Chapitre 168: The Fearless Scarred
POV: The Scarred Man
In a Tavern on the Silk Road.
Year 290, the seventh day of the first moon.
About two days after an Auction ended...
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The mug was empty again. To Sandor, it seemed to have lasted less than the first...
The stout was decent, there was no denying it, but it was fucking expensive. In times of peace, four copper stars for a pint was simply robbery.
But then again, this was the most affordable tavern in the new town full of fucking rich people.
Sandor grabbed the half-empty leather purse and peered inside.
Four silver moons, five silver stags and seven useless pennies remained... Sandor could at most afford another pint and some boiled beef if he wanted to save something for the return journey. Unfortunately, the man had neither a pavilion nor a tent. The temporary villa granted to House Clegane was not an option. He would have to stay in a damn inn... He couldn't sleep outside, not in this damn town, at least.
All the armed militia escorting the great lords were camped outside the City. The non-nobles were not allowed to carry weapons inside the Silk Road. So Sandor had been forced to spit the bloody name of House Clegane to get his weapons through, paying a fucking fee of an entire Golden Fucking Dragon.
Every damned corner was guarded by platoons of town guards armed with bludgeons and nastiness. Men who made no distinction between 'smallfolk', 'merchants' or 'nobles'.
Just that afternoon, Sandor had witnessed the beating and arrest of a Noble Rampole, son of who-knows-who in the Reach, just for taking a piss in an alleyway...
'Tsz... You have to pay even to take a piss in this Handkerchief-Pretty Street of My Ass!' Sandor thought in frustration.
That's how it worked in the Silk Road: One penny for every access to the piss collectors and two bloody pennies for every shit in the travelling latrines. The city's frosty ruler would not allow anyone to sully her beautiful, smooth, fragrant granite streets with their own (or their pets') excrement.
Sandor was an inch away from unsheathing the sword he had paid for when a chubby little man in uniform had fined him, complete with a tax receipt, demanding two silver stags for the natural spillage of manure from his steed's asshole...
All his savings were well and truly gone. The man spat at how much money had been needlessly squandered because of his naivety. In Lannisport, that old buffoon who called himself "Blacksmith" had fleeced him dry, stealing all his hard-earned gold in the Greyjoy rebellion. Luckily for him, the job was discreet... If the armour, helmet, shield and broadsword had had a single shortfall to his specifications, Sandor would have forced the man to swallow all thirty-four of the required gold pieces and then retrieve them from his torn gut.
It had now been eight long years that Sandor had served the Lions... Eight years of meagre pay compared to his true worth. 'The Hound', as they began to call him in his unit. Two years as a guard and six as a bloodhound hunting bandits in the Lions' lands, and all he managed to earn besides the paltry 9 gold pieces a year allowance (a little more than twice as much as a private) was awe for him, a modicum of respect and a moniker...
If only Sandor had bent the knee and accepted that farce of ointments and hypocritical high-sounding words from some Septon, he could have tripled his allowance long ago. A knight earned three times as much as a mere guard. But the Hound would not have done that. Instead, Sandor would always spit at knighthood. No, he would never become a knight... Knight of the Seven or Green Knight, that was; he would not anoint himself with such hypocrisy.
The man with no place to call home, no family, and no future, had invested everything for the tournament that would begin tomorrow. There, Sandor would prove his worth. There, he would get his justice, his revenge...
Clegane had prepared years for that fateful day. Training to exhaustion with sword, shield, mace, axe and spear. Tempering his experience in the field, participating in minor melees, hunting bandits and fighting in three bloody battles.
At age twelve, Sandor had participated in the Sack of Kings Landing, killing a Targaryen soldier. It hadn't really been a real duel but a dirty contest to see who could skewer the other first...
Sandor was there the night the Greyjoys had stormed the port of Lannisport. Thanks to him, the Lion City had four fewer raiding Ironborns to think about...
