Song of Ice and Fire Fic: More Than One Way to Die (PG-13)

[millarific]

Title: More Than One Way To Die
Author: millari
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters: Sandor Clegane (the Hound), references to Ayra Stark, the Tickler, Polliver
Warnings: None
Beta: wyrdwritere
A/N: This was written a long time ago, in 2007, for Yuletide. I just rediscovered it, thanks to daybreak777 recently asking me about it, so I have her to thank for me not losing it, as it wasn't even on my hard drive anymore!




Godsdamn she-wolf.

She was probably already in the Saltpans by now, that is, if Gregor's men hadn't already scooped her up like a little hare to break apart for their supper.

Sandor didn't really know how long Arya Stark had been gone by now, or how long he'd been crumpled under this ancient, half-dying tree. All he knew was his body was bathed in shivering sweat. Everything felt numb, as if he were tightly wrapped in gauze. The only sensation truly left to him was the cold.

He couldn't remember ever feeling this damn cold, not in all his life; not even when he'd taken criminals up to the Wall.

This certainly was a bitch's teat of a way to go, he thought. Definitely not the way he'd planned - too weak to move, waiting for gangrene to finish him off.

I am no longer a Dog, he thought. I am a tree, dying slowly of rot.

A bitter, involuntary laugh choked out of him at that, bringing the pain back with a vengeance. Soon he was gasping and curling up into himself, uttering curses. The pain in his hip where Polliver had stabbed him seared hot, and it moved through him with lightning speed.

Perfect, he cursed. The pain's the only warm part of me.

Stranger stood off to the side of an old tree stump, chewing idly at a small patch of clover. The horse snorted impatiently at the pathetic, agonized groans he couldn't repress, as he moved naught but a few feet, then gave up in exhaustion.

Seven bloody buggering hells. Should've hit her with more than the flat of my axe, he fumed.

What did the little wolf-bitch think she would do once she made it to Saltpans anyway? No ship would take her out of the Bay of Crabs without coin. He grimaced as he pictured her naively offering herself up as a sellsword to anyone she saw walking around in mail. She was probably trussed up on the back of Gregor's saddle by now, bouncing her way back to Queen Cersei; or else at this very moment, she was being trained to spread her legs for sailors in a bayside whorehouse.

Not that he hadn't been impressed when she suddenly hacked the Tickler to ribbons; he'd give her that much. She'd attacked Gregor's pet rat with a savagery worthy of her dead direwolf. And she'd dispatched that idiot boy squire with skill enough, and certainly no fear. Who had taught her that, he wondered? No, he thought better of it. What had taught her that?

He cursed himself for even letting himself think on it. Why was he wasting his energy? She was gone; Polliver and the Tickler were gone too, and with them, any slim hope Sandor might have of ever returning to House Clegane. Well, to hell with them. He was done with them al anyway - all Lannisters, all gold cloaks, and most of all, he was done with the Mountain that Rides. Arya Stark was gone, and with her had gone Sandor's last chance at gold enough for a ship's passage - no idea where, it almost didn't matter - as long as it was somewhere where no one would call him "Prince Joffrey's Dog" anymore. Somewhere where he could stumble off, like a stag leaving the herd when it sensed its time to die.

Somewhere far from cloaks of gold and the shadow of Mountains.

His thoughts were becoming thick now, slow now, and he tried desperately to focus on the leaves above him, counting them to keep his mind clear; but they were quickly blurring into one another, becoming an indistinct blanket of green.

********

His body shot awake in terror, and he knew the fire had surrounded him before he saw it. He was lying in the dirt, in the same spot she'd left him; yet inexplicably, Stranger continued to graze without concern not ten feet away from him. The heat of flames licked at his boots, only a stray spark away from catching at his pant leg. He had to stand. He had to escape.

The fire. Where had it come from? He looked around, bewildered.

The forest was gone, as if in the blink of an eye. He recognized the shoreline of Blackwater Bay, and here, the fire blazed everywhere. The inescapable heat felt like an oven, and Sandor was sure his blood was boiling inside him. He heard screaming all around him as men on fire flailed and rolled and tried desperately to fling themselves into the Bay. Just above the chaos, Sandor could hear a voice roaring commands.

Confused, he turned in a slow circle like the weaving of a drunken man. He caught sight of the Imp astride a charger as large as a mountain. The dwarft was brandishing an equally improbable longsword, almost twice his length. He bellowed at Sandor and the other men on the field. Sandor realized that he was both inside and outside the inferno, watching as men tried to escape through the fiery wall. Man after man erupted into flames. Sandor could not bring himself to look away. Across the battlefield, he met Tyrion Lannister's gaze.

The half-formed man's eyes were cold, but the colors were not mismatched, as they should have been. Sandor saw a sadistic grin he somehow recognized from childhood, and suddenly realized why the eyes were so familiar.

"Do you know where the heart is, Brother?" The dwarf said it with a cruel relish, standing in his stirrups as he addressed Sandor.

Sandor kept one eye on the progress of the flames around him, and realized who Tyrion Lannister really was. "You are not my brother," he accused. He realized as he said it that he was angrier than he'd ever been in his life. "You were never anything to me but my tormentor."

The Imp smiled again with calm certitude, but something about his expression chilled Sandor, despite the heat of the flames. "Well then, Brother," he said coolly, "take your birthright and go."

He hurled a small projectile at Sandor. Sandor instantly knew what it was, without knowing how he knew; and he recoiled in horror, as the object came straight for him:

Wildfire.

The glass bottle exploded on Sandor's chest, and he screamed in terror as tongues of flame swarmed all over his body.

