Chapter Text
The keep reeked of stale magic, old as time. From the corners of the dark hallways, Sandor could sense the gaze of lingering damned souls. They bore him no danger, being as weak as they were; even weaker than the light from the lantern held by lord Bolton’s steward. When the light touched them, they screamed in silence and retreated, then bared their teeth and showed their claws from the shadows.
Sandor didn’t know if the steward saw the wretched creatures. If he did, he showed no sign of it. Calmly, he was guiding Sandor through the never-ending hallways. They passed by moth-eaten curtains, blood red columns carved like flayed people, and portraits. A shitload of them. Highborn bastards with soulless marble skin unbothered by the sun and unblemished, unworked, pretty hands, covered in rich red and pink velvets. The faces changed, but one thing stayed the same. The eyes; colorless, like two chips of dirty ice.
He was brought to a cold cavernous hall. No sunlight penetrated the dark heavy curtains and the furniture looked as if it’s been there for decades. A thick layer of dust covered everything and thin wisps of spiderwebs danced slowly to the wind coming from the hallway. The steward turned to him.
“His lordship will meet you here soon. Please wait.”
After that, he was gone, walking on silent feet. The dark swallowed Sandor once more. He shifted his weight on his legs. He hated this place. It smelled like grave and fouler things. He couldn’t dwell on it much, though, since another door opened and his buggering lordship walked in.
He looked every inch a rich cunt, clad in the signature red and pink of his house. His long cloak touched the ground and dragged behind. It was made of fur; black and grey and brown wolfskins sewn neatly together. On his shoulder, a huge ugly wolf’s head was sewn; amber eyes shining, caught in an eternal snarl.
When he was close enough, Sandor could see his face better in the dark. He could pass himself for an ordinary man if it weren’t for his eyes. He raised a pale hand. The candles were lit one by one and the braziers erupted in fire. Bloody buggering hells. Sandor could feel the fear bubbling in his stomach, the oldest fear; fire. Yet he schooled his features. The lord’s eyes were watching him, searching, probing. He wouldn’t let the bastard in. The last thing he needed was the creepy fucker to read his mind. Steeling himself, he rasped, “You asked for me and I’m here. What’s your business?”
“I apologize on behalf of my steward. He shouldn’t have left you in this cold dreary hall all by yourself,” said the lord. His voice was so hushed that it barely reached Sandor’s ears and too late, he found out that he had taken a step towards him to hear him better. “Fuck if I care. I’m used to darkness,” he said.
“I assume you’ve heard some rumors about why I’ve summoned you,” he said, his icy eyes intent on Sandor.
“Heard some talk in the village,” he explained, “They say there’s a monster in the woods. And that the lord has dispatched his knights to take care of it, but most of them never returned.”
“That much is true. Please follow me,” he said and walked to a huge mahogany table nearby. There was a detailed map laid there, painted on a piece of leather that looked suspiciously like human skin. Lord Bolton stood by the table and pointed to a few places on the map.
“It is a werewolf. A vicious beast, as big as a great destrier. It has only ever attacked at night, tearing knights and soldiers and horses into shreds. We’ve set many traps, but it possesses a certain low cunning and has escaped capture so far.”
“I had heard the northern shapeshifters were hunted to the very last,” said Sandor.
“So we thought,” said the lord, his fingers lightly tracing the lines on his fur cloak, “There was no sign of them for years, until a few months ago.”
“Then this thing, it’s the last of its kind? No new infections in the area?”
Lord Bolton nodded, his eyes shining dully. “Some of the victims were left alive, suffering severe wounds. We wondered if they would turn, but none survived.”
He didn’t expect any less. Werewolf bite was fatal. It killed nearly all the victims and even if it didn’t, Sandor could bet his dragonskin boots that lord Bolton would personally slit any new werewolf’s throat. He looked at the points on the map, scratching the stubble on his face.
“So, would you accept the job?” asked lord Bolton.
“Aye, for the right price.”
“And how much is that?”
“A hundred thousand dragons.”
Lord Bolton stared at him, then extended his hand towards him. “Deal,” he said in his hushed voice.
“Deal,” Sandor rasped and shook his hand. It was cold as ice, making his skin crawl. He let go of the hand and took a step back.
“I told you I would find and kill that damned wolf!” someone shouted from the hall’s entrance. Sandor and lord Bolton both turned to see who had interrupted them.
It was a seething young man. He had the same eyes as the lord, but his lips were plump and red, like two worms fucking. He stormed towards them. It all happened in a blink of an eye. Sandor watched lord Bolton pounce towards the newcomer in a blur and pin him to a nearby wall with sharp claws.
