Chapter Text
Sandor Clegane sat on a stool at The Crossroads Tavern hunched low over his beer. He gripped the thick, heavy glass mug between both hands and stared into the depths of the bitter amber liquid. His fingers, huge and calloused, covered most of the surface of the mug making the glass appear small between his hands.
His mug was dry on the outside. Every time he came to this cesspool of a dive bar, his glass was dry.
Every. Fucking. Time.
There was a day – it wasn't that long ago, was it? – when a man could come into his favorite pub after work and reward himself with an ice cold pint. It was a fair bit of pleasure to look forward to at the end of a day of knuckle-shredding, back-breaking labor. After ten or more hours in a dark, noisy factory, the poisonous chemical stink of a refinery, or some other menial job, didn't a man have a right to few moments of peace with his mates and a pint that didn't taste like warm piss?
Sandor Clegane didn't have mates. He didn't have parents or siblings – not anymore, anyway – no aunts or uncles or cousins. Most of the men he worked with wanted nothing to do with him and that was just fine as far as he was concerned. Bronn, his work partner, could be an asshole at times, but he and Sandor got along just fine on most days. There was only one other man he'd call a friend and that was stretching it a bit. More like an annoying fuckass of a neighbor who couldn't keep his shit on his side of the fence.
Besides, Sandor didn't want friends. What he did want was a mug covered in cool dew that dampened the cracked skin of his work-worn hands. He wanted the feel of smooth lager cascading over his tongue and down his throat. After emptying half his glass, he wanted his head to feel lighter on his shoulders, mellowed by alcohol and a warm inviting atmosphere.
There was no alcohol in this beer and the atmosphere in this dive hole could lovingly be referred to as post-apocalyptic white trash crack house. Aye, it was that comforting. The floors were permanently covered in a tacky slime that made his boots stick to the floor. The aroma was an unpleasant bouquet of mold, puke, piss, and sweat. Half the lights didn't work leaving the most of the pub, and especially the corners, shrouded in deep dark shadows where danger lurked. Maybe it was a good thing it was so dark. Sandor didn't really want to know what nasty business was hiding in the crevices. He'd really rather not know that he was sitting on a puke stain or that his mug had someone else's lip prints on it.
Sandor leaned down the bar and pulled the bowl of peanuts toward him. Maybe the taste of the salt would kill the bitterness permanently imbedded in the surface of his tongue. He dug down in the bowl and tossed back a handful of peanuts.
Rancid.
Just once, couldn't he get a fucking break? Sandor slugged back a mouthful of swill to chase away the newest rotten taste coating his mouth. As he set his glass on the bar with a thump, the barkeep wandered down toward him. The man was one of those handsome twenty-something-or-other college students supplementing his income by pushing the last legal drug available to a working stiff. And not a very potent one, at that. Sandor was still as sober as the moment he'd walked in – after three so-called "beers."
College Boy was drying a glass pitcher with a dirty towel. He stopped and turned toward Sandor. "Anything else I can get you, old-timer?"
"The fuck is that bullshit?" Sandor bellowed. "How the fuck old you think I am?"
College boy smirked as he stowed the pitcher under the bar and threw the towel over his shoulder. He shrugged limply. "Sixty?" he guessed.
"Fuck off!" Sandor tilted his head back and emptied his glass. He was forty-two as of a few months ago. By his standards, that was still pretty young. It seemed that nowadays, young people thought anyone twenty years older than them was old. He didn't know why he referred to them as young people. He was still young so what did that make them? Apparently, the latest fad was to refer to them as "new adults."
Sandor snorted. New was right. They didn't know half of what he did about the world, about the reality of getting older, having responsibilities, dealing with life. Bunch of little cock-sucking pissants is what they were. Sandor had no patience for their endless drama.
And now, he had to answer to one. Some college know-nothing had come along and taken his job. Sandor had been up for a promotion for the past three years. Finally, his supervisor had retired and Sandor was more than ready to step up to the plate. But when he'd gone into work this morning, the district manager had everyone gathered to introduce them to the new supervisor.
Chest out and chewing nervously on his lip – Sandor didn't like being the center of attention – he waited with his breath held as the DM introduced … Theon Greyjoy.
What the fuck??
Sandor had worked hard every day of his life. He started at 6am and endured 10-hour days in heat, rain, snow, and freezing temperatures. And for what? To be passed up by some greasy little wanker who didn't know the first thing about the actual job. He was a slacker with a diploma from a community college who'd never worked a day out in the field.
But he had a college diploma and Sandor didn't.
