The Lord of Blackhaven had come to King's Landing to fight in the Hand's Tourney. He was no great warrior and no great tourney combatant but by chance, her father had appointed him to lead an expedition to put down Gregor Clegane, a giant notorious for his cruelty and battle prowess. No one could withstand The Mountain but Beric Dondarrion had tried, over and over. Seeing him in this smoky rustic inn wearing the golden halo of his heroism near blinded her. All she could do was smile shamefacedly before she quickly turned to hide her countenance in the muscled arms of the man who held her. That same man unceremoniously kicked the stool out from under Lord Beric, the marcher lord falling to the ground with a hard thud. The Hound then picked up the stool and brought it over to one of the inn's pillars. He placed her on the stool and bound her hands to the pillar. Her knees he pushed wide apart, taking each leg and tying it to a stool leg. She squirmed and struggled, a fish caught on a hook, until he took out a wide ribbon. If there was a draft in the inn, she could not feel it, yet the striking anomaly fluttered in the firelight, a red as dark as arterial blood. The Hound covered her eyes with it. “Stay,� he said, while roughly kneading her breasts. He stopped his fondling and she heard him walk away, his mean, mocking laughter trailing him, the sound like the snarling of dogs in a pit. Sansa began to tremble as she tested the snugness of her bonds and found there was no give. She wanted to call for him but was at a loss for the words. She never knew quite how to greet
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