The Loyal As A Dog Trope But The Person They’re Loyal To Never Wanted A Dog

i was determined to give as many as i could

blinking blearily at my phone

"you should be at the club" I should be working on my fanfic

all credit to the original artist! i tried finding them (using that username) on all socials to tag them, and i couldn’t 😭

not now. mommys making a 0 note post

erm sandor clegane spits on it

resisting the urge to boop everyone i see

I hope none of you disappear in the coming days. Seriously don't do anything that can't be undone.

## LITTLE PUP.

enjoy this little piece while cherry’s next chapter is still in editing 💌

table of contents; time jumps (s1, 4 + 8), reader is iconic after the time skip, sexual tension, mentions of rape but literally just the word, possibly triggering language, use of a pet name, age gap (but your age isn’t specified), you’re a snow but not physically described, eventual p in v, hate-fucking, sub(ish) sandor, cum-dumping, brief mentions of bleeding, honestly i can’t be arsed to list everything so mdni please.

a/n; idk what trope this is. i think i invented a new one cause you literally hate each other.

the halls of the red keep are like mazes to you. they like to go on forever, curling back on themselves but still somehow taking you in opposite directions. it seems to you that the targaryens were spindlers of bricks; weaving and spinning a cobweb of pillars and towers that seem to pierce the sun and cast shadows on the sky.

the north is so simple and you miss that. but here, you are lost.

you stumble upon a dead end. you swear your chambers are on this floor, they certainly were yesterday. or did you take a wrong turn? the winding stairs, the long stroll through a high-rising courtyard, then more stairs, then another long stroll. . . where on earth have you ended up? this corridor looks familiar, or do they all look the same? you don’t recall.

“lost again are we, pup?”

you swivel at the voice, almost knocking over a rather expensive looking vase. the queen’s dog. he always appears when you least need for it, like he tracks you when you’re at your most vulnerable. sniffing for your confounded scent.

“no,” you tell him, gasping when your back hits the wall. “and stop calling me that.”

he sniggers, sauntering closer. “i think the little pup has lost her way.”

you take a ponderous swallow, the weight of it dragging down your throat. “i am not lost.” he half expects you to stamp your feet. “go away, leave me alone.”

his smirk doesn’t waver, and his large frame continues to draw closer. his size casts a shadow that stretches ahead of him, carpeting the hallway with a dreadful umbra. it shades you, engulfing you in its darkness. you swallow again, harder this time, and you hear a grim chuckle which tells you he must’ve heard it.

“the queen sent for you.”

you stand a little straighter, hoping he cannot see the way you shudder in his presence. he’s almost reached you now, heavy boots ringing against the floor.

“i will make my own way.”

a low, gravelly laugh booms from his steel-plated chest and you cave in at the husk of it. “you don’t know where she is.”

“is she in the throne room?” you implore, meek.

you can smell his musk now. sweat, ale and flesh. “do you know how to get there from here?”

you falter and peer out of the window with a desperate sidelong glance. all you see is sky. “how did you find me?” you interrogate, snapping your gaze back to his encroaching soma. he’s nearing you. the hall seemed longer when you were alone but somehow his imposing stride has claimed it in short succession.

“i was waiting for you,” he rasps, his dark eyes more hooded than usual. “in your chambers.”

you frown, yelping when your back hits the wall again. you hadn’t even realised you were backing away.

“but you never came.” he’s in front of you now, large hand finding purchase at the bricks beside your head. “i thought maybe you’d taken a wrong turn.” he pushes himself from the wall slightly so his view of your body is a little clearer. his eyes rake it from top to toe, hovering at your chest before returning to your face. he smiles, crooked. “i caught up to you a few wrong turns ago.”

“why didn’t you stop me?” you find your voice again, and the question comes out sharper than intended. his expression hardens and you shrink into yourself.

“the little pup forgets herself.” he drawls, trapping the thin flesh of his lower lip between two teeth.

“i can talk to you how i like. you’re not a ser, you’ve said so yourself.” your tone shocks you — you’re not sure from where you’re finding such confidence.

a gritty chuckle slips through the lopsided crook of his smirk, eyes seemingly darker than before. “pup is relying too much on my forbearance.”

“i’m not a pup,” you tell him, tilting your head high. “i’m a lady.”

“you’re a bastard.” he spits, almost hatefully. “your mother was a wench or a common whore or both, no doubt with an arse full of custard and tits like saucers.”

you do well to handle his words, allowing them to bounce right off you with stoic ease. “would you rather the term woman?”

“aye,” he shifts on his feet, intense stare sinking below the realms of your comfort. “you’ve bled, then?”

suddenly a sickening befalls you. “. . . no.”

he adjusts his stance again, but this time his eyes remain focused on yours. “that so?”

you opt for silence. it’s thick and deafening.

he takes note of your pause, nodding. “late bloomer?”

