sum. choking on smoke, the sight of wildfire reawakens the memories of sandor's trauma—memories he thought were long dead and gone.
to have? pstd metaphors for r4p3 heavy angst gr3g0r clegane mild gore pyrophobia character study one shot ao3
pair. sandor clegane & female + baratheon! reader
𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 falling star, the arrow carrying the spark that caused the wildfire outbreak fell from the sky, landing and spreading across Stannis' fleets below. The living screamed, pushed back by the fiery explosion and the dead lied stiff in the dirt, a strong stench of piss and blood followed a few minutes after.
Fire erupted, crackled underneath burning wood, nothing and no one was spared. It was alive, Sandor seemed to know it, he watched in horror as men burned. Some had their chests bloomed with open wounds, others ablaze, running and screaming while their flesh burned away.
It was so hot he was sure he had been thrown into a furnace. A voice beckoned him closer, one he swore he recognized but couldn't necessarily put his finger on.
It all seemed utterly hopeless, everyone had split from each other thanks to the chaos that had been brought about. Most of his men were slain.
A moment of silence passed, or maybe he was just imagining it. Everything seemed to shrink, practically pulling him into isolation, where it was cold and dark, uneventful and deescalate. Even with clouded memory his mind wandered, bringing back the memories of his face being pressed to the fires, pressed to the heat.
Surges of wind wisp past his ears, flecks of rogue fire and burnt wood stink up the battle field. The stench of approaching death, it was unmistakable.
The memories were too painful to look back upon but his mind never let him forget. Not even for a second.
Sandor Clegane was no knight, not one for tourneys, glory, honor, or any other thing a man would hold close to his heart.
He spat on the vows they took. Polished in their suited armor, sharp swords, pretty faces and silk sigils. A sweet dream many had, a dream spun into a web of lies and deception. It seemed only he saw them for what they truly were.
Killers and liars. Instead, he was a man scorned. By his brother was his face burned, pressed into the hot coals, stirring with smoke and red-hot flaring skin.
He remembered how the room stunk like an old, rotting pig had been put above a fire untamed. He screamed and thrashed yet his skin still melted from his face, when Sandor rose again he was a fraction of what he used to be. When Gregor rose, he rose as a knight; Ser Gregor Clegane.
Thick flesh, tightened and twisted, wet with red, exposed the hint of teeth and untouched eye of his other half. The scarring partly extended down to his neck, passing down to his collarbone. The fire had burned his hair thin, leaving it prone to falling out, but he often brushed it over. An attempt to cover the true severity.
Sandor remembered how his father protected Gregor, how he tried explaining the burns away in favor of his oldest son whom he hoped would be knighted one day. Soon the day came of his father's death, an accident they called it. Sandor didn't find himself shedding tears or even grieving.
His brother was no true knight and every man in the realm knew it. He reaved and murdered, plundered and destroyed. Terrorizing the smallfolk into brutal submission in the name of House Lannister, but he saw himself in the same puddle as well.
Were they really that different?
It didn't matter, not as Gregor clouded their vision in haze and blood. His men watched on in a revolting, wicked sense of arousal and sadism. Justice came for those women and young girls not, as their bodies piled up like pigs to the slaughter.
He took something from them, though Sandor couldn't quite place his finger on what exactly. Men's laws looked past his older brother, as the man was a beast, a brute in his own right, so tall and so large that seemingly no one could stand as his foe.
Not even himself but he let that thought pass; he would kill Gregor.
In fact, they seemed to reward him, keeping his sizzling anger at bay was the only solution, or was it? Sandor couldn't tell, too busy hardening his heart, unable to hide his face that seemed all the more hideous as he grew older.
Only cowards fought with fire.
Yet he froze solid when a man approached, screaming with sword still in hand, crying for his life while his skin bubbled and blistered, the wildfire sticking to his back. It was Bronn who had to save him then, maybe it was him who was the coward.
Heels of heavy boots trailed from all directions down and up the bloody stone, Sandor no longer paid it any mind. His hair, wet with sweat and dead men's blood, maybe even splashed water.
"Fuck the kingsguard, fuck the city, fuck the king."
Those were his last words spoken to Lord Tyrion before he deserted his post. The dwarf didn't bother stopping him.
Walls adorned with pretty, scarlet-red banners, carrying the Lannister sigil, shattered artifacts, even old, dusty gold that was long forgotten about. Windows, arched and massive, stained in grey and framed in white.
Clegane choked but kept walking until he found himself in front of a shut door, hands lain on the wall closest to him, his breath ragged, sweat drenching his leather. His hands smeared dirt on anything they touched, the door before him still creaked, partially open.
Your room was nothing short of the luxurious sort, once dimly lit by double candles at each corner, emitting a warm, almost inviting glimmer. Thin curtains that would've filtered in the moon whilst the sun slept, coated in a white glow that poured onto the sea below and beyond but now everything was engulfed in flames.
He called your name but remembered how you'd had left with your brother, Renly's party.
Your bed was untouched, discarded and abandoned, dresses blanketed it as the furs and soft white sheets that were once upon the bed had been stripped off completely. Tears prickled in Clegane's eyes, not for you but for himself.
He hated fire, just as he hated knights.
He served House Lannister long enough, it was time to move on. There was nothing left for him here at least.
