Sorry for such a short chapter! Enjoy!


Sandor (s day off)

Every night following the afternoon's spent deflecting the wooden sword of the youngest Stark, who tended to bare her mutt like teeth each and every time she hit the ground- which was more than one should- had been haunted, cursed, tainted.

There was hardly a moment that he didn't think of the girl whose gaze felt like flames burning all over again. It barely took any thought to dodge the oncoming hits, and occasional punches, but even he'd come out with a few scrapes and bruises. Each drop of blood spilt came to happen just as her pink tongue would make an appearance to lightly lick its lower counterpart, the plump flesh now glistening in the dark sun's heat. Pearly white teeth would bite down on that lip, and the Stark bitch would take her chance and have him on his ass.

Kissed by fire, Sandor remembered what the Wildlings whispered about those of red hair, those Northern fucks understood one thing, at least.

On the previous night, the whore he'd fucked had a name not worth remembering with tits too small for his fists. Her ass had bounced against his hips with each thrust, but his eyes hadn't strayed from her red hair pooling into the small of her back. It was darker than he would've liked, not as soft, but it would do. Her voice hadn't been right either, too high and false. It had only spurred him on to press her face to the silk sheets and fuck her twice as hard, wishing a different woman was speared on his cock.

Guaranteed, fucking Sansa would not be like fucking a whore. His little bird was delicate and soft; her kind words didn't deserve to be muffled when he fucked her bloody. No, she'd be on her back with tits for only his eyes, every thrust jolting those perky pink nipples closer to his hungry mouth. And the sweet untouched cunt between her legs would be a meal fit for a king.

His face burned when he remembered how her lips had felt against his scarred flesh. Silk against rough stone, heat against chilled frost, confirmation of her desire for him as he did for her. It had taken everything in him not to take her in the courtyard, shucking off the flimsy blue cloth and breaking her maidenhead, fucking the warm, wet heat in her smallclothes, no doubt covered in red wispy curls. Virgin petals, her pictured, ripe and sweet for the taking.

She was a damned sin in the flesh, sent here to curse him.

"Clegane," a voice shouted, having Sandor realize he was knee deep in chilled river water, trying to catch fish. It had become a peace bringer in his free time; "The fuck you doing here?"

Recognizing the horribly annoying voice, he turned to see the Brotherhood without Banners.

Thoros of Myr, a proud subordinate of the Lord of Light with a balding head that held a top knot, Beric Dondarrion, an unkillable fucker who should've died six times ago, whilst Lim, Morgan and Rigell just followed Thoros and despised Lannister rule, which meant they had more sense than half of Westeros. They'd crossed paths only twice before; once in Riverrun, where Thoros had taken a liking to one of Walder Frey's daughters, but hadn't had a desire to marry the poor girl. Sandor had caught them mid-fuck, same with Riverrun guards, and he'd spared their lives while the girl had babbled for mercy. Poor thing had cried her lungs out with blood staining her thighs, while Sandor had slashed Riverrun throats under the distasteful eye of Thoros.

Absurd rules about killing were why Sandor didn't stick around with them. Brutal killings were against the ways of their lord, rules about fair deaths by hanging, which meant no beheadings or dismemberment. Bunch of nancies.

The second had been in Molestown, cold as shit place with nothing but Wildlings and cunts, but Sandor had nodded to Beric, and Beric to him. They hadn't seen reason to speak to one another. Winterfell guards had been called to dispose of the Free Folk overrun, and who knew why Beric had arrived.

"Fishing, what's it look like?" belted Sandor at the Brotherhood without Banners.

Thoros stepped forward, grinning with black teeth and crinkled eyes. "Looks like you haven't caught a damn thing yet. My men spied you an hour ago and thought you were dead, just standing there."

Walking to the water line but not an inch in, he rolled on the heels of his feet. "How've you been, Clegane? Well, I imagine. Winterfell doesn't exactly fall on hard times, does it?"

Knowing that they weren't going to simply piss off like he wanted, Sandor trudged through the moving water. Stepping onto dry land next to Thoros, he shook off his feet and eyed the boots he'd lain a few feet away. Managing to get them on, Sandor sneered at Thoros, "Doesn't your Lord have something better for you to do than piss me off?"

"Not at the moment," Thoros snickered. "Why don't you allow us to accompany you for a drink, Clegane? I'd love to catch up with you."

"Fuck off," growled Sandor. He'd made it two steps before an arrow from one of the archers was pointed at his head.

"Put that arrow down you bloody girl." He didn't lower the arrow. "Tougher girls than you have tried to kill me."

"We've not come for violence," Beric Dondarrion drawled. He'd kept to the back of the group since they'd arrived, and now his one eye was on Sandor. "The Lord of Light has not sent us here to your blood, Clegane. Truly, we mean you no harm."

"You couldn't kill me if you tried."