“How you dare question my judgement?” the lord asked.
The man who didn’t lack stupidity or maybe some kind of suicidal courage, glared at lord Bolton. “I was the one who found the den. I was the ones who killed the pups!”
“Maybe that’s all you’re good for. I gave you chance after chance to kill this wolf and you failed every time.”
“Just one more week. I swear, father…”
Lord Bolton cracked the back of his hand against his son’s face so hard the sound echoed in the room. For a few seconds, there was silence. Then the young man raised a hand to his face and said, “My lord, I can hunt down that wolf. I know the woods better than this stranger.”
“You had your chance, Ramsay, and you lost it,” said the lord, taking a step back and turning to Sandor. “A moon’s turn. If you want your golden dragons, you better be here with the wolf’s skin by then,” he told him, lower than a whisper, yet Sandor heard it all the same.
“Aye,” he said, walking to the door. Until the wooden doors were closed shut behind him, Ramsay’s hateful eyes never left him.
***
Snow clad trees watched as Sandor and Stranger found their way in the snow. The woods were quiet but not empty, never empty. These dense Northern woods were filled by old spirits and vicious creatures; Woodswitches, Nymphs, Faes, Giants, Ice Spiders, Centaurs, Ghouls, Grumkins and Snarks. In the North, where old magic ran strong, even the trees had eyes. Sandor could feel their unwelcome gaze on himself, yet he didn't care. They could come at him with all their might, and until he had his sword in his hand, there was no creature on earth he needed fear.
He stopped Stranger by a stream and let the horse drink his fill. the stream ran merrily around Stranger's feet, but the horse was unbothered by the cold. He lowered his massive head and lapped up the water. Some crows were making a ruckus in a nearby tree, breaking the heavy silence. He watched them with a frown and that was when he heard someone singing. Loud and clear, sweet as honeyed wine. He wondered who would be bold enough to walk around in an enchanted forest and sing like that. He’d find out soon enough. He tugged at Stranger’s reins. The horse turned his head and started walking with an annoyed snort.
The song resonated among the woods. Sandor chased it, guiding Stranger on the ground he deemed less tricky. The woods were too dense. He picked up a machete and cut off the hindering vegetation, cursing under his breath. His path brought him to an overgrown narrow path and there he found the singer.
It was a young girl in a red traveling cloak, walking among the trees, singing aloud and occasionally talking to herself. Stranger hit a tree trunk just then and the frozen snow fell from the branches with a loud thud. The girl heard it and turned to her abruptly, alarmed. Fuck but she was pretty. Her eyes were like two bottomless clear-blue pools, giving him a sudden thirst, along with a set of rosy plump lips. She had braided her long fiery hair. The braids sprouted out from her red hood and rested on her perky teats. Most of her was hidden under her cloak, with only her leather boots peeking out. Sandor wondered if she was someone, or something magical. He’d be able to tell if the air wasn’t filled with magic. It had done strange things to his senses. If he wanted to know, he had to get very close, like, sniffing her sweat on her neck close and that would be a little dangerous, even for someone like him.
"Oh I'm sorry, ser knight, if I've disturbed your peace," the girl chirped politely.
"I'm no fucking ser," he rasped, letting go of Stranger's reins and jumping off the horse. His armor clicked and clanked when his boots reached the ground. He walked to the girl, considering her through the visor of his helm.
"Beg your pardon. I thought you were one of..."
Her voice trailed off when Sandor lifted his visor, her eyes going wide upon beholding his gruesome scars. Sandor was overwhelmed with an urge to smash her porcelain face with his gauntlet. She was staring at him, frozen, like a rabbit gazing at a wolf, but then she schooled herself and said, "I thought you were one of lord Bolton's knights."
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.
"My grandmother lives in the woods, I was..."
"There's a werewolf prowling around and you're walking in the bloody woods all by yourself? How fucking dumb are you?"
She pouted, stealing her gaze. "She's sick. I can't leave her alone. I have to..."
"Do you think this is some jape, Red?"
"I'm not afraid to die," she said, a sudden defiance in her eyes.
"You fucking should be. He would make short work of you. And if he didn't, you'd wish he had. They tend to fuck the wenches they catch bloody and plant their pups in their bellies, believe that," he jabbed at her flat stomach, "At some point, the little pup chews its way out of your belly. You'd bleed like a slaughtered sow and you'd fucking die. Do you want that?"
She looked like she wanted to cry. "I... I didn't know that..."
"I bet."
"Has the wolf... been seen around here? I think he was last seen at the riverbend. That’s the furthest point from here."
