Disclaimer: I own nothing of ASOIAF. But you knew that. Worth for all the chapters.
A/N: Finally, I'll update my story all in one place. And if there are any new readers, I hope you enjoy it!
The Cry of the Wolf
I knew the woman was trouble the moment she walked through the door.
A dark, stormy Friday night. I sure didn't expect business, but there was nowhere else to go, really. What better way to end the week than in my comfortable chair at the office, listening to the rain as I poured myself some thirteen-year-old scotch? It was a surprise, therefore, when she walked in as I was lighting a cigar. She seemed straight out of a movie. Face hidden by a large hat with a net falling over her face, she wore a black jacket and a black pencil skirt. Her long, auburn hair was neatly brushed over her right shoulder, and her legs… god, she had long, creamy legs ending in a pair of black stilettos. The kind of legs you can't help but imagine around your waist, a hand on each delicate thigh. My Friday night had just gotten a lot better.
There was barely any light in the room, but I could still see her face as she took off her hat. It was a shot straight to my chest. I had thought her a woman, but in truth she could not be over sixteen, seventeen at most. A girl. Still, she was beautiful. She had bright eyes that I could guess were probably blue, and an air of innocence and naivety that made her all the more alluring. She looked quickly behind her. What did she fear? Then, at ease finally, she let her eyes rest on me. Her startled look and a little step back were just what I expected. What she had expected, I could not say, but probably not me. I had been to hell and back, and had the scars to show it. The left side of my face was a ruin, my traitor of a brother's last gift for me, before I sent him to his never-too-early grave. I could scare some of the bravest men with just a stare, and in my line of work, well, let's say it can come in very handy.
The girl took a deep breath, seemed to steel herself by brushing invisible wrinkles in her skirt, and finally spoke.
"Are you Detective Sandor Clegane?"
Her voice was melodious, the song of a nightingale on a summer night. Great, she had me sprouting bloody poetry now.
"It depends," I answered, "on what you need from me."
I let a slight smirk appear on my face. Have I mentioned I am a nasty bastard who likes to watch people squirm? And she seemed so easily scared! An easy prey for the guy people called The Hound. I had to remind myself how young she probably was.
"I have a case for you, Detective, if you'll take it." She answered, her voice still shy.
"First of all, girl, don't call me Detective," I clarified, choosing to ignore she had done it before, "reminds me of those sons of bitches at the Academy, and I never did graduate from it. All the better for it, those assholes are all corrupt good for nothings. Second, I'll take your case if it's worth my time and if, and only if, you're good for it. I don't do bloody charity."
"Oh, I have money," she hastily added, "Tons. My family is well off, Mr. Clegane, have no concerns, I can pay for what I'll request of you."
"And that would be…?"
"My father," she seemed to choke on the word and tears came to her eyes almost immediately. I prayed to whatever god was out there she wouldn't cry. I never did know what to do with crying women. "He was murdered. Everyone says it was a robber, a common thief that's already been arrested, but I don't believe it. I can't! I just… I can't explain it, but some things just don't fit!" She took a brisk step forward and put both her hands on my desk. I could tell she was making an effort to look me in the eye. "Please, Mr. Clegane, please, I need to know who killed him!"
It took all the strength in my body to not stare at her cleavage and focus on the task at hand. Her murdered father. Well, these days, the city was filled with stories like this. The crime rate was going over the clouds. Yet, as I watched her, something clicked. A rich young woman with long auburn hair. A murdered father. A robbery that was rumoured to be more than that. She had looked back, as if she was being followed.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell.