Sandor XXXVII
It had taken all of his resolve not to turn back and look at her. He didn't remember the walk back to the mess, his head was too full. For the first time, Sandor Clegane cared whether he lived or died, and it frightened him. Since he'd been twelve, he'd not given a shit if he came back or not. The notion of dying on the battlefield had always seemed to him a good one, a clean death. Then again, he always felt he'd been passed over by death, surviving his brother's attack something of a perverse benediction from the gods. If that hadn't killed him, a man with a blade or a warhammer didn't intimidate him much, fleas to drive him mad but not enough to kill him.
Battle-rage was fueled by fervor, a lust for the fight. Caring about the outcome was an invitation for fate to try him. It was better not to. If he wanted to live, as most of them did, he might be too cautious, and caution led to hesitation. He'd seen men die because of that hesitation, a sliver of a moment too late to act and cut down for it. Having something to live for wasn't always a boon, and he couldn't pretend now that he would fight the same way that he had before, not knowing that somewhere in the Keep she was sitting and waiting for him to come back.
Instead, he decided he'd focus on the fight not to come back to her, but to protect her. That he knew how to do, to set his mind on his job and not the uncertainty of the next day, the next hour. At least, now where it concerned himself. He was all too aware of what could, what would, befall her if he failed. Stannis Baratheon was an honorable man, but he was a highborn lord. Highborn lords didn't take their own castles, they let their men do that for them. Sandor had seen enough of warfare to know what men did when their blood was running hot. Hell, his own brother was capable of the very worst outrages. Mercy wouldn't be forefront in the mind of a man-at-arms who was inebriated with the promise of triumph, thrilling in the humiliation of his foe. Such a man would not let a locked door stop him, or a lady's pleas move him. As long as he was living, Helenna Manderly's blood would not run down her own face, down her legs. The very idea made his vision turn red and his teeth set to a vicious bite.
He shook his head to clear it, scattering his dark thoughts like spiderwebs. The heat rolled over him like a thunderstorm in the Westerlands. The mess was packed to bursting, the gold cloaks and Lannister guards drinking in that fierce fashion that men do before battle. He wanted a tankard of strong ale himself, his throat suddenly parched. It was loud, men shouting and crowing as they clinked their cups, gathering their courage to go out and do their duty. Boasting always became exuberant before battle, men needing to feel bigger than they were, bigger than their enemies. Snagging a beer and looking around the room, he saw a lot of little men.
He wondered how many of them had actually seen a battle. The guards he'd drilled in the previous days were all too young to have fought in Robert's Rebellion, too young to have had much experience with actual fighting beyond a few skirmishes in the streets or the recent riots. Even if they had started as young as he had, and most hadn't, they wouldn't have had much to fight. The previous decade had been frustratingly peaceful. He'd been itching for war for years, but it hadn't come, the lords who had been robust warriors in his youth growing stout and red-faced, like dead King Robert.
He could only hope these new lads were made of sterner stuff than he thought they were, that they wouldn't turn heel and flee as soon as Stannis' troops made their landfall. He could only hope that they were as fierce as they obviously believed themselves to be, clapping each other on the back with the glint of blood-madness in their eyes. That, or he hoped Stannis' army was similarly comprised of green boys who had never known real bloodshed.
He let out a long breath in a grunt, a scowl settling over his face. He didn't have the patience or the stomach for revelry. It had no place before a could come later, after they had cause to celebrate and crow. He made his way back to the corner he'd been sitting in with Bronn, the men scattering before him like fish before a shark. He found the sellsword with a half-naked whore on his knee, his cup waving in the air as he lustily sang Castamere. The girl was lovely, he noted absently, pressed up against Bronn with her tits in his face. The sellsword was a better singer than he'd have thought. He might have smirked, but he was too low. Sandor wished that he'd chosen a different song. That one reminded him too much of Lenna. He needed to keep her out of his mind. She had no place here, not surrounded as he was by rough men and loose women.
"Welcome, friend," Bronn called out, spotting him. He knew was hard to miss, but Sandor grunted at being called friend. He didn't know that he wanted to call his uneasy truce with the man a friendship, but he reckoned he was about as close to a friend as he had. Sandor sat heavily, sliding onto the bench next to Balon Swann. He was new to the Kingsguard, having replaced Ser Preston Greenfield. Sandor had seen the man's corpse when it was carried back after the riots, torn to shreds and bloody. If it hadn't been for his armor and the fact that only one of their number was nowhere to be found, it would have been impossible to identify him. Sandor wondered how many would fall that night, if this fresh one with his cloak still as unblemished as snow, a quiet lad with a chest almost as brawny as his own, would survive the battle.
