Chapter Text
The Hound only allowed a fire to be built during the day, which made for chilly days and frigid nights. There was one roughspun blanket, if you could call it that, and it was yours. The Hound threw it haphazardly over his shoulder at you the first night and you didn't refuse. You could have felt pity for him, but ultimately didn't. The man was a beast, his own heat source thanks to his armor and chainmail.
Given that, the nights were bad. The days were worse.
You were sore, tired, bored, and always afraid. You considered making a run for it once he was asleep, find the Brotherhood, but quickly shot that idea down. You knew their general location and where they were headed but there's no guarantee you'd even make it that far. The Hound was right, you were safer with him. But that was not a great relief. You were scared with him, scared without him—but you could also be in danger. You chose to stick with just the one. As it happened, Stranger, the black stallion, was your favorite person at the moment. Carrying both you and your guardian-kidnapper, along with a rucksack on each side of his belly.
Stranger had a bit of a temper, much like his rider, but you were determined to make the horse like you for nothing else but a sliver of companionship. The horse had more of a personality than the man your shoulder brushed against with every trot, crunching an apple loudly, after all. He holds it out to you, thick fingers barely wrapped around the fruit.
"I'm not a horse,"
"You need to eat."
A retort died on your lips as your stomach answered before you. You took a bite, and another until it was gone, dangling the core gingerly so the stallion could have the rest. The Hound starts up behind you, "well he's a horse."
You wipe the juice dribbling from your lips to your chin. "Was that a jape?"
He stays quiet, leaving you to assume it was. A bad one certainly but it was something against the quiet. Quiet was something you were getting bored of, and you were a long way from home.
"Why did you leave the Kingsguard?"
You feel him look at you, and wonder if you dared too much. "I assume you did, since you claim you're not taking me back to Kingslanding."
He grunts in response, whatever that meant. "Wasn't worth the trouble. Fuck the little blonde cunt and his queen mother."
You snicker at that. "I knew you hated them, you hate everybody."
He nods, eyebrow raised in agreement. "Hate your little Lannister betrothed, hate the Lannisters."
You grimace at the mention of Lancel, the pompous little shit you were meant to marry. Though your father had great ambitions for you. Unfortunately for him, they swiftly fell apart. Lucas was the only one to speak up for you, Bethany simply cried and Bryn just laughed. You felt sick then, the pang in your heart unfamiliar. Blackwoods flock together. But you weren't together, and you might not ever be again. Lucas rides with Robb Stark in the thick of the bloodshed. Was he even still alive? If he was, how long would that continue to be true?
The memories come flooding in— and Bethany was in front of you then, a snot-nosed little girl of six, your only sister alongside six brothers. Six betters. She cries at your feet, bunching up the skirts of your dress in her grubby little hands. "Please don't go!"
"Hush now sweetling, remember you must stand tall, hm?" You brushed back her unruly curls. "I'll visit I swear it. And mayhaps you'll find yourself in the capitol with me soon." She shakes her head whimpering like a kitten. "No you won't, you'll be gone like Bryn, like Lucas, like Hos."
-
"Do you even know where we are?" Your arse hurts to the point of being bruised from days of riding gods know where, and there was no end in sight.
"The Green Fork," he mutters dryly, annoyed by the question.
"How can you be sure?"
"I'm not."
You scoff and groan at the same time, vaulting off the horse. "Hey—get back here!" Sandor calls as he rears Stranger back and into a halt. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I need to relieve myself." That wasn't a complete lie, with your bladder straining against your trousers. But you also just needed a damn break, a moment to gather yourself. Sandor scowls at you. "On with it then. And next time tell me before you do that."
You move to start a path behind a tree farther away before you hear him grunt. "Should probably make camp, we'll set out again at dusk."
You nod, presuming he needed a break too. "If you want a fire then you build it!" He calls after you, and you groan like a goaded child. A great oak tree serves as your privacy, chamberpot, and your bearer of firewood. You pray to the Old Gods to grant you good use, and to express your thanks. The tree was no Weirwood, but the gods still reign over regular trees. Over man and sky, woman and water.
-
Hard salt beef would be something you'd never eat again, you vowed in front of the rather impressive fire you built alone. Your jaw ached from one bite of the dried meat, and you had a handful more to go. "I feel like a Dothraki," you mumble through a mouthful.
"You're too pretty to be a Dothraki." Sandor says, already halfway done with his meal. You scowl at him because somehow, that was an insult. Demeaning where it was supposed to be endearing.
"You're too ugly to be a Dothraki," you snap back—growing irritated for little more than an ill-placed jest. Sandor laughs at that, not a real laugh. A snort, a chortle mayhaps.
"Aye," he agrees as he gingerly tosses a skin of ale towards you. You take a small sip, immediately grimacing much to his amusement.
"Oh gods, that's bad." You swallow with a squint. "Is that all there is?"
"What, you want river water? You'll be shitting for days."
You sigh and run a hand over your face and smoothing back your hair. "Suppose you have me there, ser." You concede, tipping the wine skin up and towards him as a toast.
"I'm no ser."
"But you were a knight of the Kingsguard?"
"Never swore any vows. I'm a big fucker from the Westernlands, I guess that cut out for something." He shrugs.
"A Clegane," you finish. He nods at that, but there is no pride on his face, just a quiet resignation.
You clear your throat, feeling the air shift to something even more uncomfortable than usual. "I...I want my own horse." You decide on. He looks at you as if you'd grown two heads.