The last thing Sandor wanted to do was spend his day with the Brotherhood. It wasn't that they were evil, or unjust, but that they annoyed every fiber in his being. Besides, he'd come out here to clear his mind of Starks and Sansa's cunt. Yes, he'd been disappointed to hear that the Queen had taken them both from his care for just this day, but that didn't mean he'd sit around like some green boy and wait for them to call on him. There were other ways of entertaining yourself that didn't include training a bitch or wanting to rut the other.

Spotting a mop of dark curls fleeing through the tree line- there were ears everywhere it seemed-Sandor grumbled to himself.

Maybe drinking a pint with a band of fire worshippers would do him some good.

But as it turned out, three pints in, he was wrong.

Sitting across from Beric and Thoros, Sandor downed the last of his ale, slamming the cup back on the table with a smirk. "Another."

"I think you've had more than enough," Thoros advised. "If I wanted to kill you, it'd be with all your sense intact."

"Why are you really here, Thoros? Some… fucking cunt your chasing, or another Witch get in that bald head of yours?"

The Red Witch, Melisandre, had swept through Winterfell not a year past, boasting lies about her Lord of Light, and that she'd already entrusted Stannis Baratheon with her wisdom. The raven containing the words The Stag has burned had been a good day in Sandor's book. The price for following religious nonsense was death.

"I brought us here," Beric interrupted Thoros from starting something between the three men. "I'd seen you in the flames, Clegane. Dancing with a woman with hair like fire. It intrigued me to think that our Lord has seen your future worth showing. Do you know of the woman with flaming hair?"

Seven fucking hells, Sandor wished to bash his head in the table, just my luck.

Leaning forward then lowering his voice, Sandor promised, "If I see you even look at her, I'll make sure that Lord of yours doesn't have enough pieces to bring you back again."

"Oh, so you do know her?" Beric hummed a jaunty tune. Elbowing Thoros, he turned to murmur, "I told you he'd know. He's smarter than he looks."

Having done enough with the lot of cunts, Sandor began to rise, beginning his farewells, when Beric cut him off, "We're not finished here, Clegane. I will speak my peace before we leave you be. That is all we ask."

It wasn't as though he had better to do, so Sandor planted himself again. "It better be fucking important."

"Seeing as it is not within my power to determine the importance of what I've seen, only you can answer that question." Beric cleared his throat at the deathly cold glare Sandor sent him, doing his best to not succumb to intimidation.

"I've seen the woman with hair like fire dance with you and only you, and to this I show gratitude. It is not always easy to do what must be done."

"What the fuck are you going on about?" spat Sandor. "I'm chasing the bloody girl cause she lights fire in my veins, not because your Lord told me to. I don't fucking care what you see with the only eye you've got left. I wonder why no ones tried to take out the other one."

"Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly mean?" Thoros hummed around the rim of his cup.

"Yes, but that's usually before I kill 'em."

"As I was saying," interrupted Beric, "The flames have begun to grow stronger and brighter. They've begun to change in ways I do not understand. The Lord of Light shows what is and what can be, and I fear you and your woman, Clegane. There is another man in the flames, one with strength rivaling a battalion, and evil I've rarely ever seen." He paused, furrowing his brow. "A man the size of a mountain."

No, Sandor begged the Seven. Memories of fire and the burning smell of flesh flashed behind his eyes, willing them away with another chug of ale. There was no time to childishly think of the horrors done by his brother, nor the scars he still bore for all to see. Gregor was a monster through and through, and that the Lannister's had enlisted him only showed how cruel the Capital was. To instill trust in a monster, a man who took pride in raping and killing his own sister, was beyond Sandor could stomach. And now, to even think that there could be a challenge to his claim on his little bird, least of all by his brother, nearly emptied its contents.

But he needed to be sure.

"How the fuck do I know I can trust any words that come pouring out your cunt mouth?"

"You don't," Beric answered with honesty, raising one dark brow, "But our Lord does not lie."

Trust was not something that came easy to Sandor Clegane. But unease bubbled in his belly, boiling past his lungs and into his throat. Sansa was pure, and bright. For her to even have the chance of being snuffed out by his brother nearly had him in a rage.

"What makes you think I could kill Gregor, even if I chance?"

"Divine justice," Beric explained, like it made any fucking sense.

Across from him, Thoros sighed while glugging more ale, and eyeing the wench who'd refilled his glass. "I've seen men do wild things in the name of love, Clegane. And I daresay, you're deeper in pig shit than the rest. You've got that look in your eyes that men have before they die, like they'd give anything to live another day. I see it in knights, squire's… whores, the lot of them. And you're not a coward, Clegane." Nudging Beric, "This one may call it divine justice, but I'll call it as I see it. You love the girl, now you just have to keep her."

"A toast," belted Thoros, rising above his brothers, "to the Hound!"

The Brotherhood without Banners howled in glory as Sandor groaned with annoyance.

Fucking fire worshippers.