“i suppose.” you lie, shuffling awkwardly as you lower your head.

he hums, bowing his head again to soak you in. “but these have bloomed.” his armour clinks when he raises an arm, finger pointed to your cleavage.

you berate yourself, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. “they haven’t, not entirely. it is just the corset.”

the hand that previously gestured to your chest travels to your middle where it pinches, cupping your side. you jump, the cool kiss of his gauntlet shocking you through your silk. “you’re not wearing a corset.” he squeezes your waist once, then lets his hand drop.

hot tears start to well in your eyes and you become weak at the knees, leaning back against the wall for balance. “please—”

“they’re well-rounded for a girl who hasn’t yet bloomed,” he speaks lowly, leaning down. “tell me, pup. what babe do these intend to feed if you have not bled?”

“i don’t know,” you mumble, trying not to cry. “the body can work in mysterious ways.”

he lets out a crass, dry chuckle. it’s vicious and forced. “i thought you were a woman.”

you sigh deeply, expelling it from your nose. he’s laid down the foundations of a trap and you stumble straight upon it. “i am. i’m a woman who does not wish to be raped.”

then something in his face shifts, like a switch has been flipped. you heave out a breath, anchoring yourself to the wall.

but he does nothing, only looks down at your cowering figure with pitiful disgust. “i’m not a raper.”

“of course, you are. that’s just your kind.” you spit, regaining your confidence. “it’s in your nature.”

“my kind? i’m no knight, pup. meryn trant beats helpless girls so i’d wager he’s raped his fair share, too. but i only take pleasure from drawing blood with steel.” he talks through his teeth, his shoulder-length hair falling between the two of you like curtains.

“you’re still a man,” you say, barely above a whisper. “you’re all the same. my mother always told me to assume every man means to hurt me, because most of them will.”

a sort of sadness or something similar dashes across his features and for a second you believe the hound, one of westeros’ most feared men, might actually be capable of empathy. then his eyes turn back to their usual sourness and your face stares back at you in their reflection.

“if you live by that rule, you will get hurt, pup.” he returns to his full height, taking one step back. “to assume the worst is no way to survive.”

“you’re a hateful man,” you tell him. “that’s why you’re so at home here.”

“you’ll be thankful for my hate when a time comes that trant or worse gets their hands on you, and believe me, there is far worse than trant.” he leans close again. “but he’s no man, and he’s less of a knight than me.”

you fidget under his stare, cringing when his hot breath licks at your neck.

“and here’s another token of wisdom, don’t ever fight back, cause then you’re showing him how strong you are.” he retracts from you, still smirking. “and they’ll always be stronger than you.”

you consider him for a fleeting moment, your apprehension beginning to dwindle. “the queen will be wondering where i am.”

you push past him. he does not follow you this time.

“you’re dying.” you speak the words monotonously, dead-faced and bleak.

he grunts, dragging himself up the cliff side. his weight slips down again and he growls, clutching at his leg where a spur of bone spears through its skin. “aye, unless there’s a maester hiding behind that rock, i’m done.”

you ought to swish your skirts and do a pirouette, this is the best thing that’s happened to you for some time. “killed by a woman,” you smirk, watching him struggle. “you’ve no idea the joy that brings me.”

“i’m not dead yet.” he groans, clenching his teeth as blood continues to seep from his wounds. “but if you’d like to hurry things along, i won’t stop you.”

“i’d rather you went slowly.” you deadpan, kneeling beside him. his injuries are grisly, and if they don’t take him soon, mountain lions or vultures will.

“you’re a bitter little bitch aren’t you, pup?” even now he can still muster irritancy. “all these months, i’ve kept you fed and watered, and this is the thanks i get.”

“i didn’t ask you to do any of it.” you remind him, making yourself comfortable whilst he moans in agony. “i’m only here cause you wanted a woman to keep you in warm company.”

“and you’ve not even been good for that.” he rasps, glancing over at you. “i should’ve had you the night of the blackwater. yeah. . . i should’ve fucked you bloody.”

before, a statement like that would’ve rocked you. now you feel nothing. “not a raper, he says.”

“i should’ve fucking raped you.” he spits, then lets out a throaty groan when the soil beneath him shifts, causing his leg to move.

“i know what you’re trying to get me to do,” you stand, looking down at him. he lets out a whimperish sound and it delights you. “i’m not going to end your suffering. killing you would be a mercy.”

“you know you want to.” he taunts, big brown eyes gazing up at you. he almost looks soft. “how many times have you thought about it?”

“oh, i want nothing more.” you crouch down and reach for his belt, plucking the bag of silver that was fastened to it. he goes for you out of instinct, trying to swipe the bag. “you won’t be needing this.”

and you step over him, gravel crunching beneath your feet as you make haste to catch up to the tall woman.

