The Harlot and the Hound

1

Originally posted as Shadow_Belle. 

Disclaimer: They're not my barbies, I just like to pose them in the sandbox because I know GRRM will laugh maniacally when Sandor dies to save her in the last book. Or you know, that's how I figure it'll end. Until then, we have fic. 

Sandor Clegane was killing a man.

Blood spurted from his chest in a hot crimson fountain, splattering like sparkling rubies cast across the virgin snow.

The Hound watched with grim satisfaction as the man gurgled and choked on the blood bubbling up in his throat.

This was not a clean death. Nor did the bastard deserve one for what he’d done.

Sandor dropped to his knees and leaned in close to the pretty knight’s face.

“Yes, look at me, boy. Take this vision with you to the seven hells and know I’ll come for you there too,” he growled, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. Sandor knew he looked exactly like what he was, a rabid dog.

There was a price on Sandor Clegane’s head and this knight meant to have it—fair means or foul. He’d lit the stable where Clegane slept on fire, hoping the Hound would be too addled with fear to defend himself.

A deadly mistake. One that now cost him his life.

The dying knight clawed uselessly at the heavy, wet snow, filling his hands, flexing around the cold mounds like they were his mother’s teats and would somehow save him.

The Hound barked a laugh—the sound like a clash of swords, yet all the more horrible for the honest joy in it.

If he’d been able to do it without drawing too much attention to himself, he would have burned the knight alive, roasted him in his armor like the pig he was. Let him feel the wages of what he would have inflicted upon another.

Sandor wanted to stay and watch the light go out of his eyes, but dusk was falling as fast as snowflakes, stars blinking to chilly life in the sky above him.

And the beasts and dark things that stalked the night would smell the blood and heat of the meal Sandor had left for them from leagues away. He preferred not to be present while they disposed of his mess.

An eerie, unfamiliar howl echoed through the forest, unlike any wolf or other beast Sandor had ever heard before. Stranger perked his ears and pawed at the ground with his massive hooves.

Sandor launched himself onto the destrier’s back and Stranger thundered toward the high road. If he had his way, he would not make camp tonight, but would ride straight through until the warm fingers of dawn clawed the night back down into the dark.

His instincts told him to ride hard, not for dawn, but for the next inn. The snow swirled around him, the flakes fat and heavy. The sky which had quickly fallen to dusk was now lit with an odd green tinge. The first sign of one of these bastard northern storms—it was the frozen ice high above the firmament reflecting and refracting the light, like the western borealis.

After the day he’d had, Sandor had to admit he wouldn’t mind passing the rest of the night in a warm bed, with warm spiced wine and a warm whore. Or a cold whore. As long as she spread her legs, the rest didn’t much matter.

But he couldn’t help thinking he’d like a fine-boned creature with a hellion’s red hair.

His fingers were stiff and frozen by the time the twinkling lights of the town came into view and he had to fight to uncurl them from around the worn leather of the reins.

The city gates were closed and Sandor was torn. With the gates kept closed, he’d be trapped, but it would keep unwanted things out.

He realized it didn’t matter what he thought about it, the snow was more like pale sea and in minutes, he wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his own face. He had to stop here, gate or no gate.