03/03/2024
She hated the way he talked, always so harsh and angry. “Does it give you joy
to scare people?”
“No, it gives me joy to kill people.” His mouth twitched. “Wrinkle up your
face all you like, but spare me this false piety. You were a high lord’s get. Don’t
tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man.”
“That was his duty. He never liked it.”
“Is that what he told you?” Clegane laughed again. “Your father lied. Killing is
the sweetest thing there is.” He drew his longsword. “Here’s your truth. Your
precious father found that out on Baelor’s steps. Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the
King, Warden of the North, the mighty Eddard Stark, of a line eight thousand
years old . . . but Ilyn Payne’s blade went through his neck all the same, didn’t
it? Do you remember the dance he did when his head came off his shoulders?”
Sansa hugged herself, suddenly cold. “Why are you always so hateful? I was
thanking you . . .”
“Just as if I was one of those true knights you love so well, yes. What do you
think a knight is for, girl? You think it’s all taking favors from ladies and looking
fine in gold plate? Knights are for killing.” He laid the edge of his longsword
against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel. “I
killed my first man at twelve. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed since then.
High lords with old names, fat rich men dressed in velvet, knights puffed up like
bladders with their honors, yes, and women and children too—they’re all meat,
and I’m the butcher. Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let
them have their sers.” Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought
of that. “So long as I have this,” he said, lifting the sword from her throat,
“there’s no man on earth I need fear.”