“kill me.” he pleads, armour chinking against the ground. “kill me!”

you leave him there, leaving his fate to the gods. or the mountain lions. it doesn’t make a difference to you.

last night was long but the north prevailed. arya stark killed the night king, and with him, his army of fallen soldiers finally fell again.

you stand next to sansa stark, a dear childhood friend. around you, people celebrate the victory over mead, stew and women. theon greyjoy and lyanna mormont were lost to the battle, amongst many others. their losses weigh heavy, and it’s obvious that people are finding comfort at the bottom of an alehorn.

a little ways ahead, at an empty table, sits the man you left for dead; a jug to himself, and two empty bowls. “i left him to die.”

from your peripheral you see her head turn rather sharply. “who?”

“sandor clegane.” you tell her, his name leaving an aftertaste worse than the strongest wine in your mouth. it almost feels like vulgarity to speak it. “he begged me to kill him, i didn’t.”

“sandor clegane begged you to kill him? you lost me at the word ‘begged’.” she snorts, sipping from her cup.

you smile. it would sound pretty alien to somebody who wasn’t there. “he was already dying, he just wanted me to end it quickly.”

sansa nods. “why didn’t you?”

you finally tear your eyes from the man, blind to your gaze. “do you remember how much you loathed joffrey?”

she nods a yes.

“when he was dying, had he asked you to finish him and spare him the misery of death, would you have?”

she’s silent, then shakes her head no.

you turn back to him, and a pair of brown eyes glare back at you. your heart lurches and you harden your stare, lifting your cup to take a drink.

“he’s seen you.” sansa murmurs, hiding her mouth behind her cup. “i assume you have not spoken.”

“no,” you swig generously from your wine, then pass her your empty cup. “i intend to remedy that.”

he watches you approach, not blinking and unmoving. you settle down opposite him and take his alehorn from his grip, helping yourself to the jug. you pour what remains of it, then take a greedy slurp, deliberate and loud.

“i have a question.” you clear your throat and slide the empty alehorn back toward him. he catches it, eyeing you with an unreadable expression. “are you immortal?”

“fucking hope not.” he gruffs, waving down a serving girl.

you smirk. “it’s just, i’m pretty certain i left you for imminent death.”

“aye, i hadn’t forgotten.” he grumbles, snatching a jug from the girl.

“and you survived the army of the dead.” you rest your chin in your palm. “it seems to me that you’re hard to rid of.”

“does that sadden you?” he asks, rhetorical.

“a little.” you humour.

he offers you another drink, you decline. “i hope you made use of that silver.”

“i made more use of it than you would have.”

he looks up at you and chuckles. “you’ve changed, little pup. it used to be you couldn’t look at me — out of fear, out of hatred.”

“i still hate you.” you smile, tilting your head. his gaze flits to follow yours. “but i’ve seen worse since you.”

he straightens in his seat, chewing at his lip. “been bedded yet?”

“as it so happens, i have.” you fold your arms. you knew he’d bring it up eventually.

“broken in rough, were you?”

you squint at him, jaw ticking. “does it matter?”

he holds your hard stare for a second. “no.”

what you don’t tell him, is that it was him who you dreamt of the night you were taken.

when you knocked on his door, which took courage and much of it, you didn’t wait long enough for it to open and started to take your leave.

“little pup,” he leaned against the doorframe. “come to finally finish me?”

“something like that.”

what a sight, you twitching and writhing above him in the low candlelight. his massive palms curve around your rolling hips where they squeeze, anchoring you to his crotch.

he’s gained weight since you last saw him, his stomach soft with pudge. his thighs make for thick cushioning under your hind and you mewl, fingers nipping at his belly as he drags your clit against the salt and pepper curls at his cock’s base.

a man of his size would be well-endowed, wouldn’t he? the guy is hung like a horse, and the moment you speared yourself onto him it felt as though you were being ruined for the first time again.

you like him like this. for one, this is the longest he’s gone without imprecating you. but mostly, you’re in control for once.

and he looks devastating beneath you. a crude sheen coats his cheeks and forehead, glistening against the uneven surface of his scar. his brows are furrowed, pupils blown to the point his eyes look black, and his nostrils flare with each staggered gasp for breath.

a groan rips from his throat, raw and croaky. the wiry hairs of his chest seem to stand to attention, soaking the cotton of his undershirt. sweat catches in the stubble of his thick neck, teeth gritted in a snarl.

your hips stutter at the sight of him, snapping wildly. his hands alternate between bouncing and grinding you down onto him, skin slapping skin and the stench of sex filling the room.

the gape of your cunt as she stretches to accommodate him is immense and it aches beautifully, clinging to him like a sheath would a sword. every so often he knocks against your cervix, jolting you above him. you allow a moan to escape you, nails cutting into his chub.

with ease he’s able to reach around your waist with two large hands, guiding you along every ridge and vein. he flexes inside of you as you fuck yourself on his cock, pulsating around him.

nothing about it is loving or caressive or attentive. he won’t rock his hips or make effort to please you. he hasn’t kissed you or asked how you like it and only touches you when your pace slows. he seldom even makes a noise.

all it is, is two people chasing the same thing. a good fuck.

and gods, is it good. raw and ravenous and filthy. tooth and claw.

a frantic pant bursts from your lungs and you rut against him like something animalistic has taken you. intense pleasure starts to blossom in your stomach and your back arches, then a warm hand cups the back of your neck where it tilts your head down, forcing you to look where you’re connected.

