The Hound King - O Death
Rough and unbeta'd.
Mild warnings for violence and Baelish pissing himself.
Concrit is most welcome :D
Hopefully I will have Joffery/Cersei up by this weekend.
O Death,
Won’t you spare me over another year…
He cannot remember how long he has been running.
For a while he was able to hide in his own brothels and inns, was able to be somewhat comfortable in his flight. Soon, though, his face and name were too synonymous with the price on his head. He was too hunted, now, to worry about things like feather beds and hot meals.
He hides in shantytowns. Burnt out farmhouses. He has little skills for survival but his tongue is silver and his pockets lined with gold. He charms and bribes his way to the coast, to a port, and thinks he smells freedom.
He was almost free when he was found. Almost on the ship. He could feel the tilt and sway of the gangplank beneath his left boot; he was almost free. A hand on his shoulder, rough voice in his ear, a laugh… That was the end of his freedom.
He was knocked unconscious and taken somewhere. Then, somewhere again. When he was allowed to wake he was kept hooded and chained; he saw nothing, but thought he recognized the damp cold of the Riverlands and the burnt-stone smell of his own Harrenhall (not his anymore, though).
Now, an interminable time later, he waits in darkness and silence and screams though no one hears.
But what is this that I can’t see
With ice cold hands taking hold of me
It is dark when he wakes. Darkness is all he has known for he-knows-not how long. A darkness that has him seeing things that do not exist and hearing things in the silence.
It was better when no one heard, because when the door finally opens a torch flares in his darkness and gleams off of scale and plate and slick scarred skin.
He knows, now, that he is lost. Knows he is at the mercy of a man who has none, would show none if he did.
Petyr Baelish looks into the face of death and bows his head before it.
No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold
Nothing satisfies me but your soul…
There is surprisingly little violence, only a light slam and a casual toss that left him with shattered teeth and a broken rib. Through it all, his doom only smiles.
Baelish thinks that his feral smile does little for his face. He thinks that right up until the point where the King grabs him and shakes him like a dog with a rat and Baelish feels hot piss run down his legs.
“No sword for you; I promised my Little Bird I would kill her tormenter with my bare hands,” Sandor squeezes and Baelish has just enough time to see the muscles of the King’s arm bunch and ripple before he is lifted off the ground by his windpipe.
The King never blinks. Never flinches. Just smiles that snarling smile and squeezes and the last thing Petyr Baelish knows - as his bowels loose and his body becomes a corpse - is the hard grey gaze of the Hound King.
My name is Death and the end is here…
Mild warnings for violence and Baelish pissing himself.
Concrit is most welcome :D
Hopefully I will have Joffery/Cersei up by this weekend.
O Death,
Won’t you spare me over another year…
He cannot remember how long he has been running.
For a while he was able to hide in his own brothels and inns, was able to be somewhat comfortable in his flight. Soon, though, his face and name were too synonymous with the price on his head. He was too hunted, now, to worry about things like feather beds and hot meals.
He hides in shantytowns. Burnt out farmhouses. He has little skills for survival but his tongue is silver and his pockets lined with gold. He charms and bribes his way to the coast, to a port, and thinks he smells freedom.
He was almost free when he was found. Almost on the ship. He could feel the tilt and sway of the gangplank beneath his left boot; he was almost free. A hand on his shoulder, rough voice in his ear, a laugh… That was the end of his freedom.
He was knocked unconscious and taken somewhere. Then, somewhere again. When he was allowed to wake he was kept hooded and chained; he saw nothing, but thought he recognized the damp cold of the Riverlands and the burnt-stone smell of his own Harrenhall (not his anymore, though).
Now, an interminable time later, he waits in darkness and silence and screams though no one hears.
But what is this that I can’t see
With ice cold hands taking hold of me
It is dark when he wakes. Darkness is all he has known for he-knows-not how long. A darkness that has him seeing things that do not exist and hearing things in the silence.
It was better when no one heard, because when the door finally opens a torch flares in his darkness and gleams off of scale and plate and slick scarred skin.
He knows, now, that he is lost. Knows he is at the mercy of a man who has none, would show none if he did.
Petyr Baelish looks into the face of death and bows his head before it.
No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold
Nothing satisfies me but your soul…
There is surprisingly little violence, only a light slam and a casual toss that left him with shattered teeth and a broken rib. Through it all, his doom only smiles.
Baelish thinks that his feral smile does little for his face. He thinks that right up until the point where the King grabs him and shakes him like a dog with a rat and Baelish feels hot piss run down his legs.
“No sword for you; I promised my Little Bird I would kill her tormenter with my bare hands,” Sandor squeezes and Baelish has just enough time to see the muscles of the King’s arm bunch and ripple before he is lifted off the ground by his windpipe.
The King never blinks. Never flinches. Just smiles that snarling smile and squeezes and the last thing Petyr Baelish knows - as his bowels loose and his body becomes a corpse - is the hard grey gaze of the Hound King.
My name is Death and the end is here…