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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
- 3
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Author's Note:

With apologies for the delay, here is the next chapter – enjoy! I'm afraid Clegane wanted to get an extra fight scene in. He's kind of bloody-minded that way. And kind of violent. But then, they all are. Get used to it. I think Tormund is going to start soon.

But, this chapter was beta read by the wonderful BronxWench, who writes marvellous stories of her own. You should totally check her out! Thank you, lass! :)

Chapter Four

When they arrived back, it was lunchtime, and without stopping to consult him, Clegane's stomach rumbled loudly. Both Brienne and Tormund looked at him.

“See, this is what you get when you take my breakfast away from me and then make me perform,” he noted darkly.

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Well I couldn't even face breakfast, thanks to you two.”

“What did we do to stop you?” Then he remembered. Oh, shit, yeah. “Sorry about that.”

“Are we all hungry?” Tormund asked. They both nodded. “Right. Well, for fuck's sake, let's eat then! I'm starving!”

Until the previous evening, they didn't usually take their meals together, and it seemed as if the serving staff still weren't used to the new state of affairs. All of their portions tended to be larger than average, and it was a longish wait before they were served a plate each of roasted chicken and spiced fried potatoes.

Something occurred to Clegane, and it was something they should probably have discussed out on the hill, but there was no hope for it now. “Are we secret?” he asked, between mouthfuls, trying to ignore the look of disdain Brienne bestowed on him for his table manners.

“We?” she queried quietly, with a raised eyebrow. Tormund continued shovelling food into his gob, bloody oblivious. See at least he had some table manners. But then she seemed to relent, and Clegane's heart began to beat properly again.

“I don't think we should be open to the point of touching in public,” Brienne said carefully, clearly troubled by something she didn't define, and took a drink of her water. “But having said that, our conversation is our own, and I don't care about gossip. It's followed me around for as long as I can remember.”

“Fuck gossip,” Clegane said spiritedly.

“Fuck gossip,” replied Tormund with a grin and a forkful of potatoes.

Brienne chewed and swallowed, then smiled uncertainly. “Fuck gossip,” she said, and it was so strange to hear the swearword coming from her, Clegane laughed.

“Well, now that's out, I was going to say next that we should all take a bath. I'll take Tormund here to the men's public baths. Then we'll meet up again at your room?”

Brienne's look of uncertainty deepened, but then she nodded once, quickly, before going right back to demolishing her chicken without looking at either of them.

“There's a war coming our way. Our fun won't last long. Why on earth are we wasting our time bathing?” Tormund bemoaned. Clegane half stood up to reach over the table and grabbed a handful of the furs he wore, pulling him forward to hiss in his ear.

“Because it's your turn next. And since I'll be showing her how to touch my dick, by teaching her how to touch yours, you'll need to be clean. Because I won't be letting her touch you unless you're clean, and I certainly fucking won't.” He let go and took a drink of his ale.

Tormund dropped his third chicken leg onto his plate, and it made a dull thud. Clegane decided to get to the bottom of his tankard of ale before giving the wildling his attention again.

“What?” he said then at last, to the stunned look on Tormund's face. “We are doing this, aren't we? We are like, as in the three of us, together?”

Oh, fuck it all. Had he missed something? Was he not included, after all? Because that would mean fighting and killing a nice new useful friend, on the eve of war. On a full stomach. That'd definitely result in indigestion. He cast a helpless dark look at Brienne, who was too busy eating to even bother listening to their banter back and forth across the table. She was worth it.

“Oh, don't worry. We are,” Tormund commented helpfully. “Just surprised at you, a southerner, so... open, like.”

“Then shut up, eat your food, and bathe when I tell you to, wildling.”

“Yes, Ser Clegane,” Tormund teased. Clegane banged his fist down on the table hard, making the plates jump up about six inches. And now everyone paid attention.

“Do you want to live, you cunt? Never, ever, call me that!”

There was silence, and to his credit Tormund was too self-assured and self possessed to make light of the outburst or escalate the situation in any way. Brienne was staring at him, and he saw her eyes narrow as her quick mind made the connection between Tormund's innocent jest, and her own initial sparing of his life, when she'd mistakenly called him a knight too. Tormund, meanwhile, gazed thoughtfully at Clegane. “I think we all need to get to know each other better. In more ways than one.”

Well, that was true.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, and then they did go to bathe. Afterwards, they dressed and made their way to Brienne's door. She'd beaten them back, and opened up to their knocking. She opened her mouth as if she would speak, as if she'd prepared some careful speech beforehand, then seemed to give up and instead let them in.

Clegane frowned. “So, second thoughts,” he surmised out loud. “Better air them out, then.”

