Ding…Ding…Ding
Sandor has been receiving notification after notification from his phone. He was this close to flinging the buggering nuisance out the five-story window of his hovel of an apartment.
He knew who it was; the damn friar had been brown-nosing more regularly than usual.
The meddling monk has been at it for weeks, and was severely disappointed in Sandor's lack of interest in participating in that bloody buffoonery.
Sandor had no shame in admitting that he wasn't the easiest of patients to attend to, in fact, rebuffing every one of Elder Brother's attempts at getting him back on his feet so he could ease his way back into the world of man gave him great satisfaction.
He usually responded, "Piss on that," to every idea Elder Brother threw his way.
The man should've known that the seven hells would have to freeze ten times over for Sandor to even consider participating in such foolishness.
This past year has been one of the more shitty years of Sandors life, which says a lot, considering the piles upon piles of shit he's had to shovel through to even be where he is now.
He had been dealt a hapless hand, given the violent childhood that he only survived due to the innate grit he possessed. Gregor had not only burned away half his face, but his soul had taken a fair brunt of the damage inflicted.
What seemed to matter ceased to matter.
What were dreams, if nightmares existed?
What was life but the survival of the fittest?
He learned very young that a strong appearance can define every essence of your being to the average onlooker.
He was not only strong, but scary at that. He was a monstrosity in human form. The number of eyes that veered away from his face has been incalculable.
Opportunities wore thin. He was the least optimal of subjects for some uppity white-collared employer to hire.
Blue-collared work would've suited him fine, but he knew ultimately he would tire of it, and figured it would be a waste to not use his natural born Clegane genes to his benefit.
Being large certainly made him seem more imposing than pitiable, and for that he was grateful. Gregor had cleaved his way through life despite the compulsory expectations set up before him.
The Clegane chromosomes made for some stern stuff, Gregors imposing size, figure, and his diabolical nature made him extremely fit to serve the Lannisters.
The Lannisters mostly assigned him to do their dirtiest of work, as Gregor possessed not a hint of any moral quandaries, and his barbarous brother was down for anything.
Sandor also fell under the Lannisters' employment. His job was to protect that self-absorbed nit-wit of a socialite.
The job usually entailed beating the snot out of those who defied that literal bastard. The amount of times Sandor's gotten into it with boisterous men at bars throughout the country were innumerable. Joffrey was such a big arse, he couldn't help but make enemies everywhere he went.
Sandor found that the blonde imbecile took it too far one night, and got into it with the Sous Chef at a well renowned restaurant near the Ruby Ford. Joff's complaint was that the rare steak he ordered was too pink, and the pudgy practicing chef fruitlessly tried to explain what a "rare" steak was.
Joffrey stormed out in a huff, and Sandor silently followed suit, questioning for the tenth time that day what he was actually doing with his life.
Joff reluctantly picked up some fast food for dinner, and actually to Sandors surprise, offered him some of his fries.
His little act of kindness came with an agenda, though, as it always does.
Joff's ingenious scheme was to return to the restaurant at closing hours, and to jump the poor sod to "teach him a lesson."
Sandor listlessly tried to convince his young boss that it was an unwise decision, but when Joff was seeing red, there was no assuaging the brat of his misplaced anger.
They returned to the restaurant around midnight, and waited and watched for the young sod in their car (ironically performing a stakeout).
Joff was nearly nodding off in his seat, when finally the practicing chef exited through the door. Joffrey nearly jumped out of his seat upon spotting him, and motioned for Sandor to come outside the car and follow him.
Sandor usually didn't mind decking the occasional cocky bouncer, or messing another young pretty boy's face up only a tiny fraction as much as his is messed up. He's not Gregor; he wouldn't inflict the same amount of damage done to his face to anyone.
But that wasn't to say he wasn't above beating up on an ill-fated baby chef, who unfortunately just happened to get on Joffrey's bad side that specific evening. He was handsomely paid for his services, and comfortable with the life he cultivated for himself in spite of Gregor's depravity.
It was a world where the rich and wicked would prosper. His simple act of minor violence was only a means to survive in a world where only the cruel could live fulfilled lives.
He figured he would just subdue the kid in place while Joffrey unloaded sissy little hits on him. No use in going over the top for such menial work.