“you’re fucking falling apart.” he drawls, slurred. you jerk away from his grip, shoving him away so he falls back into the pillows with a lazy grin.

all those years of pent up hatred, brewing and festering, igniting ever fibre of your beings, finally erupts when you both go rigid. you stiffen atop him, mouth falling open into a silent scream. a low growl reverberates through him and you feel it in your core, his fingers biting into your thighs as he dumps his load within you.

he twitches and you groan, lifting yourself off him and collapsing onto the mattress. your pussy aches at the sudden loss, your loins sore and burning. you peer down at the stickiness between your thighs and the red that curdles with the cream.

a grating chuckle irks you then and you sit up, scanning the room for something to clean yourself with.

“so i got to fuck you bloody after all.”

“i fucked myself bloody,” you grumble, rising on quivering legs. “you just laid there.”

“aye,” he watches you, amused. “and still you struggle to walk.”

“it’s been a while.” you parrot back, wincing as you wipe yourself with a spare sheet.

“no wonder you didn’t kill me,” he carries on, eyes closed and arms crossed. “i knew you wanted it as much as me.”

you scoff at that. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“i don’t need flattery when it’s my seed that drips from your cunt, little pup.”

“i’m no pup.”

“no, of course not. you’re a little bitch.”

“you’re learning.”

TIL DEATH DO US PART.

table of contents; flashbacks in italics, unlikely friends to lovers, light descriptions of smut, strong language, death, angst, stressy depressy, i’m super sorry in advance.

header art creds; dorota piotrowiak!

“what happened to your face?”

a teenage sandor turned at the voice, sweet like candied peaches, not that he knew how they tasted.

a girl his age, or maybe a moon younger. you were bedraggled just as he was, your rags muddied from the day. he looked you up and down, shorter than him and much prettier, despite the dirt.

“the fuck happened to yours?” he bit back, expecting you to run or cry or both. but you didn’t. you just stood there looking at him, quizzically.

“the wind changed.” you quipped, smirking as you took a step nearer. “careful, if it changes again, you’ll be stuck even uglier.”

he didn’t laugh like you hoped. “fuck off, i’m busy.”

“are you, though?” you closed the distance between you, peering around him. “what’re you hiding behind your back?”

“nothing.”

“show me.”

“fuck off.”

you squinted up at him, then lurched forward to snatch whatever it was that he was holding. he lunged to take it back but you were quicker, ducking away.

“bread?” you studied the small piece as it crumbled in your hands, it had been ripped from a bigger loaf. “why are you stealing food? you live in a castle.”

he tugged it back off you, tearing at the corner with his teeth. “i’m hungry,” he told you with his mouth full, spitting a crumb onto your cheek. you grimaced and wiped it with your sleeve. “anyway, why are you here?” he assumed you to be a villager, since he’d never seen you about the grounds of clegane keep before.

“same reason.” you shrugged, shoving past him to the baker’s stall. you leaned in, choosing the loaf with a portion missing. “i’m also hungry.”

sandor narrowed his eyes at you, still chewing. “who the fuck are you?”

“a girl without a castle full of cooks.” you grumbled, a glob of bread flying from your mouth onto his scarred cheek. he blinked, then scrubbed at it with a dirty knuckle, frowning. you did that on purpose.

“some advice, lanky. don’t take a piece of food only to leave the rest, that’s how you get caught.” you lifted the flap of your tattered satchel, showing him a bag stuffed to the brim with berries, spices, and cooked meat. you passed him a chicken leg, its succulent flesh almost falling from the bone. “you should eat more, that chicken had more meat on its bones than you.”

you spun away from him, untamed hair swishing behind you with your leave. he watched you go, baffled. “you’re one to talk!” he shouted after some time.

“i’d eat much more if i could — nobody’s a peasant by choice!” you flipped him the bird over your shoulder, trudging through the mud towards the small village behind the trees that housed your fellow commoners and lowborns.

a small smirk tugged at his lips and he called out, “never got your name!”

“never gave it to you!”

“quit movin’.” you nagged, tugging his face back to you by his jaw. you dabbed at the cut that split his lower lip, blotting it until its weeping stopped. you licked at the cloth, dampening it, then put it back to his lip.

he flinched away. “ew, fuck off.”

you dropped your arm and shot him a disgruntled glare. “i don’t have cooties, cheese-dick.”

“don’t know where your gob’s been.” he grumbled, huffing when you gripped him by the back of his head and resumed cleaning him up anyway.

