Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods

POV: Sandor Clegane

The Singing Maiden.

About a minute after a ravenous pack of trouble raided the tavern's best table...

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'He's less than fifty paces away from me and my sword... What the fuck am I waiting for?' Thought the Hound, spitting blazing fire from his eyes, aimed at the source of all his misfortunes. The remaining members of the festive table, filled with alcoholic food and frivolous giggles, did not seem to notice anything.

A couple of the waitresses had allowed themselves to be dazzled by the bullshit war heroics spewed here and there by the Drunkard. Ser Haymitch had sung the sweetest and most legendary songs, passing off his two companions as the Kings among Kings in the Age of Heroes...

Now, the slender brunette with freckles and the shapely blonde with gigantic breasts were strumming sweet words and fingers through the hair of the two new green knights, their buttocks firmly between their knees.

"Go away..." Grunted Sandor to the young black-haired hen girl who had been trying to board him for over an hour. The intimidated girl followed the advice, moving away from the table.

Fury and hatred flared up inside the drunkenly scarred boy, corroding him inside. All the tasty wine and food he had ingested was rebelling in a riot of acidity, weighing down his stomach. Sandor had definitely eaten and drunk too much...

The younger brother wanted to gather up all his fighting spirit, get up and stab that abominable mass of muscle and evil to death repeatedly, but his legs were still stiff, his left hand still trembling.

His face was the only part of his body that responded to his will. Sandor cast stabbing glances of hatred towards the figure less than sixty feet away from him.

'What the fuck are you waiting for, coward! The Bastard is there!!! The asshole who roasted you like a leg of mutton! Who killed your father! Who raped and murdered your sister! Face him like a man and claim your vengeance! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!!!' Shrieked an angry voice inside Sandor's foggy mind.

The boy, not even twenty years old, clenched his fists so hard that the lacquered wooden cup shattered. The wine spilt, and small splinters penetrated his hand.

"Wooo! Wooo! Come on, Clegane! My little story wasn't that bad! Pff, hahaha!" Thundered the knight of jesters, patting him on the back several times.

"Don't fucking touch me!!!" Sandor shoved Haymitch with a mighty hand to the chest, causing him to stumble over the chair and fall backwards. The hens cackled a small scream of fright, rising to their feet in fear that a fight would break out.

However, the drunken knight with feline instincts seemed to soften the fall with a backward somersault and, at the same time, dampen the accumulated tension.

"Thadaaan!!! Oh, no...The stunt failed. The wine spilt...Pff! Hahaha!" Haymitch's two companions watched the whole scene, and, after an initial stiff moment, the pussy Jory, the Bullshit Shooter Simon and their ladies-in-waiting relaxed, joining in the laughter.

Sandor inhaled air, sitting back down and trying to regain control.

Jenny, the tavern matron, approached their table again with an admonishing air.

"Becka, it's your turn on the stage soon. Tansy, those tables will not be served alone. Go back to your duties, ladies. I'm not paying you to frig with customers." Promulgated Jenny, wiping the puddle of wine in front of Clegane with a rag.

The singing maids obeyed their employer, but not without first leaving pledges of kisses and provocative whispers to their Green Knights.

Sandor's good ear picked up a "My shift ends in two hours, Ser..." addressed to a bewitched Jory Cassel.

"Would you like a bandage and dressings for that wound, Sandor? Our cook, Tanselle, is also an excellent healer." The Goldfinch asked gently, pointing to Sandor's half-hidden bleeding hand.

"It's nothing… just a few splinters." Replied the Hound disinterestedly. The corner of his eye slid back to Gregor's table, a shiver of fear running down his spine.

The previously disinterested Monster was turning his predatory gaze in that direction!

"Get away from me, Goldfinch." Intimated Sandor at once with a whispered grunt.

"Not before you wipe the table and replace the cup, Ser..." Firmly replied the obstinate maiden.

"For your own good, remove yourself from this table at once, 'Jenny'." The equally obstinate man struggled to pursue the suggestion. If forced, Sandor would have even hit her, spending a few nights in a dark, freezing cell as punishment for the crime... Anything as long as that beast did not point his attention at the maiden.

A feminine reproachful cry from behind caught the matron's attention.

"I said no, Ser! We are not that kind of maid!" Sbrayed a dark-haired girl intent on serving the newcomers' table.

"Look, we have plenty of silver, beautiful! And if you and a couple of your friends cheer us up tonight, who knows, maybe we'll even get a few gold pieces!" So insisted Polliver, a loose-tongued little dog loyal to his brother. The man had not yet laid a finger on her, only harassing her with flattery and dirty jokes along with his mates...

The whole gang was present, Chiswyck, Polliver, the Tickler, Rafford, and Shitmouth... As far as Sandor could remember, only the latter, Shitmouth, could remotely call himself a 'human being'... A former guard of his father's who had once helped him stop Gregor from his killing spree dragged him off with three other men as he roasted him alive.

"Those trouble seekers are really annoying me... Excuse me, Knights." Jenny wanted to head towards the table to help her employee. But an iron hand grabbed her wrist.