And lastly, Sandor had entered the fray in the assault on Great Wyk where, in the ranks of the vanguard, he attacked the last bastion remaining loyal to the Greyjoys... In the one-sided slaughter on the walls, the Hound had lost count of how many men had perished at his hands, blinded by the anger he felt for the other Clegane storming the main gates.
Sandor was no longer a weak, whimpering boy incapable of protecting himself, his father or his sister... Now, the Hound had grown enough to bare his fangs.
The archery competition would be tomorrow's first event, to be held in a two-day heat. His fate would be written in just over two days...
'Fuck it... What's the point of saving?', "Goldfinch! Over here!" Sandor thought there was no point in sparing any more money and called the usual maid buzzing around him.
"I'll be right there, Ser Boor!" replied the honey-haired girl, causing a small burst of hilarity among the customers. The tavern was packed, as it was every night.
The Singing Maiden was the most coveted tavern for penniless rabble like him. The oak and granite structure could accommodate up to two hundred people. Drinks and food were excellent, but the honey pot that attracted every minor merchant or knight-errant of common lineage was its waitresses... About twenty maidens between the ages of sixteen and thirty, all good-looking singers, alternated between songs, taking turns between the tables and the domed central stage.
For some reason unknown to him, perhaps due to some witchcraft, the music and voice of each singer managed to wiggle through the customers' various voices, belches and laughter. It was as if the sound travelled freely on every wooden wall of the inn so that it reached everyone in the audience.
There was always a song in that tavern. Something the Hound in this shitty world appreciated... His sister, Lyla, often sang to him.
It was the third night in a row that Sandor had dined there... The waitresses were beginning to recognise him, especially the Goldfinch, the only finch in the cage which wasn't afraid to approach him.
"Another stout, Ser Boor?" Asked the finch cheekily.
"I'm not a 'Ser', Goldfinch... This is the third time I've told you already." Growled the Hound faintly.
"And I am not a 'Goldfinch', 'Ser'... If you want me to stop calling you 'Ser', you must address me by my name, 'Jenny'." The bird had claws and an overly forked tongue, but Sandor would never lift a finger against the impertinent frail creature, he stayed silent.
No one here dared touch the singing maidens even if he wanted to. The warning sign at the entrance (which Sandor was unable to read) read:
[This is "Not" a Brothel. No harassing or violent actions will be tolerated against the Singing Maiden staff]. The new blazon of House Tallhart was neatly engraved in every corner or wall of the inn to remind all fools that the business belonged to Torrhen's Square.
In this case, the Goldfinch called Jenny, the Matron in charge of the finches, enjoyed the protection of every horny beggar with steel, seeking her favour and graces.
"What's that guy eating over there?" Asked the Hound, pointing in the direction from which came the inviting scent of pastry, roasted meat and spices.
"He...? Braised beef pie with nutmeg and turmeric." Replied the finch politely, sparing him at least a fucking 'Ser'.
"I'll have that, plus chicken with roast potatoes and white bread. And I'll also take a whole jug of spiced red wine. What wine can I afford with these?" Sandor emptied the bag on the table, keeping only two silver moons for himself, the coinage needed to pay for his stay and food.
"Mmm... let's see. I recommend some excellent cinnamon-spiced Jhala red. With a whole jug and the roast chicken, pie and bread are on the house." Jenny took only the tiny silver and copper coins, leaving two large silver coins as change.
Probably, the girl had realised that the scarred young man, in his twenties, didn't have much coinage left...
"Keep the silver. That's for you, Goldfinch... I want to hear you sing." The Hound handed the two coins to the woman. Sandor's hand managed to graze the smooth skin of the most graceful finch in the tavern. Too pretty for a man as ugly as he was...
"I do not want your silver, Ser Boor, only kindness and the grace of "my" name. Take back the coinage. Soon, it will be my turn to take the stage anyway." Before the woman could return the silver, a harassing shout caught her by surprise.
"JENNY!!! Oh, my sweet, beloved, persuasive Jenny! Your favourite Knight is here!!!" So thundered a shabby knight with messy blond hair and a neglected beard.