“around every boy’s cock in the village.” you chirped, pocketing the rag once his cut had stopped bleeding.

he rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the hint of jealousy that nibbled away at his heart at the prospect. “slag.”

“twat.” you parroted back, punching him lightly in the arm.

“fuckface.”

“cunt.”

he accepted his defeat, reclining back on his elbows. you joined him in the grass, hair splayed like a halo around your head. you lulled your head to the side, he did the same. you smiled up at him, he scrunched his nose and pulled a face. you snorted, nudging him in the side. “gonna tell me how that happened now?”

he faced his front, looking out over the field from the ‘spot’ the two of you had claimed some years back, under a weeping willow tree where no one ever went and time seemed to stop. “just got into a fight is all.”

“another one?” you propped yourself up on your hands, shoulder bumping his.

“some fat cunt called my mother a whore.” he spat, his anger returning.

you nodded, giving him a moment before responding. “well, was she?”

sandor’s scowl deepened and he graced you with a sidelong glance. “what?”

“was she a whore?” you asked, your wild unkempt hair blowing in his face with the breeze.

he brushed it from his eyes and gathered it in his hands, alternating between messily braiding it and interlacing your matted locks within his fingers. you let him. he loved your hair, it calmed him. “‘course she wasn’t.”

“exactly,” you said softly, watching the tension in his shoulders gradually dissolve. “so why bleed for such daftness? it would be the same if they’d called me a whore. i’m not, so it doesn’t matter. you shouldn’t let meaningless words that hold no truth to them rile you.”

“it wouldn’t be the same if he’d said it about you,” he turned back to look at you, releasing your hair from his fingers to tuck it behind your ear. “i would’ve given him more than a bloody lip. i would’ve strangled him with his own cock and balls.”

you stifled a laugh and jabbed his leg with your boot. “in all the time i’ve known you, which has been a while now, that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve said to me”

“four years.” he told you, turning back to the view. “we met four years ago. i remember ‘cause it was the day of my first kill.”

“so. . . we were twelve.” you calculated. “you killed your first man at twelve?”

“aye, it was hungry work.” he joked, reminiscing on the day you crossed paths.

“oh, poor little knightling! just put the steel to someone for the first time and it got his tummy rumbling!” you gasped, collapsing onto him as you draped yourself over his legs with your hand to your forehead. “oh, how my heart aches for you, sandor clegane! had you not eaten since your afternoon tea and gooseberry compote over scones?”

he tried not to smile at your antics but failed, grinning down at you as you feigned illness across his lap. “not my fucking fault you’re a little pauper.”

“that might just make me a damsel in distress!” you leaped to your feet, clutching at your imaginary pearls. “oh, ser, i feel my poorness may be ailing me. you must have me nursed back to health at once, for i can feel life slipping from my grasp! if only i wasn’t so weak and starved. . .” you fell back down and he caught you, holding you in his arms.

“put a sock in it.” he chuckled, rocking you once, then twice. “better?”

“much.” you beamed, booping the tip of his nose.

he smiled down at you, the only person who he let see his capability of doing so. his eyes danced over your features, appreciating every freckle and blemish. they lingered at your lips and you let out a laugh, breaking his daze. “are you thinking about snogging me, clegane?”

“already got a split lip, don’t want a cold sore too.” he said, jestingly. you stuck out your tongue. “now, what the fuck’s gooseberry compote?”

you bolted upright and shifted to straddle him, grabbing him harshly by his shoulders. “don’t tell me you’ve never had it.” he was silent, hands moving to grip your waist as you shook him. “gods, you haven’t!” then you twisted to settle between his legs, thudding your head against his chest. “unacceptable, m’lord! i must make some for you.”

“i’m no lord.” he grumbled, pinching at your sides. you smacked his hands away and rolled your head back to glare at him. “you live in a pretty castle with a flag that adorns your sigil — very lordish.”

“don’t mean anything, we’re a knightly house not a noble one. and anyway, it’s not a castle, it’s a tower house.” he griped, choosing to tickle you that time. you yelped, then let out a nasally laugh. “why’s it called ‘clegane keep’, then?”

“i didn’t name the fucker, did i.” he mocked you then, though it instead sounded like he was impersonating a pig. you gaped with feigned offence and shoved him back against the ground. he tried to pull you down with him but you were faster, scrambling to your feet, where your skirts rode up your legs to reveal grass-stained knees.

“last one down the hill has to eat a worm!” you dared, already pinning your dress down as you prepared to roll.

sandor groaned. “fuck off, we’re not kids anymore.”

“we’re not adults yet.” you countered, then disappeared over the hillside.

he didn’t roll, but he did walk down it.

