Sandor
The fight was not going well for their side.
Despite not having been in a full-scale battle since Blackwater, Sandor fell into his usual rhythmic patterns and methodically cut a path through Bolton's men to where the family's flayed-man standard proclaimed the location of the bastard himself. Under his borrowed helm, Sandor was anonymous, but through its grill, his grin could be seen as he engaged Ramsay in battle.
"Nice large fellow, you are. You seem cocky," Ramsay commented with a smile. His eyes were bright, and he was only lightly winded— he was having a grand old time, it would seem, for there were at least a dozen corpses piled around him. "Have we met before?"
Sandor ignored him and concentrated on trying to incapacitate his adversary. Ramsay liked to waste his energy with little flourishes, designed more to insult and torment than kill. The more fool him; Sandor had been conserving his energy for killing alone. He drove Ramsay's sword above their heads, then sent a huge boot to the little bastard's midsection.
Ramsay went down like a sack of shit, gasping, airless. Sandor sent his other foot directly into the man's crotch with every ounce of strength he could muster, and Ramsay screamed in agony, so loud and so high that it caught the attention of his allies.
They started to fight their way over. Bored, Sandor cut down enough of them that the rest wisely went back to their own fights. When he turned back to Ramsay, it was to find he had rolled to his hands and knees and was trying desperately to crawl away.
Ah. Not so brazen when at a disadvantage, was he? Sandor strolled after him, bestowing upon Ramsay a gruesome smile when the other man glanced back over his shoulder. Ramsay's face was ash-gray, his hair drenched with sweat, and his eyes rolled with fear like a hamstrung horse.
Sandor supposed he could give the man a nice quick death, now, but where was the fun in that? In love with Sansa he might be— for whatever that was worth, or whatever it meant— but that didn't mean that he'd been lying when he'd told her that one of the finest things in life was to kill.
He knew why the gods forbade it; because they were jealously guarding it as the only thing that could bring a mortal close to touching and sharing their power. Sandor might be disfigured, with a huge bulky form and clumsy hands and a hateful, low-caste family of monstrous killers, but in that split-second of taking a life, he was a god.
And now it was time for this god to pass judgment on a pathetic creature, scrabbling in the dirt like a worm.
Ramsay was still crawling away. Sandor wondered, idly, where he thought he could go, but then shrugged it off as irrelevant. He stomped down on the man's spine, and Ramsay shrieked again as a few ribs cracked.
"So," Sandor began, his tone conversational, even though it echoed in the confines of the helm. "I hear you enjoyed raping Sansa Stark. And have threatened to let your men rape her, too." He removed the helm, then, to let his opponent see who he was.
Ramsay's eyes, already huge and terrified, seemed to expand to take over his entire face as comprehension dawned: the Hound himself had declared himself as Sansa's protector. And avenger. And executioner.
"A misunderstanding," he panted. "I will apologize, I'll beg her for mercy, I'll—"
"Stupid girl would probably forgive you, too," Sandor grumbled. He sheathed his own sword and took Ramsay's from his hand with purposefully insulting ease, placing the point of it just where he imagined the man's arsehole was. "I won't, though."
Ramsay tried a last frantic scuttle across the churned-up mud. Sandor jammed a foot on the man's ankle, pinning him in place, and smirked at the feel of bones crunching and shattering, then at the howl of pain that resulted.
"I've given it some thought. Since no self-respecting Wilding in his right mind would want to rape you, you ugly little cunt, I can't arrange to have the entire army of Free Folk violate you as you threatened to have your army do to Sansa."
He pressed the sword harder, and felt the resistance of the leather armor covering Ramsay's arse just before it gave way.
"So I'll just have to do my best to come up with a substitute."
"No… no, please…" Tears coursed down Ramsay's face to plop into the filth under him.
"Crying? Begging?" Sandor leaned forward, driving the sword an inch forward. "Did you make Sansa cry and beg?" He spit in Ramsay's face.
And then he shoved the sword deep up the man's arse, until it passed through his body and into the ground. He followed it up with a savage twist. "There's the same mercy you showed her."
Ramsay arched in agony, trying again to claw his way forward to escape the weapon pinning him to the earth like an insect. His face was disbelieving, a bloodless, pasty white, and his lips tried— and failed— to form words.
Sandor lost interest in the man, now that revenge had been visited upon him, and looked up to find a ring of Bolton soldiers surrounding him. He tensed, unsheathing his sword once more, but they weren't attacking him. They were just… staring. Gaping, in fact, at the sight of their lord and master, twitching in the muck, his hands reaching desperately for help that did not come.
"There's a lot more swords around here," Sandor announced, "and a lot of empty arses. Who wants to be next?"
They scattered. He passed another disinterested glance over Ramsay, who had stopped moving and now just lay there, his breathing that of a snared rabbit, quick and shallow and panicked and doomed. He'd die soon enough. Sandor had to get back to Sansa.
Sandor began to fight his way through the masses once more, this time in the other direction. A shout of dismay sounded a hundred feet to his right, and his height let him see Jon Snow go down under a dozen opponents while his men tried, fruitlessly, to save their lord.
Fucking, sodding, bleeding hell. Sandor redoubled his efforts, making it back to the keep wall just as the doors were battered inward. Brienne and Tormund were there, and they threw themselves into the fray with a practiced expertise Sandor could only appreciate. He joined them, and they wrought havoc for long, endless moments, until it was obvious that despite their best efforts, they were doomed.
"Snow's dead," he told them. "I'm going to her." Brienne caught his gaze, her own stricken as she realized he was accepting their defeat, and then nodded.
"We'll follow, if we can," she said. "They'll only get to her through us." Beside her, Tormund decapitated one unlucky fellow hoping to use Brienne's distraction to his own advantage.
"Attention on the battle, wench," the Wildling muttered, and with a roll of her eyes, Brienne went back to the fight.
Sandor sped up the stairs three at a time. When he burst into the room, Sansa spun from the window, the dagger he'd given her at the ready, and placed herself between the door and Melisandre. Brave little bird, always thinking to protect, when she needed protection most of all.
"What's she doing?" he demanded, jerking his head toward the witch, who crouched in a corner, hands in the air before her face, chanting her nonsense.
"I think she's praying for victory," replied Sansa with a worried glance.
Sandor snorted. "It will take a divine intervention, because we're fucked."
She paled, and he crossed the room to her. Sansa reached for him, put her beautiful face against his chest as she had done the day before, and like then, Sandor curled his free arm about her waist.
"I killed Bolton for you," he said against her hair. He was smearing her with blood and sweat, but it didn't matter anymore. She didn't seem to care, either, just held him more tightly.
Brienne and Tormund stumbled in, both wounded. Sandor spun around, shoving Sansa behind him, prepared to take on all comers.
Bolton's men followed them in. There was confusion, shouting, frantic motion, the meaty thunk of an arrow penetrating flesh, shocked gasps of pain.
The soldiers turned to Melisandre, a crossbow at the ready.
Overhead, the sky roared, heralding the arrival of dragons. The ruby flashed at her throat. A bolt flew at her.
Melisandre finished her chanting, and gave herself up to the Lord of Light.
