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vampirepirates · 2 months ago

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THE LONG WINTER — SANDOR CLEGANE.

Masterlist:

author's note + cast list

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

CHAPTER ELEVEN – THE NIGHT LANDS.

if i get too close, and i'm not how you hoped,

forgive my nothern attitude. oh, i was

raised out in the cold.

"The boar's great tusks, they boded ill for good King Robert's health. And the beast was every bit as fat as Robert was himself. But our brave king cried 'Do your worst! I'll have your ugly head. You're nowhere near as murderous as the lion in my bed.' King Robert lost his battle, and he failed his final test. The lion ripped his balls off and the boar did all the rest."

Slow claps echoed through the room as King Joffrey beamed. Sansa did not do so much as bristle at Lyarra's side, causing her to reach out and grasp her hand. She squeezed once, before turning her gaze back to the scene. Sandor stood just behind the throne, adorned in the armor of a Kingsguard. It was almost unsettling to see him in something other than his normal suit of chain.

"Very amusing! Isn't it a funny song?" Joffrey asked the room, still grinning from ear to ear. He carried on for only a minute longer, before the bard stood to apologize. "Tell me, which do you favor? Your fingers or your tongue?"

Sansa gaped at the question, turning to Lyarra in horror. She only shook her head, squeezing her hand once more — though, whether the action was more comforting to her or Sansa she was not certain.

"Every man needs hands, Your Grace."

"Good! Tongue it is."

Ser Ilyn Payne, the same man who took her brother's head, approached from the shadows then. Sansa moved to turn away, but Lyarra only grasped onto her shoulders — keeping her facing forward. If Joffrey noticed her turning from him, it would likely further enrage him. Instead, the two watched as the bard's tongue was sliced off, thrown into the flames like a piece of kindling. Joffrey stood then, removing his crown and handing it off to Sandor.

Before she could collect herself, he — alongside Sandor and Meryn Trant, made their way to the pair.

"You look quite nice," He stated in greeting, carefully ignoring Lyarra's stare. Sansa, with bloodshot eyes covered by thick bags only nodded.

"Thank you, My Lord."

"Your Grace. I'm King now."

With a sharp glare, Joffrey walked ahead — meeting Lyarra's eyes for only a moment. He bid the pair to follow him. Sandor stopped in front of Sansa, keeping his gaze trained on Lyarra.

"Do as you're bid, child." He snapped, though his voice held no true venom. Sansa shook in Lyarra's arms, as the two followed after him. Joffrey was eerily silent until they reached their destination, a fact that had her pulse jumping each second. Once they'd turned a corner, Lyarra was met with not only blinding sunlight — but the sight of numerous decapitated heads. Instinctually she shot forward — covering her niece's eyes as the girl began to cry.

"Your Grace," Lyarra started, but was silenced just as quickly by a dangerous glare.

"Let her look. Let her see what happens to traitors," He bit, wobbling on his feet when Lyarra made no move to heed his word. She felt someone grip her shoulders harshly, the pain flooding through her at once. She knew instantly that it wasn't Sandor's touch.

"You promised to be merciful," Sansa cried, still buried in her aunt's arms. Ser Meryn pressed his fingers into the blade of her shoulder at that moment, and it took everything in Lyarra to not cry out.

"I was. I gave him a clean death." Joffrey stated, glancing back to his work. Lyarra carefully avoided the sight of her brother, instead training her gaze on the King. He raised his head once more, growing evidently impatient at their lack of cooperation. "I said, let her look."

"Your Grace, please. We won't be any trouble. We won't commit any act of treason. Just let her go home."

"Mother says I'm still to marry her, so she'll stay here and obey. And you," He paused, looking down her figure. "Well, you're too old for a husband, aren't you? A pitiful thing. Maybe you'll be the next head in my collection."

