The Red Keep was too bright for his liking. Sunlight spilled across marble floors and polished armor, making the courtiers gleam like polished fruit—sweet to look at, rotten beneath the skin. Sandor Clegane stood by the throne dais, helm tucked under his arm, eyes scanning the hall. He’d learned to see without looking. In this place, smiles cut deeper than swords.
The king sat slouched on his throne, wine-stained and loud, but grinning wider than he had in weeks. His hand rested on the shoulder of the small figure beside him — the only thing in the Seven Kingdoms that still made him look human.
Fauna Baratheon. The king’s “little fawn.”
She looked nothing like her father, save for those damned blue eyes. Everything else—the softness, the calm, the stubborn light—belonged to her mother. Lyanna Stark’s ghost lingered in her smile, and Robert saw it every time he looked her way.
“Ha! My little doe grows cleverer every day,” Robert boomed, tugging playfully at her braid. “Your mother had that same look before she scolded me senseless.”
Fauna blushed, hiding a smile. The king laughed harder, though Sandor caught the faintest tremor in the girl’s hands. The queen’s eyes were on her — sharp, green, and hateful.
“You spoil her, my lord,” Cersei said, voice sweet as honeyed wine. “If you keep her coddled, she’ll forget she’s made of blood, not glass.”
Robert barked out a laugh that made even the guards flinch. “If any man drops my daughter, I’ll have his bloody head on a spike. Let them remember she’s mine.”
Cersei’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “As you say, Your Grace.”
Sandor’s hand drifted toward his sword. He didn’t much care for politics, but he knew venom when he heard it. The queen’s hatred for the girl was quieter than her temper with the king, but it was colder, meaner. The kind that festered.
When the feast ended, Robert pressed a kiss to his daughter’s brow before waving her away. “Go on, little fawn. Leave your old man to his council. And listen to your Hound, eh? He’s got more sense than all these silver-tongued bastards.”
She smiled up at him, soft as sunlight. “Yes, Father.”
Outside, the air was cooler. The city sprawled below, loud and ugly, and Sandor followed her through the garden path, boots crunching over gravel. She was quiet a long while. Then—
“She hates me,” Fauna murmured.
He grunted. “Aye.”
Her head tilted. “That’s all you’ll say?”
“What else is there? The queen hates anything she can’t bend to her will. You’ll not be the last.”
Fauna’s smile was small but real. “You sound certain.”
“I’ve seen enough vipers to know their kind.”
They walked a few more paces. “And what about you, Ser Clegane? Can you be bent?”
He met her gaze. Gods, those eyes. “Not bloody likely.”
She laughed — quiet, unguarded. It slipped past his armor like a blade of sunlight through the cracks.
“You’re the only one I trust,” she said softly. “Even Father listens to too many voices.”
Sandor’s chest tightened. He wanted to tell her not to — that trust was a fool’s gift, especially when given to a dog like him. But when she looked at him like that — calm, certain, unafraid — the words caught in his throat.
“Come along, little fawn,” he muttered, forcing his voice rough again. “The snakes’ll start to hiss if we linger.”
She smiled at the nickname, the same her father used, but gentler somehow on his tongue. She walked beside him, skirts brushing his armor. And for a fleeting moment, he thought he’d rather die than see her harmed.