"Another one of those then?" College Boy said nodding toward the empty mug.
Sandor pulled a wad of rumpled cash out of the inner pocket of his jacket and extracted a fiver. He slapped the wilted Crown note on the bar. "Preferably one with some alcohol in it this time," he growled. College took the note and started to walk away.
"And it better be fucking cold!" Sandor yelled at the bartender.
But when College brought him a fresh mug, it was the same warm, bitter ale he'd been served in his first three rounds.
"Is it against the fucking law to serve a pint cold?" Sandor thumped a fist on the bar, rattling the glassware stored below.
"Hey, Podrick!" a sultry female voice called from the far end of the room. At the sound of his name, College abruptly turned his back on Sandor and walked away.
No respect, either. Those "new adults" acted like they were the end all, be all of the gods plan for the world. If you were "old," you were ignored or treated like a third class citizen. No manners, no courtesy, and sure as hell, no respect.
"Me, me, me," Sandor grumbled to himself. "Nothing but a bunch of self-serving, self-indulgent little cunts." He upended his mug and swallowed the rest of his hard-earned swill in one gulp. He still felt sober. The world was too loud and intrusive around him. He wanted his reality dulled and muffled until he had to face it all again tomorrow. He pulled out what was left of his cash and counted his notes. He hadn't eaten yet and needed to grab some food on the way home.
"Fuck!" He wanted another pint, but he only had enough for his dinner. That is, if he wanted to eat tonight. His stomach rumbled, ending the debate.
The floor came up at him a little too fast when he slid off the barstool. Sandor stumbled a few steps before regaining his balance.
"Whoa, there, old-timer. Want me to get you an Uber?"
"What the fuck is an Uber?" Sandor griped. "And don't call me old-timer!" He ignored College and stumbled toward the door. He heard the bartender make some snide comment to the pretty girl he was serving at the other end of the bar. Another joke at his expense. He heard them snicker at his back.
"Wanker!" Sandor yelled over his shoulder not watching where he was going as he kept stumbling forward. When he looked up, his reflexes were too slow. Sandor walked into the edge of the door jamb and heard a crack. White hot shards of pain shot through his sinus cavities.
A stream of obscenities preceded him through the door as a round of raucous laughter followed him out. On the dark sidewalk, in the cool, damp night air, Sandor bent at the waist and got ready to do what he'd done far too many times before. He lined up his index fingers on either side of his nose and took a deep breath.
CRUNCH!
"Fuuuuuuuuuuck!" he screamed. No matter how many times he'd broken his nose – he'd lost count how many times that had happened – he was never prepared for the brain-shattering pain of jamming the cartilage back into the center of his face. His eyes watered and his nose dripped.
If he hadn't been sober before, he sure as fuck was now.
Sandor pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed under his nostrils. Thank the gods, no blood, just snot. He'd broken his nose so many times now, there was probably nothing but scar tissue lining his mucus membranes. He very rarely saw blood from a broken nose anymore. That was a good thing because he couldn't stand the smell or feel of blood crusting in his moustache.
"Perfect fucking end to another shite day," he muttered. Sandor staggered down the street toward the intersection. An icy breeze wafted around him. Sandor pulled his leather jacket closed and did the zipper, pulling it up to his chin. It wouldn’t have felt so cold if it wasn't for the damp. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled down the block.
King's Landing was a noisy, filthy, unsympathetic place at night. Only the dregs of society were out at this hour. Sandor snorted. He was out at this hour so he supposed he should count himself among the lowlifes prowling the streets.
The street was lined with pubs, taverns, brothels, and natty, half-dead diners that served questionable meals with ingredients of dubious origin. Sandor wouldn't risk eating at one of those health code hellholes lest he should come down with a case of flesh-eating bacteria gnawing away at his intestinal tract.
The people he passed on the sidewalk weren't that much different from him in this neighborhood. Men and women working hard labor jobs for pitiful wages, to eke out a living that barely allowed them to survive. Sandor considered himself lucky that way. He had a decent job with benefits, a home that was paid for, a pickup truck, and no family to provide for.
Sandor worked alongside men with wives and children, making the same wages as him. Those men had to feed and clothe a passel of brats who, of course, would always complain if they didn't have the latest electronic device. And did any of those little shits have after school jobs? Course not!
"Daddy, buy me this. Daddy, buy me that," Sandor grumbled to himself. Thank the gods he didn't have to deal with that shit for £18 Crowns an hour. Sandor was gloriously alone. He had the whole house to himself, peace and quiet, could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and he didn't have to answer to anyone.