat. No matter how many times Jaime Lannister or anyone else offers to knight him, he’ll deny them every time. Being a knight is nothing, it means nothing. But she doesn’t strike him as the type to feel similarly, as most aren’t.

              Her eyes only took him in for a moment, long enough to note that he was frowning at her before she cast them down. The man always looked bored or angry, she’d noticed in the moments she’d watched him and the Lannisters. Sometimes it was hard to tell which, though she knew that she’d much rather he look at her with disinterest than anger. His boredom didn’t frighten her. His rasping tone sounded like steel on stone and she wondered for a moment if he’d like to know that. “No, not always,” Her tone is soft, though the indignant inflexion leaked through her polish. Sansa did not know enough about her new home to know how careful her words had to be. They were pretty now. Soon she would have to learn to make them perfect.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” She paused for only a second, unsure how to address him without inciting more irritation before ultimately deciding to move past it all together. She looked down the steps from where she’d come before finally gathering her nerve enough to look him in the eye as she spoke. “The Godswood is empty now.” Surely even angry men must pray. They needed the Gods more than anyone.

He watches her, studying her, and Sandor doesn’t care to ask himself why. The girl had piqued his interest on the day of Jon Arryn’s funeral, and that interest prevents him from walking away like he should. She’s been so dedicated to her courtesy, but he’s caught glimpses what looks like an actual person with a mind of her own come through past her pretty words. Whether he’s right or wrong remains to be seen. “No?” He growls, willing to press her on that. “Is it just me that makes you nervous?” The Little Bird can’t even keep her eyes on him, too afraid or disgusted to see his scars.

A laugh is more than Margaery might have ever expected to hear from the Hound, and she found herself caught off guard by the noise emanating from the towering man. She did her best to not betray herself, though her smile widened some – she took it as a little victory. “Wouldn’t we all,” she agreed with a nod. 

Glancing once more to the high table where members of the royal family remained, Margaery begrudgingly accepted that none would descend to interact with her. “I suppose I should be finding her once more,” she relented. “I assume she’ll want to retire shortly.”

He finds her words misplaced for someone who seems to believe in the Gods, but he makes no mention of it. After bearing his scars and growing as tall as he has, Sandor became used to the way people would twist their words and actions in fear of him. This one doesn’t show her fear on her face, only her false courtesy, but he doesn’t doubt that it’s there.

Kiyana watched as the ladies and lords danced away on the floor of the throne room. Graceful and elegant. She’d never really learned to do something like that, with her life thrown in the opposite direction. Dancing was for silly girls, her mother would say- the woman already knew that reality was tough. There was no space for dreaming of princes and crowns. Her dance was one with the sword, based in skillful footwork and blood. She knew it all too well.

Upon hearing the man’s words, she nodded. It was a change of pace, keeping an eye on the princess. The enemies were much closer knit, whereas in the Sons, they had been strangers. In Westeros, it was brothers, mothers, fathers that were dangerous. How many highborns had been killed by their own? “It’s different, yes.” She thought about it for a second, the gold, the company. “I have a food and roof over my head, though, I can’t complain.” Her necessities were met, it was simple. She wasn’t out in the streets, afraid that death would meet her at every corner.  

Different. Most days he wishes for something different, but he knows he won’t get it. He’s bound here by a dog’s loyalty, and he’s learned that there’s nothing better out there for him. Hells, the fact that this Essosi girl is here proves it for him. Why would she come to Westeros if the Second Sons were better? If anything over there was better? Besides, he can’t leave. Not while his brother still breathes.

She watched with an envious look, from a small distance so as to stay out of sight, not that that was a possibility. Brienne was hardly inconspicuous in any setting, towering above every woman she had ever met, and nearly every man. But she hoped to at least avoid any more direct commentary on her person. The indirect tittering gossip and mocking commentary she’d evoked had been enough.

The practice yard that she had her eye on was filled with a small assortment of men and boys, both trained and training, and she itched to join their number. She had not let much stop her prior to her arrival in King’s Landing, but coming to court was something different, and even Brienne knew that there had to be limits, if only for her father’s sake. The capital was not Tarth nor Storm’s End. It would be even less accepted for her to maintain her usual habits instead of embracing the tasks that all daughters were required at court. Had it not been for Renly’s kindness and the acceptance of her excuses to follow, Brienne would have to have returned to Tarth. Though so far, her attempts to balance duties and wants was a poor blend and she clung to feeble hopes for something that might change the paths laid out for her by virtue of her sex.

She had nearly made up her mind to join those that she watched anyway when she felt the presence of someone else join her. Blushing, Brienne turned to face whoever it was that had caught her and interrupted her thoughts.

A woman near the size of him? The sight is a new one, and Sandor’s brows lower in curiosity. Given his own appearance, he doesn’t care to critique those who are similarly outcast. He came here to fight, should anyone in the yard actually be decent enough to go up against him. He has his doubts, but the Hound has always enjoyed putting knights in their place. All of them think they’re so much better than the rest, but half of them wouldn’t survive a minute on a true battlefield.