Brienne looked from him to Tormund, then back again. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, but again nothing came out. Finally, she folded her arms. “I can handle you. You're not going to cause any trouble for me.” She paused. “Are you?”

Clegane uttered a short little laugh. All the time he'd spent accidentally protecting the Stark children hadn't done it, but one look from her and the hound could indeed become a wolf. It amused him, as did the glaring. She was so focused on him she didn't notice Tormund sidling up to her. Clegane decided not to mention it, so as to give him some kind of sporting chance. The wildling did love her, after all.

It must be a rare thing; to take Brienne of Tarth by surprise, and he watched it happen, curious, watched her startle and half turn around, unfolding her arms too late, her forearms trapped, useless as Tormund pulled her close.

His lips were on hers before she could speak, and Clegane did look away then. He didn't really want to, but something in him refused to allow him to intrude on the moment between them. He expected violence to erupt, was prepared for it. So it was a full two minutes later when he dared to sneak a look, only to find they were still at it. He looked away again and cleared his throat. He made sure to notice that Brienne was actually a little bit taller than Tormund. Somehow that made him happier.

“You see,” Brienne said, a little awkwardly, at last. “I rearranged some of my furniture.” Clegane paid attention, and saw the two were maintaining a more respectful distance. He looked where she gestured with her hands, and saw a rudimentary seating area. There were only two chairs, but she'd draped a fur over a largish chest of some kind, and there was a small table. “I thought we could talk.”

Now she wanted to talk? Where the hell was his kiss?! Clegane heaved a sigh and grumbled under his breath, but sat down on the box or whatever it was, to be certain that she would be left with a chair. Tormund had said they needed to get to know each other better. Perhaps she was right to do it, but this seemed like playing for time, and it was time they didn't really have.

“So,” Tormund began, staring at him. “What do you have against knights?” Clegane saw Brienne sit up a bit straighter, prouder, and he tried not to roll his eyes. He couldn't be sure he was entirely successful. Also, he wasn't going to answer the question. Not in this life. He half hummed, half growled in an impressive grinding of his vocal cords. And that was the end of that.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Brienne said: “How did you come to be south of the wall?”

Clegane looked at Tormund, who suddenly had a face like thunder, which for him was uncharacteristically deep. He rumbled an ominous response, which appeared to be all he had to say on the matter.

Two or three minutes passed.

“You're a good, strong lass,” Tormund said. “How come you never –”

“Are we all fit?” Clegane broke in, having seen where the question was headed. The likely outcome wasn't something he wanted to see. The other two nodded. “Good. Want to practice killing dead people until you're too fucking exhausted to move?” They both broke into relieved smiles and got up quickly. So much for getting to know each other.

The two of them went around gathering armour and discussing weaponry, but Clegane was having his own thoughts about something in particular. It hurt already just considering it, but fuck it. Something had to give here, and give for good, because it was quite clear to him that she was backing out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of fairly pleasant hours had passed. Well, that is if you were apt to be a violent maniac with a taste for delivering death. They'd sparred between each other, as a group and separately. Hell, even Tormund had won a couple. It was fun, as far as fun went. Time to take it up a notch or ten, and by chance it just so happened that Tormund was sitting this one out, leaving him to face Brienne alone with swords.

“Come on, Lady. Let's have at it, then.” Something in him couldn't help relishing what was to come, even though there was at least half a chance of it ending in his demise.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” she demanded as they circled each other. He'd been doing it for the last hour or so.

Clegane shrugged. “I like it. Besides, you are a Lady.” At this point, he was fairly certain she believed he was making fun of her. That would make it easier for her to participate.

The first clash of swords was brutal, and he saw the shock in her eyes when she realised he was in earnest. How she immediately altered her defensive strategy to hold him off. That was the warning. The look on her face was hurt confusion tinged with disbelief, and if he was honest that almost made him stop right there – but he couldn't.

They'd gone back onto the hill for this, so as to spar in private, and he heard Tormund raise a protest from the sidelines, recognising the changed nature of their passes.

“Now, wait a minute, come on you two,” he said seriously, obviously tired of their endless brinkmanship. Clegane didn't even look in his direction.

“Keep out of this, wildling,” he said, staring at Brienne.

“Don't interrupt,” she said. “I've beaten him before. I can do it again if needs be,” she said, and smiled grimly, “if that's what he wants.”

Oh, I'm sure you can, Lady, he thought.

He'd been dangerous for as long as he could remember, but so was she. He was a killer, so was she. He was an expert with the blade, and so was she. And it wasn't until they were well into it that he saw her as she'd been that first time, half mad and screaming into his face as she beat him. That wildness he'd seen Tormund bring out of her – it was here too, in battle. That lust. He hadn't recognised it before.

