The Hound
Sansa pushes him down onto the bed, his clothes sliding away with a mind of their own; she climbs on top of him, straddling his lap, and leans down to plant a kiss on his neck. She purrs as she does it, making Sandor's erection spring up and smack her between her legs. His Little Bird giggles and reaches down, embracing his thick member with ease, guiding it up into the folds of her womanhood. It's moist with anticipation, and sucks him inside with hunger. Sandor wraps his muscular, scarred arms around her; feeling her warm, squishy body—his bristly chest-hair rubbing against her perky breasts. Sansa moans in his ears, "Take me, Sandor! I'm yours!"
Then Sandor wakes up, and the only thing real about his dream is his massive, throbbing boner. One of his pillows is pinned between his legs, and his arms are hugging the other, leaving his head resting on a hard, wooden bed. Outside his window, men are screaming in the courtyard below. Grunting in annoyance, The Hound stands up, throwing his blanket off of him—and whirls around the room completely naked. What the fuck is going on?!
The Hound rushes to the open hole in the wall and sees people fighting each-other. The Crannogmen throw their three-pronged spears and fling arrows and darts from long tubes, but the men in armor deflect the incoming attacks with shields made of steel and wield longswords and axes. With the fog engulfing the battle, it's impossible from up here in the keep to make out everything. The Frog-Eaters don't stand a fucking chance! Who are these men, how did they find this place, and more importantly, why couldn't this have waited five more fucking minutes?!
The Hound had been given what could only be called a closet to sleep in with a bed fit for a toddler. Bran and Meera insisted it was alright for him to sleep in the room with them if he wanted, but The Hound said "Bugger that." Now he regrets it. Beyond his door, The Hound can hear chaos in the halls, people shouting indiscriminately while bodies thud across the floor beams. Something explodes outside the tower as The Hound searches for where he put his sword, finding it fallen over on the floor in the shadows by the pile of his clothes. Just as he picks it up, he hears shouting right outside his door from a man with a deep, gravelly voice. "Up here! They've got to be here!"
The Hound growls and kicks the door open. It flies off its weakly constructed hinges, and the door collides with whoever it is that's standing right behind it. There's a cry of surprise as the man falls over—The Hound tackling his shoulder into the door, pinning him underneath his weight. He sees two arms cloaked in leather reach out on either side of the doors, flailing about hopelessly for purchase. Climbing on his knees, keeping the stranger pinned underneath him, The Hound takes his longsword in both hands and plunges it down into the wood, hearing a satisfying crunch as the man's muffled cries gurgle. A puddle of blood forms up from the wood. The Hound grins and stands up, pulling his sword out and wiping the blood off on his forearm. Not the first time I've killed a man butt-naked. Feels just as strange as the last time. The hallway is clear for now, but he can hear pounding footsteps coming up the winding stairs.
"Hold on, I hear something…" Whispers one of the men, and he sounds just around the corner. The Hound sneaks his way to the edge of the wall and waits in silence for the men to pass. Both men have brown, leather armor and on their backs, The Hound recognizes a sigil belonging not to a House—but a group of Sellswords he can't remember the name of. Depicted on their backs is a broken sword. One of the men has a custard-yellow bandanna around his head, and the other has long, braided, blue hair and black, shiny skin.
"Oh Gods, Stevron's down." The man with the bandanna gasps as they come across The Hound's work. "Quickly, let's search the rooms and—" The Hound's sword juts out from his face, ripping an eye out and ceasing whatever words he was about to say next. As he collapses, The Hound ruptures his sword out from the man's skull just in time to block an incoming attack from the Sellsword on his right. Steel grinds against steel as both men struggle to keep each-other at bay in the tight quarters of this corridor. The Sellsword's eyes briefly go down to The Hound's fully erect cock—The Hound relents on the pressure of his sword, allowing the Sellsword to stumble in closer—close enough for The Hound to smash his forehead to his nose. The bones in his face break from impact, and the Sellsword reels away in pain, allowing The Hound to swing his sword down into his neck, sinking it several feet deep inside his torso through bone and muscle. With a grunt and a tug, The Hound pulls his blade out from his fat, black corpse and turns to face the stairway—prepared for any more invaders to come springing out at him.
