He was dead. That thought repeated through Sandor's mind as he stalked through the forest, axe flung over his shoulder.
Fury, like he hadn't felt in a while, pounded through his veins as he marched, hunting for the foul bastards who killed Brother Ray - the man who had found him, had saved his life, had nursed him back to health and given him a new purpose. The sight of Ray's body hanging from the half-finished sept rafters darted through his mind and Sandor ground his teeth. If only the bastarding brother had listened to his warning about those bloody Brotherhood without Banners. Foul, the lot of them. If only Sandor had stayed instead of going to chop wood. If only Ray hadn't buried his bloody sword and armour before Sandor had awoken from his injuries. He could have protected them. If only, if only, if only.
A conversation caught his ear: a bunch of men joking about kissing. With a growl he stalked towards them. As he got closer, he recognised two of the men as having visited the camp - but the smug yellow-cloaked bastard wasn't there.
One of the men was standing, back to Sandor as he fixed his trousers. The other three were facing him, laughing until they saw the hulking figure coming towards them. The trio stood up, causing the young man standing to spin round...right into Sandor's axe. He savoured the sound of the squelch: it had been over a year since he had killed. He turned to the second younger man. He didn't recognise this man from when the Brotherhood originally showed up, but he could have been there for the slaughter. If the Brotherhood had been willing to act as judge, jury and executioner for him just for being a Lannister man, Sandor would be happy to do the same in return for being in the Brotherhood. With a quick swing, he drove the axe into the young man's chest.
The third man, a ginger who Sandor did remember, tried to blind-side him with a knife. Sandor smiled as he spinned round, slicing the man across the throat. As the man gargled on his own blood, Sandor turned his gaze to the remaining man, a middle aged bald man. He had been there. Sandor lunged at him, driving the axe up into the man's groin. The man whimpered, falling to his knees as Sandor ripped the axe away. Roughly, he grabbed the bald man's chin, forcing him to look up.
"Where's the other one? The one with the yellow cloak?" Sandor demanded.
"Fuck you!" The man spat, trying to hold his inners in place.
"Those are your last words, 'fuck you'? Come on, you can do better," Sandor growled.
"Cunt!" Came the response.
"You're shit at dying, you know that?" Sandor said, raising the axe above his head. With a growl, he buried it into the man.
Looked like he'd find the yellow-cloaked cunt himself.
It was a while later that Sandor heard horses whinnying and the voices of men. He followed the sounds and almost groaned to himself as he came across Beric, Thoros, and other members of the Brotherhood Without Banners. His eyes flicked past them to the three men tied up with nooses around their neck. That one - there - that was the yellow-cloaked bastard!
"What the fuck you doing here?" Thoros asked.
"Chasing them. You?" Sandor responded, shortly.
"Hanging them."
Obviously. "Any particular reason?"
"They're our men. Or they were. They attacked a nearby sept and murdered the villagers. Why do you want them?" Beric cut in.
"Same reason. I was helping build it. They killed a friend of mine."
"You've got friends?" Thoros laughed.
Sandor didn't join in. "Not anymore. They're mine." He brandished his axe at the trio.
Beric and another member of the Brotherhood blocked his path as he stepped forward. "Can't let you do that. It's the Brotherhood's good name they've dragged through the dirt."
"Fuck your name. They're mine. I killed you once before, Dondarrion. Happy to do it again."
One of the Brotherhood members notched an arrow and pointed an arrow at Sandor. The large man glared at him, noticing it wasn't that wank archer that riled him before. "Drop that arrow, you bloody girl," he warned, pointing his ax at the man. "Tougher girls than you have tried to kill me."
"You can have one of them," Beric offers.
Sandor turned back to face him, glanced at the men about to be hanged, then looked back at the one eyed man. "Two," he countered.
Beric nodded his acceptance. Sandor approached one of the men and raised his axe above his head to swing. Thoros caught the axe's handle from behind - and then caught a glare from Sandor.
"We're not butchers. We hang them," Thoros said, releasing Sandor's axe.
"Hanging?" Sandor snorted. "All over in an instant. Where's the punishment in that?"
"They die," the redhead priest said, flatly.
"We all bloody die. Except this one here," Sandor gestured to Beric. "I'll only gut one of them." That yellow cloak.
"No." Beric responded.
"I'll chop off one hand?" Sandor offered. The one that hung up Ray.
We gave you two of the three out of respect for your loss. That's generous," Beric replied, his voice a warning.
"Bunch of nancies," Sandor growled, throwing his axe to the ground. "There was a time I'd have killed all seven of you just to gut these three."
"You're getting old, Clegane," Thoros chortled.
"He's not," was the response, as Sandor kicked the box out from underneath one of the men, hanging him. He moved to stand in front of the yellow cloaked man.
"Please don't. I'll give you anything," the man begged. With a look of disgust, Sandor kicked the box away and enjoyed the man's dying gasps for air. As Beric hung the final man, Sandor took the boots off the yellow cloaked man and shoved them on his own feet.
He looked up at Beric and Thiros, who were standing over him. "Got anything to eat?"
"Enjoying yourself?" Thoros asked, sitting beside Sandor at the campfire.
"I prefer chicken," Sandor grunted, but tore away another large greasy mouthful of meat anyway.
"You ought to join us. We could use you," Beric said, his eye glittering in the firelight.
"I tried joining. Didn't work out for me."
"Clegane, we're here for a reason. The Lord of Light is keeping Beric alive for a reason. He gave a failed, drunk priest the power to bring him back for a reason. We are part of something larger than ourselves…" Thoros gave his best encouraging speech.
"Lots of horrible shit in this world gets done for something larger than ourselves," was Sandor's response as he stood up for a piss.
"Cold winds are rising in the North." Beric said, his voice gravelly.
"And you're going to go stop them?" Sandor snorted.
"We need good men to help us."
Sandor raised an eyebrow. Was Beric calling him a good man? "Last time you saw me, you wanted to execute me."
"True enough. But the Lord of Light gave you the power to defeat me. Why?"
"I beat you because I'm better than you, Beric. I was better than you before you started yammering on about the Lord and I'm better than you now," Sandor laughed, returning to his spot at the campfire and picking up his dinner.
"Aye, you're probably right," Beric conceded. "You're a fighter. You were born a fighter. You walked away from the fight. How did that go? Good and bad, young and old, the things we're fighting will destroy them all alike. You can still help a lot more than you've harmed Clegane, it's not too late for you. I know you're not all bad. You have a few people who even like you."
Sandor almost choked on a mouthful of meat. "Your Lord tell you that? I've never met anyone who likes me."
Thoros laughed dryly. "You do yourself a disservice, Clegane. In fact, there's someone who likes you not too far away."
"I'm not into that sort of thing," Sandor warned, eyeing the man up. "I'm not the Knight of the fucking Flowers."
Thoros spat a mouthful of water out. "I'm not the one who's fallen for the big bad wolf routine. No. She's out scouting right now but she'll be back soon."
Sansa, Sandor thought, mouth dry. The little bird is here.