The first time she had him down on the cold ground, sword to his throat, she backed away – victorious. He wasn't hurt, so he simply got back up. He found his sword, picked it up, and stood ready.

“We're not done,” he told her, and she shook her head, dismissive.

“What do you want me to do? Kill you?”

Clegane grinned, and attacked.

The hell of it was that he tried. He tried so hard that by the end of it he was pretty sure she'd broken one of his ribs with the hilt of her sword when they'd been fighting at close quarters. She'd punched him in the face so many times he felt dizzy. He supposed the tactic had worked quite well for her before, though at least this time she didn't have a rock in her hand. Still, he was bleeding now, kind of beaten up. The point of her sword on his throat again, and he didn't even open his eyes as she backed away.

Just then he wasn't sure that he could do it. To ask again. But she couldn't kill him. She'd tried it twice before for real, and failed. He kept that in mind as he commanded his body to get back up, sought out his weapon and faced the impossible thing again.

“Stop,” she commanded, stunned.

Clegane sniffed, and shook his head to free his hair of the snow. It left with droplets of blood and sweat, and now at last that wonderful adrenaline kicked in. He loved it all. The cold, crisp winter air; the wild beating of his heart, the heat of his blood. He felt invincible. “No,” he said, and raised his sword.

To be honest, he really didn't last as long this time. Long enough. Long enough for her to lay a good few hits on him. The only difference now from that first fight was that he only fought her with his sword. He didn't succumb to laying into her with his fists as he had when they were strangers, or to kicking her when she was down (which wasn't often). So it was she barely had a mark on her after all that they had done. It was like fighting an angel.

Inevitably, he lost again, and he felt the familiar steel against his throat, as cold as the snow. The warmth of her hand a sword's length away. “Stay down,” came the advice. She was perfect, and he'd almost forgotten what all of this was for. Except... she couldn't win. It couldn't be over. Not yet. And somehow, he managed to make his limbs move.

She wasn't even facing him now. Her back was turned and she was wearing her armour, but he could have sworn he saw her freeze when she heard him get to his feet. He spat red onto the snow. His breath wheezed dangerously in and out of his lungs. He caught a glimpse of Tormund, looking on in something akin to horror. He supposed that at this point, he looked like a dead man that had got back up to fight.

“Face me,” he said. She turned, shaking her head.

“No. I won't do it. Not again,” she said.

“I'll make you,” he growled, and he did make her fight, but her heart really wasn't in it this time. So at last he was victorious, and it was her who ended up on her back, with the point of his sword pressed to her throat. But it had never really been about that.

He moved the blade once he saw the surrender in her eyes, because he couldn't stand to take his own weight for much longer, and an accident now would be... tragic, and also incredibly stupid on his part. He collapsed to his hands and knees, his sword forgotten in the snow, looming over her prone form as she stared up at him.

“Why? Is it so important to you to win?” she demanded, angry.

Clegane could hardly think, but he tried to put it into words. “Lady Brienne. It occurred to me that if a man wanted to win your favour with a duel, stands to reason the person he'd have to duel with would be Brienne of fucking Tarth.”

He drew in a deep rattling breath, then coughed it out into the snow beside them. “So I did it. Again.” His mouth was full of blood again already, and he was fairly sure he'd lost at least one of his teeth, but he smiled anyway. As he relaxed his body down, out of necessity rather than choice, it occurred to him he was laid on top of her, in the snow. Her armour was cold, but she was warm through the chinks of it. It felt like coming home.

“Oh, but that's...” She had the most woebegone expression he'd ever seen on anyone, even Sansa Stark, and she'd shown him some woebegone expressions during her time in King's Landing. “...but you've got it all wrong!” she was saying, struggling beneath his greater weight. “That's not how it works, you great idiot!”

“Don't say that. It's the best I could do,” he said, and shook his head. He immediately wished he hadn't. “It counts, or you're one bloody stubborn bitch!”

She sighed. He felt her hand on his face, and she looked on him with a curious expression. “Does this mean you'll kiss me now?” she wanted to know.

Quite suddenly he was jubilant, and that was when he knew his body had gone through enough for one day, because nothing at all was happening. “Erm... you might have to give me a day or two on that one,” he said in apology, and promptly collapsed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he came around, he was laid in a bed that was so long his feet didn't dangle off the end. Brienne's bed. He blinked his eyes open, lifted his head slightly, and groaned. Everything fucking hurt.

“You're a fool,” Brienne said, from her place by the side of the bed.

