#verse ⚔ 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐑 / 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑

[scndor]

@cleganesurvivor liked this post for a starter

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐃, he stares at his sister, in all of her drunken glory. of course she could throw back her cups like a clegane, he should not have been surprised. at some point, sooner or later, he would have to stop thinking of his sister as soft. and fragile. maybe not tonight.

he grabs the mug out from the grasp of her palms and finishes its contents, slowly realizing he hasn't had enough himself. he braces both hands against the table, preparing to stand up but pauses instead. something new and warm and light passes over him. maybe this time he doesn't shrug it off. " won't always be here to save your drunken ass, " sandor starts, almost sounding like his father in tone. empty words, he knows. he would be there if it meant cutting through a hundred men.

and he knows, gods sandor knows, that he cannot save either of their childhoods. his innocence is gone and likely hers too, but he would fight for it all the same. the both of them ache of betrayal and the sun of the westerlands and the wrath of a father. of a brother. and life can't possibly be normal, but it could be something. he sees it. won't let it go this time.

sandor pushes off the table, stepping over the wooden bench. " alright, time for bed. " both hands hood under her armpits to lift her up and over his left shoulder. " better not think about throwing your guts up, " a pause. he attempts to think of some threat as a joke and comes up sorely blank. he finds it hard to, even in jest, paint himself like their other sibling.

[scndor]

@amarvelousmencgerie liked this post for a starter ( for sansa )

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐂𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 rings in both of his ears. it's as if all of the ash of who he is was blown away in the evening breeze. and he mostly feels new.

the north is as much of a stronghold as he imagined, and just as foreign and unending. easy to be alone here. easy to fade into the background. somehow that leaves sandor feeling without cause. the freedom covers him like an itch. unnatural. a reflex to get rid of it.

he has to take two stairwells to find her. he knows he could pretend that his feet led him there on some random whim, but the winter air, sharp and with all its meaning, all but exposes him. and in a way it makes sense — to seek her out. to seek something familiar. and he knows he only knew her for such a small part of hers and an even smaller part of his life, but the ghosts of his past are haunting him always. she survived kings' landing. and so did he.

his ungraceful footfalls ring out among the wood beams. all covered in snow. melted where boots had been. he stops a few feet from her. looks out over the courtyard. " a far cry from the red keep, " he observes, shoulders tense. " and fucking cold. "

[scndor]

@velcryons liked this post for a starter ( for Daella )

𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐑 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄 could make sandor adjust, comfortably, to the cold of the north. the sun had followed him most of his life — used to heat blisters and sweating through his clothes. he prefers it that way. the sun only penetrates so far, but the cold pierces skin right down to his bones.

something someone had mentioned to him long ago wracks around in his brain. arms cross, shoulders hunched, he leans against the walls. and much to his surprise, the walls are warm. he concludes that the rumors of the hot springs in winterfell were, in fact, real. he turns, back toward the wall. as much surface area as he could get. better than huddling around the hearth, and much more solitary.

with his back warm enough, he decides it's time to give his chest a turn. he quickly surveys his surroundings, a wave of sudden embarrassment sweeping over him to be seconds away from practically hugging the walls. in his search, his eyes do find a pair on his own and he freezes. sandor examines her briefly, noting her clothing and immediately connecting her to the dragon queen. he's hardly something to gawk at — there are, surely, much stranger folk on this continent than him. and yet he can't help but feel irritation.

" the fuck you looking at, girl? " sandor turns more fully to face her. " surely you've seen a burned man before, considering your lady does it for a living. "

[scndor]

@stormbcrn liked this post for a starter

𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐑 as he could see. the scent of burning flesh is only too familiar and even after as many years, still fosters a well of darkness inside of him.

sandor has had enough violence over the night to sate him for the time being. violence, but the anger never reached a maximum. and so angry he feels — washing out the exhaustion. the core of him would ache for the hilt of his blade under the right circumstances.

the crowd begins to dissipate : some to say their personal respects and others to fill their noses with some other smell. nothing specific on his mind and a new image on his horizon, he finds his feet carrying him to the silvery waterfall of hair that somehow manages to stand out among all the gods-forsaken snow.

" big ugly eyesore of a city, " he starts, eyes on the flames. " king's landing," he clarifies, hoping her eyes were set on a similar horizon now that the northern threat had been dealt with. " lived there most of my life. hated every minute. "

" burn it to the ground for all i care, " he starts, a stranger to his wish of fire. " won't tell you to wait for me. but my brother will die by my hand. " ( when they find my body among the ashes, just know that it was me. )

[scndor]

@perzyr liked this post for a starter :: for drogon

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 compel his feet to journey past the courtyard of winterfell — past the old stone walls and into the scattered pines. (  likely they’d soon be ash  )  

a chill down his spine when he realizes he isn’t alone. one small part reverence and one great part fear: he stands his ground. the pace of his heart quickens. it is the season of ice and he finds himself sweating. there’s something a little religious about it, sandor thinks. standing before something great and disastrous and destroying. and to be a servant out of fear. is this what people feel like when they pray?

one step back, he can’t help himself. puts him in a more defensive stance. one look up and one down: too massive a jaw :: too wide of wings. not quite what he pictured as a child. with the floor of cold beneath him, he supposes there will always be fire somewhere, somehow. 

corners of his lips dip downward, a sort of nervous tick. “  you don’t want to eat me, "  he starts,  a statue nearly cracking straight down its seam.  “  taste like shit. wine and dirt. probably dry and chewy. "

[scndor]

𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐄𝐓. young and with a new, thorny sense of being. he can not read it in his native tongue.

there isn't any one , or two , ways he would have expected her to respond. and surprise still turns the corners of his lips into an unsuspected grin. brief before fading. ( and again you hear this refrain :: in some world she is you. it's twisted. bark of a tree and dirt of the earth. in some ways natural , as the earth does turn. )

" aye, " he starts , right hand firm on the blistered leather reigns. twitching with the desire for another horse to separate them. perhaps a good and small sacking would do them both some good. he , certainly , keeps the thought in mind. " no dancing in the real world. you want to survive? prove to the other guy how much. "

some twenty-odd miles down the untrodden path , sandor pulls the reigns. a twig snaps to the right. could be something , might be nothing. " told you where the heart is. remember it. " some sort of test despite the unknown circumstance.

           ARYA  WAS  QUICK  TO  SHOUT  BACK,  ❝  Am  not.  ❞    Which  made  them  sound  like  a  whining  child.  With  a  displeased  look  on  her  face,  she  slumped  back  into  the  saddle.  He  was  right,  of  course.  Throughout  their  travels  together  Arya  had  learned  how  the  Hound  was  often  right,  his  chapped  lips  and  raspy  voice  spoke  the  truth.  On  this  matter  he  was  right  as  well.  The  Stark  was  well  trained,  years  of  watching  their  brothers,  sparring  with  Mycah,  and  months  of  Water  Dancing  lessons,  but  they  lacked  experience.  Everyone  had  been  fighting  to  teach,  not  to  kill.  When  all  that  stood  between  you  and  death  was  a  blade,  that  was  when  the  true  fighter  came  out.

          Arya  spoke  up  again  after  a  few  moments  of  silence.  ❝  I'll  be  sure  to  pick  a  few  fights  with  the  next  group  of  people  we  cross  paths  with.  ❞  Their  words  were  half  statement,  half  asking  for  permission.