The air was heavy with the mist of morning and the smoke of dying night fires and torches, a curious mix of refreshing and eye stinging. Sandor's anger roiled around him as palpably as the mist itself while he stomped through the massive war host spread through the thick woods of the Rainwood. The commanders of the Golden Company had rejected him, even knowing his true identity! "The Golden Company does not take lame, dishonored turncoats into its ranks." They had said, it took all of the patience he had gathered from his time on the Quiet Isle not to prove how wrong he thought they were within that moment. So here he was, confined to their war camp until they could decide what to do with him, they couldn't let someone with information on their numbers and position just walk away freely after all. He felt like a beaten dog, cut down before his revenge could even be realized.
His thoughts traveled to that night when a rough voice called to him as he made camp, drawing his attention to the hooded form leaning against a large tree not too far away. A female, he snorted at the hilarity of it, The Golden Company taking a female as a warrior over him! But she had probed him curiously and he answered like the wounded dog he was- angrily and utterly without care at that point. How he had been denied joining the company and his current predicament, she seemed amused by it all, but as she leaned there against the tree he could feel her gaze heavy on his burns, it irked him like it always had. To her credit she did not try to slip away, or even respond at all, when he leaped up and stormed over to her, grabbing a shoulder with a large gloved fist while snarling out "Like what you see?! Take a better loo-" furiously he flipped back her hood and the snarl died in his throat, possibly the first time The Hound himself had ever been startled into silent staring at the ugliness before him.
She was grinning up at him broadly with eyes that looked as black as pitch, a grin made impossibly wide and grim by the huge chunk of missing cheek on the left side of her face; muscle, teeth and gums glittering wetly with uncontrolled saliva in the flickering light of the fire. He wasn't sure how long he stared in confusion at what could possibly be the female twin of him- ugliest man in Westeros that he was, she had to be the ugliest woman by the same coin. Her shoulder started to tremble under his hand as she began to chuckle heartily at his response, to which he finally let his hand slide off and step back. He wasn't given a chance to formulate a rude follow-up to his staring in order to preserve his rough exterior, she was on the offensive as soon as his hand slipped off her dark, leather clad, shoulder. "There are more convincing ways to joining The Golden Company than simply demanding it and flexing your muscles while looking intimidating, which I'm sure you did well enough. I don't know your motivation, nor do I care, but I will help you stranger. See you tomorrow." And like that, she had stepped away from him and into the dark underbrush that separated the camps from one another, and he let her be, still too angry to process what had been said.
Now his wanderings through the camps in the rising light of dawn unconsciously drew him towards the familiar sound of sword play. There was no guard following him, it would be a fools gambit to try to escape from the very middle of a disciplined army such at this, his thoughts clearing away as he came to realize he was standing witness to some war games that had gathered a crowd. In the clearing he saw a small group in close quarters fighting with blunted tourney weapons. The woman was there too, in her dark leathers and without the hooded cloak she had worn that night, utterly unafraid of showing off her maimed face. She was wielding a two-handed sword and, much to the crowds amusement, overpowering a wiry lad wearing heavy plate and using a sword and shield. There was another pair locked in combat too, but the woman's battle was clearly the epicenter of the conflict.
Her dark brown hair was bound in a long braid that went down to her lower back, and stray strands were sweat slicked to her head and neck as she pounded on the shield of her adversary in a fury. Her opponent's eyes were wide with a kind of fright any killer could recognize- the look of the defeated. She saw it too, and with a husky cry she flicked aside his feeble attempt at a slash with his long sword, dislodging it from his hand and ramming bodily into his shield to knock him off-balance, fiercely planting a foot onto his chest and pointing the blunt sword against his chest until he shouted "I yield!" tremulously.
Standing there, not really knowing why he was there in the first place, her eyes locked on his when she straightened and rested the great sword over her shoulder and gave the crowd a sweeping look. It was only for a moment, but it was enough. Turning from him she observed a large man with a two hander disarming and forcing the yield of his own smaller opponent before turning to face her with a grin, as though he was already victorious over her. Raising a leather clad hand to him and grinning, she called out "Midas, well fought. You and I have tangled most mornings however, as enjoyable as it is, I suggest a change of the game, if you will." The big man, Midas apparently, nodded to her. He was as curious as everyone else to see where she was taking this, and there was some dull muttering of the gathered crowd as she slowly turned around, on what he now saw was bare feet, to point directly at him.
