Written for the fest 2015 in sandorxsansa community on Livejournal. The prompt belongs to redcandle17: Groundhog day, Sandor relives the day of the Blackwater Battle over and over again, book style.

Thank you so much to TopShelfCrazy for beta reading this small story. I will never be able to thank you enough.

One

"Get up, Hound!" the toad with stripes painted on him bellowed from behind the barred door of his chamber. "Stannis won't wait."

"Go bugger yourself with a hot poker, Blount!" Sandor Clegane found his rasping growl before being able to open either of his eyes. His head was pounding. Too much wine.

A flagon of Dornish sour always lay on his bedside table. He grabbed it, removed the cork with his teeth, spat it on the floor and emptied the contents. By the time he was done, he could open both eyes and sit straight on his bed. His head was almost clear.

Armed and ready, he went to the Throne Room. Outside the windows, the world was still dark.

They dressed the boy king in shiny armour and he appeared… concerned. Joff let the Imp give orders, though he normally hated his dwarf uncle as much or more than the Hound did.

So Stannis will be coming today in truth. Sandor's blood ran faster, expecting the joy of the battle. He would fight, kill, die, maybe… Much better than see a girl beaten, close his eyes and get drunk as a dog every time.

He was ordered to hold the King's Gate. The rest of the day was spent waiting. The city bells tolled and wailed; human lambs to be butchered herded to the sept. Commoners rioted in Flea Bottom, and the city remained closed. No one was to go in or out until the battle.

The garrison Sandor commanded was a merry mixture of sellswords and gold cloaks. Men were nervous and eager for the fighting to start. At midday, a bowl of brown was served. The Hound skipped the meal. He never had a taste for broth. Instead, he downed two large flagons of ale which came with the food, wishing it was wine.

He wondered if Joffrey's betrothed went to the sept as well. Or if she was prowling the godswood to pray for Joff's death, until some bigger monster than him found her and took her for his own. The castle was brimming with them, and most had prettier faces than the Hound's. Maybe one of the Kettleblacks… The mere thought enraged him, and he watered it down with more ale.

At sunset, rumours spread like mad. Stannis' fleet was sailing up the Blackwater… The Hound could not see anything from behind the gates. The wait became tense. His men were growing restless. They all needed to kill someone soon, so as not to start hammering at each other.

Finally, some archers crossed the river.

The Hound settled in the familiar routine; form, lead out, attack. He didn't keep count of the men he hewed in two with his greatsword. "Fall back," he shouted when his company became too scattered, and led the men back in, to regroup behind the gates.

"The Imp is lifting his chain," a gold cloak whispered.

The sound of thunder broke the night in two. Green clouds assailed the skies and men could be heard screaming in the distance.

"The Imp released some devilry," a sellsword rejoiced. The Hound sniffed the air and was hesitant. It began to stink like smoke.

The stench of burning increased tenfold by the time the enemy was at the door again.

The second sortie was different. The green clouds were flames and they were coming closer. Tongues of fire danced on the clothing of a man the Hound killed, and he thought he saw gratitude in the wild, white eyes of another of his victims. His resolve was still holding, though he had lost more men this time.

The third time… The sky exploded over his head. The enemy was crossing the river using a mass of burned ships as a bridge. Half of the ships and the people were on fire… His men were falling around him like flies...

A realisation dawned on him. On the next sortie they would all die… Not only die… By the looks of it they would burn…

The notion he'd burn again made him sick in his head. Once was enough. No liege lord could ask him to do this. His guts constricted against his will. Fear overwhelmed him, disarmed him, defeated him. He was six again and he needed to cry. With the last ounce of consciousness, he sounded the retreat. Behind the false safety of the gates, he hid in the shadow of a wall and was unable to calm down his own breathing, ragged and erratic. He gulped for air and it tasted like fire. Thirst became unbearable.

The enemy brought a ram to the door. He should do something, but all he could think was that he gave a rat's arse about it.

The Imp came to order him and his men out again. The Hound slammed his dented helm on the ground.

"No," he said roughly.

One of the steel dog's ears was almost gone. Just like my own, he thought. They should let the enemy in and kill them there.

A talkative sellsword tried to reason the same with the dwarf, but the little man wouldn't hear it. He offered them… a bowl of raspberries?

Sandor shouted for a drink, and instead of wine they gave him water. He spat out the foul liquid. The Imp said he'd lead the sortie…

"You?" the Hound asked incredulously. He should have killed the little gargoyle years ago, when the dwarf amused himself first by marrying a whore and then by sharing her with his guards.

His men now followed the little abomination… Bugger all that… If the gods are good, he will burn, the Hound thought and walked away from the battle, in search of wine.

He stumbled back through the streets of the dying, burning city. Entering a tavern, or two, or more, he'd soon lost count, he took with him as many flagons of wine as he could carry. He drank as he went, disposed of the empty flagons, and took some more; and yet it was not enough. He could still feel the burning on his skin. His eyes widened in nameless fear. They must have been white as those of that man he killed by now, he realised. He thought he entered the castle, but it could have been another inn for all he cared.

The world was spinning.

There were spiral stairs revolving around him and then, there was a door.

The door was not barred and it should have been. He was both glad and angry for it, not knowing why. Inside, he staggered to the window. The shutters gaped open. Out there, the world was a growing tide of flames, galloping at him, threatening to engulf him... He rapidly closed the curtains.

Behind, there was a featherbed, smelling sweet, of roses, and something else. He crawled into it in his armour. He realised he was expecting someone to come to him there, but he couldn't remember who it was. Soon, nothing mattered. This, this was the oblivion. He buried his bleeding face into the sheets. It was the first time he noticed he had a gash on his forehead. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. This was what he wanted. The sweet scent of peace…

He drifted to sleep.

