A/N: English isn't my natural language, so, when you find something strange or wrong, please tell me and help me to fix it. Thanks.
She could smell the putrid flesh in the distance. It could be an animal, but the smell looked different, sweeter. Curious, she sneaked through the trees, trying not attract any kind of attention to herself, whether human or animal.
The buzzing of the insects grew stronger with each step, and as she passed the last tree, she found what she had been looking for: leaning on a tree at a crooked angle, a warrior's body was rotting.
She covered the distance with quick steps, hoping to find something of value she could sell with the dwellers in the village. She smiled when saw that the armor he wore, though broken, was of a good quality, and as she reached her hands on the hooks that held it, she felt something warm pulse under the cold touch of the metal.
The pain brought him back to consciousness. It looked like a damn bug was digging a way into his body. With a big effort he managed to open his eyes, and faced a ragged woman, digging with her finger the wound on his leg. Unable to stop her, he simply watched her tucking her finger deeper into his flesh, scraping it with her nail as if she was searching for something. Never in his life he had suffered such agony, not even his face was melted by embers hurt like that. The woman removed her finger, and Sandor felt the wound on his leg throb and bleed again as if it were fresh. His hate reignited his strength and he was almost punching the woman when he saw her puting her finger covered with his blood in her mouth and close the eyes, relishing.
What the hell...?
He had heard about people who tasted human flesh, was she one of those? Think about it made him laugh, and cough and get anger, even in the end his life was a perfect shit.
I'll be the damn dinner.
"I see ..." The woman whispered, her eyes closed.
"What?" How will you cook me? Or will you eat me raw?
"You. What you are. What you was and what you could have been."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
She smiled, showing her ruined teeth.
"People like me are looked for the others to say what's going to happen in the future, just a few people know that we can see what happened in the past. She turned her eyes at his wound and circled the bloody opening with her finger. "Tell me, if you could, what would you have done differently?"
She inserted her finger deep into his flesh one more time.
"You fucking bitch! If I could, I would kill you. I'd take your guts out and make you eat them!"
The woman laughed before licking the blood on her finger.
"Your mouth can tell the lie you want, but your blood doesn't. Tell me, what would you have done differently?"
"What the hell does that matter?" The shit is already done, and I'm going to die anyway.
"Only if I want to". She circled his wound again with her finger. "I can have my answer for your blood ..."
She was about to dig the wound again when Sandor yelled, "I would have killed Gregor!"
The woman twisted her lips in disgust.
"I can feel the hate for your brother in your blood, it's strong, but it's just a pretext, there's something else."
Fuck it. He was about to die, and if he spoke those damned words aloud would guarantee for him a quick death so...
"I would not have taken that damn toy! That shit didn't worth the life of shit I had."
He stared at her as if challenging her to contest his words, but she only smiled in triumph.
"Much better."
Ignoring Sandor's murderous gaze, she looked for her herbs in her clothes, crushed some of them with her hands and slipped them into a skin before push it against his lips.
"What the fuck? I'd rather die for steel than for poison." He growled through his clenched teeth.
"It's not poison. It's wine."
Sandor Clegane laughed with pleasure, thinking that, at least, for this the damn woman was serving. He opened his mouth and took a large swallow. The taste was strange, but he didn't care, all he wanted was to relieve his thirst and, if possible, get drunk before he died. Gradually he became dizzy, confused, and the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was a rotted teeth grin in front of him.
Sandor woke with agitated. His head was aching and his thoughts were a mess, but his body feel good. He looked down and saw that his wounds were gone. Unbelieving, he passed his hand where the wounds should be, but there was not even scars.
What the fuck ...?
Perplexed he looked around. He was in a large, tidy room, not all consistent to the woman who had found him. Where the hell am I?
Still a little dizzy, Sandor set foot on the floor, walked to a chair, and dressed in the clothes he found there. They fit perfectly. Frowning, he cross the room looking for something he could use as a weapon. He entered an adjoining cubicle and found his sword, not the one he had been wearing, but the one he had bought years before. How?