"This round's on me," Bronn said, sliding a pitcher of ale toward him and taking a seat on the opposite bench. "It's warm in here, ain't it?" Sandor grunted savagely, his scowl deepening. He felt like he was steaming between the anger and the heat. "Save your rage for later, friend," Bronn said with a half-smirk.
"Your Lord Imp's going to miss you," Sandor said darkly. Bronn grinned.
"Aye, expect he will someday. Not tonight," he quipped, raising his ale. Sandor drank deeply, grateful when Swann left them. "You have a plan, brother?"
Brother? "What do you mean?" Sandor bit out, taking another long slug of ale.
"C'mon," Bronn said, cocking his head to one side. "If we win this thing, do you have a plan?"
Sandor let out a huff that could have been a sigh. He caught his meaning, but it irked him that the sellsword would think to talk about such with him, especially now. None of your fucking business, he wanted to growl. But his head was muddled, and he found himself oddly wanting to discuss it. Best think about it now and not let it cloud his thoughts and judgment later. If he let that happen, it didn't matter if he had a plan or not. He'd be dead, his corpse trodden into the mud that invariably followed battles..
The fact was, though, he didn't have a plan. Not really. "They've already said they'll negotiate. Replace my brother with me." It sounded lame in his own ears. The growing anticipation of the battle to come reinforced just how silly the idea sounded, how flimsy. Replace his brother with him? Did the Imp really believe that would happen? Did the queen? Surely it must be a fool's hope to think that the king would be prevailed upon to change his mind.
Sandor wondered if his brother had already been made aware of this plan, had already been offered his bride. There was no telling what Joffrey had already told him, no telling what Tywin had said, either. If his brother had already gotten wind of it, Sandor felt there was very little chance that such an exchange would be made. His brother might not be wealthy, but they were all fucking terrified of him. They needed only remember Elia Martell and her children, a queen and the little princess and prince, their broken bodies dead in that very Keep, crushed like ants.
"If they don't?" Bronn asked, cocking a brow as if to say that he thought it more likely Sandor would be named Hand of the King. A long, slow breath made his nostrils flare as he fought the urge to hit something. Frustration was good. Rage was good. His heart was pumping with anger and he'd need it later.
"Haven't thought on that." That much was true. He hadn't a fucking idea what they'd do if the negotiation wasn't successful. What can I do? A powerful thought hit him like a morning star to the side of the head. Gods, what if she is carrying my bastard pup? He swatted the notion away, angry that any child she had could be thought such, even if it was his. He'd had her twice, three times counting the once he'd been more careful, but as Tyrion pointed out, it only took one time. A whelp could be growing in her already. The idea pleased him as much as it terrified him.
"You know what I'd do," Bronn said slowly with a lift of the brow and a sip of ale. Aye, Sandor knew what the sellsword would do. He'd have already done it. Sandor felt like an imbecile. She had said she'd go with him, follow him into the West. He should have taken her that night. They'd be halfway to anywhere else by now. "And what will you do if we lose?"
He did not want to think about that very possible eventuality. He had no plan in that event, there was nothing he could do. If Stannis won, there was no scenario that ended well for him, and few that were tolerable for her. No matter what they attempted, if Stannis Baratheon won, Sandor would be dead by week's end. With his reputation, his link to his brother, there was no possibility that he'd would be spared. He'd served the Lannisters too well. At least it would be a beheading. He wasn't a lord, but he wasn't lowborn either.
"She'll be safe," he replied stonily. He knew it would be true in the long term, even if in the short-
"She'll be raped," Bronn said equally as flatly, "and your head will be on a pike. You'll be of no fucking use to her."
"At least my head will be next to yours," Sandor snarled. He wondered what the man was trying to get at. What was the point of talking about the futility of the future on the eve of battle? It wasn't exactly inspiring.
"No," Bronn said grandly. "They'll not take me. I'll light out of here before they lay a hand on me. I like Lord Tyrion, but I'm not dying for this lot."
"The queen won't let her be harmed." Another pretty lie.