Sansa's head snapped up then as she pushed out of Lyarra's grasp, tears now raining down her cheeks. She wearily obeyed his command, pulling her gaze to the sight of her father's head. Lyarra swallowed before doing the same, Meryn Trant's fingers still pressing into her skin. She did her best not to stumble backwards at the sight, but she did look away just as quickly. Sansa, however, did not once blink — nor tear her gaze away.

"How long do I have to look?" The girl questioned, and Lyarra felt her heart stalling.

"As long as it pleases me." Joffrey almost seemed to gape at her resignation as Sansa once again agreed. He began pointing to the various heads. Septa Mordane, Jory. Every member of their house, one after the other. Lyarra wasn't certain how long the boy trailed on — rather, she couldn't keep her eyes from her niece. Sansa's stare was no longer one of fear, but hate. Lyarra felt herself growing both increasingly concerned — and proud all at once. Sansa was not made for this life. She deserved to be a lady — to dream of better days, to eat lemoncakes with her friends as they discussed Knights. Before this, if there was one person she had not been expecting to acclimate so quickly — it was Sansa.

"I tell you what, I'll give you both a present. After I raise my armies and kill your traitorous family, I'm going to give you each of their heads as well."

"Or maybe they'll give us yours." Sansa retorted, never once pulling her stare from the heads. Lyarra gaped, moving quickly to defend her niece as the King bristled.

"Forgive her, Your Grace, traitor or not — her father was killed before her own eyes. It's not an easy thing to accept," Lyarra attempted, but Joffrey's eyes only grew more vengeful by the minute. He furrowed his brow, stepping backwards to brush his robe.

"My mother tells me a king should never strike his lady. Ser Meryn," At once, he took his hands off of Lyarra — twisting Sansa to him. He struck her before she could do so much as blink, twice across her face until blood was dribbling down her lip. As he moved to settle himself once more, an idea seemed to come to the King's mind. "Her bitch of an aunt, too. Show her what happens when you disgrace a king."

Just as quickly, he was at her side. With two fists to the gut, and one slap across her cheek — Lyarra forced herself to stand upright. Ser Meryn, seemingly content with his work, stepped back to Sandor's side. She found herself carefully avoiding his eye, instead clutching her stomach as she turned back to Sansa. Sansa was approaching the king steadily, and she realized with horror what her niece was intending to do. In only a step, she'd be close enough to push Joffrey to his death. They'd be killed just after the boy fell, but the realm would be safe from Joffrey Baratheon's reign. Before she could get close enough, Sandor dashed forward — twisting Sansa to him as he wiped her lip with a handkerchief.

Sandor Clegane was becoming increasingly gentle with the Stark girls, it seemed. She found warmth struggling to bleed into her heart, as she only clutched tighter to her stomach.

"I do hope you'll obey now. The next time you step out of line, it's her head," Joffrey pointed to Lyarra, nodding with emphasis. She did not do so much as stumble, but never once pulled her eyes from the king. "that you'll see on a spike." He stepped away then, promising to look for Sansa in court. Ser Meryn followed suit, never once looking back at the pair. Sandor glanced at the retreating form of the King before turning back to Lyarra and Sansa.

He reached to take the handkerchief from Sansa's grip in an almost delicate manner, gripping Lyarra's chin in his hands just as he had before. All the while, he never broke her stare — his eyes carrying a message with more weight than she knew how to decipher. He ran the cloth over her lip, and Lyarra had to force herself not to lean into the touch. Sandor had been kind to her the past few days. More than he needed to be. Now was not a good time to think only of that, and not of the fact that he was still Joffrey Baratheon's dog.

He glanced down to the hand clutching her stomach, his gaze carrying a question — but she only waved him off, straightening herself to the best of her ability.

"Save yourself some pain, girl. Give him what he wants." He directed to Sansa, who only blinked. Sandor reached to grab Lyarra's hand, placing the handkerchief in it and closing her fingers around it. He held onto her for only a moment longer before pulling away, following after the king.