Sandor evaluated the cable and tested the weight. It was the same sword, no doubt. Intrigued, he examined the blade, and when he saw his reflection in the metal, let the sword fall to the ground.
That face was not his.
Stunned, he brought both hands to his face, and what he felt with his fingers perplexed him: uniform smooth skin with no sign of scars.
Running back to the bedroom, he stood in front of the mirror he had seen before, but which, as usual, had avoided looking as he made his way to the cubicle. What he saw reflected there was the same that he'd seen on the blade and felt with his fingers.
How?
Had that woman done that?
Impossible.
In the chaos that was his mind, he didn't notice the door opening.
"Finally you woke up, I was getting worried about you."
Sandor felt his limbs freeze at listened that voice, even he had never heard that sweet tone in her words, he could recognize it anywhere. Turning as if his joints were made of iron, he stared at the figure who had just entered the room.
She was a little older than he remembered.
And smiling.
But for sure it was the little bird.
Unable to move, Sandor watched her approach him, wrap her arms around his waist and rest her face in his chest.
"I know I've been with you since you arrived in the middle of the night, but it was not enough, I still miss you."
He stood still, too stunned to react. She pulled away, and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, worried, confused.
"Sandor, are you okay? Looks like you've seen a ghost." Her expression changed, going from worried to sad. "Was it so bad there? Don't tell me, I don't want to know." The sound of something breaking made her turn her face to the door. "I need to go." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips before going, her skirts rustling.
Hearing the door closing, he finally found his voice.
"What the fuck was that?"
I'm fucking dead. It was the only explanation.
The damn woman killed me. And here is the hell. He thought before remembered the soft arms of the little bird around his waist. Or the heaven. A bitter laugh escaped from his lips. I never did anything that would take me to paradise. In fact, he did not even believe in heaven or hell.
A hallucination. This was a more likely choice. That was no more than a dream of a dying body and a twisted mind.
A fucking realistic hallucination …
For several minutes he stared at the door, not knowing what to do next. It had not happened for years, and the lack of perspective angered him. With hard steps he went to the balcony and took a good look at the landscape around him. He had no idea where he was.
Restless, he finished dressing and went out looking for the little bird, the only thing familiar in that strange dream. With his hand on the doorknob, he hesitated for a few seconds, what the hell am I doing? Running behind a girl who is not even real. The real one could not even look at me, imagine hug me ...
The fresh memory of the little bird's arms wrapping around him made the hairs on the back of Sandor's neck rise.
Fuck that! He opened the door and took the first step.
It was a hell of a day.
Like the good dog he was, he followed every step of the little bird trying to find some meaning in that invented world, but, apparently, there was none. They were in Penthos, a place where he had never been and would not even want to be. And, though the little bird called him by his name when they were alone, the others referred to him as "Marvin" or "Mr. Greystorm," and to her like Susan, Mrs. Susan Greystorm - hearing that had made his head spin more than a dog running after its tail. But the worst thing was to feel like he was not the same, but rather a mismatch between what he was and what the others expected him to be, which made him spend all day feeling like a stranger inside his own body.
"Are you feeling good?" The sweet voice of the little bird took him out of his reverie. "You spent the day so quiet. Is there something wrong?"
Concern. The little bird was concerned about him, not about what he could do against her.
This is new. No one had ever cared for him before, not that he remembered, at least.
Not knowing what to answer, he just shook his head. With a tender smile, she came over and sat on his lap, wrapping his neck.
"You know you can trust me, don't you?" She asked, stroking the back of his neck.
"Yeah."
Smiling, she kissed him. A soft, slow, tempting lip brush. Sandor felt his body warm, never before he had been kissed like that, a mixture of desire with something he could only imagine to be affection.
