"You tell me," Sandor gritted out, twisting his neck around to look at the terrible bite mark on his shoulder. It oozed blood and black gore-- the creature's saliva, maybe? A foul thought if ever there was one-- and hurt worse than the gash in his other arm by tenfold. "What the fuck are those things?"

Before the man had time to reply, the smaller monster got to its feet and came at them again, but this time Sandor was armed. Ducking under its first swing, he elbowed it in the face, then drove the point of its own sword up under its chin. It died with a revolting gurgle, and Sandor jerked the sword free and turned to face the giant horned thing. The direwolf was keeping it occupied, but clearly wouldn't be able to kill it; the Starks' entire pack of wolves might have been able to, but it seemed Sansa was the only Stark he was going to be hallucinating today.

He didn't look back as he swung the sword up and went for the ogre with everything he had.