The Queen of Flames (Sequel to 'The Demon of Winterfell') (On Hold)

Chapter Eleven: Sad Eyes

As they walked, Jorah caught up to Jon. "The first time I went north of the Wall was with your father," Jon said.

"He was a good man," Jorah replied. "He deserved a better son. Were you with him at the end?"

"I was a prisoner of the wildlings. But we avenged him. I want you to know that. Every mutineer found justice."

"Can't think of a worse way for him to go. The Night's Watch was his life. He would have died to protect every one of those men. And they butchered him."

Jon nodded. "I hate that he died that way. My father was the most honorable man I ever met. He was good all the way through. And he died on the executioner's block."

Emmelyne flinched at the memory of Ned being dragged to the steps. She stopped listening, biting down on her lip. Her time in King's Landing felt like faraway nightmare, one that she'd experienced years ago, but could never forget. Joffrey's torture. Cersei's manipulation. The riot, where Emmelyne was quite sure she would die. And Sandor saving her from all of it. Sandor and her fleeing during the Battle of the Blackwater. She adjusted her bow, licking her lips, which were chapped from the cold.

Jon and Jorah stopped for a moment, but everyone else continued walking.

The matter of marriage between Emmelyne and Sandor was forgotten, but the thought still went through her mind. Would she ever marry Sandor? It was a strange thing to consider. She truly believed that she was in love with him, but was he in love with her?

Beside her, Sandor was thinking much of the same thing. His thoughts, however, centered mostly on Emmelyne's pregnancy. He could only think of her as the sixteen-year-old girl who'd been afraid of him when she first arrived in King's Landing. As the sixteen-year-old who collapsed against his chest when her father was killed. As the seventeen-year-old who'd he'd saved from almost certain rape and murder. As the seventeen-year-old who he had finally saved during the Battle of the Blackwater. And as the eighteen-year-old who had left him. Who'd kissed him on the cheek and said that she was staying with the Brotherhood.

But here she was now. Twenty-four years old and pregnant. His grip on her hand tightened.

The sun was beginning to set.

Sandor stopped walking suddenly to retie his boot, and Tormund walked over to him and Emmelyne. He spoke to Sandor, however. "You're the one they call 'the Dog'," he said.

"Fuck off," Sandor snapped.

Emmelyne chuckled, looking up at Tormund. "It's Hound, not Dog. But he doesn't like to be called it, as you can tell."

Tormund laughed as well. "They told me he was mean."

He looked at Sandor now. "Were you born mean or you just hate wildlings?" he asked.

"I don't give two shits about wildlings," Sandor stated. "It's gingers I hate."

"Gingers are beautiful. We are kissed by fire, just like you," Tormund said, pointing at Sandor's scars.

"Don't point your fucking finger at me," Sandor said, slapping Tormund's hand away.

He finished tying his boot, taking Emmelyne's arm and starting to walk again. But Tormund followed them. "Did you trip into the fire when you were a baby?" he asked.

"I didn't trip, I was pushed," Sandor replied.

"And ever since, you've been mean."

"Will you fuck off?"

"I don't think you're truly mean. You're not being mean to Em. And you have sad eyes. Does Emmelyne make you not so sad?"

Sandor stopped, turning to face him. "You want to suck my dick, is that it?" he demanded, and Emmelyne held back laughter.

"Dick?" Tormund asked.

"Cock."

"Ah, dick. I like it."

"I bet you do."

Emmelyne chuckled, looking up at Sandor. "He's only trying to make conversation," she offered.

"He's fucking mad," Sandor replied.

They started walking again, Tormund trying to continue conversation. "Nope," he said, "it's pussy for me. I have a beauty waiting for me back at Winterfell. If I ever get back there. Yellow hair, blue eyes, the tallest woman you've ever seen. Almost as tall as you."

Sandor stopped once more, spinning around to face Tormund. "Brienne of Tarth," he stated.

"You know her?"

"You're with Brienne of fucking Tarth?"

Tormund stepped back slightly. "Well, not with her yet," he said. "But I see the way she looks at me."

"How does she look at you? Sandor asked. "Like she wants to carve you up and eat your liver?"

"You do know her."

"We've met."

They started off walking again. Yet, Tormund continued talking. "I want to make babies with her. Think of them- - great big monsters. They'd conquer the world."

"How did a mad fucker like you live this long?" Sandor replied.

"I'm good at killing people."

He finally shut up after that, which Sandor seemed grateful for. "I don't like him," he told Emmelyne.

"He's quite nice once you know him better," she shrugged.

"I'd rather not know him at all."

"Oh, be quiet."

Sandor snorted, looking down at her. "What if I don't?"

"I'll make you be quiet," she replied, though she didn't know how she would do that.

Jon and Beric stopped walking for a moment, speaking to each other, but they were walking again in a few moments.

There was a moment in front of them, and Sandor froze for a moment. "That's what I saw in the fire," he told Thoros, pointing. "A mountain like an arrowhead."

Everyone else stopped as well. "Are you sure?" Thoros asked, and Sandor nodded stiffly.

Emmelyne looked up at him. "What else did you see?"

"The dead marching past the mountain," he said.

He looked at Thoros again. "We're getting close."

Emmelyne shivered involuntarily. She and Sandor began walking once more, the others following.