Only, he never thought Joff would hit the poor sod over the head with a glass bottle…
The only time the pampered bastard had ever gotten close to a trash bin just had to be that specific night where he found it necessary to inflict life-threatening damage.
It all happened so quickly., The baby chef was slashed deeply in the head, and was bleeding profusely all over the cement, and their shoes.
Joffrey demanded they run, and for Sandor to floor it back to their hotel. He refused to leave town, claiming he was too tired to sleep in a car.
Sandor knew they were likely to be found out due to the security cameras attached to every other street pole, but figured legally they'd be fine due to Joff's celebrity; it had always come in handy before.
It didn't that time.
The cops arrived at the Hotel Darry in less than an hour's time. Sandor, fully expecting this, easily relented, figuring they best get it over with as soon as possible.
Joffrey, wasn't so amiable. He cursed and screamed, claiming that the policemen would be hearing from his attorney, and all that other shite.
Mug shots were taken. Old man Tywin promptly had them bailed out right away, and had both Sandor and Joffrey believing that he would more than likely pay off the cops and media to keep it quiet, and everything would presumably move on. It's not like the unfortunate bugger died. He hardly had cause for complaint seeing as his face was nowhere near as distorted as Sandor's. Just a long measly cut.
Things were normal for the first week or two. Sandor had been drowning all thoughts of this incident out with hard liquor, and Joffrey was trying to be slightly less prickish than usual.
Somehow, some teenaged scrawny internet vlogger made countless videos about the misdeed that had occurred that night, and the news ended up running rampant.
She somehow procured the funds and resources to attain video surveillance footage. Apparently, she was a friend of the kid's and was relentlessly spamming the hashtag #justiceformycah all over social media.
The internet was in an uproar about it. Suddenly many accusations involving Joffrey's copious amounts of depraved behavior were exposed, as well as a few incidents where Sandor was involved.
It launched a full federal investigation against the Lannister family, which is still ongoing today.
Sandor was yet again apprehended and was promised he wouldn't face extreme charges if he were to testify and expose what he knew of the Lannister family's corruption.
He got off easy because fools like Beric Dondarrian and Thoros Myr, proprietors of justice, were only aiming to target those with fortune and wealth, neither of which Sandor possessed.
He wasn't one to lie, so he confessed all he knew. He wasn't afraid of what could possibly happen to him, given the Lannisters' connections. For how could you frighten one who had had a taste of what the seven hells would be like when he eventually made his entry there?
Thus, he became unemployed, unemployable, and broke, for those blasting brotherhood buggers charged him a hefty sum in legal counsel.
He had enough money to drink, though. And drink he did.
While drunk it was easier to tolerate reflecting on all the crimes he had committed in the name of the Lannisters. He wouldn't think he was like Gregor. He wasn't. He was only a participant in the petty squabbles that Joff had gotten himself into, that's all…
He lived his life for a good few months in a drunken stupor, whilst cursing Joffrey, Cersei, and the whole of the Lannister clan.
He also cursed that obnoxious little pipsqueak of a teenager, who was still waging a campaign against him, wishing for him to be further charged in the Mycah case. He even went as far as to create social media accounts to give her videos something called "dislikes" and tried to report them for targeted harassment. His efforts have been futile, because she's still carrying on!
He had eventually been found passed out drunk in front of a stupid buggering sept. Elder Brother had come across him and saved his pitiful life.
And here they are today, with Elder Brother yammering on about "opportunities," and Sandor evading his phone calls.
There was naught much activity in his life when his talks with Elder Brother weren't occurring.
He woke up, cooked himself a simple breakfast, did some rudimentary workout routines so his arse wouldn't get flabby from sitting on it all day, and carried on doing routine chores until the sunset, so he could make his way around the city without too much gawking from the average pedestrian.
He made his way to a bar; his habitual steps of the past were still ingrained in his psyche.
He had no intent to drink, though. For some reason, even if he wasn't a participant in their conversations, he still sought the company of people.
He had this nagging urge to eavesdrop on the stories they shared about their sad little lives, needing to silently judge and sneer at them in turn. It had been one of the things that kept morale up while working for the Lannisters for all those years. No matter how much wealth, fame, and adoration they'd receive from those who didn't know better, he was one of the few who saw them for who they all were.
Stupid selfish cunts.