But it's the door to his left that startles him. Meera Reed pokes her head out and freezes when her eyes land on the three dead bodies lying around The Hound's feet. His dick wags, still erect from his dream, and he makes no effort to hide himself as he shouts, "Get the Stark boy! We're leaving!"
"Put some clothes on first!" Meera snaps back, slamming the door shut. The Hound grunts and returns to his room, stepping over the broken door, grabbing up his linens from the floor, and pulls them on with haste. By the time he's done yanking on his boots, there's more commotion down below and he can smell smoke. He rushes back into the hall and pounds his fist on Meera's door. It rattles like it's about to burst inward when Meera opens it, dragging Bran in their make-shift sled made of sticks, vines, and leaves. Meera's equipped with her spear and Bran has a dagger hiding beneath his blanket, both of them glaring up at him with resolve.
"I thought you said this place was impossible to find!" The House snarls at them, eyeing the stairway.
"It is! This isn't supposed to happen!" Meera hisses, examining the dead men on the floor. "Who are they?"
"Sellswords from across the bloody Narrow Sea." The Hound begrudgingly answers.
"But how could they know where this is?!"
"Someone obviously fucking told them. Now let's get the hell out of here. Stay behind me."
Down the winding steps, The Hound ducks low to see as far ahead as he can. Meera struggles to drag Bran down the steps, and Sandor decides to turn around and help carry him down—the coast is clear anyway. Once they're on the second floor, The Hound presses his ear to the brick, moss-rotten wall and hears women screaming as if from torture while men hoot and holler. "They're raping the women. We should go while they're distracted." He whispers to Bran and Meera, and both of them glare at him with dismay.
Meera exclaims angrily, "We can't just leave them like this, it's not right! They're my people!"
"They're already dead, and so will we if we don't leave. I don't know how many are in there, and I'm not risking my neck or yours over it." The Hound continues down the next set of stairs but is forced to stop when Meera remains rooted to the spot, and his clutch on Bran's sled threatens to slip. He glowers at her but she's glaring right back, and he can tell there'd be no hope arguing with her. I could knock her out but then I'll have to carry them both. Damn the Gods, this better be quick.
The room is Howland Reed's Dining Hall, and where the highest born of the Crannogmen once sat and dined on Lizard-Lion meat, there are now men in armor serving themselves to the women and serving wenches that served Greywater Watch. Nobody notices The Hound and Meera enter, for the invaders either have their backs to the door or are too distracted with their raping to look away. I count six of them. Fuck me. I haven't done this in a while. The Hound casually strides toward the closest man, his back to him; the armored rapist is in the middle of pumping his groin in and out of a screaming, green-skinned woman, bending her over one of the tables where dirty dishes lay sprawled in heaps. Her hair is a strangled mess with missing patches from where her tormentor had ripped at her scalp with his bare hands. His footsteps echo enough to catch one of the other's attention from across the hall, but it's far too late. The Hound lifts his sword with one hand, tapping the rapist on his shoulder with his other. When the man looks around (Gods, he's uglier than I expected), The Hound greets him with a swift, narrow-eyed smile before bringing his blade down over the center of his confused, blushing face.
This alerts the others. The one who noticed him first pulls his cock out from the Crannogwoman he has on the floor and stands up, wrestles with his belt, and points at the Hound panic-stricken, shrieking, "We've got more, boys!" A spear flies through the air from over The Hound's shoulder and lands squarely in the pointing man's chest. His hands fall, his knees tremble, and his pants slide back down his hairy legs before he collapses with a surprised gasp. Meera is already sprinting to the other side of the hall, ducking down low behind the tables. The Hound, surprised to see her, briefly looks back at the door but Bran is nowhere in sight.
"Holy fuck! Get them!" A man completely dressed in armor (and the only one who wasn't raping but rather plundering the food and wine) draws two battle-axes and hollers, jumping up on top of the tables to chase after Meera. The other three throw aside their women and grab their weapons, one has a sword, the other a dagger, and the third a wood-cutting axe. All three are nearly naked save for their boots, their wild, dark hair and beards are caked with blood, and their eyes are dead-set on The Hound.