The stinker, followed by two other men bearing the banners of a Wirewolf, knelt at the feet of the Maiden-in-Chief, brazenly kissing her hand... The finch quickly retracted his hand with a disgusted air, admonishing:
"I am not Your Jenny, Ser Brotelier... Don't you dare touch me or any of my girls again, or I will have you bludgeoned away."
"Ahahaha! What did I tell you? The Matron of the Tavern knows me... We will have a table!" Sandor didn't know who the drunkard was, but the other embarrassed man behind him was saying something... Maybe it was one of Eddard Stark's personal guards.
"There are no free tables, Ser... There's a waiting queue out there. You and your friends will have to wait your turn like everyone else. And besides, 'Lord Stark' would like to tell you that you no longer have an 'unlimited' line of credit in this tavern. So, if you don't have the coin, you don't touch food and drink, Ser Haymitch." Now Sandor also remembered the jester. That was the Drunken Spender who had offered two rounds of drinks to the whole tavern the night before.
"Come on, come on, Jenny! Look, I've got the coin!" The man pulled out a plump, jingling purse, pulling out a fucking gold dragon in the woman's hands. Jenny had refused his little silver, but the woman's eyes hesitated at the gold.
"Just do me this small favour of finding us a place." The drunkard pointed to his companions behind him. "Ser Jory Cassel and Ser Simon of Wolf Lake here have just been named Green Knights by Lord Eddard Stark himself! We must celebrate! DRINKS FOR EVERYO-" the drinking companion stopped the drunkard's mouth before the impending financial bloodletting that could have ruined even a minor lord...
"No, no, milady. Ser Haymitch here had no intention of offering anything to anyone...! Am I right, Ser?" Asked the supposed 'Ser' Jory, still holding his hand over the man's mouth.
"Mmgggh, spiffpss cabbhi...! Phew...Ogay, "Nopphing" Driggh Tor Ebebvyone!" the man released his mouth after the nod of surrender, "Happy now...?! Party pooper, all of you." Complained the 40-year-old drunkard.
"Please, madame. We only ask for chairs and nothing more. We will make do with anything you can offer us." The handsome man asked politely and humbly, gaining more favourable attention from the Goldfinch.
"... Congratulations on your appointment, Knights... These are the only chairs left. "But" you will have to ask permission from the customer who reserved this table, "AND" I appeal to your votes to have Knight of the Brothels maintain some semblance of demeanour." So proposed the Goldfinch, pulling him in.
Sandor did not like the idea at all. He had paid for some fucking solitude topped off with good wine, a full stomach and a few songs... Not to mention that Haymitch did look like a first-class pain in the ass.
"Of course, of course, Lady Jenny. We'll keep Haymitch at bay. I promise that neither you, your employees, nor any customers will get in trouble with us." Said the sissy knight with the long hair.
The Finch cast a hopeful glance towards him, seeking help, staring him in the face...
The man felt awfully uncomfortable when someone stared at his face. Sandor constantly brushed his hair so that it covered at least a large part of his burnt side, as no hair grew there...
Already his better side was not so good with those grey eyes, a big, hooked nose, sharp cheekbones, a high forehead and long, dark, sparse hair. But his burnt right side -his shame- was nothing short of abominable...
His smooth black skin was dotted with craters and deep cracks oozing red and wet, his ear was just a hole with a stump, and a hint of bone could be seen on his jaw. The scars extended down to his throat. Around his eye was a twisted mass of spots, and on that side, he had no lips...
"Sit down, and don't fuck with me." Clegane blurted out, relenting. The drunkard sputtered with glee.
"Ahahaha!!! Thank you! Thank you, Ser...! Emm, your name good man?"
"I'm not a Knight, I'm not Good, and I don't like chatterers either... "Ser. " Clegane replied in a tone that was not at all friendly.
"Ah! Perfect, perfect! Neither do I! Ahahah! Jenny, my beloved, everything our good friend has ordered is offered by Lord-... By me!" Shot back the Knight of the Brothels, sitting confidently beside the Hound.
