Chapter Text
The Knight-Giant Hound and his Prized Princess
(aka Pretty Pet Princess)
As transcribed by quack folklorist P.B. Magic
Once upon a time there was a knight-giant known as Hound. Born Sandor of House Clegane, it was he who burned in the brazier at the age of seven at the hand of his brother, the elder knight-giant Mountain, so aptly named for his legendary size and obdurance. The Hound delivered his requital five and twenty years later in formal combat trial. Dog and Rock clashed greatsword to greatsword, Brightroar to Blackfyre. Where the Mountain had might, the Hound had heart.
Heart triumphed.
Brightroar slipped so sweetly between helm and gorget to spill rivers of shared blood. Off to Valyria! where Mountains may live or die thus. That glorious day, the Hound split the paled corpse of his brother to a clean fourteen pieces, one each for the Fourteen Flames. As he shoved the chunks into eager magmatic chasms, the wilted cock especially, he laughed thunder from ashen storm clouds and boulders from perilous ledges. The black sky filled smoke-meat sweet, for as we all know, no fumes taste so sweet as revenge. For that glorious day, the Hound conquered his fear of fraternal fire and thus earned his Keep.
Most importantly, he won a knight-giant's fair due: the hand, and fecund womb, of a human princess.
This is where our story begins.
But first, some context.
The realm of giants, and their knights, lords, and king, exists high above the worlds of their puny human vassals. Three knights keep watch of Westeros: the Hound, Darkstar, and Brienne of Tarth. What other worlds have giant-keepers? Read on, and you shall see! For now, I will tell you this: the giants are ruled by the ever chaotic god-king, Loki.
Clegane's Keep is a quaint tower house that sprouts like a stone trunk from Lost Lake. Around its now-crumbling outer wall wraps a ring of crystal water, and beyond that, miles and miles of hills roll like a golden sea. It is the envy of no giant, boasting a mere four stories, a cellar, and a modest gatehouse. But it is the great love of Sandor, for here he suckled and weaned, here he knew Mother, who taught him of courage, heart, and honor above all! But Mother is gone, Father and Sister too. There is a great darkness of giant-kind: the girl children are put to slaughter. Infertile! Ugly! Bar none, useless! Giants slake bloodthirst with thine own blood, so at birth girls eat first a blade. After bearing Mountain and Hound, Mother bore great shame. She was big with child, this Sandor scarcely remembers, and one night, after much fuss from the uppermost floor, there was grave quiet.
"A sister," Big Brother said. He patted his belly and licked his lips. "Father did for them."
Sandor found he was not so sad when Father died in a manhunt.
Now our freshly minted knight-giant rules his keep, alone but for his thralls, a motley lot of human men, plumped on giant's spoils. Yes, magic is alive and well! Eat the crops of giant fields and ye should grow stalkier—in Clegane lands, we harvest poppies. Sandor dines on petal paste, drinks the floral milk. He stands a proud sixty feet, and his human underlings, who toil over this precious crop, scrape a scant forty. There are limits, after all. The humans below the clouds sow princesses and serfs and are thus spared; the giants end wars with near effortless boot stomps and greatsword blights. Curry favor—or else! I would call this symbiosis.
For a quarter moon after his victory, Sandor entertains a deluge of visitors. He sits at the end of his great oak table, large enough for ten giants to feast, in his armor and surcoat, colored gold like the hills with three black hounds afield. There are well wishers, witches, warlocks, and wizards. They bring first and foremost congratulations: hail the knight-giant Hound! It is, as always, critical to bend the knee. In come offerings: silver and jewels, the laces of Myr, the perfumes of Lys, exotic red pods from Sothyros with roastable seeds, and a mushroom, a mushroom says the Ghost of High Heart, that is very magical indeed.
But our Hound cares for one guest, the matchmaker called Varys. He roams the giant realm with a vast catalogue of princesses. He knows the finest bred; he knows exactly how a knight can use perfumes and laces! On the seventh day Varys comes in silk robes, rotund and egg-bald, reeking of rosewater. He pads on slippered feet to the Hound's very side.
Thunk! goes the tome in a cloud of dust. It's leatherbound, a foot tall, embossed with the word Prinsessa. Like all giants, Sandor knows only the Old Tongue. As for Princess Speak, he will have to learn.
If he so chooses.
He will take, and his princess will give. That is the way. Princesses are born to curtsy, charm, and conceive. Pretty little things, ripe for breeding. Sandor saw one once, from the battlefield, with flaxen hair and eyes of emerald, slender as reed, weeping, of course, in her tall tower. Better that princesses aren't seen! The lesser giant brothers tend to prowl; appetites unchecked, they might unrightfully devour—and that's not to mention dragons! But this particular princess had a brother, Sandor knows. This brother lives next door at Evenfall Hall, a true-blooded prince wed to the realm's sole lady giant. Brienne the Beauty, Maid of Tarth, lady-knight-giant, spared by Loki and Loki alone. "She will conquer and she will conceive," he's said to have said. Lo and behold, Brienne and her golden princeling shepherd a five son flock!
As for the sister princess?
Sandor turns pages thick and stiff as cracker bread, spilling yellow paper crumbs in his haste. "Who do you seek, Good Ser?" Varys asks.
"Golden hair," the Hound grunts. "Green eyes. Sad."
"Ah, you seek fair Cersei," Varys says. "It is with great sorrow I must inform you she was wedded to a human king, and is tragically dead. Besides, I have much younger models, and if it pleases you…" the eunuch mummer slides three pudgy fingers into the meat of his book and cleaves it open. "These are our… melancholy types. Any match here would constitute a rescue."
Rescue! A heart the size of a wheelhouse throws itself against rigid breastplate. Sandor knows of human knights. They terrorize the giants: climbing on beanstalks, sprouting wings, and worst of all, sculpting stairs from clouds. They invade the castles of the giant realm to reclaim their little women. Rescue, they call it. True love's first kiss! Father called it hogslop, but Mother had kept her princess tales from her life before. She read them to Sandor in secret by warm candleglow. Chivalry, she said, is most important of all.
Sandor has forgotten what that means. Was it a princess word?
He doesn't have Mother's books anymore. While he was off serving lord-giants, the Mountain gave the brazier treatment to the lot.
Worry not, as he browses, more slowly now, through colorful portraits of premium Westerosi stock, he finds his princess: hair of ember, skin of snow, eyes like two sapphires. Sandor sticks a dirty-nailed finger to her button nose. "This one," he says. "Why is she sad?"
"Excellent taste, Ser," Varys clucks. "This poor maiden has lost her parents in the most recent war. Worse yet, her betrothal came to an untimely end, and in her prince's stead, she was forced to marry his uncle imp."
An imp! No creature more low, literally. Sandor growls, as Hounds do, and Varys quickly adds, "Happily their marriage went unconsummated. She remains chaste, but time is of the essence. She's been burgled to the Vale by the cunning Lord Baelish—he claims her as his natural daughter, and erstwhile makes plans to wed her himself!"
Sandor stares at paper sapphire likenesses drenched in sorrow. "What is she called?" he asks.
"Lady Sansa of House Stark, if it pleases you."
"Sansa…" The name flickers like cold flame on his tongue. Is this how pretty tastes? He decides:
"I'll rescue her."
"Very well, Ser! A thousand golden dragons, and we'll consider it done!"
How does the rescue unfold? Beloved reader, I beg of you, tune in next time!