"This big lump of fodder was rejected by the high command last night, you all know that. If they think he isn't worth anything then I am sure he isn't, but who are we to judge until we see him in action, yes? Much the same was thought about me when I first came to join this fine company." Her grin was unsettling as her hand curled and beckoned him forwards, her eyes were a bright gray, he noted dully. "Elyse, he's lame. He's worthless. Why would you pit me against him?" Midas called cockily as Sandor slowly walked towards them, eating up the space with his long silent strides. "Because, Midas, I caught the deer that you bloody well ate half of. This is my will and surely there is no harm in it. If he's such a damn cripple but still wanted to join us, clearly he has no problems with getting a fucking beating now does he?" she called back fiercely, some of the crowd grudgingly assenting to her words.
Apparently she wasn't giving him any choice, grinning broadly he silently nodded his assent. There was a brief bustle of activity as she called for a squire to get him a tourney sword, his voice low and simmering with his anger as he muttered "Greatsword." He kept his cloak on and hood up, conscious of how he was putting his anonymity at risk, and observed the fool he was about to unleash all his anger on. Midas already had a sheen of sweat on his brow from his earlier fight, so he wasn't fresh, that much was clear. But he had not seen him fight, only known that it took him longer to defeat the other whelp than it took the woman to defeat her own opponent. He was large, not as large as Sandor though, and his muscles pushed at the chain that covered his chest and arms threateningly. A grin slowly spread across Sandor's face as his hands curled around the familiar weight of the greatsword a skittish squire handed to him, entering his familiar fighting stance as a calm confidence washed over him, tempering his seething rage into a weapon of its own.
Sword still balanced over her own shoulder, Elyse stepped between them briefly and flashed her hand down for them to begin, grinning broadly and eyes glittering as though she actually knew what was about to happen to this great fool across from him. As she darted aside both men rushed forwards, Sandor lamenting the small disadvantage his leg gave him in that moment of distance closing, their swords clashing together hard enough to jar his arms. Thoughts fled as adrenaline flooded through him, battle lust already high and raging, and the slight flicker of fear in his opponent's eyes revealed he also recognized a seasoned warrior- too late for you though, Sandor thought.
Laughter echoed around them as their swords met ferociously several more times, Midas pushing aggressively to end the fight before he could truly tire- and he would well before Sandor, since he had already been fighting. Throwing his weight into one particularly violent clash, Sandor threw Midas back a foot and grinned broadly, taking up the greatsword in one hand mockingly. Laughter and mocking calls towards Midas enraged him and he launched forwards once again with all the fury and speed he could muster, leaving Sandor blocking and deflecting his attacks one-handed while letting out a harsh, gritty laugh of his own. Midas, overwhelmed by anger at the thought of being defeated so easily, became reckless as his fury battled with the exhaustion beginning to claim his limbs.
It all ended too fast, in Sandor's opinion, Midas went for a fierce overhead smash with his sword but was slowed by his straining muscles. Sandor slipped around the sword deftly and brought his gloved fist into Midas' face, hard enough to send the big man down on to his back and dropping his sword, the battle clearly over. A silence claimed the area in the moment of Midas' defeat before roaring up to an exultant cheer as Sandor rested the point of the dull blade to the ground and leaned on it casually, frowning as his eyes landed on Elyse, who was clapping and grinning with a particular gleam in her eyes.
"As I thought." she called out with her low-toned voice, stepping forwards to give Midas a brief hand in standing up and sending him off to the healers tents with a squire and his wounded pride, spinning around to pin Sandor with her gaze. "You don't seem tired, perhaps a more even match will set your blood to pumping. What say you?" she declared boldly while the cheers of men nearby encouraged her. "And what fool would you have me face now? I'm made for killing, not fighting in bloody tourneys, wench." he snarled at her, glaring fiercely as she casually flicked her great sword into her hands and patted the blade against one. "Why, me of course, and that makes two of us. What name do you go by, would-be champion?"
He snorted in disdain, a woman challenging him? "I'm the gravedigger, wench. And you should be servicing men, not fighting them." A roar surged around them, the crowd echoing his sentiment and laughing at her audacity as her eyes narrowed into a glare. He almost didn't react in time to the sword launching at him with a speed to be reckoned with. With barely a moment left he did manage to throw his sword up and deflect her first attack, which she followed up with a ferocious set of thrusts and swings as the crowd crowed at her in dismay for trying to catch him off guard, when he was about to decline her challenge. Soon they had entered a familiar dance, two veterans pressing the attack and going on the defensive between each deadly surge.
