The Hound Walks Away

Sansa was not Arya. Arya might have cursed, kicked the door, and searched the dungeon out of spite. Sansa was softer, quieter, and far less ready for darkness.

At first, with Joffrey and the Hound near her, and with the hope of seeing her father ahead, she had not understood how afraid she should be. Then the iron door closed.

In a place where she could feel only herself, fear rose from the inside out. Tears slipped down her face before she could stop them.

She feared the dark. She feared the sounds inside it. She could not make herself take even one step.

Time became strange. It felt as if she had been trapped for a century, though only minutes passed beyond the door.

Joffrey had ordered the guards not to open it without his command. No one wished to anger the king. Satisfied, he left her there.

He had no intention of waiting like a fool. The timid northern girl he despised would never find her father, because Eddard Stark was not there.

The thought pleased him. Sansa's terror was one reward. Eddard's helplessness would be another. If the two met in the dark, all the better.

If they did not, Joffrey would still have proved that every Stark in the Red Keep moved only when he allowed it.

There was, however, someone who knew where he was. Joffrey stopped and turned to the man beside him. The Hound waited silently.

Disgust spread across Joffrey's face. "You really are like a dog. Obedient and useless. You made me look weak before that man."

The insult was nothing new. Sandor had endured worse. This time, he answered. Steel scraped.

Joffrey's eyes widened. "You... you dog. What are you doing? Do you mean to betray your king?" Sandor spat.

"King? You?"

It was the first time he had said what he thought to Joffrey's face.

He had never believed Joffrey was a king. The boy was spoiled, cruel, false, cowardly, and vain. A child with a crown and a taste for screaming.

Such a creature was not worth serving. It was not worth another day of insults.

The simple motion of drawing steel had turned the self-proclaimed great king white with fear. If Sandor had set the blade to his throat, the boy would likely have soiled himself.

Seeing that, Sandor did not bother finishing the draw. Joffrey's rank was still something Sandor could not lightly offend. The boy was not worth dying for either. The Hound turned and walked away.

"Damn you," Joffrey shrieked after him. "I will cut you up and feed you to dogs!"

Sandor did not answer. He had already begun thinking of Cobbler's Square.

He could not remain in King's Landing now. Before he left, he wanted to do one thing for himself. He was not fool enough to return to Sansa personally. He knew Joffrey too well.

But there was another man who had protected a Stark girl once.

...

Elsewhere, Petyr Baelish inspected the little stage he had prepared.

The range was small, hidden, and private. There were no standing targets, only posts with prisoners tied to them. Men no one would mourn had been given a new purpose.

Beside the posts stood a cage. A man lay inside with his eyes open, unable to move.

Not long afterward, a bruised servant returned. Baelish frowned at the man's battered face, then saw the boy behind him and became all warmth.

"Great King Joffrey," he said, bowing low. "It honors me that you came."

Joffrey did not reward the flattery.

"You had better give me something good, or my sword will find your neck."

He had dressed for the occasion, hunting clothes, favorite crossbow, royal blade. To ordinary eyes he might have looked almost dangerous.

This was the first time Baelish had been threatened by a child with a sword, and the insult was not small. He buried it anyway. Old foxes understood children.

"How could I disappoint Your Grace? Look there. Do you see who waits?"

Joffrey looked and accepted the gift almost at once. He did not like Eddard Stark's comfort any more than Baelish did.

"You know how to please your king."

Baelish bent lower and smiled. Joffrey loaded a bolt into his crossbow. The first shot struck a bound prisoner. The scream tore through the yard.

"Please, no."

"You little monster. You will go to hell."

Joffrey was not studious, but he had always enjoyed the crossbow. He had even poisoned bolts when the targets were cats, dogs, or whatever unfortunate creature had caught his fancy. People were different.

The screams were better. The contorted faces, the stench of fear, the disgrace of grown men losing control of their bodies before him. It all sounded like praise.

Even Baelish felt a flicker of disgust. He hid it well. Most of the time he praised, coaxed, and fed the boy's appetite. He also let certain suggestions slip, gently guiding that appetite toward one particular man.

That was why this little game existed. Soon, the prisoners' helplessness bored Joffrey. Baelish saw the change and stepped closer.

"Your Grace, perhaps we can make the game more interesting."

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