"..." almost certainly, on that night, Clegane would add another annoying name to his blacklist. The other two Stark men sat with a less festive and confident air than the first.
"Pff...mh, mh..." The Goldfinch held back a laugh; Jenny must have found that scene funny.
It was the first time Sandor had seen her smile so closely. After all, women never laughed in his presence...
After the finch took the first orders from the three new additions, the girl with rosy skin, red lips, silky, wavy hair the colour of the sun, and the most melodic voice in the realm turned with a smile to the ugliest man in the Seven Kingdoms: "You still haven't told me your name, Not-a-Ser... What is your name?"
For a moment, the man was tempted to answer, "The Hound", but then restrained himself.
"Sandor... Sandor Clegane." He replied.
"Sandor...?!" The Goldfinch seemed partly surprised by the revelation. Clegane was confused by it.
"Any problems?" Asked the young man defensively. That was the problem with trusting people... they always let you down. The added meddling trio allowed the pair a quiet moment to interact.
"No! No, no one... So, Sandor, what song would you like to hear?" Asked the Goldfinch with a slightly embarrassed air.
The young woman changed her attitude 180°, abandoning her usual grumpy and stiff demeanour with a more... "friendly" one.
"... The one you sang yesterday. The song with your name on it, Goldfinch." Sandor replied.
"Jenny of Oldstones...? If you insist, go for that, Ser Sando-... I meant Sandor! Er... just Sandor. I beg your pardon. First drinks are on the house, milords!" The girl took her to leave with celerity, leaving the drunkard's gold dragon and Clegane's silver on the table.
Sandor didn't understand a fucking thing...
"... It's for your name." Said the Knight of the Brothels to the Hound's rescue.
"Has the Name Clegane already achieved such a bad reputation in this Fucking Town?" Asked the Hound grumpily. The others laughed at what was not meant to be a joke.
"Do I make you laugh?" The fight may start before its time.
"Oh... No, no, it's not you, my good man. You must forgive us. Almost certainly, the story of Joblin Fairytales has not yet reached you Southerners." The guy called Jory replied, justifying himself to the group.
"See for yourself, 'Not-a-Ser'..." he pointed to the drunkard.
Clegane turned his gaze in the indicated direction. The Goldfinch was confiding in the background with another group of Finches... All three young women turned their eyes towards their table, smiling in surprise and embarrassment.
"... What fucking story?" Asked the Hound rudely.
"Ah... A story on everyone's lips, Not-a-Good-Man. A tale that is perhaps even more successful than 'The Shield Maiden'... It is entitled: 'Ser Sandor, The Fearless Scarred'." Replied Haymitch, laughing under his moustache.
"... Are you shitting me?" Sandor asked with justified scepticism. The three Norse couldn't hold back their laughter. Then Haymitch added:
"Not at all, Not-a-Ser... The tale is about a boy from a small house of knights who, in his immature youth, defended the honour of a peasant girl by challenging an evil knight of... ah, who remembers anymore. Anyway, the boy came out horribly scarred and roamed the length and breadth of the country like a Hedge Knight seeking revenge on the bastard who had scarred him. Don't ask me if he eventually found him because I don't know. But in any case, the scarred guy, in his long quest, saved people and innocents here and there in the course of various adventures. And the funny thing is, you know what?! The main character, 'Ser Sandor, The Fearless Scarred', always got pissed when someone called him 'Ser'!.... Pff! Phuahahaahah!" Sandor was astonished by this, not just because of the information shot at him. It sounded like too much elaborate bullshit to be improvised... That story may have existed.
Ser Haymitch rose from his chair and thundered:
"Tonight, it's going to be fun, folks!!! Our Sandor here will attract all the maidens of the North!!! Ahahah! A toast!!!" The drunkard pulled out a flask and poured its contents into Sandor's mug and three other empty cups on the table, then nimbly leapt onto the chair with one foot resting on the table and shouted:
"To Ser Sandor, The Fearless Scarred!!! Cheers!!!"
*****
End Chapter.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone