Title: Dreaming
Rating - R
Spoilers - none
Characters - Balon Greyjoy, mention of Eddard Stark
Word-count - 95
Disclaimer - I have no profit from this. All characters are belong to GRRM!
Summary - dreams of Balon Greyjoy

Dark was his Great Hall and cold. No laughter was there - only woman's wailing.
You burned my ships and home, killed two of my sons and the youngest one is your ward, Lord Stark.
But let me tell you one thing, Northern invader - there are tame direwolves, but you can never tame a kraken.
And one day your castle will burn like a lighthouse in storm, your wife will scream near your slain son, if you have any, and your banner will be torn to ribbons.

Warhound

Small party of Lannister scouts was sitting in the bushes, watching the kingsroad. They were doing this for three hours and in addition to this,
steady rain has started not so long ago.
- Hate this weather! I want to drink hot vine and fondle a plump woman at home.
- Shut up, - growled back another scout. He was smaller than commander and was wearing hooded cloak instead of lion-crested helm.
- When I was young, I had respect for my elders and betters!
- Ser Fatbag, next time you will climb on that bloody elm in armor! Bunch of riders, ten or twelve of them, are on the road, driving cattle. Two banners - one with dragon, the second is with hanged man or something like that.
- Foote. Boot and saddle, men! And the Hound will be
- killing as any other ,- said smaller scout and took off his hood. Commander winced - that boy looked like Stranger too much.
Two Foote soldiers died almost instantly, thanks to the archer. And Lannister men-at-arms charged.
The Hound jerked right just in time to avoid enemy rider. He was trying to pin his target to that elm, like on tourney. Take that! Horse reared and the rider fell down with a curse. The sword pierced the jerkin and stopped in his liver. Or in his spleen - doesn't matter, he is dying.
Sandor looked at his victim. An old man, like his father, wriggling in the mud and screaming curses to him. He cut his throat and discovered that he was standing at the wrong side of the new corpse. The Hound spat and run for the horse.
The fight ended long ago, the rain wasn't. Quite pleased Lannister soldiers were driving cattle back to their camp. The archer also found himself a horse.
- Hey, Dog!
- What's the hell?! - The Hound was wet to the bone and didn't want to talk at all.
- Get warm, - the archer threw him a big leather flask.
The liquid was pretty foul, but worked well.
- Not the whole! This is pretty strong. My wife is making this from turnips!
- Send her my thanks, - Sandor leaned forward to stay in the saddle. He was feeling quite strange.
- How old are you?
- Twelve, so what? - The Hound grinned happily.

Genre - Angst, Missing scene, Rating - M (Language and Qyburn)
All characters belong to GRRM

I'm waiting in my cold cell

Don't know is day or night. Always torches here. And that chainless bastard! Just leave! Damned chains! Step closer, I'll bite your fucking
hand off! Not quite off, but he yells. Damned chains. Hey, that's my intestines! Sharp your knife or I'll screw it in all your holes! Stop whistling
Dornishman's Wife! Shut up! Danmed chains. I want to scratch my back...

Current Mood: amused

This fanfic is dedicated to my LJ friend Skullbearer! Thanks for the idea.
answer to # 26&42&23.
Characters - Aragorn, Sandor
Rating- M
Genre - PWP
Word-count - 129.

When dawn had come, they had faced each other, filthy from the slaughter. Bleak that dawn was, and lifeless air tasted of ashes. One bright thing was a shield - battered, but three black hounds still run on a yellow field.
The shield-owner stood still, motionless as some hideous statue, but not for long - he didn't bother with greetings and manners. A fight is a fight, after all.
Quick stab at the emeny while he was holding his sword in salutation.
Blocked. Whirled. Rolled away form his blade. Cut. Slashed to enemy's lower chest. Gave ground. Rushed forward. Satisfactory scream of chainmail. Bright blood on dark earth and feeble attempts to stand and fight again.
A rain had started. Sandor Clegane kicked the lifeless corpse and walked away.
The End

Current Mood: artistic

Celebrating
Rating - T (booze and wenches), kind of humor.
Word-count - 253
Summary - The tourney of The Hand is over. What to do with such money?


It was a plesantly warm afternoon. Ser Loras Tyrell was thinking about recent events and was very pleased of
himself. Ribs weren't broken and Kinght of Flowers decided to go to the King's Landing.
But his peaceful strode was ended by someone on a black horse. A rider dashed from the narrow street and

thundered past him. Then he stopped, dismounted and looked at his dusted and angered victim.
That malformed Lannister's cur. But the last man who said such words, fell from a long flat of stairs, broke his

arm and hand and lost four front teeth.
-A nice horse, - politely said Tyrell.
"A nice horse" tried to bite off his ear. Clegane laughed, but, at least, had the grace to invtite ser Loras to "Cat

and Barrel" to celebrate their victory.
After 2nd flagon of wine, ser Tyrell tried to play finger-dance with the innkeeper. After the 3rd flagon of the

same Dornish red he discovered the unjustice of life and decided to become a septon.
The Hound yanked him from the table.
- Let's go.
- Careful, sers, - squeaked the innkeeper under the table,- door is that way.
On the fourth time, the door is finally opened.
......
- What itme is it? - asked very thristy and lost ser Tyrell.
- Two of the daywatch, - answered the familiar growl.
- What?! Where am I?
- Behind the sofa at Chataya’s. Talked to the mosaic, then fell asleep.
And The Kinght of Flowers was ashamed.
The End

The Hound and The Hunter (crossover with Memory, Sorrow, Thorn )

Rating - R (cursing) Word-count- 165.

Just another cold windy night. Another night near the mountains. Little wolf-bitch is sleeping. Fire is dying,

horses are secured and things seems qiute nice. Slow steps somewhere in the dark. Craven whinnes loudly

and tries to run away.
Bugger! Shadowcat or something like this. Low growl from behind. Seven bloody hells and Blessed's arse! A

dog. A huge white dog with blue eyes. Someone is barely standing near it.
Clegane rattled his longsword to loose it from scabbard.
- Who are you?
Wonderful! Little wolf-bitch is awake.
- Where did you get this helm?!
Just bloody wonderful.
- Bought it.
- How?!
- Are you idiot? Went to the armorer, gave him money, took this helm.
- So you just bought it?
- Yes. Understood?!
- So I am still Queen's Hunter.
- Do yourself a favour, Queen's Hunter - take your dog and bugger off.
And he went somewhere, whith his helm and his dog (who ate the last sausage. Stupid little wolf-girl.).

Current Mood: amused

In this piece of LJ I'll try to create some ASoIaF fanfics (All hail GRRM and his wonderful characters, which I borrowed only to play and NEVER make money. ) I swear by The Stranger and The Drowned God.

Current Mood: awake