Once Lyarra was certain they were alone, she shot forward — pulling Sansa to her. As the girl began to weep in her arms, she placed her chin on the top of her head. It was then, that she properly took in the sight of her brother. Eddard Stark's eyes held none of his usual warmth, nor his knowing mirth. He was pale, empty. His mouth gaping with dried blood coating his cheeks.

All things considered, Lyarra was not certain how much longer she would survive in King's Landing without him at her side.

Each night after that Lyarra either snuck out to Petyr's brothel just after night fell, or she slept in Sansa's chambers. Some nights Aianna would stay up with her, if only to placate her in the slightest. Those nights, Lyarra refused to speak about herself. She only wanted to know more about Aianna. Each time, it was a struggle to get more than a few words out of her. Even still, she was just grateful to have one wholly good person in her life still. More than once she accompanied her to Sansa's chambers, only leaving once the two settled for sleep.

The nights that she spent in the brothel were more often than not consistent of her sitting in Petyr's study while he worked. His presence alone should have been comforting. All her life she longed to be back at his side, and thought as long as she had her closest friend with her — everything would be alright. Only, now, she felt a wave of tension bleed through her at the sight of him. She was waiting for the second shoe to drop, for something to hit her. Something that never seemed to happen.

One of the girls under his employment, Ros, had taken to sitting with her throughout the night. She'd seen the girl before, back in Winterfell. More than once, she had been at Theon's side — though, that was not something altogether surprising. The thought of the Greyjoy boy gave her pause. Lyarra could only wonder where he'd ended up. No doubt, he wouldn't leave Robb's side for anything. The two had been close for years. Closer than brothers.

Ros was witty, and easy to keep up with. Her charms were numerous. Once, Petyr seemed to marvel at the sight of them together — entering the room with, 'Ah, now there are my two favorite girls.' She was gladdened at once to have the girl in King's Landing. At the very least, she had another ally.

Petyr had offered her a room more than once, claiming that she could stay for as long as she liked. One night, when he was escorting her to the room — she could no longer hold back her tears. A dam broke, and at once she was all but sobbing in his embrace. His touch wasn't delicate, but it was caring. She could feel Petyr's love, and yet the lack of warmth was noticeable. She wanted to burrow further into his chest, to become one with him until she could feel him as well as she felt herself. Lyarra felt as if she could understand Petyr better than anyone she'd ever met, and yet she couldn't decipher his feelings for her. Some nights he would stare at her as if she'd hung the stars, as if he couldn't help but marvel at his own love for her. Other nights, she was almost a stranger to him. As if they were nothing more than good friends.

In a way, it was a polarizing difference from what she had come to expect from him. Lyarra had never felt such love for anyone else as she did for him. It was muddled within the word, the true meaning cracking in viridescent flickers. Was it love? Undoubtably. But was it romantic? Therein lied the question. There was a time that she wanted to be Petyr's wife. That if she needed to marry a man, she would will it to be him. Now, the thought of his hands on her made her sick — made her gut twist in discomfort.

Lyarra had no reason to distrust the man. Not after all he had done for her. And yet, something in her told her to think better of his advances. A voice, almost reminiscent of Varys, reminded her that no one was to be trusted. Not even the ones she loved most.

On the morning of King Joffrey's nameday, the sound of horns echoed so fiercely that Lyarra fell right out of her bed. The entire kingdom seemed prepared to celebrate the occasion. She and Sansa were to accompany the royal family to the festivities. Sansa would sit at Joffrey's side, as expected considering she was his bride-to-be, while Lyarra sat only a few feet away to her left. Sandor was the first to take part in the king's jousting tournament — adorned with his hound shaped helm.

As quickly as he raised his weapon, the fight was over. His opponent was thrown over the side of the platform they'd been fighting on, leaving Sandor standing tall — raising a shield with the Clegane sigil.

"Well struck. Well struck, dog!" Joffrey cheered, clapping with glee at the open carnage. Lyarra felt her stomach flip, but she couldn't help the slight wave of relief that bled through her at the victory. She knew better than to doubt him, but it wracked her nerves nonetheless. "Did you like that?" The king questioned, tilting his head in the direction of the fallen corpse. Sansa nodded at once.