Lost in the moment and in the lust, he began to walk down her back with his hands; feel the soft skin of the little bird beneath his fingers and inhale her sweet warm scent, made him thirsty for more, making him narrow her against him and deepen the kiss. The little bird squirmed in his lap, sitting facing him with one knee on either side of his thighs. She had a bright red mouth, which contrasted sharply with her blue eyes that were clouded by desire. The vision was almost too much for him to bear.
Greedy, he kissed her again, holding her by her butt, pulling her to him. Her hands tightened on his hair, her nails scratching the back of his neck before she ran her fingers down on his arms and bit his neck. Damn, that's good. He was already completely absorbed in the little bird's charms as she started untie the laces of his trousers with a skill that only came from years of practice, and, without knowing why, it made him feel presumptuous. Unceremoniously she took him in her hand and slid him into her entrance before slowly descending on him.
She sighed.
He moaned.
Never before had his cock buried in a woman had been so good. He was dizzy, inebriated by the little bird. And when she started to move, riding him with her head thrown back in complete abandon, he believed he would not last for a minute. Mesmerized, he watched her seek for her own pleasure, with slow, deep movements at the beginning and a confusion of trembling legs and moans not like a lady at the end. Fascinated by what he saw, Sandor hugged her tightly and kissed her neck, clawing it with his teeth, as he seeked for his own pleasure. He heard her laugh in contentment before catching his lips for another passionate kiss. The total commitment of the little birdie made him lose himself, consumed for a pleasure he had never felt. Entranced and strengthless, he stood motionless, the little bird wrapped by his arms, feeling her breath mixing with his own.
"You should go to bed." He spoke as she snuggled into his lap, resting her head against his chest and caressing his belly with her fingertips.
"I'm fine here. Not to mention I don't trust my legs right now." There was a touch of laughter in her voice.
With the left corner of his lips curving upward, he pressed her into his arms, giving her what she wanted.
The pain came before the awakening.
Sandor felt as if half a hundred swords were crossing his leg at the same time and his head seemed to burst with every heartbeat. With difficulty, he opened his eyes. The large, tidy room he shared with the little bird had given way to a decrepit one-room cabin. And in one of the corners, next to the single window, was the old witch stirring in a pan.
"Finally you woke up, for a moment I was afraid you would not. Was the dream good?" She asked, offering him a bowl with a bad looking broth with a worse smell.
Annoyed, he just ignored her.
"By the murmurs you did, I thought you liked what you saw." The old woman shrugged. "Never mind, now drink it." She pushed the bowl toward him again.
"It smells like shit."
"It relieves the pain."
Disgusted, he took a sip. The taste was even worse than the smell.
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because I want your help too."
"And how the hell am I going to help you in my situation?"
"You will not, that's why I'm taking care of your wounds. I need you whole, strong."
"For what?"
"To take me home."
"And where is this?"
"At the right time you'll know."
He took a good sip of the repulsive broth with she stared at him for an answer. He would have shrugged if he could.
"I've done worse."
The old woman seemed to like his words.
Sandor spent the day watching the woman. If it had not been for the hallucination she had provoked him, he would have thought she was just an ordinary old woman. How many more had she cheated over the years? Crazed? Killed?
He didn't think it really mattered as long as he did not enter any of these lists, of course.
"I'll put you to sleep, you heal yourself better when you are sleeping." The old woman spoke with a twisted nose as she examined his wounds three days after he had awakened in his little hut.
"How the hell do you know that?"
She smiled. He was already getting used to that rotten-tooth smile, no matter how grotesque it was.
"You slept for four days after I found you."
Sandor's eyes widened. The old woman laughed and went to look for something in her jars.
Sandor woke up as if he had slept for only a few minutes, but his dry mouth like the desert of Dorne told him that it wasn't the case.
"How long?"
"Two days."
The old woman handed him a cup, Sandor raised an eyebrow as he sniffed, apparently he and the strange woman had the same taste for wine.
He took a good swallow, content as he felt the sour wine trickle down his throat.
"I didn't see anything this time." He commented after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You didn't ask me to see anything."
"I didn't fucking ask for anything last lime, and I still had a damn hallucination."
