Author's note:

Hello everyone, I am back with another story. This one has an unrealistic premise and isn't meant to be taken too seriously. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1: Drunk

As pathetic as it sounded, but Sandor Clegane was well aware that he was no stranger to the various states of being drunk.

Usually, it started with a slight tipsiness, the sort that spread warmth comfortably through your belly and from there to your limbs. Warmed like this, seemingly boundless energy pumps through your veins then, making you feel as if the world is your playground and you are its hero.

If you plan to get a whore under you, that is the best moment to do so, because at this point, you can still get hard while not caring about much anymore. Not about their disgusted faces or their empty eyes, not about their theatrics and their pitiful attempts at pretending.

If you keep drinking then, memories recede and leave you comfortably, wonderfully numb and tired, ready to curl up right where you stand and sleep for centuries. Which is actually the right point to find your bed and do just that, because if you're still guzzling wine by then, the lights will start to wobble and double, your steps will be those of a sailor on a ship tossed in a storm. Usually, the cycle ends with either a comatose sleep wherever you happen to keel over, or with losing the contents of your stomach. Sometimes both.

The one thing he hadn't experienced so far, was seeing glowing lights dance in front of his eyes while stumbling through a dark passageway, trying to find his way to his own bed.

Glowing lights that - on further inspection - turned out to have the shape of a tiny woman, weirdly reminding him of Sansa Stark. Then again, anything reminded her of the little bird these days.

To be quite honest, she was the very reason he was so drunk in the first place.

Her and that big mailed fist that had landed in her lovely face, not for the first time, leaving her with a split lip and a bruise on her chin that would surely be purple tomorrow.

It hadn't been his fist, but it might have as well been, for all he had done to prevent it from happening. He'd stood by, angry, yes, but motionless and with his face carefully void of expression and hoping Joffrey would be satisfied with the blood Blount had drawn.

He was a fucking coward, that's what he was.

So he'd gone and got himself well and truly drunk, trying to forget his helplessness and his cowardice; trying to silence the voice inside his head that forever urged him to protect and defend her and most of all trying to quench the desire to draw her in his arms and never let her go again.

That last one was the most disturbing of all. He had his bouts of chivalry, nothing new there. Injustice had never stopped unnerving him, no matter how inundated his life as the Lannister's dog should have made him to it, no matter how much he told himself that the world was an awful place that no one – least of all a man like him – would ever be able to change. A man like him surely was rather part of the problem than of the solution.

But with her, it was more than faint pity, the acknowledgement of injustice done to someone undeserving. With her, it was the burning wish to fold himself around her, be her sword and her shield and see to it that everything and everyone who tried hurting her would have to go through him to reach her.

For a while, he'd told himself that all he wanted was to fuck her. That would get her out of his system in no time, judging by the way he forgot a whore's face the moment he turned and left.

Unfortunately, he had a thing for beautiful women, Cersei being no exception. Now the lovely Sansa Stark. Too bad that "opposites attract" didn't work with ugly men and beautiful women. Would certainly be less of a drain on his purse if it worked that way and he wouldn't need to pay for cunt all the time.

Then again, in his more sober moments, he was well aware he couldn't even imagine fucking her. He had a thing for beautiful women, yes, but they had to be women, not children. He'd never understood those who asked for girls Sansa's age in the brothels, 'anyone whose age is on the clock' as they called it, and in his less than glorious moments he'd been known to knock the lights out of louts who openly showed this propensity while he was there to witness it.

He leaned against the wall next to him, the glowing mist in front of his eyes making his head spin so much he feared he would fall down if he'd try and go on. The mist dispersed into tiny glittering motes of dust as he swatted at it, but then coalesced into the form of a tiny girl again.

A girl with tiny wings. A little bird, it seemed.

Wait, what? He shook his head, closed his eyes and tried to clear his vision.

Without success. There she was, tiny, golden, and fluttering to keep on his eye-level.

"Hello Sandor," the fluttery thing greeted him politely and with the refined accents of a highborn maiden.