He made his way to a stool, ordered some tap water, and when the bartender gave him a funny look. He gave him a menacing look in return, and the prick quickly scurried away, making haste to serve him his water.
Bar food was usually shit. He wasn't the type to stuff his face with garbage food, but figured he may as well have something to munch on to pass the time. He decided on ordering some nachos, and when he told the waiter he wanted no cheese, he was met with another funny look.
This time Sandor snarled at the judgemental bloke, and the man, yet again, wasted no time in getting his order prepared.
The place was more empty than usual. There wasn't much gossip to overhear, which Sandor silently pouted about.
His eyes darted around the room looking for some semblance of entertainment, when they stopped on one of the flat-screen televisions hung on the wall.
Bloody hells , thought Sandor.
It was the sodding dance show Elder Brother practically begged him to partake in.
As if my stance on not participating in this foolishness could get more firm.
He saw the military "hero" Arys Oakheart spinning some Dornish broad about.
The man was tripping all over himself, his eyes glued to the buxom dancer's bosom. He had no sense of the spacial awareness he used to have as a marksman.
Foolish bugger.
The man's options must have run really dry if he accepted this deal. Perhaps they told him he would be able to lay with the fine Dornish lass in return for the public humiliation.
Sandor didn't think it was worth it. The man somehow made it to the end of the "dance," and was met with criticism from the cranky old judges, but Sandor only half paid attention to what they had to say.
He snickered to himself, pleased that his assessment of the show was correct, in spite of having no knowledge of what it actually was.
He decided to look upwards again towards the television screen, eager to watch more arsehole's make even bigger arses of themselves.
His mirth completely vanquished when he saw her.
A stunning auburn haired woman, dressed in an anachronistic gown, suddenly appeared on the television. Her outfit seemed to be inspired by the medieval era.
She spun about, poised, with her posture as straight as an arrow. Her gown and auburn tresses twirled about with her, ever the epitome of the perfect lady.
He was snapped out of his reverie when the bartender (very obnoxiously) slammed down a refill of his water. Sandor once again snarled at him, and the man apologetically bowed his head down, as if he was some great lord or deity worthy of kowtowing to.
Sandor shook away the absurd thought. The man was most likely pissing himself, probably having not seen a bugger so ugly up close before.
Sandor reverted his eyes back to the screen, and this time not only noticed the red-headed beauty, but also her imbecile of a partner.
The fool was dressed in a jester's outfit of some sort, colorful motley and all, along with the asinine headwear with bells attached to its ends.
The outfit wasn't the most appalling thing about the whole song and dance.
The man was plastered out of his mind.
He was hobbling about, having no sense of awareness in any capacity. His eyes were bloodshot, and the only thing that prevented him from toppling over was the gorgeous girl who was quite literally carrying him through their performance.
Finally, the girl and the audience were put out of their misery, and the performance ended promptly when the man leaned over and expelled the contents of his stomach through his mouth.
He first heard, then saw some of the few patrons in the bar laughing their arses off. Even that fuckwit of a bartender was guffawing so hard he looked like he was near abouts passing out.
Though Sandor partook in his fair share of chuckles during the first performance, he didn't laugh in this instance.
Perhaps if he didn't see the tears formulating in the girl's soft blue eyes.
She suddenly ran off the stage, whilst covering her mouth. It seemed as though she was trying to stifle a sob.
Sandor was feeling something akin to anger upon seeing the girls despair, which made him angry. Why should give a ratsarse about some random television bimbo?.
Perhaps he was in need of a nice good fuck. She was the finest woman he had set his eyes upon in some time. He could give it to the prim and proper lady long and hard.
Mayhaps he would've had a chance to if he had agreed to the show. Maybe that was why he was angry. He lost his chance to fuck the rare beauty!
If they had negotiated that as part of the deal, like he suspected they did for Oakheart, there was a slight chance he may have said yes.
But, the chance was long gone. And here he was, alone at a bar on a Tuesday night, drinking no booze, feeling forlorn, angry, and horny.
A terrible motley of feelings to have all at once.
He was tempted to call that worthless good for nothing bartender over and order himself a proper stiff drink.
To his dismay, he had just realized he forgot to bring his wallet with him, and the nosy fucker was still recovering from his laughing fit.
So Sandor stormed out of the building, walking to gods knows where.
He had no-where to go.