Clegane closed his eyes again, letting his head fall back to the pillow with a gentle thump. He breathed deep, and breathed in her scent. This was where she slept. He was relieved to hear the rattling had gone from his lungs. “Anyone ever tell you your bedside manner is shit?”

“What do you know about manners?” she queried coldly.

The bed dipped as she moved to seat herself beside him. He sneaked a look, and moved his hand until it rested comfortably on her hip.

“Oh, well, don't fluster about it,” he said, feeling good despite the residual agony. “Yours are good enough for me.” She laid a cool cloth against his skin, and he wondered how long she'd been tending to him this way, how long he'd been out. Going by the pain, it might have been some hours. Perhaps even a day. It was daylight outside, so perhaps he'd slept the clock around.

“Where's the wildling?”

“Gone to fetch more clean water, and wine.” She held a cup to his lips. “Drink.” He sipped dutifully, and the warmth of the strong mead settled in him pleasantly; the sweetness gave him energy.

“I could have killed you. Idiot.” She didn't sound at all pleased. The cup was returned to the bed table with a sharp little rap.

“You didn't,” he observed, and lifted his head again, just to make sure he still had all his limbs.

“No. I didn't.” Brienne sighed. A short, exasperated sound. “Perhaps you've forgotten, but we are going to need you. You'll need to recover quickly.”

“I'll recover. If you stop nagging me, woman.” Her lips pursed together in distaste at his language, and he smirked, deciding to try his luck. “You could always try kissing me better. That'll help.”

“I...” She was disconcerted now, flustered, and she didn't know what to say. Brienne was many things, but worldly in that way? Not at all. It was strange to see her without that innate confidence she displayed to the world. She seemed so human, and Clegane had a sudden strong urge to protect her – from all kinds of things. Immediately, for the sake of his own safety, he decided never to mention it to her. Maybe, just maybe, she'd appreciate some straight talking though. It was worth a try.

“I'll make it nice and easy for you, Brienne. We can come to an agreement. I won't fuck you. If you agree, I'll kiss you, and touch you so that you can find out what you like.”

She stared at him, and about twenty or so years of repressed sexual energy was shining in her, just below the surface. The merest idea...

“Explore you,” he continued, wanting to draw it out, wanting her to want it as much as he did.

“But I promise not to go all the way,” he reiterated. “You leave this bed with your virtue intact. No harm done.” She'd moved closer to him as he spoke, unconsciously, close enough that he could reach up and brush a thumb over her jawline. “So, how about it?”

“What about Tormund?” she asked, her voice much quieter now, as if she were spellbound. The answer was easy.

“We make him agree to it as well. When he returns.” He continued to caress her face, noting how she began to move into his touch slightly. He wondered if she was aware of doing that too.

“So you won't...” she said, uncertain, “neither of you...”

“No fucking.”

She frowned, and he brushed his fingers over the lines that appeared on her brow, as if he might be able to somehow smooth them away.

“You said he loves me. Tormund.” Two spots of colour appeared on her cheeks, as if she was embarrassed to bring it up. As if it was embarrassing to be wanted. “Do you?”

“I don't know. I want you. When I'm with you, it's as though I've been waiting for you my whole life,” he confessed honestly. “I think it's the same for him. And only you'd know, but it seems to me as if you might've been waiting for us.”

“But, you won't fight each other?” she queried, and Clegane shook his head, a little frustrated at that.

“Is that what you want?” he demanded. “If one of us kills the other would you willingly lay with the victor as if you were a treasure waiting to be taken?” She tried to turn her face away, but he wouldn't let her, his hand on her jaw keeping her attention on him. “I do you the courtesy of assuming you're not like other women. You're not part of the 'spoils of war' are you?”

“No.” She looked like she was ready to kill anyone who might even suggest it. That was good.

“Quite right,” he said. “You deserve better. You don't want to see either of us dead, and we're kind of friends, so why would we fight over you?” He softened his hand again, and she leaned closer in response, close enough that he could sweep his lips over hers between his words, the lightest of kisses. “When we can all share? And later, fight the real enemy together. Stronger.”

“But it's not...” She didn't seem to understand anything. Didn't realise he was seducing her. She'd come to lie beside him on the bed, her arms draped over his shoulders as he turned on his side to face her, one hand roving over her waist. She was still dressed. Hell, he was, come to that, so it wasn't anything, but the look in her eyes was something else. When she fell, she would fall so deep and quickly. “I mean that isn't how it should be,” she argued, despite herself.