"It was well struck, Your Grace."

"I already said it was well struck."

"Yes, Your Grace."

At once, another joust was prepared — the body of the fallen man being dragged away, leaving a trail of blood. Two men were announced, but only one came running out. After a moment of silence stretched through the area, a man came running down the steps — clumsily wobbling on his feet. The king quickly questioned if he was drunk, to which the man — Dontos, replied that he'd only had two cups of wine.

"Two cups? That's not much at all. Please, have another cup."

"Are you sure, Your Grace?"

"Yes. To celebrate my name day. Have two. Have as much as you like."

Ser Dontos seemed to beam at the notion, bowing his head in recognition. Lyarra hardly noticed Sandor approaching to stand at her left, only coming to realize it once he was blocking her direct line of sight.

"Ser Meryn, help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day. See that he drinks his fill."

Meryn Trant stalked over to the man, grabbing him with ease as he lowered him to the ground. Just as quickly Dontos' smile appeared, it vanished. Instead, the man was oozing with terror. They intended to pour wine down his throat, no doubt until he choked on it.

"You can't," Sansa exclaimed, causing Lyarra to curse under her breath.

"What did you say? Did you say I can't?"

"She only meant," Lyarra interrupted, leaning forward to place a hand on Sansa's shoulder — "it would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day."

"What kind of stupid peasant superstition—" Joffrey started, but was quickly cut off by a gruff voice from behind the group.

"She's right. What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year." Sandor chimed in, nodding in agreement. Lyarra fought against her better judgement to shoot him a grateful smile, instead only meeting his eyes with what she could only hope was a strong enough glance to convey her message.

Joffrey sighed before resigning himself in agreement, waving for the man to be brought to the dungeons. Sansa, however, was not pleased — and continued to argue in Ser Dontos' favor.

"He is a fool, you're so clever to see it. He'll make a much better fool than a knight. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death." Her words seemed to give the king pause, as he rubbed the tips of his fingers together contemplatively. Anyone could see that the boy was no idiot. He was vindictive, but he thought of his actions before he went through with them.

"Did you hear my lady, Ser Dontos? From this day, you'll be my new fool."

Ser Dontos was carried away by the crook of his elbows then, his feet dragging across the stone. Lyarra sat back with a resounding, but silent sigh. For only a moment she allowed herself to meet Sandor's gaze, the two sharing a message with only their eyes alone. Sansa was becoming increasingly good at wrangling the king's fury into something manageable. With Sandor coming to her aid, there was a chance that they could make it through the lion's den almost unscathed.

"My beloved nephew!" A voice called, and at once Lyarra sat straight — both hope and confusion bleeding through her. Tyrion Lannister came marching through the crowd, adorned with Lannister armor — with a man that Lyarra did not recognize in tow. Half a dozen thoughts flew through her mind at once. The last she saw Tyrion, he was an ally — a friend, even. The two drank their sorrows away together. She defended him to her brother and his wife more than once, just before Lady Catelyn had taken him captive. Not only that, but he was the last man to see her son with his own eyes. His presence would either prove to be a gift from the gods, or yet another blight on her life.

Tyrion took his time greeting each of the members of his family, even going on to say that Joffrey's little brother — Tommen — would grow to be bigger than The Hound, as well as more attractive. Sandor grumbled behind her, causing Tyrion to cackle as he pointed out that Sandor didn't care for him to the man at his side. Once he passed the king, he came to a stop in front of Sansa.

"My lady, I'm sorry for your loss." He bowed his head once, before turning to Lyarra herself. She could hardly control the wild grin that pulled across her lips, one that Tyrion met in equal ferocity. His gaze carried the same solemn weight that they had only moments prior when addressing her niece, but Tyrion seemed almost gladdened at her presence. He moved to grab her hand in his, leaning down to place a kiss on the backside of her palm. Lyarra scoffed at the motion, pulling her hand from his grasp.