“you have to eat the worm.” you told him once he’d joined you at the bottom. you’d already dug one up, dangling it between your thumb and forefinger as it wriggled.

he arched his brow at you. “i’d rather shit in my hands and clap.”

you smirked. “that could work.”

he slapped the grub from your hand. “fuck off.”

you pouted, jogging after him as he made his way. “well winners shouldn’t have to walk home.” you told him, doing a running-jump onto his back. as if expecting you to do it, he immediately locked his arms around the backs of your knees without complaint.

you planted your chin on his shoulder, arms linked around his neck. “worms taste quite nice, you know.”

“strange girl.” he huffed, hoisting you further up his back.

“they’re nice with home-grown vegetables. i pretend it’s spaghetti.”

“you could just eat the vegetables.”

“we ration them. and i have to bulk out my one meal a day somehow.” you reasoned, wondering if he’d caught onto your blatant tattle yet. “besides, they’re a good source of protein.”

“so eat the chickens.” he argued.

“you eat all the chickens.” you retorted.

“what about pepper? your hen?”

“she gives us eggs!”

“eggs are protein.”

“no, i’m certain eggs are dairy.”

“don’t make me drop you.”

you huffed, catching the lobe of his good ear between your teeth. he jerked his head away and dug his nails into your legs, jolting you.

“first kill at twelve. . . what else haven’t you told me?” you pondered, drumming your fingers against his chest.

“many things.” he mumbled.

“i tell you everything.” you said, a little sadly.

“and who’s problem is that?” he snapped.

you took no notice, well-accustomed to his short fuse. it was never personal, the boy just had a fierce temper. typical clegane. but he took note of your silence and sighed, lowering his tone. “my bed didn’t actually catch fire.”

you looked at him, a little surprised. you’d been waiting a long time to hear the truth behind his facial burns. you hadn’t asked since the day you met whereby it was the first thing you spoke to him. but you’d heard the rumours, everybody had.

“i didn’t think so,” you softly mused. “what bed fire only burns the side of one’s face? unless it was only the pillow that had caught alight. and even then, how? so what really happened, sandor?”

he hesitated, walking a bit slower. “promise me you’ll never tell.”

“i swear it, on my life. which means you’ll have to kill me if i tell anyone!” he snorted at that which made you smile. that was your favourite thing to do — making him smile. he lifted out his pinky and you locked it with yours, sealing the deal.

so he let you down and you sat together in the grass.

“i always wanted to be a knight.” he began, which you knew. “my brother had this toy. . . a wooden stallion, and atop it sat a knight with a helm and a shield and a sword. it was the prettiest thing i’d ever seen—”

“—until you met me.” you butted in with a smirk.

“aye, until i met you. then i thought it was even prettier.” he kidded, then put a finger to his mouth, shushing you.

you sat back, hands raised in mock surrender.

“back then i was still too young to spar. gregor had his own sword by then and he was in the courtyard all day everyday practicing with the other boys. i was stuck inside with my own toys but they weren’t knights, they were wooden animals. hounds, mostly.” he paused to look at you and you nodded, wanting him to continue.

“so one day i decided, if i couldn’t train to be one, i could at least play with a pretend one. see, i’d already begged gregor to swap his knight for one of my animals but he said no, as i would’ve had the roles been reversed. and his room was next door to mine, so i let myself in and headed straight for his toy chest. i opened it and there it was, right at the top. so i went back to my room, sat in front of the fire, and trotted that knight across the cold stone. his shadow looked so real and i wondered if i’d ever be as cool as him when i grew up.”

a sense of dread came over you as you saw what was coming, hand cupping your mouth. sandor glanced up to check you were still listening and you were. intently.

“i must’ve been playing with it for hours ‘cause when i heard his door open it was dark outside. then i heard him open his chest.” he began to pick at the blades of grass, feeling the dew against his skin. “he barged in. i looked up and i was happy so i smiled, but he must’ve thought i found him funny. but he didn’t say anything, just marched right over to me and picked me up by my scruff, tucked me under his arm, and pressed me to the burning coals.”

his voice wavered and your heart shattered for him. you scooted closer and took his fiddling fingers, latticing them with yours.

“i still had the knight in my hand, he burned with me.” he said, refusing to meet your eyes. “my father covered for him, told people my bedding caught fire when a candle fell from my bedside. my mother insisted i moved rooms, far away from gregor’s. he’s a knight now.”

“and some day, you will be too.” you squeezed his hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of it.

“nah,” he gruffed, pulling away from you. “i don’t care for knighthood, not anymore. i won’t be associated with that cunt if i can help it.” he stood, holding a hand out to you. “i’m going to king’s landing soon to take service with the lannisters, and i want you to come with me.”

“and the hound has abandoned his men.”

you stood at lancel’s words. “what do you mean he ‘abandoned’ them? he’d never do that!”

“i believe his words were ‘fuck the king’.” the queen’s cousin told you.

you squinted at the skinny man. “he’d never say such a thing.” at least not to the king’s face, you then thought.