"The queen's got that wraith with her," Bronn said flatly. "She'll have her killed alongside all the rest."
Sandor had seen Ilyn Payne darting around like a shadow, heading in the direction of the Holdfast. The headsman was carrying his broadsword, and Sandor had known immediately what his purpose was. The queen was too proud to be taken as a hostage. She'd be dead before Stannis Baratheon would crow over her. It hadn't occurred to him that she'd take her ladies with her. He felt the trickle of fear start at the roots of his hair and puddle over his scalp, the length of his spine.
"There's no plan," Sandor ground out savagely. "There's nothing I can do except wait."
"You don't believe that," Bronn said flatly, almost like he was trying to convince himself.
"What would you have me do?" Sandor demanded, flicking his eyes and hoping none were listening. "I'm just the Lannister dog."
"Who says you have to be anyone's dog? You're only theirs because you stay theirs. No one is forcing you to do their bidding, no one owns you, man."
"I am the Lannister dog," he replied firmly. "Can't change that."
"You don't have any imagination," Bronn said, and Sandor was surprised to hear a thread of iron in his voice, a glint of distaste in his eye. No. Disappointment. "None at all."
Sandor turned his face, giving him the scar, and it was then that the bell tolled.
"Enough of this," he said, draining the tankard and wiping his mouth. "Now our work begins."
Bronn smirked at him again, raising what was left in his tankard. "One last drink before the war."
Side by side, they made their way to Tyrion's chambers en route to the throne room. Sandor waited impatiently by the door as the sellsword and the little Imp chattered to each other like magpies. His blood was beginning to itch, and he didn't want to keep Joffrey waiting. The little cunt would be unbearable to begin with, he didn't want to think of how irritating he'd be in one of his temper tantrums.
Tyrion was arrayed in the smallest set of armor Sandor had ever seen. He might have made a jape about it, but he was feeling grim. Nothing about the Imp was humorous, not tonight. Sandor had seen him somber plenty of times before, but he'd never seen quite that expression of gravity in his face and posture. He'd changed in the last year, some of his brash wit dulled by his captivity in the Eyrie. Lenna said he'd refused to talk about it, save to say that Lysa Arryn was just as insane as he'd always thought she was. Now, the Imp would have his first taste of actual warfare, having been sheltered from it his entire life. Where his brother had been schooled in tactics and combat, Tyrion had been made into a scholar, his only experience with war coming from the same dusty histories that Lenna had read.
Though he seemed considerably subdued, the little lord was selecting a weapon like a woman might choose ear bobs, finally settling on an axe. He picked it up gracelessly, his wrist flopping slightly under the weight, unaccustomed to wielding anything heftier than a pen.
"Do you know how to use that?" Bronn asked skeptically, shooting Sandor a glance. He kept his face impassive. It would do no one any good to tease the little lord.
"Chopped wood once," Tyrion replied jovially. His voice rang hollowly, like an empty cistern. "No, I watched my brother chop wood once."
Sandor let his chest expand to capacity in an effort not to humph. It had always made him angry, the number of battle commanders who had never raised their own sword. At least Robert and Ned Stark had, riding in the vanguards with strong arms and strong voices. He wondered what kind of chance they had with the Imp at their head, unused to hoisting his own weapon, for attending to his own protection.
"I saw you kill a man with a shield," Bronn said. That grabbed Sandor's attention. He'd never heard that story, and it seemed one that should have been told. "You'll be unstoppable with an axe."
Sandor grunted from his place by the door, but both men ignored him. They were looking at each other and Sandor wondered what had happened in Eyrie.
Tyrion stuck his hand out, grasping Bronn by the forearm with the familiarity of a brother and comrade. "Don't get killed," Bronn said, looking down at their hands. Sandor had never heard that kind of seriousness from him before, the sellsword usually smirking even when he was in earnest.
"Nor you, my friend." Tyrion's face was blank, but his eyes were sad. Sandor couldn't stand all this wallowing. Get it on with it.
"Are we friends now?" Bronn asked, sliding his thumbs into his belt with an air of self-satisfaction. He rocked back on his heels, biting his tongue.
"Of course we are," Tyrion answered, his voice uncharacteristically bright. "Just because I pay you for your service doesn't diminish our friendship."
"Enhances it really," Bronn joked.
