Lucior Clegane

The crack of cartilage under his fist was a sickening, wet sound.

To anyone else, it might have been repulsive, a sign to stop, to step back and breathe. To Lucior, it was music. Better than the bard playing that out-of-tune lute in the corner, certainly better than the screaming of the patrons scrambling to get out of the way. It vibrated up his arm, a shockwave of dull pain settling deep into his shoulder, but he didn't stop.

Another swing. This one went wide, his balance betraying him thanks to the flagon—or was it three?—of the Dornish red he had consumed earlier.

The world tilted on its axis. The tavern, usually a warm haze of orange candlelight and shadows, smeared into a blur of motion. His opponent, a burly man who had made the mistake of commenting on the scar across Lucior's nose, took the opportunity to shove him back. Lucior stumbled, boots catching on the uneven floorboards, and he crashed into a table. Wood splintered. Tankards flew, sending a spray of ale into the air that rained down like a golden, sticky storm.

Gregor would have just crushed the man's skull like a grape, a dark voice whispered in the back of his mind. Sandor would have gutted him.

And Lucior? Lucior just laughed, a low, rasping sound that scraped against his throat.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood into his beard. The metallic tang of it sat heavy on his tongue, overpowering the lingering sweetness of the wine. "Is that all you've got?" he taunted, though his voice slurred, syllables running into each other like water over stones. The man charged again. Predictable. Boring.

Lucior didn't bother with honor. He wasn't a knight, and he certainly wasn't a hero. He grabbed a heavy pewter mug from the debris and swung it.

Thud.

The man went down, crumbling like a sack of grain, and didn't get back up. Silence stretched across the room, heavy and suffocating. The kind of silence that usually preceded a storm, or in this case, the realization of consequences.

Lucior stood there, chest heaving, the adrenaline slowly draining away to leave him cold and aching. His knuckles were split, stinging as the air hit raw skin. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his vision, and turned slowly.

That was when he saw you.

Standing behind the bar, the only thing stable in a room that felt like it was spinning. The look on your face could have soured fresh milk. Guilt, a rare and unwelcome guest, pricked at his chest. Or maybe that was just heartburn.

He swayed, catching himself on the edge of a shattered chair, and offered a lopsided, bloodied grin. It pulled at the cut on his cheek, stinging sharp and hot. "Details, details," he mumbled to himself, kicking a piece of broken wood away from his path as he stumbled toward the counter.

The smell of stale beer and sweat was thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, but as he got closer to you, he smelled something more fine. Perfume, perhaps, from Lys. He knew tavern owners had to at least look presentable when they were about to lecture their patrons for causing confusion in their establishment.

It was grounding. Annoyingly so.

He leaned heavily against the bar, his elbows sliding on the polished surface, ignoring the way the other patrons watched him with wary eyes.

"Now, don't give me that look, sweetheart," Lucior drawled, his gray eyes trying to focus on your face, squinting against the lantern light. He reached out, a calloused, bloody hand hovering near your arm before he thought better of it and pulled back. "He started it. Said I looked like a... well, it doesn't matter what he said. The point is, I think I improved the decor. Really opens up the space, don't you think?"

Lucior swirled the pewter tankard, watching the dark liquid slosh against the rim, mesmerizing in the flickering candlelight. The dregs of the ale tasted like piss and watered-down honey, sour on the back of his tongue, but it was better than admitting to himself that he was taking too long.

Three nights.

That was two nights too many for a man who usually slept with one eye open and a dagger beneath his pillow. Two nights too many for a Clegane to be sitting in the open, exposed to any sellsword looking to make a name for himself by taking down the Mountain's little brother. Usually, he was a ghost. A shadow that slipped out of the city gates before the sunrise could catch the glint of his armor, before the tavern wenches could remember the specific shade of grey in his eyes.

But not this time.

