"Get up, Clegane!"
The bellow startled Sandor, causing him to cough up the ash that had made its way into his lungs. An arm reached out in front of him and pulled him up onto his feet. The lower half of his right leg was set aflame with pain as he shifted his weight onto it. He grimaced at the affliction, falling back down onto a corpse.
"He's here, Clegane. Your brother. I saw him outside the walls." Beric lifted Sandor's arm over his shoulder to stabilize him.
The Others might be dead, but the real monster is still out there.
"Get me a bloody sword!" he shouted, wrenching his arm free of the lightning lord. In an instant, Beric ripped a longsword from a corpse nearby and placed it into Sandor's hand. It was at that moment the two men heard the petrifying scream, followed by the cackling of a man.
Sansa, he panicked.
"Go!" he shouted to Beric as he sprinted towards the sound, ignoring the tormenting sting in his leg. With nearly every step, his feet landed on man, on steel, or on stone that erupted from the blue flames of the Others' dragon. It was the darkest part of the night: the hour of the wolf; the disarray of torches and flames on the ground were their only asset in finding their way through the ruin.
Beric and Sandor turned the corner of the demolished main tower, facing the gates of Winterfell; in the ill-lit yard stood a thin man in armour, a knife stripping Sansa bare as she lay on her back. A few paces away stood the towering beast watching, allowing his man to enjoy the spoils.
"I've never fucked a pregnant whore before," the thin man said, cackling. "So I will fuck you first, then I will cut that little bastard out of you."
Sandor gripped the hilt of his sword with all his strength, lunging towards the giant mass of his brother. "Save my wife!" he yelled to Beric.
The Mountain's head turned slowly into Sandor's direction, making no additional movement other than lifting his sword into the air with his right hand. Sandor gripped both hands onto the hilt of his longsword, swinging up towards his brother's helm. The Mountain met his steel with his own, driving Sandor's sword down into the ground. As Sandor went to pick up his weapon, a steel-plated foot kicked in Sandor's stomach and knocked the breath from him, inducing him to cough up blood.
"No!" he heard Sansa wail as Gregor lifted his longsword above Sandor.
You can't die now, he told himself. You need to kill this fucker. For her. Kill to protect.
Sandor rolled over abruptly, avoiding the steel that came slashing down into earth, sending snow and stones violently into the air. As he stood up, Sandor felt several of his ribs had been broken from the blow of Gregor's foot. He clenched his jaw, gripping the hilt of his sword again and driving its point into the opening of the Mountain's armor between the chin and neck. Gregor's helm fell into the hard-packed earth of fire, snow, and blood, and exposed the haunting face of Ser Gregor Clegane.
This ugly fucker is already dead. It's not steel I need, but fire. Bloody fire. He needs to burn.
The Mountain forced his sword down to slash across Sandor's legs, forcing him to take a painful pace back and then another, avoiding the longsword entirely. He could hear the sounds of steel meeting steel behind him as Beric fought with the man who meant to rape Sansa. Sandor wanted to go to her, to hold her, to take her away from this bloody hell, but he could not dream of doing so until the creature before him was eliminated.
"Brother!" Thoros shouted to Sandor, running into the castle from the main gates. He came up quickly behind the Mountain before the undead man could turn and shoved his dagger into Gregor's left eye. He did nothing but grunt and grab Thoros by his cloak, dangling him into the air. Sandor began to swing his sword at Gregor's head, but Thoros only shook his head solemnly.
"This," Thoros began as the Mountain pulled out the dagger from his eye socket. "This is the vision, brother. This is the dead man you are meant to kill," he whispered. The Mountain dropped Thoros onto the ground roughly and grabbed the top of his skull with his right hand. Gregor looked over his shoulder at Sandor and with one clench of his hand, crushed Thoros' skull as if it were an egg. Sandor lost himself in his rage and felt himself becoming as savage and brutal as the Hound. He yelled gruffly and drove forward again, swinging his steel across his brother's face, his bruised nose flying into the ground.