The girl better be able to handle herself for a minute, The Hound thinks as he kicks a chair with one foot up into the face of the closest approaching threat. The wood shatters as the man with the sword stumbles backward, his nose bleeding. The one with the axe comes in for a swing and The Hound nimbly dodges, grabs his out-stretched arm that's holding the axe, wrestles it under his armpit and snaps it at the elbow, crushing several bones along his forearm and forcing him to drop his little toy. The rapist's screams are music to his ears—he turns in time to see the dagger-wielder come leaping in from behind—and so he grapples his already disarmed foe and dances him around to take the blow for him. The dagger sinks into his spine and the man howls once more. The dagger wielder can't believe what he's done—and is even more shocked when The Hound kicks his friend into him, crushing his back against the wall. His head bounces off a burning sconce, causing a gush of blood to pour out over his ear.
The Hound takes his sword and drives it through both of them at once before either can recover. Their screams stop, and both hiccup bubbles of blood. Just as The Hound is about to pull his blade out, he hears the swordsman with the broken nose come running up behind him. Fuck! Reaching out, he swings his arm and deflects the incoming attack with his wrist, luckily catching the sword across the flat-side. With his other hand, The Hound leans in and grabs the man by his throat and squeezes as hard as he fucking can. A man's neck is so weak and open for grabbing. The sword clatters to the ground as the man pounds his fists against the Hound's chest, each hit progressively weakening until he goes limp in his fingers. His body slumps to the floor and The Hound picks up his sword, turning his head to the last of the men—the one going after Meera.
Meera has him on the floor, his belly straddled between her legs, as she plunges a small, black, shiny dagger over and over into his skull—popping his eyes, ripping out his jaw, digging through his brain. Her face is painted in his blood, and instead of screaming, she's dead silent as she lifts the dagger up and swings it down, then up again, and down again, up, down, up, down… The Hound's hand grasps her wrist to prevent her from going on. "You killed the bastard."
She releases a heavy, nervous breath that she was holding in and glares up at him with tears spilling down her cheeks. "He said he was going to..."
Feeling strange, The Hound scowls around the room at the women gathering themselves after the trauma they just went through. Most are still crying and hugging themselves, either on the table or the floor. He looks down at the dead man, his armor unable to protect his face from her dagger; and notices for the first time the sigil displayed on his chest. A Kraken? How did the bloody Ironborn find this place? Are they working together with those Sellswords? "C'mon, Arya. Let's go."
Meera nods and slowly stands, wiping off her face with her wrist, but then she blinks at him, "What'd you just call me?"
The Hound's heart shutters and his cheeks flush red, "Nothing."
Bran is still in the hall where they left him, sitting like a toddler, strapped in his saddle with blankets wrapped around his crippled lower-half. His pale face smiles with visible gladness at seeing them both return unscathed. "Are you alright, Meera?"
"I'm fine. We saved them… Let's go."
We saved their lives, but we couldn't save them from everything. The Hound grimaces and helps her lift Bran up to carry the rest of the way downstairs.
At the bottom level, they come to a stop to peek around the corner and make sure the foyer is clear. At one end is a warm, burning hearth. A couple of dead bodies lay in pools of blood around the fireplace, but aside from that, they appear to be alone. "Is there a secret exit we can take out of here or are we going to have to go through the front doors?" The Hound asks Meera in a quiet growl.
"There's tunnels my people take in case a Lizard-Lion pack wanders into the area but we've never been attacked like this—and the only way to the tunnels is outside. So yes, we have to go through the front doors." Meera lowers Bran for a moment to open the oak doors and look outside… "There's too much fog, but I can hear them fighting… We have to make a run for it."
"Hard to do that, carrying this one." The Hound grumbles, "Be easier to sling him over my shoulder."
"Unless you want to carry him like that all the way back to Winterfell, then that's not going to work." Meera snaps back as an arrow plunges into the door next to her head. "Shit!"