"Oh, enhances," Tyrion mocked, shaking his hands for effect. "Fancy word for a sellsword."
"Been spending time with fancy folks. Got a taste for it. Figured I'd better start practicing for when I get that fancy castle and fancy highborn wife."
Sandor wished they would shut the fuck up. Tyrion shook his head, a smile cracking his hard face.
"And you, Clegane," he said, startling Sandor at his place by the door. "You have something to live for. Do your best not to disappoint her."
Something to live for, he thought darkly, something to die for, too. Sandor nodded rather than responding, watching as Tyrion gathered himself with a deep breath.
Tyrion swept out ahead of them, and Sandor could almost admire the determined set of his shoulders. Tyrion Lannister might be the unlikeliest of defenders, but he was going to do his level best. There was something to like in that, even if he still felt the pangs of jealousy each time he saw him. It has hard to admit that Lenna could love the Halfman, even if it was as a brother. He supposed that he should be grateful to Tyrion. He'd always done his best by her, and, in a way, by him.
He could be grateful, but he didn't have to like him.
Sandor waited for them to pass him as they headed toward the throne room. Bronn paused on his way out of the door, pulling even with Sandor before they parted ways. He looked up at him, barely coming to Sandor's shoulder.
"Good luck, brother," he said. "I hope I don't see you on the other side."
"The fuck-" Sandor snarled.
"You're thick as shit, aren't you?" Bronn laughed. Then he leaned closer, his "Get out of here, Clegane, and take her with you. She'll never be safe here, not really, and you know that. Get as far away from this hellhole as you can. You're smart, dog. Use your imagination. Hope I never see hide nor hair of either of you again."
Sandor had no reply, but Bronn clapped him on the shoulder and strode after the Imp, flexing his hands and stretching his shoulders in preparation. She'll never be safe. He knew it instinctively, had known it from the first time Cersei Lannister had expressed an interest in her as a girl. He'd slunk through the shadows of the Keep watching her, reporting back what he'd seen, and even then he'd known better than to tell the queen everything. He'd tried to protect her, and he'd always failed. Those days felt like a tale now, rosy and peaceful, the only threat to her that of loneliness, a princess locked in a tower, a damsel captured by a dragon. No true danger, no physical harm. Now, the sellsword was right. King's Landing would never afford her protection again, not even physical well-being, and they were looking at a night that might steal that from her before his brother got his hands on her. He just didn't know what he was supposed to do. Running right that moment, with the king waiting for him and an enemy army at their door, was impossible.
Joffrey was waiting, and he looked at Sandor with unhidden annoyance. He scowled. The boy thought there was a rush. He clearly didn't understand the flex of time in war, the approach far longer and tedious, the actual fight over in a flash. Their time was still ample, and it made no sense for them to wear themselves out before they began. He ignored Joffrey, his head teeming with no discernable organization. The only consistency was all of his thoughts was her. He growled to himself in frustration, deciding that the only thing he could do was make sure Stannis Baratheon lost the night. He needed to win a tomorrow to think, just one more tomorrow. Today was too spent.
The throne room was a flurry of activity, most of it nervous. Sandor thought they were all running about like chickens, big, stupid chickens about to lose their heads, knowing the henwife is near with her knife. Joffrey and his party cut through the room, leaving Sandor standing at the foot of the dais before the Iron Throne in his usual position. The little king was arrayed in his finest armor, armor that had no place in actual battle. At his hip hung a shining sword, unscratched and untried, a new one judging from the sharpness of the engravings on the sheath. Sandor smiled darkly. A boy pretending to be a king, putting on someone else's armor and going out to play at fighting.
He knew well and good that Joffrey would see no action that night. It had been gone over extensively in the strategy sessions, Sandor standing next to Jacelyn Bywater and wondering why he had taken a command. He'd have rather continued on as a bodyguard. Lies, he thought to himself. You can't bloody wait for it.
He had been looking forward to it, perverse as it was. Even as he was saying his farewell to Lenna, his mind had been whirling around the fight to come, the opportunity to unsheath that longsword on his hip and unleash the seven hells. She had no idea what it was like, how it felt to run at another man, to make him bleed and fall. She had no idea, and he hoped she never did.
