Game of Thrones White Wolf

Chapter 221 223: The Human Skin Mask

Sandor caught the rich smell of roasted meat and fresh bread the second he stepped through the door. Little Robert Frey muttered that today was Jon's seventeenth nameday.

The dining hall was already set for a proper feast. Green tablecloths covered the long table, plates and goblets laid out for more than just the three of them. Servants and maids moved quietly, finishing the last touches.

As Jon's sworn shield, Sandor knew he had no business sitting at the high table. He pulled a strip of dried meat from his pouch, flipped up the edge of his helm, and chewed it slowly. The salt helped kill the hunger and kept him from swallowing too loud once the real meal started.

Jon and Margaery walked in arm in arm. The moment Sandor saw them he spat the half-chewed jerky into his palm and hid it behind his back.

"My lord. My lady."

"Ser Sandor," Margaery answered with a warm smile.

Once they were seated she turned back to him. "Come sit with us, Ser Sandor. Today is my husband's nameday, and it turns out yours falls right around the same time. Jon wants the two of you to celebrate together."

Sandor's brain stalled. Jon wanted him at the table? On his own nameday? He remembered the oath Jon had given him—"there will always be a place for you by my hearth"—but he still felt like a dog being invited to supper with the highborn.

Truth was, he barely remembered his own nameday. The fact that Jon had bothered to check moved him more than he cared to admit.

"My lady, this is the lord's day. I shouldn't—"

"I get it," Jon cut in, already starting to rise. "You want me to come drag you to the chair myself."

Sandor practically scurried over, shoulders hunched, trying to make his huge frame look smaller. He picked a seat four or five places down from Jon, close enough to guard but far enough to feel awkward. Even seated he kept shifting, like a bear trying to hide behind a sapling.

Margaery gave a soft laugh at the sight.

"Ser Sandor, why not take off your helm?" she asked gently. "It must be uncomfortable."

"My lady… my face is burned. I'm ugly."

Jon smiled. "I got you a gift."

Sandor blinked. "For me?"

A maid brought a plain white box. Sandor had never received a nameday present in his life. His big, sword-callused hands actually trembled as he lifted the lid.

Inside lay something that looked like a flap of pale flesh and a bundle of brown hair.

He stared, confused, until the maid lifted the skin-like piece and he realized what it was—a half-face mask.

"Put it on him," Jon ordered.

The maid stepped close, fitted the mask over the scarred side of Sandor's face, then settled the wig of thick brown hair over his head. She handed him a polished silver mirror.

Sandor turned away on instinct, then forced himself to look.

The mask was cool against his skin, not a perfect fit but close enough. The brown hair covered his ears and the worst of the burns. For the first time in years he could stare at his own reflection without flinching.

His eyes stung. The big man who had cut down countless enemies started crying like a child, shoulders shaking so hard the goblets on the table rattled.

Jon spoke quietly. "Qyburn made it for you. It's not perfect and it might not feel great at first. Once you've worn it a while, go see him and he'll adjust it."

Sandor could only nod, tears still streaming, and bow again and again.

Margaery added, "Jon didn't know your exact nameday. He asked Ser Brynden and worked it out from the time Lord Eddard brought you through Riverrun. We thought it would be nice to celebrate the two of you together."

She rested a hand on the gentle swell of her belly. With the fleet sailing soon and Jon leading the landing himself, they had wanted to bind their most loyal men closer. Sandor was the one who would stand between Jon and death on those rocky islands.

Sandor finally got his voice back, thick with emotion. "It's an honor to share a nameday with you, my lord. Thank you… both of you."

Jon waved him back to his seat. "Sit. More people are coming."

Garlan and Loras Tyrell arrived next, sliding into seats beside their sister. Both brothers did a double take at Sandor.

"You're… the Hound?" Loras asked, eyes wide.

"Yes, ser. The mask and hair are a gift from Lord Jon and Lady Margaery."

