Sandor’s Nightmare

Here Sandor looks totally not like in the previous art.... But.... damn.... this is one of the most creepy things I've read recently... Even creepier than original. (I love remarque that that was Jofflyn's first blood)

Here Sandor looks totally not like in the previous art.... But.... damn.... this is one of the most creepy things I've read recently... Even creepier than original. (I love remarque that that was Jofflyn's first blood)

Here Sandor looks totally not like in the previous art.... But.... damn.... this is one of the most creepy things I've read recently... Even creepier than original. (I love remarque that that was Jofflyn's first blood)

See!!....ridden by a mare = nightmare... you have just conveniently put the mare outside the image

Great expression Q, nice work.

With all the speed he could muster in his state of terror, Sandor made his way down the old stone wall, keeping Brandine's movements in his head. Where would he go? he wondered, preparing to run. Home to Robelyn? He'd never make it. It was two months' journey, and he had no food. Could he get to Uncle Lyonel in the Vale? Maybe—with a bit of luck. Even if he had to live as a wild man in the woods, anything was better than Jofflyn. Anything.

He broke into a sprint as soon as he reached the ground. He ran faster and longer than he ever had, with fear like a whip at his back. He had almost made it into a grove of trees—and he'd believed he could—when he felt someone grab him by the hair and wrench him back, holding him in place.

Slowly, trembling, Sandor lifted his gaze, and looked up into Sansa Clegane's face.

She looked down at him almost as if she were sorry. "Can't have you fly away, little bird."

Sandor thought of Brandine; how she used to slip her foot between each brick, bury her hand in every crack. He remembered it well; he had seen it a thousand times. "Maybe," he said.

"Then you go," said Shear. He pointed. "Out the window. Run like hell. I tell them you are bathing. Go now. Hurry."

Sandor wished he could have done something to thank Shear, but he knew it would be best simply to follow his advice. He opened the window and slipped out, clinging to the sill, his legs dangling precariously beneath him.

A numbness seized him, like the prickling numbness in his dream. A numbness, and then a madness. Once Ser Meera had said it once, a chorus arose, moving up and down and all throughout the Keep. A demons' choir, he thought. He imagined Jofflyn standing there proudly, her bloody braies in her hands.

"No, please," he whimpered; "please, no."

There was no hope for him now. Someone would be in any moment to fetch him. He might be married that very day. When the thought of sharing a bed with Jofflyn crossed his mind, he silently began to cry.

Very quickly, someone was in. It was Shear. When he saw the tears on Sandor's face, he spoke, quickly and quietly. "Can you climb?"

Sandor woke up, gasping, and heard the chirping of birds outside his window. He hugged his pillow, struggling against the tears that threatened to spill over.

For a moment—the briefest moment—he thought he might be able to fall back to sleep. But no sooner had he closed his eyes than a voice cut through the air—the voice of Meera Trant. It came from just a few rooms away, and echoed grandly.

"The Queen has flowered!"