"Get back!" snarls The Hound, slamming the door shut.
"They're inside! I saw someone!" shouts a muffled, grizzly voice on the other side. The Hound slides his sword through both handles to the door and steps away just as the men on the other side collide with it. The doors rattle and shake but don't give in.
"That won't hold for long." The Hound says, "You better think of another way out of here, girl!"
Meera wheels about, running her fingers through her hair in panic, but the bottom level of the keep didn't seem to house any windows or other doors. This keep is shit, serves these Frog-Eaters right for relying on the fucking mist to keep them safe.
"What are you fools doing, blow it open." says a smooth, arrogant voice from beyond the door.
"We don't have any left, your people horded them all!" cries another in anger.
"Well we did supply them so it's our right to share them, or not. You should consider yourselves lucky we gave you any at all. You Ironborn are running around here blind as bats. I swear, do I have to do all the work for you?"
"Beor is gonna hear about this!"
"Go run along and tell your beast of a Captain that I'll be here doing your work for you."
Boots stomping through mud signal that several of the men were leaving. The Hound presses his ear to the wood and hears whoever it is on the other side light something that sounds like a torch… followed by a faint sizzling sound…
"Shit, get away from the door!" The Hound roars, grabbing Bran up out of his contraption and diving toward the fireplace while Meera flees for the stairs. A few seconds go by undisturbed, then—
BOOM! The doors to the keep explode apart in a shower of wood splinters and fire. White, misty smoke fills the cramped room and The Hound shields his eyes from the bright, blinding light that has enveloped him. Blinking through tears, he lowers his hands and sees ten shadowy figures enter through the hole in the wall, swords drawn.
At the head of the pack is a tall, lean man with long, dark brown, wavy hair. Dressed all in black, leather armor from neck to toe, even his face is hidden from view behind a black sash across his nose and mouth. His eyes, however, are wide as they inspect his surroundings. His hands are holstered to his hips as he strides through the wreckage he caused, The Sellswords behind him quickly rushing in and surrounding The Hound and Bran on the floor. The Hound throws his weight into one of them and shoves him away. "Just try it, I'll kill all of you ugly fuckers with my hands if I have to!"
"That won't be necessary, my friend." says the masked Sellsword leader cheerfully, tilting his head to one side. If not for his mask, he might be smiling at him. "I sent three of my men and a bunch of those idiot Ironborn to clear out this tower, but they're not here, and you're covered in blood—so I'm going to guess that you killed them already?"
"That's right." The Hound grins, "They were raping and trying to kill us. If you let us go, I'll try not to kill you too."
The masked man laughs behind his cloth and spins around to check and see if the rest of his Sellswords found this funny. Some chuckled and brandished their blades while others just continued to scowl, looking like they'd love nothing more than to butcher him and Bran on the spot. "You're vastly outnumbered, and you don't have anything to defend yourself with. I mean, don't get me wrong, who's to say if you and I fought each-other fair and square then maybe you'd have a chance, but then again, maybe not. Either way, it's not up to me. I have orders."
Orders? "What orders?"
"To bring you and the boy in alive, of course." The Masked man shrugs, "That is Brandon Stark, yes? You must be The Hound, I mean your face… so I assume it's safe to assume this boy is the Brandon of House Stark?"
"Why are you looking for us? What do you want?" Bran asks quietly.
"It's not what I want. It's what my employer wants. He pays me very, very well to do his dirty work; has for years. Don't take it personally, I'm sure you're a right innocent kid and this man would die to protect you for whatever silly reason he has—but there's no reason for—"
"ARGGH!" one of the Sellswords behind him howls as a spear appears in the back of his neck. Meera Reed leaps around him with her dagger in hand and tackles the man beside him, stabbing him in the armpit to get around his armored plating. The Hound takes this chance and joins in, going right for the masked man—wanting nothing more than to rip his jaw out and beat him to death with it. The masked man is ready and side-steps The Hound, delivering a knee to his stomach. Unlike the Sellswords, The Hound is unarmored, wearing only his linen clothing and trousers for protection—so the knee to his belly knocks the wind out of him—yet the masked man is also unprepared for just how heavy The Hound is.
