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We're All Going to Die	By : pip Category: G through L > Game of Thrones Views: 12196 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones and I make no money from this work of fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
Author's Note: It's in the tags, but just to remind you. There is some pretty nasty, gory violence in this chapter. Just so you know. Think before you read.

Chapter Seventeen

Before morning proper arrived, the two of them bathed together and attempted to wake themselves up a bit, since they hadn't slept at all.

By the time they dragged themselves to the courtyard, Brienne and Podrick were already there, and both Tormund and Clegane were a little the worse for their night of drinking, despite the warm bath and the cold, crisp morning air. She regarded them in silence as Podrick went about his usual tasks. She looked all fresh and awake, lovely actually, as if she'd had the best night's sleep for a while. Perhaps she had, because she'd had that bloody big bed all to herself, all night.

“Should I warm you all up, my Lady?” Podrick asked, hesitant, sensing a change in atmosphere between them all.

“Yes, Podrick. Begin with him.” She gestured at Tormund with a careless hand, without actually looking at him. The squire trailed over to him, dejected, as Tormund drew his sword. And so began a sad round of spiritless clashes that didn't improve the mood of anyone in the arena. At least Podrick learned a little more, there was that. While they might not be on the best terms with each other, they didn't neglect him. But when he finally left, both Tormund and Clegane looked at one another like they were going to push each other out in front of her first.

“Well, one of you had better turn and face me,” Brienne announced. “Unless you really do intend to fight each other.”

As one, they turned to look at her, and she drew in a breath, straightening up, as if this was exactly what she had expected. “Both of you,” she noted. “Together. You are a constant surprise.” Since neither of them moved, she attacked Tormund first, forcing him to defend himself. She tried Clegane next, and he countered, finding himself in a familiar position with her, and it broke something that had settled over him, some kind of strange dull cloud.

The clash of the steel did it, and he began to fight back, caught up in the enchantment of it, because this is what he did best, this is what he loved first. He was hard, but she was harder. He was tired, and she was alive, moving too fast. But he was not honourable, and he began to cheat against her, using all of the tricks at his disposal to win, until she was almost snarling at him in frustration. He smiled grimly during a lull in their little duel, but this was too difficult to for him to keep up and they both knew it.

Where the hell was Tormund? Weren't they supposed to facing off against her together? And then he saw the wildling behind her, and she was so focused on him she didn't notice. Was she so angry it had affected her this much? Because it wasn't like her to fight with this kind of emotion. That's what made her so difficult to defeat. She was skilled because while she had conviction, she was also calm. And yet, Tormund managed it. He scored a hit against her while she concentrated on beating him, at any cost, even that of her own defence.

She whirled around, her sword raised, and Tormund had to duck down low, because she almost actually hurt him. Clegane winced, his eyes widening. “You two...” she said, seemingly unaware now that everything she said and did was done in front of their ever-present audience. Clegane thought to try and warn her, putting a hand out to her arm, only to stop when Tormund shook his head in alarm.

She laughed at them both. “Do you call that satisfaction?” she asked coldly. When they didn't answer, she walked over to the weapons rack that he kept his selection of swords on and brought that Valyrian steel crashing down on the crossbeam of it from above, cleaving it in two. Then she went for the side supports, breaking them in one single stroke each as well. When she was done, she nodded at the destruction she had wrought, and motioned at it with the tip of her sword, turning to glare at him.

“That's satisfaction,” she said, and then stomped off out of the arena.

Clegane walked to stand in front of the ruined rack, looking at his swords, which hung crazily from their supports now. Some of them lay in the snow beneath. He shook his head. He'd set that up for himself about a week ago now. He was no carpenter, but he thought he'd managed to make a half decent job of it, and in his secret heart he'd been proud of the achievement. Now it was gone.

Tormund came to stand beside him. The crowd had drifted away like smoke at the first sign of trouble, the way it always did, and they were alone but for the comings and goings of the Winterfell staff.

“If this happens for one more morning,” Tormund said darkly, “there are going to be ugly rumours going around about the two of us, my friend.”