Loras leaned in for a closer look. Jon grinned. "Not the same face you remember, but the sword arm is exactly the same."

Sandor flushed under the mask.

Ser Martin arrived and took the seat straight across from him. Then Randyll Tarly, Brynden Tully, Rickard Karstark, Harken, and Elder Vido all filed in. Every single one of them noticed the tall, suddenly shy man with the fine new face. Their stares were curious, not disgusted. Sandor's scarred cheek burned red beneath the mask for the first time in his life.

Once everyone was settled, Jon stood.

"My lords, you've all fought beside me before. I wanted to use this nameday feast to speak plainly about the war ahead."

The room went still.

Jon snapped his fingers. Servants carried in raven cages. "These birds are mine—trained by me. Ser Loras, Ser Garlan, Ser Brynden, Ser Martin—one for each of you. They'll cry out warnings for your squadrons. I've written manuals too. Watch how they fly; they'll tell you the enemy's numbers and heading."

Loras stared at the glossy black raven in open wonder. Brynden and Rickard flipped through the little handbooks, eyes lighting up at the idea of having eyes in the sky.

Jon looked satisfied. With these birds he could coordinate the fleet from the islands themselves.

He spent the rest of the meal walking them through landing tactics—stay calm, use their numbers, wear the Ironborn down instead of rushing in. "Our goal is to end the threat forever, but remember what war is really for: kill the enemy and keep our own men alive. Don't forget the second part."

The nameday trick had been Margaery's idea. She knew Jon would need these men to cover him once he hit the beaches.

The Florents, of course, had not been invited.

Margaery moved around the table herself, belly just beginning to show, speaking warmly to each commander. Brynden, Martin, Rickard, and Paxter Redwyne all looked genuinely touched.

After the feast, Sandor walked with Jon to inspect the elite troops each house had sent.

In the barracks the noble bastards—Jon's new household guard—were arguing in low voices.

"We don't know the islands' terrain and we're dragging mountain clansmen with us," said a bastard from Honeyholt. "I say the odds of failure are high."

"Lord Jon's never lost a battle yet," answered Garlan's bastard, Jyles Flowers. "And those clansmen just came down from the Mountains of the Moon. Terrain won't be the problem."

"We're in this together," added a Hightower bastard. "Lord Jon too. He saved Lady Alerie. I trust him."

Someone pointed out that a duke could always be ransomed if things went south. The others fell quiet. Life weighed differently for highborn and low.

Most of them had dreamed of legitimization their whole lives. Jon Stark had done it—risen from bastard to Duke of Casterly Rock. He was proof it could be done.

When word came that Jon was touring the camp they rushed out to meet him.

Jon stood on the raised platform beneath the twin banners—Stannis's flaming heart and his own white wolf on black. He looked down at the bastards and the mountain clansmen mixed among them.

"Most of you have heard what the Ironborn did to the Sunset Sea coast. No house was spared their raids. You're coming with me behind their lines. The danger is real. So hear this now: win or lose, every man here will receive land in the Westerlands from me, as Duke of Casterly Rock. If you distinguish yourselves, I will not be stingy with titles."

The men stared, stunned. Generous lords were rare.

"Half of you will have a chance to take your father's name. At least half. If your father refuses, I'll speak to the king myself. If the king refuses, I'll still let you bear the name in the West."

That hit them harder than gold. Every bastard straightened.

Jon's tone sharpened. "The mountain clansmen fight beside us. Some of you call them wildlings. On those islands they will be the men at your back. I cut eight thousand Ironborn heads at Beheading Bay. If we fail there, they won't spare me. They won't spare any of us. So I will not tolerate house rivalries or old grudges once we land. If I hear of it, the punishment is simple—execution on the spot."

He let the words sink in, then nodded once.

"Dismissed."

The bastards and clansmen stood a little taller as they filed away. Sandor, still wearing his new face, walked at Jon's shoulder. For the first time he didn't feel the need to hide it.