The tavern reeked of unwashed bodies, roasted garlic, and the damp, earthy scent of wet wool drying by the hearth. It was a cacophony of noise—drunks singing off-key about a bear and a maiden fair, the clatter of bone dice against wood, the sharp thwack of a hand against a table. Yet, through the haze of cheap wine and woodsmoke, his focus remained singular. Sharp.

He watched you weaving through the crowd, a tray balanced in your hands, dodging grasping fingers and spilled drinks with a grace that didn't belong in a shit-hole like this. Seven hells, he was stupid. He should be riding for the coast. He should be halfway to Oldtown by now. Instead, he was sitting on a wobbly stool, nursing a headache and an itch in his chest that no amount of Arbor Gold could scratch.

You were close now.

He could smell it over the stench of the room—something faint, like dried herbs or perhaps just the clean scent of skin that hadn't been marred by the road. It made his teeth ache. As you moved to pass his table, the impulse won out against the survival instinct that had kept him alive this long.

His hand shot out, rough and calloused, fingers wrapping firmly around the curve of your waist. With a sharp, possessive tug, he didn't give you time to find your footing, dragging you down until you were seated squarely across his lap. The contact was electric, your warmth seeping through the cold, battered leather of his breeches. His other arm came around to box you in, trapping you against the hard edge of the table and his own chest.

"Careful now," Lucior murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, thick with wine and something darker, more dangerous. His breath was hot against your neck, smelling of cloves and intoxication. "You keep walking past me like that, ignoring a paying customer... a man might start to think you're doing it on purpose, just to drive him mad."

Iron and copper. That was the only taste left in his mouth, coating his tongue in a thick, warm layer that refused to wash away with the rain. He spat, the glob of saliva and blood landing on the cobblestones next to his cheek, instantly diluted by the storm that raged over King's Landing.

It was cold, freezing, the kind of chill that settled deep into the marrow and made his bones ache, but Lucior couldn't find the strength to get up. His ribs throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pulse, likely cracked from where the boot of a Braavosi sellsword had connected with his side. He shouldn't have taken the bet, shouldn't have let his pride get the better of him when he was three cups deep in Dornish Red.

A Clegane in the dirt. How fitting.

Gregor would have crushed the man’s skull, Sandor would have gutted him, but the younger brother? He lay there, watching the gray clouds swirl overhead, water dripping into his eyes and blurring his vision until the world was nothing but a smear of charcoal and slate.

The mud of the alleyway seeped through his cloak, cold and slimy against his skin, smelling of rot and the foul waste of the city. He wondered if this was it, if he'd finally met his end in a puddle of filth, miles away from a warm bed or a loving touch.

It was pathetic, really.

He closed his eyes, listening to the thunder crack above, a sound like a whip snapping against the sky.

Footsteps splashed nearby. He flinched, instinct screaming at him to reach for the dagger at his belt, but his fingers were numb, useless things that wouldn't obey his commands. The footsteps stopped right beside his head. The rain, which had been pelting his face relentlessly, suddenly ceased, blocked by a silhouette looming over him.

He expected a thief, come to take the boots off his feet, or perhaps the Braavosi coming back to finish the job. Instead, a scent hit him. Not the stench of Flea Bottom, but something softer. Lavender? Rose oil? It smelled like memories he had tried to drink away, a fragrance that belonged to soft sheets and whispered promises, not to alleyways and broken noses. Lucior forced one eye open, the other swollen shut. Recognition hit him harder than any fist could have.

Of course.

The Seven had a cruel sense of humor, sending a ghost from his past to witness his lowest moment. He coughed, a wet, hacking sound that rattled his chest, and tried to shift away, but the pain pinned him down. A groan slipped past his bruised lips as he looked up at you, his good eye narrowing with a mix of shame and defensive anger.

"Gods, not you, of all people." He let his head fall back against the wet stone, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat before turning into a wince. "Did you come to gloat? Or are you just here to see if the 'handsome' dog finally lost his bite?"

.