Darkness stirred. A tall shadow barred the door, and spread the bloody curtains. Angry clouds of colourful flames made him further awake; green and yellow, red and orange. The stench and the fear returned. After some sleep, so did his vision and at least one part of his wits, numbed by wine.

The girl whimpered at the sight of all the burning.

"Lady…" she whispered, retreating to the safety of her bed.

I went to the little bird's room, he realised, cold sweat beading under his armour.

I came here to wait for her. Why?

When she was in her bed with him, a panicked thought came to mind; ladies screamed. He would be found as a deserter in the castle. On an instinct, he grabbed her wrist with one hand and clamped her mouth with the other, just not hard enough to make her suffocate.

I knew you'd come. He told her so, and was glad for it, before warning her he'd kill her if she made a sound.

She was very nervous, yet she stayed quiet, saving him the discovery whether he could kill her or not. He believed he could not, but the truth of the matter was far from certain. He took a good swig from the flagon of wine he'd left at her bedside table before he'd fallen asleep.

The dog's place was in the battle, but he left. The buggering dwarf took the lead. Shame spread through his waking being. I am weak. He heard himself prattle about losing everything. And he did… Who would fear him now? Who would ever believe him strong?

She wrenched him away from his self-pity by asking why he came. Her voice was laced with apprehension and worry. Why indeed? He looked at her, always so damn pretty in her fear. It would be so easy to take what he had wanted since the feast after the Hand's Tourney. Wickedly, he complained he never got his song.

She parried his complaint. He was frightening her and he should let her go.

Everything always frightens you. He told her as much and yelled at her to look at him… consumed by the desire she should see he was more than his scars and the reek of blood on his face and his armour… he was a man… he could be a good man to her…

He blurted he could keep her safe. No one would hurt her again, or he'd kill them. He'd not have to drink much more than usual to numb the knowledge; gallant knights beat her and he did nothing. Everything seemed so simple at that moment in his drunken mind. Come with me, he thought, but he'd never said it.

She looked at him with expectation. Quaint interest blossomed shyly under her palpable fear. That part was always the worst with her.

It unsettled him every time... when they met by chance in the castle at night, both seemingly unable to sleep, and when they ended up talking in earnest. He was regularly drunk and mocked her. Once he held his sword at her throat. Yet the conversation always strayed to moments when they had honestly talked to each other. He would fool himself and think she had some genuine consideration for him. It always spurred his desire for her.

On an impulse, he yanked her closer, and stared at her pretty mouth. Women he could have rarely required kissing. But a noble lady like her would like to be kissed in the beginning, wouldn't she?

The wine and his blood talked in unison, suggesting images of the abandon of flesh. He could smell plum wine on her, so unbearably sweet…

Until…

Sansa closed her eyes.

And Sandor was aware of himself again; so much older than her, ugly and bitter. She would never want him as her lover, despite talking to him at times as if he were a man, and not a dog.

Best kill her and be done with it, he tried to reason with himself in his usual way, though the resolve in the matter escaped him, just as all his courage did when faced with the inferno of flames. If you don't, someone else will.

The battle was well and truly lost. He didn't see how it could be swayed in favour of the bastard king. In the chaos that would follow before Stannis in person walked to Maegor's Holdfast, some looting soldier from any of the armies would find Sansa in her room and probably do for her after raping her first.

So he asked her to sing for her little life, the song of Florian and his cunt. He pressed his dagger at her tiny throat, building up a decision to bring her life to the end. It would be a mercy, he tried to convince himself.

Her song was not the one he wanted, nor the stupid one he asked for. It was a weak chant of the faith imploring the Mother's mercy... For men, suffering in war…

The words of it brought him back to the King's Gate, to the pleas of the wounded, who screamed worse than their horses, dying… mercy… He hoped there was mercy for them. He deserved none.

When Sansa was done singing, Sandor saw himself far too clearly in his mind's eye. He was a monster. What kind of man pulled a dagger on a frightened girl, barely flowered, and pondered whether to rape her or kill her, just because she caught him sleeping from drunkenness in her bed?

Very carefully, he took the blade from her throat, never speaking.

Tears sprang forward, unwanted and unbidden, mingling with the blood from the wound on his face. Suddenly, her hand was on his scars, caressing both tears and blood away…

She feels for my pain… Just like after the tourney.

He realised this was why he came to her bed, to forget his fear and his cowardice, and to receive the unjudging comfort of a woman…

"Little bird," he murmured

His badly contained love for her poured out of him in a single rasp.

She would never know, he decided on a whim.

Sansa was barely more than a girl, and yet she gave him what he needed, while he'd never been able to do the same.

Painfully sober, at least in thought, if not yet in body, he stood up to leave.

Before the door, he realised he still had the bloody white cloak they gave him, the symbol of knightly values… He hated the knights, but the Kingsguard white still had some meaning. The cloak used to be Barristan Selmy's. Even the Hound had to admit that Selmy and a few others before him did protect the weak.

Unworthy of what the cloak represented, unworthy of Sansa, he ripped it and left it there. Whoever found her, would be a better man than he was.

He rushed out and hurried down the stairs and empty corridors to his own room. He took his tourney winnings and found his horse. He was out of Maegor's Holdfast before the fools guarding it ever had time to execute Cersei's command and lift the drawbridge. Soon, he was out of the city as well, through the Iron Gate…. Rosby road was quiet; fighting had never reached it. He easily overtook the few wretches who managed to escape the city on foot.

When he was far enough from everything, he left the road, tied his horse to a tree, collapsed under it, and retched. Stranger whinnied, protesting, wanting some treat after a harsh ride.

Shut up, Sandor thought, and fell fast asleep.