"It was last seen by the falls." If this was a normal forest, he could find the wolf by following the trails of magic. But here, the air was ripe with magic and it had done funny things to his senses.
"That’s less than a mile from here,” she said, gasping.
“Sure is.”
Sandor watched her gaze at her boots. He was of a mind to leave her and go about his business when she asked all of a sudden, “Can you bring me to my grandmother's house?” All blue eyes and rosy cheeks. What was she, really?
"Where's her house?" he said, taking a small map out of his pouch.
She looked carefully at the map and pointed at a green little cliff. "There."
It was located between two different sightings of the beast. Sandor rolled the map and put it back in the pouch. "Alright then, you can come along with me. But after that, you must pick up that old hag and leave these woods for good. Understood?"
"You're so kind. Thank you so..." She began to say.
"Quit your bloody chirping. I don't give a rat's arse about kindness," he rasped down at her, "I don't want a new monster walking around, if the beast finds you and bites your pretty little arse off."
She blushed and looked away, playing absently with the hem of her cloak. She asked after a long pause, “What may I call you?”
“Some call me the Hound. Some call me fouler things.” He would keep his real name to himself. It wasn’t safe, uttering one’s name aloud where magic was present.
She nodded. He turned and walked to his horse, listening to her muffled steps behind him. The fuck I just got myself into, he couldn’t help but wonder.
***
The girl was making a crown of winter roses for herself. “Aren’t you afraid of the werewolf?” she asked him, carefully adding a rosebud to her ring of flowers.
She walked by his side like a little lost puppy. He hadn't mounted the horse, since looking at the girl from up there would be a pain in the arse. He was already straining his neck to look at her as she talked. In his armor, he was a foot and a half taller than her.
“Nah. He’s the one who should be afraid. Do you know what dogs do to wolves?”
“But I’ve heard it’s a savage beast. It has killed so many knights.”
“Well, I’m not a bloody knight, am I?” he spat.
“Have you killed monsters… before?”
“Aye. They die like people do. Believe that.”
She was quiet after that for a little while, though Sandor couldn’t shake off the feeling that he missed her chirping. It has been a long while since anyone, let alone a pretty woman, had shown actual interest in him. She just wants you around so the werewolf wouldn't tear her to pieces, a nasty voice whispered to him. It was probably true. No girl as pretty as her had ever spared him half a look. And she herself didn't look him in the face, too afraid of the scars. It sent him into a brooding silence, which was only broken by the sound of their feet.
They passed by the falls, and Sandor stopped to have a look around. A knight was leaning peacefully to a tree, buried under the snow up to his chest. Upon seeing him, the girl gasped and hid behind him.
“Nothing to be afraid of, Red. That’s just a corpse. They’re the safest kind of man to have around,” he told her.
“I… I think I know him,” she said, peeking at the man’s frozen face, “Ser Damon, they called him at the keep. He’s one of the Bastard Boys. Was, I mean.”
“Bastard Boys?”
“Ser Ramsay’s personal knights,” she explained, “He’s lord Bolton’s bastard son.”
Sandor nodded. That would explain many things. He pushed the snow aside with his boot and smirked upon seeing Damon’s mangled guts. His armor was ripped open with an inhuman force and the beast had feasted on his insides, the heart and liver were eaten but the bowels were left intact, which had sprouted out of him like blue ugly snakes.
“There goes your knight,” he grinned.
Red took a step closer and when she saw the gore, she screamed and hid her face behind her hands.
“No stomach for blood and you were prancing around the woods, asking to get mauled,” he snorted, “Now, come on. We’ve wasted enough time here.”
He grabbed her arm and dragged her behind.
“Shouldn’t we bury him?” she asked.
“Why? Let the wolves have their fill.”
“Se… Hound, I mean, if the lord and his men couldn’t kill this monster…”
“What? Wetted your smallclothes now?” he mocked, “Let me tell you something. You see that little knight lying dead right there? He woke up everyday, waved his stupid sword around and thought that makes him a great fucking warrior. Turns out, you need something more than a ser before your name and a sword in your hand to kill a bloody monster.”
She gazed at him, silent, curious. Her cheeks were red from the cold and there were little freckles under her skin. Made him wonder if she had freckles on other places, too. He hoped she would. Her pulse beat at her temples, delicate blue veins sneaking under unblemished skin. Feeling his eyes, she looked away bashfully, her breath hastened a little.
He let go of her arm. “You got to be a monster to kill one, girl,” he told her, “If you ever came face to face with one someday, you remember that.”
"I... I will," she said, taking a step back.
***