His humor died when he saw her. He hadn't expected to encounter her again, and he wasn't prepared. The sellsword's words hit him in the gut like arrows. She was with Sansa Stark and Tyrion's whore. In a sea of plate and cloaks, the three of them stood out like a colorful island, decked as they were in their gowns. Sansa was wearing pink, Lenna the same muted green he'd left her in. She didn't see him at first, her gaze focused solely on Sansa. The girl was fixated on the king, and it wasn't but another moment before Joffrey saw her. He smirked wickedly and abruptly turned his attention away from Jacelyn Bywater and to his betrothed.
Never safe, not here. Never here.
Sandor had no choice but to follow him. He was to stay with the king until it was time to lead the sorties out of the Mud Gate. It could be hours before his men were needed. Joffrey prowled toward the women with a predatory glint in his eyes and Sandor groaned internally.
"Your king rides forth to battle," Joffrey crowed, gesturing widely like some posturing cock. Sandor strangled the humph that threatened to escape his throat. "You should see him off with a kiss." The Stark girl looked at him without expression, her blue eyes wide but without fear. Joffrey smirked again, withdrawing his stupid sword, holding it out as a smith might do in a shop. That's all it was the Joffrey, just another bauble. "My new blade. Hearteater, I've named it." Fucking cunts and naming their swords. "Kiss it. You'll kiss it again when I return and taste my uncle's blood."
The Stark girl did not move at first, but then she bent and hesitantly pressed her lips to the flat of the blade. When she stood, her face was still implacable though set so pleasantly it reminded him of Lenna.
She's learning, then.
"Will you slay him yourself?" the girl asked, her voice bright with insincerity.
"If Stannis is fool enough to come near me," Joffrey replied, too thick to realize the girl wasn't serious. Sandor wagered the boy was flattered, eager to look strong in front of them all, and especially in front of Sansa Stark. If Sandor didn't know the king better, he'd think he was taken with her. But he did know better. Joffrey wanted to keep her afraid of him.
"So you'll be outside the gates fighting in the vanguard," Sansa continued, and Sandor's eyebrow jerked involuntarily. He wondered what the girl was doing, but he didn't mind the teasing at Joffrey's expense. Of course the boy wouldn't be in the vanguard.
"A king doesn't discuss battle plans with stupid girls," Joffrey replied peevishly, his fair wrinkling until his mouth looked like an arsehole.
"I'm sorry, your grace, you're right. I'm stupid," Sansa said airily. "Of course you'll be in the vanguard. They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting is the thickest and he's just a pretender."
Of course he does, Sandor thought, he's not a boy. It would be one thing if Joffrey acknowledged that he was still a minor, unfit to rule in his own right. If he had simply ceded that control to his mother and his uncle, then perhaps he would be so despised. But no, Joff played at kingship the way other children played make-believe. Only his blunders had actually repercussions. Again, Sandor thought of Preston Greenfield. He hadn't liked the man, but neither did he think any man, especially a fighting man, should go out that way, torn limb from limb by an angry mob. Joffrey had cost the man a clean death.
Her jab landed true, the king's eyes narrowing as he looked at her. "Your brother's turn will come. Both of you. And when it does, you shall both lick their blood from Hearteater, too."
Sandor could not keep his gaze from Lenna. He had been resolved since the altercation began, keeping his focus solely on the king, but now the king was looking at Lenna with that old anger in his face. Sandor had no idea what Lenna had ever done to deserve that kind of hate, not from Joff, but he was almost grateful for the excuse to look at her.
One last time.
Sandor cursed himself for thinking that way, watching avidly as Lenna dropped a curtsy as the king passed. When he did, her eyes met Sandor's, and he felt a sensation not unlike the first time he'd met her gaze. A liquid, hot blast hit him in the stomach, but he held her eyes. The torchlight made them flicker, the shades of green and amber licking like flames. He allowed himself to hold her gaze a fraction of an instant longer than he should have, willing her to understand him, before he brushed past her to follow Joffrey to the battlements.
Tyrion was already there at the Mud Gate when they arrived, Bronn leaning against the battlements beside him. Joffrey's face crumpled into a sneer when he saw his uncle. Sandor did roll his eyes then. They had been butting heads constantly, to the point where the king refused to even talk to Tyrion. He wanted his uncle to let him make the major decisions about the battle. A boy with no experience whatsoever was even worse than the alternative.
"Where's our fleet?"