"Lyarra Stark," He started, looking over her with a consistent grin. "A lovely sight, as always. I am sorry for your loss as well. Though, I can't say I am not happy to see you." Lyarra moved to retort with a quip, before she was cut off by the king's venom.

"Her loss? Her brother," He argued, pointing then to Sansa, "her father was a confessed traitor!"

"But still family. Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father, you can sympathize," Tyrion hissed, leaning back to look down at his nephew scornfully. Joffrey turned expectantly to Sansa, before she blinked in understanding. He expected her to argue, to disgrace her own father. Lyarra had only just opened her mouth to intervene, before the girl spoke up.

"My father was a traitor. My mother and brother were traitors, too. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey," Sansa claimed, her voice never once wavering. Joffrey turned then to Lyarra, seemingly expecting the same from her, before Tyrion chimed in once more.

"Of course you are. I see the point. Enjoy your name day, Your Grace. I wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done."

With that, Tyrion shot one more amused look in Lyarra's direction, before marching off towards the keep, the same unknown man at his side.

"What work?" The king called, his voice reminiscent of a petulant child, "Why are you here?"

Another fit of sobs wracked through Ros, as Lyarra leaned to bring the girl to her chest. Only nights prior, the city watch ransacked the town — killing children, infants, everyone they deemed fit. Rumors spiraled that they were hunting the 'supposed bastards' of Robert Baratheon. A rumor that was admittedly confirmed in Lyarra's eyes once they'd slain the same babe that she swore she'd protect. Ros wasn't handling her grief well, a fact that she couldn't blame her for. Had she seen the babe slain before her own eyes, she would be in shambles as well.

Petyr eventually stalked into the room, sitting at their side as gently as he could manage. Ros pulled away from Lyarra's embrace, sniffling as she rubbed her eyes to meet his stare.

"I'm sorry, my lord," She whispered, pulling her knees up. Lyarra rubbed her back soothingly, before thinking at once that she shouldn't be present for their conversation. As she moved to stand, Ros clutched her wrist — her gaze almost pleading. After a moment of observing their interaction, Petyr began to question the girl — in a tone that almost bordered on caring.

"It's Mhaegen," She admitted, giving the man pause. The fact that he was unsure of the names of the women under his employment was not surprising, but it had her gut churning all the same. "She works for you. The gold cloaks, they killed her baby."

"Ah, yes. That was poorly handled. Sometimes those with the most power have the least grace."

Ros took a breath, before bursting into another fit of tears. Lyarra reached out at once to lean the girl's head against her body, brushing her hand through her strings of red hair.

"I can't stop thinking about it. I can't sleep. That poor little baby."

"You know, you remind me of another girl," Petyr started, as he leaned his head against her shoulder. The touch alone caused Lyarra's nerves to spike. "A lovely thing I once acquired from a Lysene pleasure house. Beautiful, like yourself. And intelligent, like yourself. But she wasn't happy. She cried often. I asked her why but we didn't have the kind of rapport that you and I have. Yes, it was quite sad. Girls from the Lysene pleasure houses are expensive. Extremely expensive. And this one wasn't making me any money. I hate bad investments. Really, I do. They haunt me. And I had no idea how to make her happy. And no idea how to mitigate my losses. A very wealthy patron, he offered me a tremendous amount of money to let him transform this lovely sad girl, to use her in ways that would never occur to most men. And you know what occurs to most men. I would not say he succeeded in making her happy, but my losses were definitely mitigated."

Petyr pulled back, standing to move in front of Ros' direct line of sight. All the while, he avoided Lyarra's dangerous glare. "Take tonight off to mourn Mhaegen's child. Get a drink with Lyarra. Collect yourself. I'll see you tomorrow. And you'll be happy?"

