Author's Note: This is an AU and was written after the TV show. It was also written before I read the novels, so my apologies for any and all possible mis-interpretations of these characters.

Also a tip of the hat to Caroh99 whose lovely take on Sandor's grandfather in her tale 'How Fragile the Heart' inspired much of this tale.

Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM and the prospective writers of the HBO series GOT.

Beta Readers: A huge thank you goes to Weshallflyaway for all her help and for convincing me this might be worth posting after all.

'What has become of the kingsguard that even a dog may pose as one of us?'

Ser Barristan Selmy's voice called out to him above the noise of the old wine sink. Sandor scowled at the old knight's insult. He was tired and in no mood for wordplay; certainly not from a knight who had just been stripped of his pretty ribbons.

The sight of the old knight in the decrepit wine sink was entirely unexpected; Ser Barristan was not a man who visited such establishments. In Ser Selmy's mind, a proper knight never drank himself into a stupor, violated a woman's virtue, or did anything else that could be in violation of the knight's code of chivalry. Had it been anyone else Sandor would have scoffed at them. But Ser Barristan Selmy was not like most other knights. He had an air about him that demanded respect; the sort that was hard earned, not just passed on with the exchange of money, or bloodlines.

'What the fuck do you want?' Sandor growled.

The old knight motioned for him to have a seat, his expression stoic. The Hound glared in silent warning. 'Sit down Clegane, and let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use one,' Barristan said. The elder warrior looked like he could use a drink too, only his cup was filled with water; pious and noble, right to the bitter end.

The Hound complied, entirely aware of the shining gold armour he wore. He could almost feel his grandfather's disappointed gaze watching him; whispering words that continued to haunt him days after learning that Ser Selmy was being stripped of his titles.

You're the worst liar of them all.

Never had he hated the white cloak more than he did in that moment. Had the child king not demanded he wear the Kingsguard uniform in court, Sandor would have had it melted down and shaped into something useful.

A bar wench brought him a large mug of his favourite dornish sour; Sandor finished it in a single swallow. He shifted in his seat under Barristan's watchful stare, the old man spoke not a word, leaving the silence between them weighed with foreboding. The way he could peer into a man's soul reminded Sandor far too much of his late grandfather. Truthfully, there was much about Ser Barristan Selmy that reminded him of the late kennel master.

'What are you doing, Sandor?' Barristan asked, breaking the silence.

'What kind of bloody question is that?' Sandor rasped. Another bar wench deposited a flagon of blood red dornish sour. Pouring himself another cup the Hound took another long drink.

'Why are you letting them do this to you?' Barristan asked with a soft sigh.

'You better start talking some sense old man,' Sandor warned. He had to put up with politics and word games all day; he refused to do it when he was off duty as well.

'You are better than that,' the old knight said, as though his cryptic statement would explain it all. Taking a sip of his water, Barristan continued, 'I remember you as a young boy; when your face was still whole, and you dreamed of becoming a noble knight, just like the ones from your grandfather's tales. You had such potential, even as a young lad you were skilled beyond your years. There was a time when I had hoped to take you on as a squire,' Barristan admitted with a soft sigh. 'Sometimes I wonder if that little boy was ever real; or if I had imagined him. Then when I least expect it, I catch a glimpse of the lad I once knew and am reminded that he is still there, hidden behind the mask of the Hound.'

'Get to the point, or leave me. I don't need you to tell me what a bloody little fool I used to be,' Sandor snapped. The knight always annoyed him with his pious attitude and noble pretences. A part of him wanted to cut down the old man; to silence him and the memories that came with his words but his sword remained sheathed by his side.

'You're a good man Sandor. Far better than most, I dare say; so I ask what you are doing. Why do you allow them to treat you this way? Why have you allowed them to transform you into this—this bitter and broken man?' Barristan pressed on.

'Seven hells, you actually believe that shit? You're as bad as the little—the Stark girl, with your head filled with stupid tales of valour and chivalry—bugger that!' Sandor rasped in disgust as he drained another cup of wine. 'Fuck your knights, and fuck your ideals of chivalry. If I'm a gods damned good man, than my brother is the bloody iron king—'

'And you are a terrible liar!' Barristan interrupted in firm tones. 'Fool the world if you must! But don't try to convince me that you're just another mindless killer when I know even you don't truly believe it!'

'Eat shit old man. I've had about enough of your piss! You expect me to sit here in silence while you insult me? Draw your sword and let us end this properly,' the Hound growled, rising to his feet.

'If that is what you wish,' Barristan said. There was no rage in the old knight's eyes, only sadness as he rose to his feet; reminding Sandor of his grandfather in his last day. The Hound faltered as he drew his weapon. This was not the sort of ending he desired for the old knight. Ser Barristan Selmy was the only man alive that had ever earned Sandor's grudging respect.

'I'm not interrupting anything I hope?' Sandor lowered his weapon upon hearing a deep voice behind them. Ser Selmy released his grip on the hilt of his sword, and faced the man who spoke. The Hound imagined he was a captain of some ship or another; a man who hailed from the summer isles. The moment had passed and he had no intention of remaining there to be insulted any further. Collecting what was his flagon of wine the Hound turned to depart.

Sandor could not ignore the weight of Barristan's hand on his shoulder as he stepped out into the night. Nor could he ignore the twinge of sorrow felt upon hearing the old man's farewell, and the unspoken apology that came with it. Sandor knew the old knight's words would never cease to haunt him.

Ser Barristan Selmy, like his grandfather, always did know how to strike a killing blow.