"On the way," Tyrion replied, his eyes scanning the horizon. Stannis had made a good decision coming in after dark. It was nearly impossible to tell what was going on in the harbor. Sandor didn't like it. For one, it made his job more difficult, beside the fact that it was a coward's trick.
"Why isn't it here now? They're coming!" Joffrey said, his voice high-pitched as a child's. He wheeled toward Sandor, his narrow face puckered. "Hound tell the Hand that his king has asked him a question."
He had no patience for this nonsense. He didn't bother to move. "The king has asked you a question."
"Lancel," Tyrion said, his voice as pleasant as if he was talking with friends. "Tell the king that the hand is extremely busy."
At least Lancel looked confused, his eyes darting between them. Sandor gave him not assistance. "The Hand of the King would like me to tell you to tell the king-"
"If I tell the Hound to cut you in half, he'll do it without second thought," Joffrey bit back, addressing his uncle directly, unable to maintain the stupid quarrel. Sandor let out a long, exasperated breath. He's such a cunt.
"That would make me 'The Quarterman' which doesn't have the same ring to it," Tyrion said lightly, trying to catch Sandor's eye. He was not in the mood for a jape. They had shit to do. Tyrion turned serious again, but this time his voice was steely. "Cut me in half and I won't be able to give the signal. No signal, no plan. No plan, and Stannis Baratheon takes the Iron Throne and puts your pinched little head up atop a gate somewhere. Might be quite amusing except my head will be up there too. I quite like my head and don't want to see it removed just yet." If Sandor wasn't so bloody annoyed, he might have enjoyed the Imp dressing down his nephew. He'd always enjoyed listening to Tyrion put the boy in his place, and it had become a far too infrequent occurrence since Joffrey had taken the throne. It was never needed more than it was at that moment.
Tyrion took up his watch again, the king scuffing his toes along the wall sullenly.
"Clegane," the Imp said sharply. Sandor stepped forward to look out on the scene before them.
In the pale wash of the moon, Stannis Baratheon's fleet had begun to enter the river.
"Bronn," Tyrion said, waving a hand. Bronn dipped his head curtly, but he caught Sandor's eye before he turned.
"Have the trebuchets ready to begin firing," Tyrion barked, Jacelyn Bywater turning on his heel and striding along the battlements to send the command. "Watch, Clegane. You'll need to see this."
Sandor didn't know what he was watching for at first. The Rush was oddly quiet, Stannis' fleet sailing surely through the mouth of the river. The royal fleet was conspicuously absent, save one lone galley.
"It that thing manned?" he asked.
Tyrion shook his head. "Watch."
The galley made its way into the midst of Stannis' fleet, the sailors ducking around. From his vantage point he could see them, tiny as ants, milling about in some confusion on their decks. Across the water, Stannis' forces were amassed, the starlight glinting off their pikes. The dull battle-roar had started like music to him, soft and sweet and steadily growing.
Stannis' fleet was massing in the river below, and a grating sound made its way over the din.
"That's the chain," Tyrion said, smiling almost smugly. Sandor could only watch as it was winched into place, effectively cutting off the fleet's means of escape. "They'll be very confused now, I expect. Trebuchets are like flies, even if they are trapped in the river. Easily batted away though annoying. Stannis will try to use the ships as a bridge to move his men. We'll see."
An old man had appeared next to Tyrion, illuminated by the brazier Sandor conscientiously avoided. He looked positively gleeful.
"Ready?" Tyrion asked no one in particular. Bronn had reappeared panting. "Do the honors."
He nodded, still catching his breath as he drew an arrow and knocked it on a longbow. Before he released it, though, he set it ablaze in the brazier, then let it fly.
If Sandor hadn't been so terrified, it might have been beautiful to watch. The arrow his the water, much to his confusion. He wondered absently why Tyrion would have a single archer fire a lone flaming arrow at a fleet of ships. It didn't take him long to figure out why.
It started slowly, a dull lick of green along the water's surface that might have been moonglow. It spread outward, riding the waves, growing in brightness and becoming incandescent. Sandor's mouth dropped open in awe mixed with horror, his scar throbbing in sympathy as the rush of sound spilled over the battlements.
Fire. Why fire?
Few people understand that fire is deafening, especially a fire like that, massive and uncontrolled. It hisses and spits and roars, licking and stinging everything in its path. And this was no ordinary fire. As soon as he saw the first tendril of green, Sandor felt terror move through his bones to freeze his marrow. This was wildfire.