The combative girl turned around, ready to slap her attacker, but Sandor defended himself with, "Not them, Goldfinch... Not them. Don't go near that table." At first, the singing maiden resisted, but then Jenny sensed the message of danger.

"... I'll take care of sending them away." Sandor let go of her wrist and picked up the unsheathed sword resting in his still bleeding hand, but before he could get up, another hand shoved his ass back into the chair.

"No, neither do you, Clegane... First, Jenny, get the girls away from the table. Then, Ser Simon, go outside and call the guards before a brothel breaks out. Be sure to use words before actions and take at least eight strong, menacing men with you to give them their due." So ordered the Knight of Jester in a no longer jovial tone, taking Sandor by surprise.

"Yes, Commander." The Stark's man instantly sprinted towards the task entrusted to him, and even Jenny followed Haymitch's suggestion to the letter.

"Get off me, buffoon, before I shatter that hand." Sandor ducked his hand as he stood up, but the annoying man scampered like an eel parading in front of him, then whispered:

"You are too drunk, too angry, and too short of numbers to beat you, Not-a-Ser. That beast is an abomination of the Seven Hells born to kill... The Mountain will tear you to pieces and feed you to his pack in no time." The man's breath was itself a poisonous alcoholic exhalation.

"Look who's talking. You could shoot flames from your mouth and ass at the first spark. 'This' is none of your business, Jester Eater. This is your final warning: Get the fuck ou- Urgh!" *SMAAACK!!*, *Tiiiiiiiiiinnnnn...!* the lightning-fast and precise knee to the surprise linguine was accompanied by an equally swift double slap to the ears, which caused a deafening whistle in Sandor's stunned head.

The man slumped with his knees to the ground after a third blow on the leg. At that moment, with his head clouded by alcohol, the ringing pressure on his ears and a crushing pain on his testicles, the mighty man could neither react nor understand what was happening around him. Instead, the room kept spinning and spinning to the point of nausea.

The Hound could tell that someone else was helping the slender knight to lift him from the feel and pressure on his arms and armpits.

His left grip on the leather handle of the sword remained firm, but Sandor could not prevent the two men from dragging him away against his will.

His sight and some of his hearing only began to recover after the duo pushed him back against a dark alley wall... They were just around the corner from the tavern.

"Thank you, Jory. I'll take care of him from here on out... Go to help Simon out. The extra man's presence will surely put off bad intentions." He could hear Sandor as he rose to his feet with the will and ability to react.

The Drunkard was less than ten feet away, waiting for him, armed only with a stick.

"I warned you, Ser...Ruaargh!" Sandor drew his longsword and charged forward, ignoring the pain in his hand and the minor twinges on his scrotum.

*Swoooss*, the first slash from above, completely smoothed the target, slipping away into the shadows with a simple side leap. Sandor redirected the blade towards the elusive shade, attempting a low sweep but only air. The Hound had lost sight of his grip...

"I'm here." *Stock!* a snake bite struck one of the hands clenched on the hilt.

"Argh!", *swoss!*, *swing!*, *striinck!* after two more empty projections, the third slash was deflected towards the wall creating a few sparks. The Bastard seemed to anticipate each attack, cocking his head with impressive agility and footwork.

After four more failed assaults and at least three more pairs of lashes on his hands and wrists, Sandor roared, "Come here and face me like a man, you coward!!!"

"Nha...! You still have plenty of breath and nastiness left in you. Before I cane you to the point of fainting, I have to tear you apart some more. Eheh." Haymitch replied, snickering.

With anger prevailing over reason, Sandor charged with ferocity and murderous intent, wanting to tear the jester dancer to pieces.

However, an anticipatory counterattack caught him in the act. Haymitch swung to the left, landing a blow on his exposed temple. The impact was devastating and again stunning, and soon after, five more powerful and lightning-fast blows came from all sides, striking hands, nose, knees and throat. All the fucking bare spots of his armour.

The Hound had been disarmed, but he tried to draw his stiletto, lunging towards the blurred shadow. *Stook!, *Ting, ting, tin...* the spare blade didn't even last a second.

At that point, Sandor attempted a blind manoeuvre towards the attacker that was parried and repelled with another endless series of bludgeons from all sides...

The young man was on the ground, trying to drag his aching hand towards the hilt of the sword that had slipped a few steps away from him.

A foot crushed his fingers. Sandor's swollen face turned towards the attacker standing over him...

"Or maybe... I was just waiting for you to discover yourself a little more." Sandor no longer had the strength to fight back.

The Hound had been beaten... Beaten by a goddamn drunken knight with a cane. Another bitter truth he would have to live with for the rest of his days, barring any...

Sandor roared with his last remaining strength: "You're just a lying bastard! Like all the rest of your kind!"

"Yes... I am. In any case, it was a fun evening. Let's do it again sometime." Replied the Bastard cheerfully.

Sandor spat a lump of blood onto Ser Haymitch's boot, grunting, "Sphutt!... Fuck you."

"Goodnight, 'Not-a-Ser' Sandor of House Clegane." The last words spoken before oblivion.

The Hound couldn't even hear the sound of the last numbing thrashing.