“I know,” Clegane replied. He supposed, considering, he couldn't blame her for feeling frustrated. If he got through this intact, he swore to himself he'd never do it again. They needed to discuss it. But how to talk to her? She clearly wasn't ready to listen to anything yet.

He wondered for a while, and then he wondered if they would even have to. If there was a way to take away the pain of that first time, might that lessen the sense of vulnerability that came with the act? He didn't know, but if there was a way to do it painlessly, there was someone who might know.

Clegane pulled a face. As a solution, he liked it only slightly better than letting Brienne chop his head off with her sword, but at least it was less permanently scarring.

“Come on,” he said to Tormund, jerking his head. “We're going to visit someone who might be able to help us.”

“A friend of yours?” Tormund queried, instantly curious.

“Like fuck,” he retorted, then he wondered. Did he even have friends? If he did, was Tyrion one of them? Clegane shrugged. He was a fucking Lannister all the same, on the right side or not. “I don't much like him.”

Frowning, Tormund walked apace with him. “Then why would we visit this man?”

“For her.”

That kept the wildling quiet for a while, and so it should. They were doing it for her. And it occurred to him that there wasn't much he wouldn't do for her, if he was about to walk into a dragon's lair and talk to someone he hated about things that were bloody personal. He may as well fucking face every damned thing all at once: he'd do anything for her.

~~~~~~~~~~

As they made their way through the snowy woodland around Winterfell, on the two largest horses the stables had been able to provide, Clegane began to feel like things were returning to usual. He'd had a long, sleepless night after failing to claim the love of his life. He'd had a worse morning, during which the same bloody woman had destroyed a little bit more of his hope, and something special he'd made. And now, he was off to see someone he detested, who usually called him 'dog' to see about being a little bit more humiliated. He'd had too many good moods recently. This was a much more familiar state of affairs. His bad mood settled in him like an old friend, and the world seemed to right itself a little bit as it set itself against him. This he was used to. This he understood.

He grunted occasional responses to Tormund, who didn't seem to notice his mood. The land around Winterfell that they were traversing was full of wildlings, and he was always stopping off to talk to this person or that, full of jovial good humour, or lunacy. One of the two, or perhaps they were the same damned thing. They may as well be.

Daenerys had set up camp a short distance away, and Tyrion would be there, along with the rest of the bloody show. Clegane sank deeper into his bad mood, and so he didn't notice at first when the settlements petered out, and Tormund rode beside him constantly.

Only when Tormund reined their horses to a stop did he realise, then he wondered what the wildling was doing. He'd been having a particularly dirty fantasy about Brienne and Tormund that he'd been startled out of, and he was about to grumble, then he heard it too.

Somewhere nearby, a group of men were singing an old ballad. He'd heard it before, but it had a special significance now, given what Brienne had told them before: The Bear and the Maiden Fair. These woods... Lord Bolton was from the north. If any of the men under his banner had survived, it was likely that they were travelling hereabouts. He could smell burning wood, so they'd stopped for one reason or another. Clegane listened to the men jeering – surely there were no more than five or six, easily enough for Tormund and himself to handle, especially with the element of surprise.

The lyrics to the song... they were wrong, twisted, darker and gory, and he felt his hands clench into fists. They were singing about her, he realised. They'd changed the song to reflect what they'd planned to do to Brienne! Beside him, Tormund slipped down from his horse and crept over the snow to a copse of nearby trees to catch sight of them. For such a big fucker, he was astonishingly adept at creeping over snow. No wonder the Night's Watch had so much trouble with wildling raids before this. You'd never see or hear them until it was too late.

Attempting to follow suit, Clegane jumped down from his horse, and landed on the ground with jingle of chainmail and clank of armour. Tormund looked around at him as if he'd just farted. He shrugged and pulled a face, then took a couple of short strides, only to press his back into a nearby tree and peer around the side of it. Six of them.