"It wasn't a hallucination."
"If it wasn't a fucking hallucination, what then?"
"The answer to your 'what if'?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Hardly anyone wants to know, but everyone wonders what would have happened if they had done something different. 'What if this'? 'What if that'?"
The words fell on Sandor like a torrent of cold water, and as if it were a boy being questioned by a maester, he rummaged his mind trying to remember every small detail of what he had seen.
He still was no knight.
He still hated his brother.
But he had no burns.
And the little bird trusted him to the point of fleeing the Lannisters and Westeros with him.
And at night she sang the sweetest songs in him arms.
All lost because of a fucking piece of wood.
The pain in his hand contained some of his fury. The shards of the clay cup sank deep into his palm, creating little strands of blood. The warm, sticky liquid trickled down his fingers and dripped onto the floor. Sandor watched drop after drop hit the ground.
"Just a few people get happy with what they see. I've seen a man kill his whole family after a vision."
"I should kill you, old witch."
She didn't mind with the threat.
"If you did, you would not be able to have another vision. And you liked what you saw, didn't you?"
Sandor did not answer.
In the following days, Sandor stayed silent, ignoring the old witch as much as their forced coexistence and her cares allowed. He let her examine his wounds, and ate what she put in front of him, but otherwise he treated her like an unwanted ghost, ignoring her words and averting his eyes from her figure.
But to ignore was difficult for Sandor Clegane, whose hate was always reversed in fights and blows of swords. And he hated the woman. He hated her more than anyone else in the world, including Gregor. His brother had marked him and changed him into what he was today, it was Gregor who created the Hound, but it was that damn woman who showed him what he lost because of that, for being who the life made him.
Sandor had lived his life according to the rules imposed by other people, with the sole purpose of surviving long enough to kill Gregor. He had made wrong choices, he knew, and he had an endless list of things he was not proud of, but he still believed that he had done his best with what life had offered him. However, in his darkest days, after having done something cruel even to him, doubt clung to him like scabies to a fleecy dog, and that damn question came up in his thoughts "what if?" Whenever this happened, he became irritated with his own weakness and ended up drowning in wine to forget those words, to the unconsciousness prevented him from formulating any answer, so he could go on with the life he had as it was.
Nevertheless, with a handful of herbs the old witch had shown him everything he had avoided thinking for his all life, things he did not even know he wanted, things he could never have, things that were the answer of only one "and if ". The first one, and apparently the most important.
"Your wound is getting worse, see?" The old witch asked, thrusting a finger into the hole covered in blood and pus, pulling him out of his thoughts and making him thigh throb in pain.
"Damn bitch!"
"Oh, so you can still talk? After all this time I thought you'd forgotten how to do it."
"I still know how to talk, and how to kill, too.
Shrugging, the old woman cleaned her dirty hands on her skirts and poured a cup of wine for him.
"I have to clean the wound. Scrape with a knife. It will be best to do this with you asleep, and you will recover better by sleeping as well." She said as she threw some dried herbs into the cup. "It's going to be the last time I'll give you these herbs, should I put the other ones too?"
Sandor knew what she was talking about, and no matter how the woman called what he had seen, it was all a lie. Something that could have happened in a different life, but not in this one. And Sandor hated lies.
Unfortunately for him, that day of lying had been much better than his whole life (if he closed his eyes righnow he would be able to feel the little bird's hands on his body, her scent, her taste), making his answer hypocritical and ridiculously simple. With a slight nod, he agreed.
Sandor grumbled as he awoke, feeling the cold penetrate his skin and reach the bones even under heavy covers. A little dizzy, he set foot on the floor, a warm, fluffy skin enveloped them. He rubbed his eyes to get rid of the sleep and felt the scars beneath his fingers. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. Sandor hoped to return to the same vision he had previously had, but apparently luck didn't smile twice to a Dog like him.