Everything went black...

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End POV.

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POV: Catelyn

At a secluded table in an aristocratic inn far more opulent and lavish than the Singing Maiden.

About an hour before a massive defenceless body was dragged towards the dormitories of a tavern...

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No prying eyes or ears could have intruded on that private balcony overlooking a hundred-foot cliff. The oak door was firmly closed, and all the stone and wood walls seemed thick and without cracks...

Only after the chubby servant of the inn finished serving drinks and refreshments and took her leave did Catelyn prepare to leave the dark corner of the balcony to join the poor old man, taken by surprise.

The apologies, clarifications and formal chit-chat had just ended... Cat did not have much time left. Ned would return from his evening with the King within two or three hours at most.

"Forgive me for the asking, my lady Catelyn, but is your lord father aware of this meeting?" Ser Stevron Frey, the heir to the Twins, asked with a slight note of scepticism.

"No one is aware of this meeting, Ser Stevron. I would not have dyed my hair or worn this dress if that were the case... So many ears and prying eyes lurk in this city." Catelyn replied with a slight sigh. Ser Stevron may be amiable and reasonable, but the man did not excel in insight.

The Lady of Winterfell had struggled to arrange this meeting. It took years to secure the absolute loyalty of her private handmaiden, Katie. Without a trusted surrogate who could momentarily assume her likeness, a well-paid mercenary to escort her, and the valuable help of long-time friends to find a suitable location, the secret meeting with Walder Frey's eldest son could not have taken place.

"I understand, my lady... But, you will forgive me if I insist. You sent me that message, making me assume that Riverrun wanted to deal with the Twins without the knowledge of the other Trident bannermen... But, I trusted my lord protector and followed all instructions to the letter.

In all sincerity, I expected, at the very least, Ser Edmure as Lord Hoster's spokesman. And you, my lady, are now the lady of Winterfell, not Riverrun." At least this statement could not be refuted.

"My voice still has its worth in the Riverlands, my lord. I may be a Stark of Winterfell by rights of marriage, but in my veins flows the blood of the Tullys of Riverrun." So affirmed the daughter of Hoster Tully in a defensive and confident tone.

"And would this voice, my lady, convince the Lord of Riverrun to grant said marriage proposal between House Tully and Frey...? In the past, your father has already refused my lord father's first proposal... So what would change Lord Hoster Tully's mind, my lady?" Asked the man with slight scepticism.

"The Trident has always been a bountiful land, fertile, unrivalled in river trade and filled with loyal and brave men ready to spill their blood to defend it. My father does not hold Lord Walder in high esteem, there is no denying that, but I also know that the Freys, if they truly wish it, have the chance to show their true valour by redeeming their name once and for all... One choice of one man cannot decree hundreds of years of history of dozens of other noble and valiant Lords protectors of the Crossing. Do you not agree with me, Ser Stevron?" Catelyn asked in her turn.

"... I agree, my lady. But how will my household have a chance to redeem its name in this generation?" Stevron asked.

Catelyn replied, holding up two fingers:

"The only two weaknesses of the Riverlands are the central location of the continent, which has always been used as the first battleground between the various kingdoms, and the lack of absolute cohesion and unity of its people, Ser Stevron... As a result, Westeros has never known a true period of peace. Not even in the Golden Age of Jaehaerys I, did the conflicts stop altogether. And the next conflict is upon us, my lord." Catelyn took a small sip of water from her cup and continued:

"If the Freys of the Twins return to the fold, proving themselves as the most assiduous and loyal supporters of Riverrun, the Trident will once again be a force to be feared and no longer a territory prey to conflicts that do not concern it... Everyone suspects that, in fact, legitimate sons of Rhaegar are still alive and waiting for the opportune moment to return and reclaim their rightful throne. Even if they were not to be, there would still be two more Targaryens across the Narrow Sea. War will soon be upon us, Ser. There will be opportunities to prove words with actions.

My sister sits beside Jon Arryn, and soon, she will give birth to an heir. And my son, Robb, will one day be Lord Protector of the North. That will uncover only two fronts for the Trident: the West and the South... But a blood tie with House Frey, the greatest bannerman of House Tully, the house that has control over the Crossing and blood ties to countless noble families of Westeros, House Lannister included, would put a final stop to the West Front... Your brother Emmon is married to Genna Lannister, Lord Tywin's sister and the Queen's aunt. A marriage between my brother Edmure and one of Lord Walder's daughters would be a complicated political union.

My father is a proud and sometimes stubborn man, but Lord Hoster Tully would always put the prosperity and safety of his people, his family, first, Ser..." Catelyn took a pause from her long persuasive sonnet.

"... Family, Duty and Honour." Stevron picked up on the underlying message by quoting House Tully's motto. Immediately afterwards, the representative of House Frey asked:

"What would House Tully ask for in dowry in return for this union?"

"A symbolic price of the groom's weight in gold and the total support of House Frey. Should the great Tully-Stark-Arryn Family ever one day be threatened, the Twins must answer the call..." Catelyn added the final detail. "Without Delay."

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End Part III

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