He didn't really remember the fall. Someone once said "When the fall's all that's left, it's all that matters."

Well, it mattered a great deal right now. When he awoke, it felt like every single bone in his body was broken, but he first started to work his hands, then feet, then arms and legs. His body screamed in protest as he stood up, slipping and sliding on what was left of his brother. He only knew one thing:

Get. Out.

Get. Out!

He scrambled out of the flames, choking on the acrid smoke and the heat that lapped at him. His boots skidded upon the cobblestones, the roar of buildings crumbling before him. He limped and collapsed, limped a few more yards and then fell again.

A hand. A strong one. A raspy, soft voice guiding him. Helping him to safety.

"I got you, son. Here, we're almost safe, just… Lean on me. Oof, too much leaning, TOO MUCH LEANING!"

Sandor tried to open his eyes but his brother had taken care of one and the heat and seared the other one closed. Suddenly, his boots were upon wood… Water splashing could be heard amongst the chaos. The hands let him go and he was immediately dunked beneath the cool water. It felt good on his body, in his lungs, helping to clear away the dust in his mind too.

The hands pulled him back up and guided him back to the safety of the shallows.

"Stay here, son." The voice commanded. "Stay right here, and I'll be back to get you."

Sandor could only nod as the screams of the terrified villagers echoed around him. If this was hell, why was there a good person here helping him? He must have survived, against all odds, and now there was a man here guiding him to safety.

He put his head below the water again, wiping his eyes of the dust, the blood, and the gravel. Finally, he resurfaced and blinked hard. Both eyes were blurred, but he could see a bit in each, just colors. He continued to rinse out his eyes until the throbbing went away, and then he wished he hadn't.

King's Landing was no more. It was hell. This was indeed hell. Everything was rubble, everyone was dead or dying, and the smoke and flames climbed higher and higher on the horizon. He started to rinse out his mouth, swishing the ashen water around and spitting, until his lungs felt like he could actually draw a breath again.

A figure in black appeared and knelt before him, giving him a cask and cupping his mouth so he could drink. He resisted at first, but soon, the cool clean water filled his stomach and cleared his throat. He spat a bit but then gave the figure a nod of thanks.

"Stay right here, son," the figure told him again. "Can you use a sword?"

Sandor nodded again, and felt a light blade being pressed into his hand.

"Defend the dock," the figure ordered. "Defend the children."

"Children?" He rasped.

The figure turned his head to the group huddled at the very end of the dock, looks of sheer terror upon all their faces. Sandor blinked hard again, and finally, his vision cleared and he could actually see the person in front of him.

Davos fucking Seaworth.

"Got it?" Davos pressed his forehead against Sandor's. "Defend the dock, defend the children."

Sandor stood up on unsteady legs with Davos' help and watched as the poor old man disappeared amongst the hell that was fire, blood, and death. Mounted riders everywhere, Unsullied with their spears, and a fucking dragon flying overhead raining down fire.

All afternoon, Davos returned with more and more children, each time giving him a nod of thanks as he walked past. Sandor would sit on one of the pier posts, trying to gather strength for the fight that was to come.

Finally, one of the Dothraki noticed him and pulled his horse to a stop in front of the dock. He dismounted with his arakh, its wicked curved blade shimmering in the firelight. Sandor tried to stand, but his one leg felt busted again, but he'd be damned to the Seven Hells if he was going to let a Dothraki take him down!

He gritted his teeth and leaned into the other man's charge, easily running the light sword through him. He kicked him down into the water, drawing the attention of more and more riders. Horses, men, and weapons all came, and Sandor took all comers down.

Davos finally showed in the twilight, a babe in his arms, looking around with wide tear-streamed eyes.

"Come now," he told the children, herding them up the gangplank and onto one of the only ships that had been spared by the fire.

"Here," Davos practically threw the babe at Sandor. "I'll need all the help I can get."

Davos pulled anchor, checked the lines, and unwrapped them from their cleats and finally was able to free the ship from all the debris and bodies floating in the water. When they made their way out of the port, an eerie silence had settled amongst the children and two adults.

Slowly, one by one, they turned to look back. Back into the fire. Back into their hell.