The two boys giggled as they ran out of the building, clutching the small wooden toys.

Sitting between two oil burning braziers, the six-year-olds began to play with the painted figurines. Sandor had claimed the little wooden knight for himself, while Nikolas had claimed the carved dragon.

"Are you sure it's okay to take these?" Nikolas whispered to his friend, his big brown eyes wide. He was scared of Gregor. Despite being 12, the boy was bigger than his father, and meaner than a bear.

"We're just borrowing them," Sandor shrugged. "Besides, Gregor said he's too old to play with toys."

"Nikky," a small voice called. "Sando?"

The boy huffed loudly. "Stupid 'Dora," he sighed. His three-year-old sister was always desperate to play with him and his friend. "I better go."

Sandor nodded slowly, waving his friend off before going back to playing with the knight. His brother was a squire, and soon would take his vows. Sandor couldn't wait til he was old enough to become a knight.

He was so busy playing he didn't hear his brother approach until the shadow fell. Sandor looked up with a grin, but his face quickly fell when he saw the expression on Gregor's face.

"I was just playing," he whimpered, as his elder brother grabbed him by the hair. He's going to beat me, Sandor thought. But instead of hitting him, or undoing his belt, Gregor thrust Sandor' face forward, into the burning brazier.

The pain was awful, and Sandor didn't recognise the tortured screams that came out his mouth. Worst still was the smell of his burning squeezed his eyes tightly closed and prayed to the Seven.

His screams became louder as the pain grew, and he kicked, trying to move. Gregor was strong though, and held the boy in place. A servant tried to prise Gregor off but the large boy shook him off. It took three servants to pull Gregor back and by that time half of his little brother's face was burned down to the bone.

"What's going on?" Their father's voice boomed as he stormed out the house, a servant scuttling behind him.

"He stole," Gregor growled - the first words he had said since he arrived. "I punished him."

Their father turned his eyes to his youngest son, who had now fainted. The sight of his boy's face made him feel sick.

"Bring him inside," he hissed. "No one can know Gregor did this. Selene - call the Maester. Tell him...tell him a candle fell on Sandor's bedding during the night. And if anyone breathes a word of what really happened, I'll flog you to death."

As the servants muttered their promises, no one saw a pair of small blue eyes blink, or a small hand wipe away the tears and snot that covered her face. "Sando," she whimpered.


TWENTY YEARS LATER

"Well struck, dog," Joffrey hooted, as his sworn shield left his opponent for dead.

Sandor removed his helm and walked back to the platform upon which the Prince sat, beside the broad King Robert and Queen Cersei.

The announcer looked down at his parchment. "The freerider Ser Lantell of the Westerlands."

Sandor's head snapped up. Lantell. There were only two Lantells he knew of fighting age - could it be his old friend Nikolas had come to King's Landing?

His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he watched the melee, trying to ignore the King's half-drunk chuckles as Nikolas swung his sword gracefully to defeat Baelish's freerider. Leaving the man alive but wounded, the knight bowed low to the King, Queen and crown Prince.

The knight moved to the announcer and whispered in his ear.

"Ser Lantell has requested to fight the Hound," the announcer revealed, shock in his voice.

King Robert turned to his son. "It's your name day. What do you say, boy?"

Joffrey leaned forward in his throne, taking in the small figure before him. "Since Lantell is sworn to my dear mother's house...I'll allow it if my dog agrees."

It felt like all eyes turned to Sandor as he nodded his head.

Pulling on his dog's head helm, he sloped down to the ground. Before he could utter a word of greeting to his old friend, the King bellowed "Fight!"

A sword swung at Sandor's head and he had to act quickly to block it. Is that how it is? He thought with a wry smile, well, I won't go easy on you either, you old fuck.

After Gregor had burned him, Nikolas and Sandor had been even more inseparable. They began to practice with wooden swords, then on to metal ones, with plans to become as big and strong as Sandor's elder brother.