He looked around, the room was different, bigger, darker, colder. He would have to revive the fire in the fireplace if he would not want his balls to freeze. He got up and felt a twitch cross his leg. Pulling off the trousers he wore, he saw a large scar covering his thigh. Sandor's eyebrow raised in confusion. That was the exact location of his last wound, but the skin looked completely healed, as if he had been wounded years ago.
He looked up at the mirror in the corners of the room. He felt his leg hardened when he walked, which only irritated him even more. Again the image he saw reflected from himself was not the one he remembered. The scar on his face remained the same, but his ear was gone. He had scars he didn't remember in his chest and arms, and silvery strands mingled with blacks in his hair and beard. He looked years older than he was.
Even more confused than before, he covered himself with a heavy cloak hung in a hook next to the mirror and headed for the window. He almost tore off the dark fabric that covered it in his rush to see where he was.
The gray sky, the white floor and the wall's castle left no doubt where he was, and the simple recognition made him stumble backwards.
"What the hell am I doing in Winterfell?"
He heard the door open and turned in time to see a small blur running toward him and clinging to his leg.
"I tried to hold him, but he said that you had promised to take him to ride as soon as the sun rose."
Again the little bird, but just like him, she looked older, and if possible even more beautiful.
"And so you did, didn't you?"
For a moment the sight of the little bird had made Sandor forget the child clinging to his leg. He was a boy about four, with dark hair and gray eyes. Sandor felt his mouth dry.
"No matter what the promise was, I guarantee your father would like to be properly clothed at the time to keeping it." She approached them and outstretched a gloved hand to the little boy. "Come on Sam, let's have some cookies while your dad finishes getting dressed."
The little boy alternated glances between the two, assessing his choice. Finally, he uncrossed one of his arms from Sandor's leg and placed his little gloved hand on Sansa's hand, who smiled as he wrapped his fingers around hers.
"We'll wait in the solar." She kissed him on the cheek and walked away with the boy, the covers of both dragging across the stone floor.
Sandor stared at the door, his thoughts and feelings a complete mess. This vision seemed more real than another did, whether because of the scars or because they were in the north, he could not explain, but he could feel.
Shaking his head, he got rid of such thoughts, would have time for them later, he could roast them for the rest of his life if he wanted to, but he would have only a few hours to enjoy that sight. In a hurry, he put on the clothes he found around the room, wondering how he would spend the day with the little bird, how he would spend the day with his son.
I have a son. We have a son.
The thought hit him even harder now. Have kids had never passed on his mind, he never thought he would have one. And I have no one, not really. Ignoring this last thought, he finished dressing and headed for the solar.
Sandor dropped dowon in the chair. He felt exhausted and his leg was hurting like hell. He massaged his thigh trying to ease the pain as he analyze his day.
The boy had rushed over to him as Sandor crossed the door's solar, holded Sandor's tiny hand finger (since the boy could not hold his entire hand) and pulled Sandor back toward the door, eager for the promised ride. The little bird had scolded the boy, saying that he should wait for his father to feed, and that if he did not behave he would not see horses for a long time. The boy sat and kept silent while Sandor ate, his short legs, unable to touch the ground, swinging frantically.
The corner of Sandor's lips curved as he remembered the little boy laughing with contentment as they ran under the snow, the icy wind crashing on their faces, the snowflakes crowding in their hair, the admiration engraved on his wonder as he saw a deer in the woods. The boy had fallen asleep nearby him at the end of the day, both in front of the fireplace, while the little bird told them a story.
Little bird…
He had not spent much time with her, but she seemed to be everywhere, looking at him sideways or openly, offering him a discreet smile or kissing his cheek.
She was there now. Feeding the flames of the fireplace and warming your hands. He followed her with his eyes as she moved silently through the room, in a quiet rhythm that only those who are not afraid seem to show. She took off the heavy cloak and hung it on the hook next to the mirror. She walked over to the bed and, with her back to him, began to undress her thick woolen dress. The scene was hypnotic.