“Nothing is as it should be,” Clegane said, thinking of all he had seen. “If you haven't learned that by now, you haven't been paying attention. So what if it isn't? What the fuck difference does it make? No one knows what happens between us, but us.”

Before she could argue any further, he continued: “You're all about your truth, and I can guess what it is.” He could, too. In his experience, men were at their most vicious when they felt insecure, and Brienne was apt to make most men feel that way. Hell, he'd felt that way when she'd left him for dead. He could imagine the kind of shit she'd had to put up with from the rest of them. “Want to hear mine?”

She looked uncertain. “Well, you're going to anyway,” he told her grimly. Perhaps he was in the mood for confessions, but he wanted her to understand him, needed her to. “Some of it, at least. It hasn't escaped my attention that I'm not a Jaime Lannister,” he said dryly, and paused. “Or even a Renly Baratheon.” She blinked at him in surprise. “Oh, I know you well enough now, woman,” he said without rancour. “But here's the thing. I'm not like them.” He could feel his lips twist into a derisive sneer. “I'm not like any of them.”

He turned away from her onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Do you know the one thing that's worse than having someone look at you as if you're the worst thing in the world that could happen to them?”

He glanced sideways, and she had the strangest look on her face. As if she'd simultaneously been found out, insulted, and understood all at once. He supposed she was right, at that. “What?” she asked, sullen now.

He returned to looking at the ceiling again, drew in a breath, and admitted it, to her and himself all at once. “Having them look at you as if you're the worst thing in the world that could happen to them, and they still want it anyway. The worst thing. All that violence and pain they imagine. Want it enough to beg you to hurt them. To ruin them. Like surviving you is something they can brag about afterwards.”

There was silence for a moment. “Sorry,” she said, and her hand sneaked over his chest, warm and forgiving. He caught that hand in his, and even in this he appreciated her. Most women had the hands of children to him, but not her. He caressed her palm with his thumb, marvelling at her. That she should exist, here with him, and he wanted her so much he could barely breathe.

“I've paid attention,” he said. Nothing is as it should be, he thought, because to him she outshone every woman he'd ever seen. “But you? You're different to them all.”

“You won't...?” she asked, and he turned back to her, saw her trying to trust, and it must be difficult, because like him, he suspected she'd never been able to trust anyone.

“No, I won't,” he promised, and saw that new trust grow in her eyes. He couldn't help himself. “But I bloody well want to. That's the difference.”

At last, she smiled – genuinely – and it was as if the sun had come out. He immediately made plans to make her smile again, and soon.

“So what do you say?” he asked, wanting to make sure he had her agreement, voiced out loud. She was quiet for a moment, thinking.

“All right,” she said with a little nod, decisive. “If you promise.”

The ensuing joy was interrupted by the door being flung open, and Tormund standing there with the wine and water like a spare part, frowning. “You're starting without me?” he demanded, put out. Clegane looked at him and laughed, nudging Brienne.

“Now there's a man with two jugs,” he said, and she glanced over at the door, then laughed too. It felt delicious how she turned to face him, her body actually shaking with giggles against his chest and her arms around him while Tormund looked on blankly.

“What are you standing there for?” Clegane asked. “Get over here. We've got this big bed and there's one space left, just big enough for you, as it happens.”

“Yes!” Tormund bounded over, putting the jug of water and wine down on the bedside table.

Brienne ended up in the middle, and she struggled to sit up. “We have a condition,” she said firmly, and it took her a good minute of struggling not to say the word, but she eventually looked to Clegane for back up. Together they explained the 'no fucking' part. To his surprise, the wildling agreed readily.

“Oh, warrior woman,” Tormund said, and laid a hand on his heart. “I promise you. Oh, yes. We have many, many things to do besides.” He looked at her as if she was a feast, and Clegane couldn't help but share the sentiment. “Kissing, stroking, touching, licking, sucking and tasting. Mmm...” The wildling actually licked his lips, and Clegane had the gratifying feeling of Brienne wriggling her body against him in an vain attempt to put some distance between herself and Tormund.

“We will make you feel things you never dreamed of. You will throb, and fly, and moan. I promise not to do that one thing. Not even if you ask. Not if you ask twice. But if you ask three times,” he said softly. “Well, then I promise, I will satisfy you.”

“I won't ask,” Brienne said, her voice colder than the northern side of the wall. Tormund only laughed.

“We shall see, my wild beauty,” he said, knowing. “We shall see.”

To be continued...

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you are having fun. Again, sorry for the extra exposition, but it was needed for the character's continued participation. If Brienne raises any more objections, I'll get one of them to silence her... somehow. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. Review replies can be found here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/61848-pippychicks-review-replies-tv/
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We're All Going to Die