DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original ASOIAF characters. They belong to GRRM. Erik and Christine belong to Gaston Leroux; Wulfgar, Catti-Brie and Drizzt belong to RA Salvatore and finally, the Bonnie Prince Charlie, Edward Waverley and Ian vich Vohr belong to sir walter Scott.
Short crossovers with different literary works, spurred by similarities in characterization and plot. Quite crack.
Rated for language: Sandor and Maelys do not know how to behave.
Flame me all you want, I'm fireproof.
Enjoy!
P.S. This collection of drabbles has already appeared on the Valyrian Forged subcommunity of Westeros Sorting LJ community. Yep, sereq ieh dashret is me.
"She had hair like autumn leaves, eyes like a summer sky and a voice like a songbird…" said Sandor, downing yet another cup of dornish red.
The masked man, Erik, nodded and refilled his glass. "Yes, my Christine as well. She sang like an angel and she was so pure, so innocent…" he drawled, half-drunk.
"Aye, I know. I didn't know half of the time if I wanted to protect her or fuck her senseless." the burnt man replied.
Erik nodded again and drank deeply, not even feeling the taste of the wine. "Oh hell, I would have been content with just a bit of touching. – he chuckled darkly – As if she would touch a monster like me…"
"What happened to your face?" Sandor asked.
"Nature happened." Erik replied depressively.
"At least it didn't hurt." Sandor concluded.
Erik looked at him with a trace of amusement. "I drink to this." he said downing his wine in a very ungentlemanly way.
"Aye. – Sandor echoed – To little songbirds and cranky bastards."
The two men sitting at the table were not exactly alike, one was blond and the other raven-haired, one dressed in furs and the other in wool and mail, but they were similar, both tall, muscular and broad-shouldered and manly enough to attract the attention of all the ladies in the tavern.
Two massive warhammers rested near the table.
"I just could not believe it, Robert. – the blond said, thumping his tankard of ale on the table – I leave for a while and she goes with that purple-eyed bastard beyond my back!"
His companion sputtered half of his wine on the table. "What? Your girlfriend too, Wulfgar?"
The blond barbarian nodded.
"Sad story… - the knight commented – what did you do to her?"
"She said I was too possessive and chauvinist, whatever this might mean. - Wulfgar scoffed – And you? What did you do?"
Robert did not reply, transfixed by the sight of a very well-endowed barmaid.
"Riight." the barbarian said, shaking his head. Sometimes he almost thought they had deserved it.
Charles Edward Stuart stared at the figure in front of him as if to convince himself that it could not be real, but as much as he could blink and rub his eyes, the man just wouldn't disappear.
"Serves me well for drinking all that uisequebagh with Vich Ian Vohr and Eddie Waverley a few hours ago." the young Pretender thought.
The man, who had been glaring at him for the past few minutes, was attired in a suit of black armour, all dented and bloody in places, minus a helm, and was wielding a massive claymore and a targe, which was already beyond bizarre, but not the strangest thing about him.
A two-headed knight was a bit too inventive even for a drunken dream in savage Scotland.
"What the hell are you smirking at?" the man said angrily.
"I am merely complimenting myself for my imagination. I never thought I could come up with something so peculiar." the Bonnie Prince Charles replied.
The bizarre man cursed loudly and fluently.
"Holy f#**! S*%&! A#*hole! Dying by the hand of that bastard Selmy is not bloody enough? Do I have to be mocked in the afterlife by a boy with milk on his lips?"
Charles Edward tried his best not to feel offended by the man's cutting remarks.
He seemed upset enough to cut him into pieces with that great bloody claymore and, even if it was a dream, he didn't particularly relish the idea of being cleaved apart.
"I am sorry about your untimely demise, sir. – he said, courteously but somewhat awkwardly. He had never had to give sympathy to anyone about their own death before – How did it come to pass?"
The man scoffed. "Tried to reclaim my ancestors' bloody throne. It didn't bloody work, obviously enough."
Charles Edward kept on smiling sympathetically, but his insides froze.
He hoped very hard this was not a prophetic dream.