"And I want ten thousand gold dragons."
"I have money."
He perks up at that.
"When I left Kingslanding I took my jewelry with me, and what coin I could shove into a pouch. I have many jewels and a few stags." You loosen the twine keeping the opening of the pouch you'd shoved into your trousers open just a bit . Rubies, emeralds, silver, gold, and onyx glinted in the firelight. "Think some of that will cover a horse?"
Sandor grunts out a laugh, "that and a chariot."
You smile, content. "Well, we'll have to buy it off of someone at an inn or tavern. Perhaps a homestead if we're desperate."
He grunts in what you choose to perceive as agreement, moving to sharpen both his swords on a whetstone, methodical in his movements. The sharp ring of the metal sends a flock of crows into a smoky circlet of the daylight sky.
Eleven for hope, five for silver.
-
"Get up." You startle awake, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. He's packed up for the most part, only his whetstone and greatsword beside him. The fire was dying slowly, crackling with the effort of burning what was left of the kindling. You'd fallen asleep somehow, laid on a rolled out, damp, thin, and dirty sleeping mat. You sit up with a small noise while stretching out your stiff limbs. You pat yourself clean, or what was the most clean you could get, and felt the absence of the only thing of value you had to your name.
"You thief! You bloody thief!" You cry out, stomping towards him. "Give it back! It's mine!" You reach a hand to his belt but he swats it away.
"I'm keeping it safe, not stealing it. Won't want to lose it hm?"
"I've kept it safe so far! Why do you get it now?"
"Because I'm keeping whatever is leftover. Consider it a dowry of sorts."
You balk and him and stick your tongue out mockingly. "I'd never marry you."
"No, gods be good."
You scoff and flail your arms to no avail, angrily grunting and moving to stomp out the fire. Nearly catching yourself aflame in the process.
"Careful little raven," Sandor says as he pulls you away from the dying embers.
"I'm fine," you snatch your arm out from his grasp that was weak to begin with. "Let's just get back to it."
"Not dusk yet, and I have a sword to sharpen."
You roll your eyes. "You'll sharpen that thing to a nub." Of course you knew that wasn't possible, but were determined to be a thorn in his side like he was in yours. "You name it?"
He snorts again, seemingly the only way he laughed. "Will never name my sword, not like some fool."
"Lots of people name their swords."
"Lots of cunts."
"I thought they were fools?"
"Shut up."
-
"I thought you said we were on the Green Fork?" You grumble, looking up into his face surveying the land.
"Thought so too,"
"Oh gods, I'm never getting home." The chill in the air bit harder than you were used to. "We're in the north, or farther north than we need to be."
"Aye." He grimaces. "We're on the Green Fork, just going the wrong way. Need to make it to the Red Fork."
You felt like crying, like hitting Sandor. But that wouldn't serve you by any means. You straighten your back, exhaling sharply. "Let's just stop, for the night. It's no good trying to navigate in the dark."
"Fuck that, I can see just bloody fine."
"You cannot, now shove your pride up your arsehole and then maybe we can get some sleep?" You argue, the bags under your eyes felt heavier than those on Stranger.
"Ha! You're a squawking little raven I'll tell you that. Might be right, too." He sighs at the last part, swinging one long leg over the horse and pushing himself off. "Good as a place as any."
"As you say," you shrug as you roll out your sleeping tarp, or mat. Sandor ties Stranger to a tree trunk and does the same with his a few feet away. It was a good spot you guessed, a small, shallow ditch shielded with a rock formation to keep you hidden. You could even hear a creek babbling somewhere to your right from a way's away.
You curl into yourself for warmth after slipping into your sleeping accommodations, no fire, after all. Sandor looks to have done the same.
"Could use a fire."
"No fire."
"No fire," you mock in a deep and wobbly voice, turning over. You stare at the sky, the last wispy trails of the red comet fading away in the sky. "The sky says fire, says dragons."
"Dragons," Sandor snarls. "Whatever you like to think."
"You don't like anything with fire." You broached slowly, I mean, who could blame you for being curious?
He grunted in response, another habit of his it seemed. "Careful."
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," he grumbles, eyes closed. "Haven't done anything, not yet."
You nod, stupidly, realizing he probably can't see you anyway.
"...one fool asked if it was dragon's breath."
You turn over again, this time facing him. "Really?" You laugh a bit. "That is quite foolish. Bet it was some great battle."
"It was no battle." He spits, this time wide awake.
You felt something open. There was no creak of a door, no scrape or rattle. But something, something opened between you, pit or door. Trap door, mayhaps.
"What happened...?" He was practically begging you to ask, you thought.
A sigh leaves his lips, gruff like rock salt. "I was just a kid. No battle, no glory. The Mountain, my brother was the one that did it. Thought I stole one of his toys, I didn't steal it I was just playing with it. And it wasn't worth it, the little wooden knight."
"I'm sorry." What else was there to say? If there was anything you couldn't think of it.
"The pain was bad, the smell was worse."
You try to made out his scar in the pale moonlight, the twisted and melted flesh. It wasn't truly ugly, you thought. It could look worse. It made him look formidable, a true brute.
"Could smell it for days, rotten. I'm truly rotten meat." He shrugs nonchalantly.
Bruised, you thought. Not rotten.
"Tell anyone that and I'll make you wish you didn't. Rip that smart tongue right out."
You shiver, this time in a slightly different way than he typically made you, strangely.
"I won't." You promised.
The air stirred, and you smelled something sweet. Something rotten.