Ros nodded at once, a sickening smile curling from her lips. Her eyes held no warmth, no semblance of peace. Petyr left only a moment after, taking careful precision to not meet Lyarra's stare even once. None of it had been overly surprising, by any means. She was becoming increasingly aware of what Petyr Baelish was capable of. That he was no longer the boy she knew. Ros sniffled once, before collapsing into Lyarra's side. The two sat together until the sun began to peek over the city, and even then she only brushed the girl's hair back with a soft touch. It would seem that nothing was certain in King's Landing.

"The King himself made me a lord!"

Lannister guards tugged a screaming man out of the room by his arms, brushing past Lyarra with not so much as a sideways glance. She paused for only a moment, taking in the sight with a titled head before a voice called for her.

"Ah, Lady Lyarra! Do come in, please." Tyrion exclaimed, raising a cup of wine in her direction. She casted another longing glance in the direction of her quarters, which were only just out of sight, before resigning herself to entering the room. At Tyrion's side sat the same man from before, with a hairline receding back to the tip of his head. Even still, she couldn't deny that there was something charming about the way his eyes twinkled in regard.

"We," Tyrion started, tilting his head in the direction of the man, "are drinking to the new commander of the City Watch. Come, join us." Lyarra nodded at once, pulling back one of the wooden chairs with ease. A small, almost pudgy man with raven black hair half-sprinted to her side, quickly pouring her another cup of wine. She raised her cup in celebration, before pausing in thought.

"Ah, of course," Tyrion stated, standing in his seat, "Lady Lyarra Stark, meet Bronn." She raised her brow imploringly, to which the man only smiled. He was just Bronn, then. Simple enough. "Bronn, the Lady Lyarra Stark."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady." Bronn bowed in the slightest, before turning his direction to Tyrion. It was almost comforting to not be fawned over for once. To be addressed as she was, and not as some pitiful damsel.

Tyrion's presence had been a gift from the gods, she came to think. For once, the hours of the night flew by in a wave. Laughter bubbled from her throat with ease, with wine quick to meet it. Not once did they mention her family — her brother, none of them. Guilt threatened to flood through her at the thought that she was grateful for such a thing, but she swallowed it down all the same.

"How is it, that a man from nowhere — with no titles, no high standing, comes to be commander of the City Watch?" She questioned after another fit of giggles passed through her. Bronn paused, seemingly in thought himself.

"Must just be my luck," He shrugged, scowling as Tyrion snorted at his response.

"I've paid him well," Tyrion added as an explanation, swirling his cup in his hand, "I told him once that I'd pay him double what any other man would, and he listened. He's been my loyal protector since. And, as you well know, a Lannister always pays his debts."

"There's not a lot a man won't do for a bit of coin," Bronn stated, causing Lyarra to sit back in thought. Tyrion titled his head, taking in the words with the same level of confusion.

"You do know that makes you sound like a whore, don't you?"

"For the right price, I'd drop to my knees right here and now."

The remainder of the night passed before Lyarra could properly realize. Tyrion bid her farewell, asking that Bronn accompany her to her chambers. For a moment she attempted to wave him off, claiming that she could get there just fine on her own — before the wobble of her step became more pronounced. She scowled at once, as the man took her arm to guide her. He was uncharacteristically quiet for most of the trip, only sharing a few mocking quips each time she stumbled.

Just as she moved to enter her room, she took notice of the shadow in the corner of the hall once again. Only this time, the sight didn't feel foreboding. Almost comforting, rather. Sandor was always there, whether she willed him to be or no. That night, she wasn't haunted by the thought of him standing before her. Instead, warmth blossomed through her. She almost felt safe, for once.

Well. Hey guys. I feel like nothing major really happened here, but sometimes that's just life. We finally got to Tyrion's big role in the fic. This all honestly started because I wanted to write a character into Tyrion, Pod, and Bronn's little friend group. They're so obnoxious I want in.

But, we did get some pretty big developments in Petyr and Lyarra's relationship. She's growing increasingly confused as to where she should stand with him. What are his true motives, what does he want? Ros is definitely going to play a big role in all of this, just saying.

As always if you have any thoughts, feel free to comment below. And I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Thank you,

Zevran.

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