He ran. Broke through the fiery wall, even though he felt his skin melting right off him. It was Dondarrion's blade, but a thousand times worse. Screaming the whole way, Sandor broke for the bay and threw his body in. But swimming was agony to his burned, mangled skin, and the heavy armor soon plummeted him down underneath the water, like a corpse with stones in its pockets.

Just kill me, he mumbled. He felt himself falling. Please. Just do it.

The ice cold water was cooling, calming.

Do you mean to make me beg?

He felt like a child returning to the safety of a watery womb.

I'm ready to die, something in him called out. He realized as he hit bottom that he had never known anything with such certainty.

********

He awoke inexplicably on Stranger's back, the horse plodding with mindless clarity, towards what destination, Sandor could not say. But he could not do anything to change it either. The slow bounce of the horse's walking gait made the pain in his hip agonizing. Drenched in the sweat of fever, Sandor longed to remove his layers of sweat-soaked clothes, but he could not even sit up in his saddle, never mind open a button or take the horse's reins.

How did I get here? Did my fever dreams scare me straight onto my mount?

He had heard about such things happening in the thick of battle. His mind flickered briefly over the memory of the dream, over the last moments when his body had caught fire. He moved quickly to suppress the shudder.

He might not yet have the strength to control Stranger, he reasoned, but at least he was on the animal's back. That was a start. If he stayed this way for a while, at least he'd keep moving - less chance of running into hostiles. Stranger would stop once he got too tired, or too hungry, and then, Sandor could maybe try resting again; another day and he might be able to think about something else besides the pain. Then he would have to come up with a new plan.

He lay there prone, and contented himself for a while with listening to the steady, rhythmic clomp of the horse's hooves, counting them off in fours to keep alert. But after several minutes, his ear noticed a strange disjointed sound to the gait, and suddenly, he knew.

"Who's there?" he bellowed as best he could to the other horse he knew must be walking alongside his. He cursed the weak sound of his rasping voice. "Where are you taking me?"

A male voice ahead of him responded with an amused, but not outright mocking tone. "I'm taking you to my boat."

Sandor groaned. "Tell me who you are, you pox-born whelp of a swine, or I will..."

Now the voice laughed outright. Sandor noted the soft gentility there and wondered. "You will what?" he teased. "You couldn't even help me get you onto your horse when I found you under that tree. You were all dead weight," he scolded. The voice sounded middle-aged, perhaps Sandor's age, perhaps a bit older. It also sounded like it had all the time in the world.

Sandor tried shifting his head to get a glimpse of the man, or at least his clothes. Maybe if he could at least see a heraldic crest; but it was a monumental effort just to twist his gaze a few inches; and even those few inches told him that he could not afford the loss of balance, or else he would fall off the horse.

"It took me several tries to get you onto that horse, so I'd appreciate you doing your best to stay still until we reach the riverbank," the voice admonished.

"Who are you?" he growled. "Who are you selling me to? I have a right to know."

There was silence for a long moment. "Don't want no boat ride if you're just taking me to my death," he added. "Give me the mercy now and be done with it if you're going to kill me."

"Killing's not in your future, Sandor Clegane. Not if me and my brothers have anything to say about that. And once you've been with us long enough to heal, you may even decide that for yourself as well."

Suspicion tinged his voice as he confirmed, "So you do know who I am."

"Yes, I know very well who you are. Everyone knows the Hound, little brother to Gregor Clegane, who barks at everyone and everything, but whimpers at the sight of fire."

The taunt sent him into a fury. It gave him the energy he needed to shove his head upward, but he could only keep it there for the briefest of moments. In those fleeting seconds, though, he got a glimpse of the man's clothes. To his surprise, he saw no heraldry, no doublet, no armor, just plain, flowing fabric. A robe, he thought in confusion.

Sandor cringed with pain as the horse stumbled slightly on a depression in the dirt. "Do I know you?" he asked. This time, it was not a demand, but a question.

Now it was the other man's turn to think. "No," he said carefully. "I don't see how you would."

"Yet you're taking me to be healed," he said, his tone guarded. "So then you can sell me off to somebody."

"No," the man said simply. "I am not selling you to anyone. That is not our way."

He closed his eyes, quickly losing his patience. "Well then why did you bother with me at all?"

"Because of what you said." The voice was maddeningly untroubled. "When you were in the clearing, lost in your deliriums."

Sandor didn't like the sound of that at all. "What did I say?" he hesitated.

The man paused. "You said you were ready to die."

"So then you do mean to see me dead," he accused in bitter, rasping triumph.

"Then tell me the name of my killer, so I can scream his name on my way into

Hell. Tell me who you are." The man ignored the demand. "So did your delusions speak true? Is The Hound indeed ready to die?"

To Sandor's surprise, he did actually consider the question, but only for a moment.

"No," he said. "I'm not ready to die just yet."

"I did not ask if Sandor Clegane was ready to die," the man said, choosing his words with obvious precision. "I asked if The Hound was ready."

Sandor was taken aback. "I don't take your meaning."

The man sighed, as if Sandor were thick in the head. "I'm going to take you into my boat, Sandor Clegane. And where we're going, men do good works, with no expectation of thanks or remuneration. Where we're going, Sandor Clegane will be healed, and perhaps the Hound can finally be laid to rest."

There was silence as Sandor absorbed this. "Now do you take my meaning?" the man said archly.

"Who are you?" This time, his words were merely full of wonder.

"You can call me Brother."

He grunted with displeasure. "I'd rather not, actually. If you knew my brother, you'd know why."

"I do know your brother. And this is the only name I have," he said patiently. "I have been called naught but that name for some years now."

"Since when?"

"Ever since I died."

The rest of the way to the shore, the two men rode in silence.