He’s never seen her before - he’d remember if he had. Sandor can’t put together if she’s highborn, if she’s only here to watch, or if she wants to try her hand at training with the rest of them. Hells, if she knows how to swing a sword, she’d probably do alright against this lot. The Hound’s fought against most of these men enough times that they won’t do it anymore.

To his question, Margaery simply nodded. She was her Grandmother’s protégé – more than he’d ever know. More than most people would ever know, at that. Behaving as her Grandmother did had its merits, and Olenna had surely succeeded from them. But to have all the wits of her Grandmother, and to wear a sweet smile on top of it – that made a Queen. A Queen who could be loved and adored, far and wide. “It’s a point of contention between her and my Lady Mother,” she answered, offering the white lie. “I try to mind them both.”

“The Stranger is too wary to take her,” Margaery conceded, a small grin accompanying it. “My brother and I have always imagined when such a time does come, she will lay such a curse upon the Seven, so as to make any Septon blush.” 

Sandor nods, both believing and not caring enough to question her answer. If she’s got someone like Olenna Tyrell to guide her through a place like this, maybe it won’t chew her up and spit her out so easily. But the Hound wouldn’t bet on it. He imagines she wants what all the highborn girls want. To marry a prince, become the queen, and live how all the stories and song say they will. It will never work out like that, no matter how hard they all try.

Purple silk skirts pooled around her as Sansa rested on her knee’s, head forwards in prayer. The little Godswood was barren spare her, and silent as the grave. Though she could hear the drifting of sound from all over the capital as she sat still as stone, eyes shut. She prayed for a great many things, few of them holy or righteous. She prayed for the Queen’s attention. For the Prince’s to favour her. For her Uncle to be the best hand there’d ever been. For Arya not to embarrass her in front of Margaery. For her brother to make it home safely. Lastly to be allowed to stay. Kings Landing was all she ever wanted, she told herself over and over. It was like the stories and the songs, Sansa would fare far better here than buried beneath Northern snow. Everybody thought so. If her mother and brother couldn’t see that, her only other option was convincing Eddard.

Getting up, she dusted her knee’s carefully to ensure her gown was spotless before beginning up the winding path back to the Keep. Her hair was in simple twists, the way the Queen had worn hers the night of Jon Arryn’s funeral. Sansa’s thoughts were so far inside her own mind that her attention was anywhere but present, causing her to very nearly miss the step in front of her as she jumped, clearly startled by the on-coming person. Did they seek her or their gods? Likely neither. “My apologies, you startled me.” She breathed apologetically, dipping her head shyly.

It’s not often that he’s dismissed early - so Sandor didn’t stick around any Lannisters long enough for one of them to change their mind. He’s still dressed in his Kingsguard armor, the weight of it hardly noticeable on his shoulders. The only thing he’s got on his mind is food and ale, so he wears an uglier scowl on his face than usual to avoid anyone who might otherwise have the guts to stop him.

What he doesn’t account for is nearly running into the Little Bird, who jumps out of her skin. He eyes her curiously, but only comes up with a frown. Not because it’s her that he’s run into, but because of the way she’s already styled her hair to mimic the queen. Does the girl want to be a Southern lady so badly, stuck in King’s Landing to be prey for the rest of them?

Daenerys did not think she ever got a chance to thank Sir Clegance for what he did for her that night when Viserys came to her room. The hair on the back of her neck stood up just by the thought of that night alone. If Sandor had not been there, Daenerys’ body would sustain more than just bruises and fingernail wounds. She did not even look at the man as he pulled her older brother out of the room. Daenerys fled that night and this might have been their first encounter in five years. She was almost tempted to ask how he had been but she knew the knight detested those frivolous questions.

“My lord husband deserves to meet his in-laws, don’t you think?” Daenerys faked an answer there and then. “Besides, my mother still sees me as a babe at her breast sometimes. Wouldn’t it be cruel if I were to deprive my mother of such warmth of a daughter?”

He watches her with low brows and hard eyes. First instinct tells him not to believe her, and how five years suddenly doesn’t seem like such a long time ago. “A dog can smell a lie. Remember?” His voice is low, but not angry. Sandor’s sure that he’s said those words to her before, back when she would lie to him and tell him she was doing fine. Just another little girl saying what is expected of her.

“Court is new, the work not as much…” The day her mother died, she had to make a choice: survive or have the same fate. A nine year old Kiyana turned to the streets for answers, until she was found by Jaqen H'ghar and taken under the wing of House Black and White. At the mere age of fourteen, she was being sought after for her skills. The news of the child mercenary spread fast, with many doubting that someone so young could be so deadly. She adapted because she had to, and that will to survive made her one of the best Essosi fighters. “I joined the Second Sons when I was fifteen, but somehow life led me here.”

Kiyana smiled lightly, she did seem like an unlikely candidate based off of her appearance. She was small, five foot six, and thin. She was a woman. Yet here she was, guarding a Princess. It didn’t add up to many people if they didn’t know her background… or her ledger count. The ink that swirled up her arm was more than just art, it accounted for any lives she’d taken. The black covered the scars she’d gotten on her first job, reminders of how easy it was to make a mistake. “It seems that rumors spread, one eventually reached the King’s ear.” She was humble, never someone to divert attention to herself or her accomplishments. Boasting never made friends. Her reputation came from hard work, and a almost clinical like application.