“Three each,” he said out loud to Tormund, because they were a scrawny looking bunch, and they posed about as much threat as a bunch of girls on an overnight camping trip. He'd be fucked if he was going to hide from a load of girls. Tormund stood up straight, nodded.

“Are you fussy?” he asked.

“I'll take the lead singer,” Clegane growled.

“Fuck. I wanted him,” Tormund said.

Clegane shrugged. “I'll share her with you. I'm not fucking sharing a good kill.”

While they'd been talking, they'd been noticed, and the group had formed a little ring around them as they discussed who they were going to kill first.

“Hey, who are you? And what are you talking -”

Without looking around, Clegane took out a dagger in one smooth movement and buried it in the talker's neck, right in his artery. He gurgled, still standing, because the dagger was in his neck, and Clegane was holding the dagger, and therefore his weight. His dead weight.

Clegane looked at him. “Sing then, cunt,” he said. The man gurgled louder, and Clegane strained to hear for a second, then shook his head. “Sounds to me like you've got something in your throat.” And he pulled the dagger loose. The man fell to the ground, silent.

He looked around at the rest of them. They were uneasy, looking at each other, shifting from foot to foot. “Any of you fuckers run, and we'll –”

There was the sound of a bowstring being pulled back, and he turned to Tormund, but the wildling was already striding forward, knocking a couple of them out of the way to pick up the archer by the neck. He let the arrow loose, but hadn't had chance to get enough room behind it, and it bounced harmlessly off Tormund's furs. The man in his grip choked, at least until Tormund head-butted him.

Back on his feet, he swayed dizzily, and the wildling got hold of his bow arm, and snapped the forearm bone over his knee like it was a mere twig. The man screamed, the thin sound carrying over the trees, eyes wild as Tormund let him go, and he staggered around the camp, holding his drooping arm, appealing to the others, but none of them would look at him.

“Now pay attention,” Clegane told them all. “You run, we find you. We find you, we make you our fuck toy for a few hours before we kill you.” Beside him, Tormund grinned that lunatic grin. He couldn't see it, but he saw the effect of it on Tormund's captive audience. “Your arsehole'll be looser than Cersei's cunt after a go on golden boy's new metal hand.” He put a hand on his sword. “So no running, and we'll get you all done nice and quick.”

One of them snickered, and Clegane sneered. “You think that's funny, boy?” he demanded.

“You don't like the Lannnisters,” he said, then shrugged. “So. We don't like the Lannisters. You don't need to be like this. We got food, mead, a fire, and we can share. Hell, I was there when Locke chopped his hand right off! I'll tell you all about it...”

Within half a second, he was in Clegane's grip, both of them staring at him. “What about the woman?” Tormund asked, and the man didn't seem to understand what was going on. He frowned, and then his eyes suddenly cleared.

“Oh, her! Yeah, she was fun while she lasted. 'Til he spoiled it for us. Never did get to find out if she was keeping a cock or a cunt in there.” He laughed, kind of nervously. “All because of that Lannister bastard. We were going to have her, all of us, and I told her I'd have to close my eyes when it was my turn or else lose my hard on. I mean, she was a big bitch,” he said, laughing nervously, “just like y...” He seemed to realise his mistake at last, and stopped, his eyes widening as his face drained of colour. He actually went white.

Tormund made a sound in his throat, and it sounded dangerous as hell. “Mine,” he growled, staring. Since Clegane had taken his first choice, he couldn't very well deny Tormund this one. Clegane handed him over.

“Be creative,” he warned.

As Tormund began Clegane grabbed one of the others for himself, taking out the dagger to gut him, only he found himself wanting to watch, and so he plunged the dagger into the man's stomach and simply held him still, from behind, hand over his mouth to keep him quiet as they both watched, as the warmth of the man's blood came pouring out onto Clegane's wrist and forearm like a living glove.

At first, it didn't seem to make sense, as Tormund scooped up a handful of snow and grasped the man by the scruff of the neck. He forced it into his mouth. What was he going to do, make him eat it? But as he continued, it became apparent that the snow was there as a natural gag, ramming enough of it in so that it resembled a giant snowball in the idiot's gob, his lips stretched red raw around it. It must hurt, packed in tight like that. But that was only the beginning for him.