“silence.” cersei hissed, then turned to lancel. “where is my son?”

you flopped down onto the queen’s ottoman, biting at your nails. the commotions of warfare crawled through the windows of the tower and it made the other maidens fuss and panic. sansa stark started singing to them and for a moment it calmed you, then you wondered, had he left you? no. no, surely he hadn’t.

“more wine.” the queen asked her squire as she sunk back into the cushions beside you. “and one for my handmaid.” her squire fetched her another cup, filling it all the way.

you drank generously, hoping it would take effect punctually. “you’re going to have his head, aren’t you?”

cersei tilted her head, cup permanently risen to her mouth where it would not leave until it was empty. “if i can find someone with the minerals to capture him first. it will take some coin, the kind of coin i’m not willing to part with.”

you nodded and took another swig. “i must beg pardon, your grace.” you handed the cup to her squire then made haste for the doors, pushing past ilyn payne and the two guards at their post.

once making it to your chambers, you stumbled inside, out of breath. “fuck.” you breathed, jumping when the ramming of the city gates echoed through the walls. “that prick,” you grumbled, feeling for your oil lantern. “leaving me here in this stinking city.”

you twisted it and the flame appeared, dancing within its confinements. then you saw him, slumped against your bedpost. “so it’s true.” you whispered, approaching him. “you did abandon your men.”

“the blackwater is burning.” he slurred, voice uneasy. “water burns. . . how the fuck can water burn. . .”

you crossed the room to the window, peering down over the steep rock that held the red keep. green and orange engulfed the bay, boats and men ablaze. then you realised and turned to look at him. his head was down, wineskin poised limply between his fingers.

“wildfire,” you said. “it can’t be extinguished.” no wonder he tucked tail. you placed the lantern down, not too close to him, and stepped between his legs. he let you cup his jaw and lift his face, the illuminations of the battle below highlighting it for you. his beard was thick with blood, splatters of it painting the canvas of his skin.

you bundled your skirt, hooking the material over your pointer and dabbed it on your tongue. he leaned into your palm, watching you. a devastating sight.

then you pressed the fabric to his mouth with a childish smirk. “we’re practically kissing, you know.”

his nose wrinkled up, and for a second it was like you were looking at that sixteen year old boy again. “cooties.”

“cutie? who, me?” you did a twirl. “you flatter me so!”

finally he cracked a smile and your heart swelled. “c’mere,” he beckoned, yanking you back to him. you grinned, placing your hands atop his pauldrons. “you’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“have to.” he told you, large hands stationed at your hips. “somewhere that isn’t burning.”

“there’s that, and i hear you told the king to fuck off,” you raised an accusatory brow, but your eyes flashed with amusement.

his broad shoulders shrugged beneath your palms. “aye, he’s a little cunt.”

you pursed your lips, trying not to laugh. “i certainly wouldn’t invite him for supper.”

“do you like it here?” he asked you, tilting the wineskin to your lips. you allowed him to pour it into your mouth, enjoying the bitterness of the grape. “no,” you deadpanned. “i wish you’d never brought me here. we should’ve stayed under that willow tree.”

“we can’t go west,” he shook his head. “only north.” you lowered your head at that, disappointed. a bloodied finger hooked your chin, guiding your face toward his. “you miss home. i’ll build you house; in a village, if you like. or where there aren’t any other houses for miles. with a chimney, but only for cooking. no fires.”

your insides thawed and you perched on his knee, slinging your arms around his thick neck. “you’ll build me a house?”

“aye, i’ll build us a house.” his arms enveloped your middle, fingers grazing the undersides of your breasts. “come with me.”

you suckled your lip between your teeth, completely struck by him. “will you plant me a willow tree?”

“plant your own fucking tree, woman.” he grouched into his wineskin.

you snatched it off him, gulping down the dregs. “i want gooseberry bushes, too.”

“you and your fucking gooseberries.” he huffed, sliding you off his thigh when he stood. “c’mon, then. best to get some distance between us and this place before sunrise.”

“sandor, wait.”

he turned just as you launched at him, wrenching him by the buckles of his breastplate to crash your lips against his. he was rigid for a moment, then his hands found your arse and lifted you from the ground.

“no one will look for you here.” you spoke against his lips, fingers tangled in his sweat-damp hair. “and this might be our last chance.”

he made love to you right then and there, fucking you slowly and thoroughly. it wasn’t desperate or rigorous like the last time he took you, or clumsy and sloppy like the first time — when neither of you had taken anyone before and had no idea what you were really doing.

it was just about the two of you, and your loins burned hotter than the blackwater when it was done, aching for the days to come.

it’s been some time since his search for you began. he’d asked you to take refuge in the crypts with sansa and the other women, but of course you refused. spouting some nonsense about being a strong and independent woman. he knew better than to argue with that.

so his voice carries in the bleakness again, your name rolling over the corpses of the fallen. he steps over them, accidentally standing on some. he calls for you again, voice booming.

but nothing.

then the distant sound of coughing travels to a welcoming ear and his head snaps in its direction. he shouts for you, hopeful, and charges through the motionless lumps of bodies and guts, almost tripping in his haste.

then he sees what looks like hair, long and wild like yours. it blows aimlessly against the breeze, dyed red by blood.