Sandor took a few paces back and watched as the beast continued to approach him, unfazed by the attacks on his eye and nose. Fire, it has to be fire. He will not die by steel.
"I've got her, Clegane!" Beric shouted.
"Take her! Get her away from here, now!" he commanded as he avoided another blow of the Mountain's steel.
"My sword!" Beric yelled. "Take the sword!"
Sandor looked onto the ground where Beric threw his weapon, its steel engulfed in flames.
It has to be fire.
Sandor ran past his brother and tumbled into the ground, grunting at the impact on his broken leg and ribs. He reached and grabbed the hilt of Beric's sword, the heat of the flames radiating into his grip. It felt to Sandor as if he held all the seven hells in his one hand. However, the fear of the roaring, hungry flames was nothing compared to the fear of failing and allowing this creature to get a hold of Sansa.
"Come on you ugly fucker," Sandor rasped, tightening his grip onto the searing sword. Gregor approached him slowly and lifted his longsword with both hands, driving it towards Sandor's chest, only for the impact to be halted by the burning steel. Sandor broke free from the collision and pushed back, circling around the Mountain to find the best opportunity to attack.
With the faint beating sounds of dragon wings approaching, Gregor's one eye shifted away just long enough for Sandor to lunge forward and shove the flaming steel into his face where his nose had been. At once, Gregor fell onto his knees, grasping at his face before his swollen head exploded like the ships had in the wildfire that night of the Blackwater. Sandor could not look away from the foul visual; instead of blood spilling, a black and green substance poured out from Gregor's neck. The fire on Beric's steel set the remaining mass engulfed in flames, bursting each section of his body at first touch. It was not until the dragons began to descend onto the ground beside him did Sandor shift his eyes away from the demise of Gregor Clegane.
On top of the black monstrous beast was the Dragon Queen. However, Jon Snow was no longer mounted on the smaller green-and-bronze dragon. Daenerys looked down at him grimly, towering above as her beast snarled at him.
"The first war is over, Sandor," she shouted below. "Bend the knee. Right here, right now. I fought for the north and too many of my men died for you. You will now pledge your sword to me before the next war," she ordered in a threatening manner.
Has she gone mad? Does she not see that my men died out here alongside hers? She really is paranoid, just like her cruel father.
"Aye," he grunted in disgust. "I will bend the bloody knee." He groaned as he dropped onto his left knee, glowering up at her.
She was silent for a while, contemplating, as Drogon began to produce fire in the back of his throat. Sandor nearly began to pray to Sansa's old gods until Daenerys patted the monster's black scales gently.
"Prepare for the next war, Lord Stark. It is now time to repay your debt," she said in a warning manner, soaring off into the dawn.
"Where is she? Where is my wife?" he growled at the first man who approached him in the yard.
"My lord, she is on the first floor of the guest tower. Lord Beric told me to find you at once," the surviving Northman uttered in fear.
Sandor quickly made way towards the guest tower, grunting with each step. Several of his ribs were fractured, his right leg was likely broken, and everywhere else, aches, cuts, and bruises were making themselves known. He observed the corpses that lay still on the earth and watched as those who had survived weeped, searched, and prayed for those who had fallen. As he approached the guest tower, Sandor reminisced on moments that had occurred only months ago. Him and his little bird darting across the yard, embracing one another on the steps, and making love in his small bedchamber.
The brief joy he obtained from those memories quickly subsided as he entered the dimly lit tower. In the corridor, echoes rang from Sansa screaming in agony. Sandor sprinted in response, his right leg making a loud cracking sound as he charged forward. He fell on top of the door of the bedchamber where she lay, collapsing onto the floor as it swung open. The sight in front of him would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Sansa was situated on the bed naked, bleeding, sweating, and in severe distress. Beric was standing in front of her, his hands in between her thighs, covered in blood. His eye shifted to meet Sandor as he entered the room, panic-stricken.
"The child," he breathed.
My dream, Sandor thought with horror as he crawled towards the bed. It is my dream, come to life.