"Hello," he greeted back stupidly, too surprised about his vision being able to talk to think of another reaction.

"I am a fairy, sent by the Old Gods to fulfil three of your wishes."

Once again he tried to get rid of the vision with so much head-shaking and eye-closing and rubbing his hands over his face, he was about to make himself sick.

I wish I didn't have such a taste for wine all the time, he thought groggily. Maybe that would help with the whole seeing fairies thing.

"Granted," the little thing chirped happily and before he could even start to sort his wine-soaked thoughts, his stomach clenched and heaved.

He barely managed to turn to the side before the whole content of his stomach came up, so foul it made him retch until he was dry-heaving. With his hands braced against his knees, his throat burning and his eyes watering from the cramping in his stomach, he was nonetheless aware the gold-dusted apparition was still around.

"I didn't...," he started, gasped and fought down another wave of heaving. "I didn't even say anything!"

"That's not necessary," the glowing wisp informed him haughtily, little nose in the air. "We grant even your most secret wishes you only have in the privacy of your thoughts."

He scoffed and straightened up carefully. His head felt a bit clearer now, but apparently not enough to stop the stupid-ass vision that still danced merrily in front of his face.

"Bugger off," he growled at it, while carefully trying to set one foot in front of the other, slowly making his way back to the keep, to sleep off whatever plagued him.

Maybe it is a dream, he thought. It certainly wouldn't be the weirdest he ever had, although his usually contained blood and fire. Additionally, his gut felt way too sore for this not to be real, but one could never know. Maybe he'd passed out drunk, had vomited in his sleep and the cramps in his gut were the part that was actually real. Once again, sad as it was, it wouldn't be the first time something like this happened.

If it WAS a dream, then maybe the best thing to do would be to bring it to whatever conclusion it needed to have.

"I wish for three more wishes," he said, just to be contrary.

The tiny thing pouted, then fluttered towards him to land on his shoulder. Slapping at it, admittedly somewhat uncoordinated, only produced a puff of golden dust and then she sat there again.

"Don't tell me you don't know that's against the rules," she chided. "You cannot wish for more wishes, you cannot change the past and you cannot wish for someone to die."

"Pity," he said, thinking of Gregor and then a whole list of people, realizing he would need more than one fairy for them. IF killing people wasn't against some damned fairy rule. Luckily, he had arms strong enough and a sword sharp enough to do away with those in his way, no need for any wishes.

"I wish...," he started and stopped again as her face appeared in his mind, too young and so very lovely. A face averted in horror every time she saw him. "I wish I wouldn't have this," he said, pointing to his face. "Make me whole again, why don't you?"

He turned his head, which nearly made him stumble into a wall and gave the fairy a triumphant, challenging look. See which fairy rules she comes up with now.

"Granted," the wisp said simply, waving her little glowing hands.

Nothing happened.

Just to make sure, he clumsily groped his face to find everything as it always had been.

"Figures," he mumbled, too drunk and too tired to laugh about his own idiotic expectations. Even in his dreams, things never went his way.

"You will have to go to sleep," the fairy told him earnestly. "Wishes like that take a night's sleep for the transformation magic to take effect."

Now, he did laugh, even though it did nothing for either his dizziness or the cramps in his stomach.

"Oh, sure, of course," he snorted, "transformation magic, how stupid of me."

She pouted again. "Have you never heard of something or someone who changed overnight?"

"Never had someone telling me fairy tales and wouldn't believe in them even if I had."

"Believe me or not, you'll see in the morning," she said, still pouting.

He shook his head, trying another approach. Maybe the apparition would go away if he ignored it.

"You should think about your last wish with a clearer mind," the gentle voice piped up again after he'd made some progress towards his destination. "I'll be back tomorrow. Don't forget that I will grant it as soon as you think 'I wish'."

He grunted his acknowledgement of the absurdity, hoping it would finally rid him of the little golden-dusted plague and to his surprise, it did.

Finding his chambers and bed at last, he collapsed face-first into it, dead to the world.

...

tbc