They watched as the fleet burned, the roar of the fire punctuated by the screams of men who would never hear another sound. Sandor knew that sound, all too intimately, the memory of his face being pressed to the coals following hot and vivid on its heels. He gritted his teeth, knees wanting to buckle as he watched helplessly.
Pity. He felt pity. Pity and terror. The stench came to them in wafts like puffs of summer breezes, sultry and smelling of burning flesh and hair. Sandor fought the urge to retch, feeling distinctly hot as he broke out into a fervid sweat. He clenched his teeth against the bile that rose, unable to look away from the scene of unfolding terror below him.
They watched for what seemed an eternity, the green of the wildfire illuminating Tyrion's Lannister beryl-bright eye, the other black as the bodies that would be left in its wake. The fire raged, but instead of retreat, Stannis pressed on.
"Rowboats," Tyrion said lowly, looking to Sandor. "Lead your men, Clegane."
Can't, he thought wildly. He didn't move, the green glow of the fire overtaking everything around him until all he could see or think or smell was fire.
"Clegane," Tyrion said, this time it was a bark. Sandor looked at him, wheeling back as he startled. He could feel his own pulse in his neck, rapid and unrelenting. "Lead your men."
Sandor found it in himself to nod, swallowing thickly and turning his back on the river of fire. He darted down the stairs as quickly as his lumbering body could take him, pushing down on the urge to hide. Instead, he channeled that terror into furor, bellowing at the top of his lungs to assemble his men.
It a motley assembly of guards and sellswords, half of them so young they couldn't grow beards. He'd been flummoxed when he'd gathered them, never quite understanding how poorly defended the city really was. He'd not been in the regular army for quite some time, his position in the Keep separating him from the men-at-arms in some sense. These green boys were inexperienced, and they were scared. He hoped that they were motivated by fear.
They stood looking at him, and he realized they expected him to speak. He wasn't about to rally them like Tyrion Lannister might. He had no noble words, no golden bullshit to spew. Instead, he glared at them as they surrounded him.
It had the desired effect, the men unsheathing their weapons and making their way toward the battlements with new desperation. He wondered how many of them would come back.
The rushed out of the Mud Gate with swords at the ready, Sandor himself yelling for courage. He couldn't explain what came over him when he got that first taste of battle, the almost white-hot rage that settled through him. It made him feel stronger than he was, bigger, and tougher, and meaner. It was better than being drunk, though not completely different. It bubbled in his blood just like alcohol, but instead of dulling his senses, it sharpened them like a knife on a whetstone.
Stannis' men were landing, dragging their boats ashore as they fell on them. He made his first kill, and it sang through him, the Baratheon man-at-arms falling with an imperceptible thud on the sand, his eyes open and unseeing as his blood stained the shore. Sandor might have wondered what the man's last thought had been, if he'd had a woman back home waiting for him, but there wasn't time to be nostalgic. It wasn't long before four or five others had joined the first, their bodies piling up so thick Sandor had a hard time navigating the uneven terrain.
He and his men cut their way through the forces coming ashore, but it became quickly apparent that there were too many of them. He didn't like what he saw when he scanned their number, noting far too many scarlet and gold cloaks on the fallen than he expected. Stannis' men just kept coming. He called the party back, and he was the last to retreat through the Mud Gate as it was closed behind them. He took the stairs three at the time until he reached Tyrion.
"There are more than we thought," he gasped, his chest heaving. "They keep coming. Where the fuck are they coming from?"
"He's a serious man, Stannis Baratheon," Tyrion replied. "He's sending them through the flames."
"They're coming ashore!" Joffrey cried, spittle flung from his mouth. No shit, cunt-king.
"Rain fire on them," Sandor said, desperate for some kind of relief. He could not take his men out there again without archers knocking some of them off. He was leading a defense, not a suicide mission. "Something, we need cover. Pick them off."
"There are too many," Joffrey gasped. The boy was pale. Sandor wanted to toss him over the battlements, wished he'd let Sansa Stark push him those months ago.
"No," Sandor replied. "Not too many, but they need thinning. My lord?"
Tyrion nodded. "We'll aim for the boats." He strode along the ramparts again. "Archers? Knock your arrows."
"Any of those flaming fucking arrows come near me, I'll strangle you with your own guts," Sandor shouted, already making his way back to his men.
