The Hound sat in a tavern, over a plate with white chicken bones and an ale in his hand. And he hated everything about it. He hated that the bones were picked perfectly clean, he hated that the ale was stale, he hated that he hadn't paid for either of it and above all, he hated his company.
When he had found the skeleton of the sept with every last one of its builders dead scattered around it, he was pretty damn sure the day couldn't get worse. For once, he had found some peace and quiet and nobody bothered him about the past, then those bannerless cunts showed up and ruined it all. He wanted to at least pay the cunts back for what they had done, and what did he find? More bannerless cunts.
Two of them were sitting on the bench on the other side of the table, being way too charitable for the Hound's liking. Yeah, yeah, he got to hang two of the other cunts, the ones responsible for the massacre. Hanging wasn't very satisfying. It was a quick, clean death, nothing that really sent a message to anyone. But it was all he got. No, not all. He also got a chicken to fill his rumbling stomach, a mug of stale ale and the boots of a dead man. What splendor.
The priest had been neither drunk nor sober earlier. A few hours in this tavern had firmly driven him in the arms of the former. And the Hound hated it. Because Thoros of Myr, the legend who had stormed the gates during the Siege of Pyke, was fucking annoying when he was drunk. It was fucking annoying that he just wouldn't shut up, it was fucking annoying that his friend didn't seem to mind and it was fucking annoying that they had the coins to pay for all that wine and hadn't had to wear a dead man's boots.
"Maybe you should give it some more thought," the annoying cunt with the eyepatch suggested.
The Hound sighed. "You two pillow-biters just can't take no for an answer, can you?"
The drunk cunt just smirked at that and got up from the bench, then nearly fell over, but through dumb luck, he managed to find hold on the other cunt's shoulder. The Hound rolled his eyes and took another sip of the awful ale. The Seven Kingdoms for a slightly more pleasant drink, maybe horse piss. He reached over the table, took the cup the drunk priest had abandoned and poured it down. The priest didn't notice; he was busy trying to straddle his not so drunk friend, once more barely avoiding to fall over sideways.
"You don't look like a man for whom many doors open these days," Beric calmly replied and watched Clegane put the empty cup down on the table. "And we don't even have doors!" Thoros added, as if he was proud of living in a fucking cave. His efforts had succeeded, and he slung his arm around Beric, placed a kiss on his eyepatch and pulled Beric's head against his chest like a child would do with a favorite pet.
Beric had reached for his wine, but now he just let the hand sink back on the table and withdrew his head enough from Thoros' arms to look back at Clegane. He was by far not as drunk as the priest half slumped over him, and he managed to stoically ignore this fact, like a man who had sailed through such storms a hundred times and knew all he could do was wait it out under deck.
"How the fuck do you live with that?" the Hound sighed with an audible eyeroll.
"You were building a sept before you found us," Beric replied, unimpressed by the question and Thoros hanging over his shoulder. "Clearly, you were looking for something men cannot give you."
The Hound let out a huffed, unamused laughter. "Unlike you two." He shot a snide glance to Thoros. Maybe the drunk cunt had finally fallen asleep.
"I have forgiven you for killing me," Beric continued, now reaching for his wine, but the Hound was faster. "Maybe it is time you start forgiving yourself. And we can help you with that," Beric finished and watched Clegane empty the cup.
"You can trust him," Thoros, annoyingly not asleep, declared with the certainty that came only a few drinks short of oblivion. "I love this man like a brother."
"That just makes it worse," the Hound sighed and stared to the window, only to be annoyed by the night in the rain he didn't look forward to.
"I ask no oath of you, or that you follow my orders," Beric said and was promptly interrupted by his priest.
"I'm picky about whose orders I follow," he slurred into Beric's shoulder. "That's fine with us."
The Hound huffed, but Beric continued: "All I ask of you is that you try. Come with us, as Sandor Clegane. Leave the Hound behind, with all the other things that broke in the war."
The Hound glared at the chicken bones, the stale ale and the cups. Felt his feet, in the boots of a dead man. Then Sandor Clegane's gaze wandered up, to the two cunts on the other bench, and regarded them thoughtfully.
"Alright," he finally said. "But no promises that I won't kill you again."