A piercing stab to his side forces The Hound to relent and collapse on his knee. One of the Sellswords had struck him with their sword, sinking it a few inches into his kidney. The Masked man, who was close to being within The Hound's clutches, dances away, wiping sweat from his forehead and chuckling. "That was close, you almost got me!"
"LET ME GO!" Meera screams at the top of her voice, biting, scratching, and kicking at the Sellswords pinning her down and laughing in her ear. One of them has his hand on her breasts already, and both The Hound and Bran react with shouts of protests.
"Enough, men, enough." The masked man sighs, "Bring her over here, let me get a look at her."
"Don't hurt her! Please! I'll do whatever you want!" Bran cries but they all ignore him and hand Meera over to their masked leader with grins.
"Who might you be?" The masked man asks, kneeling down and looking Meera in the eye.
She spits blood into his face, and he laughs, wiping it off with a flick of his finger.
"You're spicy. You don't look like the rest of these Frog-Eaters but you dress like them, and you even have one of their spears, so I'm guessing you are one of them."
"My name's Meera Reed, daughter to Howland Reed, the Lord of these Lands that you people have invaded!"
"Ah, Howland Reed's daughter. I was told you might be here with them. What a pity…" The masked man glances between her, Bran, and the Hound before pacing around the room, his fingers playing with the hilt of a dagger at his waist. "As I was saying, before the rude interruption, there's no cause for anyone else to die here…"
"Just let us go, please. My brother is King of the North!" Bran begs, tears glistening in his eyes.
The Masked man gasps, lifting his hand to his face in feign surprise. "You haven't heard yet? I'm genuinely depressed to be the one to have to tell you this, Brandon, as I have no desire to hurt little boy's feelings; but your brother is dead."
"What?" Bran looks like someone just cut out his heart. "You… you're lying."
"Afraid not. I know because Howland Reed killed him. My employer helped him do it, even. I'm surprised they let me in on it, as I really had nothing to do with the whole thing, but Littlefinger knows I like to stay in on the loop of things."
"Littlefinger?" The Hound coughs, tasting blood on his tongue and gripping his wounded side, "What does that little prick have to do with this?"
"He's the one who told us where to find this place. Howland Reed must've really trusted him, to give up the location like that. Poor, misguided old fool will have plenty of time to think about his sins in Winterfell's dungeon."
"LIAR!" Meera yells, "You're a fucking liar! My father would never betray the Starks!"
The masked man leans back and laughs. "I am quite good at lying, but I have absolutely no reason to lie to you about this. I'm just a Sellsword, y'know. I don't care who you people are. I'm to bring back Brandon Stark and his bodyguard, The Hound, alive…" The masked man then looks at Bran as he pulls out his dagger, and The Hound catches a glimpse of the dagger's handle; only because of how unusual it is. A naked woman with long, curly hair and exposed breasts shines in the masked man's hands as he swiftly spins it in the air, catches it, and drives the blade through Meera's chest. "Can't let this one follow us and bring me any trouble."
Meera looks down with dull disbelief as he pulls the dagger out and releases a flood of dark, red blood. It oozes across the wooden floor toward Bran and The Hound, who are both gaping, speechless. Meera Reed falls, face first, to the floor, her eyes staring lifelessly up into Bran's. She whispers something under the howling laughter from the Sellswords that only Bran and The Hound hears.
"Bran, don't forget… You're… not alone…"
The Hound sees red, and the next thing he sees is one of the laughing Sellswords recoiling away from him in fear as he lunges for him—plugging both his thumbs into his eyes and bursting them under the pressure. Whoever the Sellsword is screams in agony and falls underneath him. The Hound roars, beating his fists into his face three times before being tugged off—his knuckles wet and dripping. The man he's beaten lies motionless beside Bran, his face caved in… Bran doesn't even see him. He can't stop staring at Meera…
"Tie them up, boys." The masked man sighs, wiping the blood from his dagger off on his sleeve. "Grab whatever might be valuable around here. We make for Winterfell in the morning. Until then, let's enjoy ourselves!"