They were milling about behind the gate, listening as Stannis Baratheon's men tried to take down. Sandor drew his sword again and strode among them. He was dripping with sweat, and a fair amount of blood. His breath was coming hard, and something had hit him in the face, making it difficult to breathe through his nose. He swiped at his face with his sword hand, narrowly missing skewering a passing squire.
"Any man dies with a clean sword," he shouted, his men back in formation, "I'll rape his fucking corpse."
He signalled, and Bywater opened the gate. Some of the Baratheon men made it through the gate, but Sandor's party fought them back until they were outside of the city walls. Tyrion made good, his arrows raining down on the advancing men as they attempted to land.
It was invigorating, his nerves and muscles screaming with pleasure as he swung his blade and countered with the long knife he kept in his boot. It was slow going, the sand bogging them down as he'd feared, but he enjoyed the submission of other men's flesh, his blades doing their work and leaving them slumped in heaps on the strand. The battle-rage took over, and there was not another thought in his head save hacking and slicing.
Then an arrow from the ramparts hit the man rushing him. He had made ready, digging in his feet and bracing his back in preparation for the inevitable clash. It didn't come, the soldier instead melting into a mass of flame, his screams somehow penetrating the clamor of fighting and worming their way straight into his hearing. His heart thudded, stuttered, and he froze.
He breath seemed to slow, and it filled his lungs like smoke. The soldier was writhing, half of his body engulfed in bright flame, so close Sandor felt the heat lick at his own scars, the old wound calling like to like. The smell of burning flesh, charred hair, invaded his nostrils and he nearly bent double. He wanted to tuck tail and run, but he could not move.
It would have been calamitous if someone else had not been there to stop the mad charge of the unseen foe from his right.
His attention was barely drawn in time to see his attacker go down, Bronn rocking back on his heels as the man slumped off of his sword, leaving a crimson streak along the gleaming steel.
Sandor looked at him for what felt like a long moment before calmly walking back through the gate. His men followed, Bywater barely managing to seal it shut behind them.
"What was that back there?" Bronn demanded. Sandor looked at him with no feeling whatsoever. He felt numb to the roots of his hair.
"Someone bring me a drink," he bellowed. A squire fumbled with a skin, handing it to him and spilling it. Sandor took a long draught, then spat its contents on the ground. "Fuck the water. Bring me wine."
Another skin was substituted, which Sandor gratefully drank. Dornish sour dribbled down his chin until there was none left. He threw the skin to the ground as he swiped his hand over his mouth.
Have to leave. He wasn't thinking, he was going with instinct. Even before he'd watched that man burn to death, Sandor knew that his party was outnumbered. To go back out would be suicide.
"Can I get you some iced milk and some nice raspberries, too?" Tyrion Lannister was coming down the stairs as fast as his short legs would take him, an expression of pure rage on his face.
"Eat shit, dwarf," he said flatly.
"You're on the wrong side of the wall," Tyrion barked, pointing at the gate.
"I've lost half my men," he snarled back. "The Blackwater is on fire."
"Dog," Joffrey said, appearing behind Tyrion. Gods, I hate his face. "I command you to go back out there and fight."
"You're Kingsguard, Clegane," Tyrion said, his demeanor changed to pacifying. Sandor would not buy it. "You must fight them back or they're going to take this city. Your king's city." They both knew he didn't give a shit about the king's city, or the king. Tyrion was trying to remind him that somewhere in the Keep, Lenna was sitting and waiting for her fate.
Go, dog. Run.
"Fuck the Kingsguard," he ground out. "Fuck the city. Fuck the king."
Tyrion looked at him with a mixture of horror and disappointment. But it wasn't Tyrion Sandor was thinking about. His gaze flicked to Bronn, and the sellsword's face was stony. He never wanted to see him again. He will never see me again, he promised himself. He jerked his chin once and Sandor turned, vanishing into the teeming mass of fighting men.
A/N: Hooooo boy. If you're a canon lover, sorry. I changed things up a bit to suit my purposes. I wasn't going for a blow-by-blow, though some of the dialogue in that episode was just too good to let go. So I stole it. Whoops. It was fun hanging out with Sandor so long in this chapter.
Let's see what happens next! I hope I have it up this weekend, but I can make no promises. Extremely busy time.
Thank you again for reading and reviewing! I love all feedback!