He gives a single nod of his head, recalling back to what he’s heard of the Second Sons. Briefly, Sandor wonders how he would have turned out should he have been born in Essos, but the thoughts vanish just as quickly. Ultimately, none of it matters. Why, how, when something happened, or if it didn’t. It’s why he doesn’t pry further into how she ended up here or if she likes it better.

Although the last thing Alysandra wanted to be was courteous, she knew that she had to be. She nodded in agreement. “I suppose you are right.” Alysandra’s eyes fell off of his for a moment as she scanned the area for a servant. “I would have no doubt. The knights here are most valiant.” She wondered if he knew the honey coated words out of her mouth were truly just conversational words to get herself through the day.

His laugh is dry, short, and humorless. The knights here are most valiant. That’s a joke if he’s ever heard one. He could count on one hand the men in King’s Landing who were truly brave. Not stupid, but brave. “Spare yourself, girl,” he finally barks.

It was easy to pinpoint the guards in the area. Most of them were twiddling their thumbs, skilled in killing and no socializing. They were like children, dragged to events by their parents, restless with energy. Some grew annoyed with the wait, the others were close to falling asleep from boredom. “Such duty is dull, but it is duty nonetheless.” Money lined her pockets while she simply watched, Kiyana could not complain.

So they served the same household. Although her loyalty mostly laid with the Targaryens, she did interim occasionally run into a Lannister duty. The golden haired children and the queen weren’t people that she knew very well. The Queen in particular she couldn’t pinpoint, but the smirk that consistently sat on her lips didn’t send Kiyana the message that she was the kindest soul. It was curious that it took her this long to have a face to face conversation with the man, their circles were very much intertwined. It seemed the two shadows didn’t go out of their way to do so. “ My service is new, I recently left the Golden Company to retrieve the Princess from Driftmark.” She didn’t boast of her titles, humility was ingrained in her from her teachings at House Black and White.

King Rhaegar had gone out of his way to terminate her long term contract, something that rarely ever happened in the company. The threat, apparently to his sister, was worth the gold he’d spent to get Kiyana to cross the narrow sea. Something told her that the man had been here much longer, he’d seen the truer nature of the Targaryens and Lannisters. Such as details over Daenerys’s exile, or the family dynamics seen behind closed doors.

“That mean this is new for you, or old?” She looks too young to have been doing this for that long, but he doesn’t hazard any guesses. Most people who know how to kill, and who want to do it, end up in the same places. They either kill for gold and for powerful houses, or they turn to pillaging and thieving. He was too young to know what he was doing when Tywin Lannister recruited him, but it likely worked out the best it could have for him. Sandor might have been dead long ago at the hands of his brother if he hadn’t joined House Lannister.

Margaery wouldn’t pretend to understand the way the man’s mind worked, or why he’d chosen to save Loras’ life, rather than let him suffer the ultimate consequence for his bit of trickery. His brother in all likelihood had something to do with it – the man called the Mountain was fearsome in his own right, perhaps more so than the Hound. “If it pleases you,” she replied, offering a simple shrug. 

To his comment on Olenna, Margaery wore a slow-growing smirk. Her Grandmother would like to hear that bit, she was sure. “I try to emulate her as I can,” Margaery mused. “There are many people who are a bit…frightened of my Lady Grandmother. People dislike what they do not understand.” Nobody disliked someone who was eternally sweet and kind, nor did they dislike someone who could wear naïveté well. 

“Do you?” If that’s the case, he’s not sure how well she’s doing. Then again, he doesn’t know what she’s trying to emulate. Not her grandmother’s nature, that’s for sure. Both of the Tyrell’s thanked him for what he did for Loras - but both in very separate ways. “Ought to try less of those pretty words, then.” Olenna Tyrell doesn’t spare any of those, and it makes her more tolerable to listen to.

Kiyana was stilled getting used to the surprise she heard in people’s voices at the mention of house Targaryen. The name held more weight than she’d been aware of. In Essos, she’d heard a tale or two of Old Valyria. Certain phrases and ideas held by House White and Black had been in the ancient tongue. But the house itself? She knew more about the ancestors than the current silver haired rules- that was until she arrived in Westeros. Here, they were the spitting image of power to the governed.

“Yes, the princess.” Kiyana confirmed. She’d been something of a shadow to Daenerys, usually not far behind the train of her dress. Despite there being many skilled warriors to eager to protect her, Kiyana had been appointed by the King. Her reputation often outshined her reserved nature, her size giving little to no indication of her skill. “And yourself? You aren’t here for the festivities either?”

“Not by choice,” he admits. It’s got to be obvious, considering his foul mood. He’d much rather be anywhere else, but here he remains, a shadow in the corner of the keep. He has eyes over Daemon and a few other Lannisters, all of them socializing and playing their parts. If anything, he can be thankful that the boy isn’t lingering nearby. He’s tired of listening to him.