With a growl, Tormund held him up against a tree by his throat, kicked his legs until they were pointing forward a little, then used his foot to force his knees the wrong way, just as if he was snapping branches. Clegane was sure he heard the joints pop out, one by one. The man's eyes were staring out at them all, and he was definitely screaming, though you could barely hear anything at all. His nostrils flared as he dragged air in, trying to scream again. And then he lost consciousness.

The break in proceedings made Clegane check on his own victim, who was awake and watching. He twisted the dagger a bit, just to keep him interested, and he moaned behind Clegane's hand. He flicked his gaze to the others, but they were all watching on in horror and fear, not daring to move. That was good.

Tormund didn't seem fazed by his victim's temporary escape, and he reached inside his furs, coming out with a metal object that fitted around his fist, like a knuckle duster, only this had two short blades at either side. Not quite long enough to be daggers. Clegane wondered if it was possible to kill a person with it, and decided it would need good placement.

“Mmm...” Tormund growled, still holding the fucker up by his neck. “Wake up, cunt,” he said, and he punched the man with that thing, right between his legs, right in the balls. Clegane winced in unwilling sympathy as Tormund laughed, his voice dark as the near silent screaming began again. He was awake. The man in Clegane's arms groaned, struggling weakly, and he twisted his hand again, just a little, in response.

“Pay attention,” he murmured into the man's ear. “If I think you like it, I'll give you to him.”

When Tormund pulled his fist away, blood immediately ran down, staining the man's breeches like urine. The wildling moved, and Clegane could see the man's face again, skin blotchy red, eyes bulging so far out of his head Clegane wondered if Tormund would make them fall right out of his skull.

Now he took up a position similar to Clegane's own, holding the man up from behind, one arm around his chest, taking his weight, while the other with the stabbing implement moved behind him. Another sharp, forceful jab, and Tormund's lips twisted in savage, sadistic delight. The man struggled, but he was feeble now. From the angle, Clegane could guess Tormund had gone right for the kidneys. They were deep, sure, but those blades seemed to have been designed for just some such purpose. He didn't think he'd ever seen a more painful death, and it wasn't even over yet.

Tormund pulled his weapon loose with a rough jerk, and then moved that hand up the victim's back, quite high. He drew in a deep breath, then punched in again, this time he must have got the man's lungs, because as Clegane watched, the white snow that packed his mouth wide turned a pale pink. Slowly it darkened to a rose, then to a scarlet red. Still he lived, but there wasn't much of him left. Barring Brienne, it was one of the most beautiful things Clegane had ever seen.

Tormund let the man suffer for a full minute longer, until the snow was melting, dripping crimson, then pulled the weapon loose for the final time, and raised both hands to snap his neck in a violent twist before dropping him to the ground.

Clegane was speechless. He checked on the man he held, but he was already dead. He'd died watching that piece of pure art. Clegane withdrew the dagger and let the body go as Tormund stood tall, having put the weapon away. The wildling drew in a breath through his nose, and tilted his face to the sky and the falling snow, then walked over to Clegane. Tormund clapped him on the shoulder.

“That creative enough for you?” he asked.

“A thing of wonder,” he replied, still in awe. Tormund grinned and nodded. They turned their attention to the rest of the snivelling, grovelling bunch. There were three of them left. The campsite reeked of blood, and shit. Clegane would be willing to wager not all of that stench belonged to the dead. He sighed, finally beginning to feel his mood lift.

“Who's next?” he wondered out loud, drawing his sword, and the fuckers all pointed at each other.

He thought there might be room for this day to improve after all.

To be continued...

Author's Note: Ok, well, I did warn you. Hope you'll leave a word for the muses... Is anyone still out there at this point? I feel quite sad that I might not be managing to do my job right, for the boys, and for Brienne. The characters probably deserve better, they got me. Bugger. Well, we can only go forward. If anyone is out there, Tyrion is up next. And then I hope to be able to start giving out some satisfaction all over the place. But of course... there'll still be ambitions. Tormund is nothing if not ambitious. He wants it all.
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We're All Going to Die