“no. . .” he drops his weapon. “no, no, no.” he falls to his knees, tentative hand gripping the arm of the fallen. it’s slim like yours. his stomach churns and he grits his teeth as he turns the body over, and a pair of dead eyes stare up at him. but they’re not yours.

he heaves out a hefty sigh, hands braced on the ground. “fuck.” his heart hammers in his chest, the bile he’d been holding slowly sinking back down his throat.

then that same cough is carried by the wind again and he struggles to his feet, eyes darting desperately over his surroundings.

a little hand waves him over, floppy and shaky. then it drops.

he trips over his own feet, no longer caring how many corpses he stampedes in his scramble.

hot tears start to well at your eyes when he reaches you and you groan. “sandor. . .”

“i’m here,” he sinks to the ground and immediately attempts to scoop you up. you cry out in pain, hands scrunching at his leathers. “no, no! it hurts—”

“okay, okay.” he lowers you again, gently, like you might disintegrate in his hands. “we can sit here, it’s okay.” he bundles you into his lap, supporting the back of your head in his palm.

you grunt, eyes squeezing shut. “it hurts.”

“i know, i know.” his voice starts to break. “just keep those pretty eyes open.”

he notices the blood soaking through your clothes onto his, but there’s so much of it, he can’t tell from where you’re actually bleeding.

“who was that bitch you went to first, eh?” you peel your eyes back open, smirking up at him. “don’t tell me there’s someone else.”

he snorts. “thought she was you. gave me a fright, woman.”

“silly twat.” you chuckle, then splutter into a fit of coughs. you wince when they jerk your body, then relax back into his embrace.

“at least i never thought eggs were dairy.” he smiles, but it doesn’t stretch to his eyes.

you scoff. “oh, forgive me. i never had a formal education, you see!”

“shush, now.” he starts to rock you slightly, like he did under that tree, and strokes your hair. oh, how he loves your hair.

it does little to ease your pain, but you’ve not the heart to tell him. “you should’ve built me that house.”

“i know.” he clears his throat, shifting you in his arms so he can press his hand to where he thinks your life’s blood drains.

you groan as he applies pressure to your side and place your smaller hand over his. “you can cry, you know. i am dying after all.”

“no, you’re not—”

“you’ve always said you’d die for me. . .” you pause to suck in a long breath. it’s staggered and it rattles. “if you want to trade places, that would be grand.”

he laughs, genuine. “i would if i could.”

“i always thought dying would be quite peaceful, but then again, i always pictured you and i growing old together. . . and dying together, in our sleep or something.” you let out another wheezy breath, shorter this time. “it turns out, dying isn’t peaceful at all. it fucking sucks.”

“let me take you inside. if thoros can bring beric back six fucking times—”

“—i’m not dead yet.” you rasp, becoming lighter in his grip, like the gods are pulling you from him.

“woman, i’m not going to watch you die—”

“—yes, you are.” you dry heave, and blood splatters from your mouth. sandor swallows, wiping at the corners of your lips with his thumb. “being brought back to life must be the most embarrassing thing that can happen to someone. if not, then getting stabbed most definitely is.” not that you can remember if it was a stab that landed you here.

he bows his head, but you manage to lift your hand, cupping his cheek. he turns his face and kisses your palm. “you never made a wife out of me.” you whisper.

“i planned to.” he speaks against your skin, so cold and waxy against his lips.

“you’re going soft.” you say, barely audible as you grow weaker. “you made a lucky escape, clegane. if you think i’m an annoying friend, fancy being my husband.”

“stop that.” he shakes you, carefully. you scarcely feel it anyway.

you hum as you start to drift, but part your lips to say lastly, “sandor, i. . .”

he lifts you to his ear, but you never finish your piece. he holds your face in his hands, eyes searching yours, but they’re empty and their light has snuffed out. the world around him seems to slow to a stop and he utters your name, voice cracking.

“we should’ve stayed under that willow tree.”

your words bounce off the four corners of his mind and he allows himself to weep, clutching you to his front as his body racks with sobs. his tears seem to freeze as they roll down the cold surface of your skin, and even in death your hair comforts him, enveloping him in a ghostly hug.

but even death couldn’t keep him from you. with nothing else to live for, he rode for king’s landing that very next day. ultimately it was revenge that claimed him, the one thing that had consumed him since childhood. the only thing he yearned for more than killing, and even you.

and when he fell towards the flames below he saw you beneath that willow tree, nattering nonsensically as you always did, wild hair pursuing you as you frolicked and laughed in your disorderly way.