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Thank you for reading and to the first and only reviewer )))

Two

He dreamt of Sansa's gentle hand on the ruin of his face…

"Get up, Hound!" the toad with stripes painted on him bellowed loudly, ruining his pretty dream of ladies and true knights. "Stannis won't wait."

"Go bugger yourself with a hot poker, Blount!" Sandor Clegane found his rasping growl before he was able to open either of his eyes. His head was pounding. Too much wine.

He was commanding at the King's Gate with stomach full of wine and ale before he realised something was wrong. The battle… he vaguely remembered it. There will be burning… I will be burned again. Apprehension paralysed him entirely after the first sortie. The sellsword whispered something about the chain being lifted. He realised he had heard it all before, and his fear kept growing. He had never been that afraid in his life. He felt like a fool with the gift of premonition.

The Hound never led the second sortie, never waited for the third one, nor for the dwarf to shame him and take over his men. How do I know the Imp should come? Sandor just told his men he was going to take a piss and never came back.

All taverns were his by rights. Contrary to his habits, he took and drank whatever he wanted without leaving any coin for it. The drunken haze took over. He blanked out. In some dark place, was it a castle? he sank down next to a cold wall with a flagon of wine in each hand.

I will drink myself to death tonight, he thought and he would have done it.

A lady… screamed. He left his wine. He could barely walk up the stairs in his condition and it would be a miracle if he could hold a sword; yet he crept up on all fours as the dog he was, retching as he went. It almost felt as if he were swimming up through the stench of wildfire, and the hold of wine over his brains. He had to do something. He'd never done anything before.

He came to a door which gaped open. Broken down. A man with a grey, lifeless, pockmarked face almost as ugly as Sandor was dragging a girl from under her bed. Where have I seen him before? The girl screamed and squirmed as the man lifted a shiny greatsword high in the air above his head, and brought it down towards her neck.

The Hound growled and lurched forward with his own sword and the girl must have wrenched away at the same moment. Sandor's blade passed through the junction in armour between the man's waist and loins, driven by the force of his massive body. The strike was clumsy, but the surprise and strength worked in his favour. The point of the sword came out on the other side. The Hound pushed the ugly man away, not caring in the least for the messy way in which the bugger was going to die.

All his attention was for the girl and he had no idea who she was. She lay in the puddle of her own blood, gushing from one of her shoulder blades. The Hound staggered to her bed and methodically tore off a large piece of a sweet smelling blanket. More firmly than it was necessary, he pressed it on the girl's shoulder and put her other hand on it.

"Hold it!" he snarled at her. "Wait for me. Never let go!"

He sat on the first step. He almost rolled back down the stairs, decided against it and chose to descend on his armoured arse instead. He'd never be able to walk down in his condition without breaking his neck. Where is that wine?

All the torches were gone from the castle, which started to ring with the sounds of looting. So the battle is lost. Finally, he found the flagon. Walking up was easier.

There was a hearth in the girl's room. Long practice of doing the same for himself enabled him to heat the wine in his helm. He noticed one ear was scorched on it, just like his own. He told her to bite on his left hand as he poured boiled wine over her wound. She did as she was told. She never screamed, just whimpered as he somehow bandaged the wound. The cut was deep. Valyrian steel was not to be trifled with. He hoped she was not going to die. He carried her to her featherbed and he wanted to sleep…

As an afterthought, he returned to the man he killed, hauled him on his back and threw him down the stairs. Best if they find him elsewhere.

Accomplished, he returned to the bed.

Compulsively, he took the girl into his arms. It wasn't enough. He let her go for a little while. He never thought he could remove his armour while being so drunk. Yet he did it, more by tearing it apart than by properly unclasping it.

He took the girl in his arms again. That was much better. She was very cold.

"Don't die, will you?" he asked of her.

"I never wanted to," she said in a weak voice. "I thought I did, when they killed my father, to shame all who betrayed me, but then I couldn't… couldn't…"

Her voice abandoned her.

He held her tighter, closer to his face. She didn't fight it. She didn't look at him either and that caused a dull ache in his soul. He was too drunk to be angry.

Then, one of her hands went to his bad cheek, cold as ice. This was what he always wanted, this was… He should tell her something. He wished he weren't drunk, but he was. Her hand was on his scars, tracing them. It was too good to be true. He forgot what he should tell her.

"Not a lord," she smiled tremulously at him, and closed her beautiful blue eyes.

He could barely hear her. Oblivion took him and his world turned black.