Then came Robert's Rebellion. Aged 12, Sandor joined the battles, while Nikolas stayed home. The pair hadn't seen each other since.

Nikolas may have known Sandor's older moves, but a lot of battles and fights over the years had taught him that fighting styles didn't matter - strength did, and he was currently winning as his old friend began to flag.

"Had enough?" The bigger man laughed for what felt like the first time in years as he rested his sword tip on his opponent's neck.

He looked at the eyes of his partner, expecting to see brown orbs laughing back at him. Instead he was staring into a pair of twinkling blue eyes. "Not by a long shot, Sando," came the clear response.

In shock, Sandor's sword fell down to his side. "Isadora? The fuck?"

She took this opportunity to push him onto the ground, before bowing with a big flourish.

As Sandor, the royals and the courtyard watched with their mouths open, Isadora walked away.


The whole of King's Landing was buzzing by nightfall about how an unknown knight had beaten the Hound. Sandor was only grateful that it wasn't common knowledge that he'd been beaten by a girl...even if she had cheated.

He spent the next day searching for the armour clad woman, and asking around for Ser Lantell, to no avail.

He had almost given up when he heard a familiar laugh. He wheeled around to see a lady in a sea green dress politely laughing with an older gentleman. Sandor stormed over and placed a large hand on her shoulder.

As she span round, he scowled down at her, taking in the intricate plaits in her dirty blonde hair, that stupid mole on her cheekbone and those mischief filled blue eyes.

"The fuck are you playing at?" He growled.

"Ser!" The older man said, shocked, before looking up at Sandor and gulping.

Isadora, however, grinned for a second before quickly composing her face to reply "Hello, Sandor."

The man, slightly recovered from his shock, hissed loudly "You didn't tell me you knew the Hound!" His hand clutched at Isadora's wrist, nails digging in.

Isadora looked down, as if chagrined. "Sandor is an old friend of my brother." She paused and looked between the two.

"Where are my manners? William, this is Sandor Clegane. Sandor, this is Willian Peckledon. My husband."


As the old man wittered on about how his grandson Josmyn was soon to become squire for Jamie Lannister, Sandor just stared at the girl he had grown up with.

Admittedly, it had been over 12 years since they had seen each other last, but the skinny nine year old he knew would never have married a man three times her age without a fight.

"My dear," she said, interrupting her husband's story, "I'm afraid that glass of wine at lunch has tired me out. I know you must mingle, but I do believe that I need to lie down. Sandor can escort me back to our rooms safely."

Oh, can I? He thought, but nodded in acquiescence like a good dog.

Before her husband could even open his mouth to respond, Isadora wrapped her arm through the tall soldier's and began to drag him towards the castle.

"What in seven fucking hells are you playing at, girl?" Sandor muttered through gritted teeth.

She shot him a warning glance, and picked up her pace.

It was only once they arrived at her room and closed the door behind that she squealed loudly and jumped on the taller man, giving him an unexpected hug.

"The fuck?" He demanded.

"Oh, I know. I didn't mean to fool you at the fight. But I get so little freedom and when I saw you, I couldn't resist!" She shrugged, as if it was no big deal.

"What are you doing here? And with a man old enough to be Brandon the fucking Builder?"

Isadora sighed and flopped on the bed. "That's where I was hoping you could help. It turns out an arranged marriage is not for me."

Sandor's eyes narrowed.

"How would you feel about helping me kill him?"

He barked a laugh. "The fuck should I do that for?"

"Oh, I don't know. Because I'm the sister of your friend? Because you want to help a damsel in distress?"

Sandor paused. She was Nikolas's little sister and that man was as old as time. But while he was happy to kill on cue, there was a difference in being a sworn sword and a murderer.

"Or," Isadora added, seeing his dilemma. "Because I'll give myself to you for a night."


author's note: this is a story I've been play with for a while and I thought what better time than the lovely Rory McCann's 50th birthday to see what you all think. I'm uploading the first two chapters so let me know your thoughts and if you like it!