He had lost his patience with defending and yelling at the wench to stand down, he wasn't afraid of cutting a woman down and he wasn't going to let himself be bested by one, either. When he pressed his own attack, both hands on his sword to bring all his power to the forefront, he was surprised when she could still block each bone shattering attack without pause, even when the strikes forced her bodily backwards and dragged her feet through the mud. She used her smaller size to her advantage and pressed herself into the space between them as tightly as she could, knowing her smaller swings held more power than his in those quarters, he found himself using his legs to deflect her and his bulk to force her physically backwards when she grew too close to landing hits, which he knew from deflecting her own would hurt something fierce even with a blunted sword, much like his own.
Chants rose around them as their dance wore on, the fog of morning all but burned away, he could vaguely hear "Grave-digger!" and "E-lyse!" Sandor drew her into a dangerous locked position, bodies mashing their swords together as they both heaved for breath, she knew he had a lot of power in the position. They glared at each other, him down at her and her up at him as sweat flew freely off of their hair and dripped from their faces. She looked exultant even with spittle dripping out of the gash in her face, eyes glittering sharply and mouth set in a broad grin. He knew the rush of meeting an equal in battle, but didn't have it in him to feel insulted by her brazen feelings, she was giving what she was getting and no man could deny that.
Their exchange lasted only a moment despite feeling like minutes, it ended as she realized her positional mistake and attempted to launch her body away from his. It was too late though, he had thought that crucial one step ahead of her and hooked his thick leg behind both of hers, leaning forwards with a jerk and using her own backwards momentum against her to send her falling to the ground while he jarred the sword from her hands with a brutal twist and shove.
Her landing in the mud caused an uproar, but it was all dulled by the thundering of blood through his veins, he had lowered his sword expecting her to yield in that moment, but jerked in shock as she leaped up not a moment later and struck him in the face with an unyielding fist while letting out an exultant cry.
Responding automatically, his own heavy fist caught her in the chest with a dull thud as his sword dropped to the ground and they clashed unmercifully, his bulk an advantage that they both understood but stopped caring about as blood lust overrode the original intent of the duel. Mud and blood started flying between them as both stood their ground and traded blows, barely bothering to avoid each others strikes. There was multiple cuts on his face, which she favored striking since he was wearing mail, and the unmistakable crunch of a rib breaking rung through the area from one of his more well placed blows to her side.
The sharp sound of a horn blowing mere feet away jerked the two out of their furious brawl long enough for voices to come back into focus. Elyse apparently recognized the voices yelling and drew away from his reach with a quick jerk and spun to face her superiors. Sandor followed suit slower, fists lowering to his sides as he panted and glared at several of the commanders who had stood against him when he tried to join the Golden Company last night, faces coming into focus as his senses came flooding back to him.
Mud was slowly dripping down her back and from her long braid, sweat and blood mixing and dripping freely from the two of them. Harry Strickland himself had waddled out to witness their brawling and was standing before them like the pathetic whale he was, face red as a beet as he roared "Disgraceful! How did you ever come to be in our illustrious company, Elyse? You're a stain! Punishment is due for attacking a ward of the Golden Company and further ignoring orders from your superiors to avoid confrontations!" Sandor had to admit she handled the tongue lashing stoically, and decided that situations like this must not be an uncommon occurrence with her. He didn't miss the subtle wink she gave him with her swollen eye as she was hauled off to be punished though, was this really her intention?
He was forced to put those thoughts aside as Harry Strickland turned to face him, visibly calmer now that Elyse was out of his hair. "Elyse has dishonored our company, you were under our protection until we decided what to do with you. However, in light of seeing you actually battle, I believe we owe you an apology and I'd like to formally offer you a position in our company as a result of this. Will you accept this and my humble apologies for Elyse' behavior?" Some of the serjeants with him balked visibly at what Harry had said, and Sandor couldn't help but grin. Bugger them. "Aye, I'll join your damn company. Didn't travel half of Westeros to be told no, anyway." Over the sound of his victory, he heard the sound of a whip lashing bared flesh, and he didn't mind one bit.
It was only a matter of time before the opportunity arose to meet the monster his brother had become, and he'd kill him while well armed and well fed; maybe even at the order of his so-called superiors. He could think of worse ways to spend a few years than as a hired sell sword that no one knew, despite his face.
So, what do you think? I have a couple chapters lined up already and I'll post them regardless of reviews, but I appreciate constructive criticism and feedback. :)