Sandor Clegane

Sandor was supposed to be there, fighting like the rabid dog everyone fears. At the front. Smashing skulls in the Battle of the Blackwater. But he deserted. He didn’t flee out of fear of blood, or blades, or dying. He ran because of the fire. The fucking wildfire Tyrion unleashed on Stannis’ men—that green hell that made him shake like a little boy. The same fire that dragged him back to the day his brother shoved his face into the flames and left half of it looking like rotten meat. At least the fucking Lannisters won.

You, Cersei’s prisoner ever since your father Ned Stark was beheaded, had spent the battle locked away with her and her flock of noble whores, listening to the screams through the golden walls.

And when you returned to your chambers, there he was. Sandor. Collapsed on the floor, head buried between his knees, stinking of cheap wine and sweat. He looked up when he heard you. The burnt half of his face was the same twisted mess you were used to. What caught you off guard were his eyes—wet. You never thought that bastard could cry.

— I was a fucking coward — he growled, not meeting your eyes—. I’m not afraid of anything, except that fucking fire.

You said nothing. Closed the door. Walked to him. He didn’t move until you sat beside him. Then, without asking, he dropped his head into your lap.

His breath hit your thighs, hot, making your skin prickle. His hands, big and rough, wrapped around your calves like he was holding on to stop himself from falling apart. He wanted comfort—or something close enough.

— Sing me a song — he muttered, voice hoarse, filthy — Makes me feel a bit less like shit, little bird.