![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Title: Look on the bright side
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters/Pairings: Tyrion, Sandor Clegane, Joffrey
Word Count: 500 words
Rating: M
Notes: Written for Challenge 33 - Positive at anythingdrabble
Summary: The Hound is never happy, as Tyrion discovers.
Joffrey came bouncing up to the table where Tyrion was sat, goblet in hand. 'Uncle Jaime has agreed to let me practice sparring with him,' he said. 'Will you come and watch us?'
Tyrion eased back on the hard wooden bench. His arse was frightfully sore from endless days of riding. Who knew Winterfell was so fucking far away? No wonder the King never came up here.
'I fear I shall have to pass,' he said to his nephew. 'The King's Road has left me weary.'
The glint in Joffrey's eye suggested that he didn't particularly care either way, too excited. He looked only across to Sandor Clegane. 'Stay Dog,' he commanded, taking off without further ado.
And like any good dog, the Hound stayed exactly where he was, stood there in his armour, his helm, fashioned into the head of a vicious dog, nestled in the crook of his elbow.
Tyrion raised his goblet to his lips and watched the man stood there, expressionless. His long greasy hair hung limp across his face, concealing the worst of the hideous scarring and burns that covered one half of his face.
'You are a miserable son of a bitch, Clegane,' he said. 'There's a whole world of wine and whores out there to enjoy and yet you still stand there as if the world has spat on you. Isn't there anything that makes you happy?'
'Killing people makes me happy,' he replied.
'And a fine thing, too given your preternatural ability. Not much killing to be done babysitting the King's heir, though, is there?'
'And you wonder why I'm so fucking miserable.'
'Perhaps we should organize another tournament. Give you something to look forward to.'
'There's no proper killing in tournaments,' he replied gruffly. 'Just happy accidents.' He hoped that maybe one day there might come a tournament in which he would be slated against his brother the Mountain. Given that opportunity, there would be no accidents. He meant to kill him.
'You know,' Tyrion said, swirling the remnants of Dornish Red in his goblet, 'I hear the Meereenese in Essos have fighting pits where men can win glory and gold, making a living of killing people.'
'I don't want to go to some stinking pit in Meereen.'
'Then be happy with your lot. How many sell swords are there in employ of the King? You have neither title nor glory to your name, only fear. And here you are being paid handsomely to guard a child. Most men would claw out an eye for that.'
'So, what's your fucking point?'
Tyrion poured another cup of wine. 'My point is to be more positive.'
'Fine. I'm positive that if you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to hack your little head off so I don't have to listen to you anymore.'
Tyrion chuckled. 'That's the spirit. It's a long way yet to Winterfell, and we've packed a lot of wine to ease the pain. You might still get your chance.'