Sandor watched her soft movements as she untied the laces, loosening the dress from her body, revealing the soft skin at the nape of her neck. He watched she slide down her sleeves, exposing her delicate arms, and let the dress fall to the floor (the combination covered untill her knees, but he caught a glimpse of her thighs as she climbed onto the bed and nestled between the soft skins).
"Is cold here. Can you come here and warm me up?"
She did not have to call twice. Quickly he got rid off his clothes (he considered keeping the woolen trousers he woke up with, but he discarded them too) and slipped under the skins with the little bird. He hesitated to touch her for a moment in fear that she would evaporate under his fingers; she looked so real, but he knew the truth. She faced him, her eyebrow raised in a mute questioning; he rested his hand on her arm. The skin was cold at his touch. He stroked her, tracing her arm as many times as necessary to warm it. She reached his lips in a soft kiss. But Sandor did not want softness, he did not have time for it. Without ceremony, he deepened the kiss, taking all he could and asking for more. He moved his hand from the little bird's arm to her leg, brushing his fingers against the back of her knee before moving to the soft skin of her thigh. He pulled her to him, and his cock throbbed against her butt. Lost in desire, he laid her on her back, but the gentle touch of the little bird in his hair made him restrain his impulses. Feeling the blood rushing through his veins, he laid his hand on her neck, caressing the delicate curve of her chin and tracing the lines of her face with his fingers. He kissed her slowly, but intensely until she parted her lips from his for air. With his gaze locked on the bright blue eyes of the little bird, he slided his hand down to the bar of her combination, lifting its slowly, rubbing his hand on her thigh at the same time, caressing the curve of her belly... Sandor interrupted his expedition in shock, unable to move his hand. She was pregnant.
Just a few times in his life Sandor had felt like in that moment: completely lost, without knowing what to say or how to act, or even if he should do one of both.
"What happened, sweet?" Sansa asked as she tugged at his hair, pulling them away from the burned side of his face, the gesture making him even more surprised than he already was. Clearing his throat, he forced himself to formulate an answer.
"Nothing, I just thought…"
"It's too soon." She interrupted him, putting her hand over his that remained in her belly.
"Soon?"
"To feel the baby." He nodded stiffly without saying anything. A little wrinkle formed between her eyes. "You acted a little strange all day long, is there something bothering you?" The worry took over the beautiful features of Sansa's face.
"Nothing. It's all right."
A wicked smile curved her lips.
"Well, I know how to make things even better..."
Sansa had slept for hours, her head resting on his chest and her leg curled between his. He admired her in the light of the dying fire as he ran his fingers through her hair. So real…
And knowing that it wasn't keeping him awake. Sandor wanted more of that sight, to live it for more than a day, and if sleep meant to lose it, then he would not sleep. He was a soldier, a survivor of several battles, he could stay awake for days if he wanted to, and he never wanted it more than now. But staying awake when his life depended on it was easier than restraining himself from sleeping on a soft bed, feeling Sansa's warm body at his side. He sighed, it didn't mattered, he would extend that invented life for as long as he could.
The night turned into day, the castle began to wake, but he remained on the bed until Sansa stirred at his side, rubbing her eyes to ward off sleep and smile before giving him a kiss. He could stay awake for weeks if that was the reward.
For a few days he was able to get out of his sleep, enjoying all he could of the little bird and the boy. He liked the way the boy looked at him, the way he ran and grabbed his leg and the kiss the little boy laid on his burned cheek before go to bed. He wanted to see him older so he could teach him how to handle a sword, to get him to hunt, to do things he never thought he would want. And he found he wanted so many things …
He wanted to be able to see the child his little bird carried, his beautiful little bird. His for sure, at least in that world where everything seemed to be possible, where every night he slept feeling the warmth of her by his side, the scent of her wrapping him... Sandor was liking that life, liking so much that he began to use some herbs that take off the sleep, and even been exhausted, he also felt almost happy.
"The men are waiting for you in the training yard..." Sansa murmured as he hugged her from the back, his hands caressing her body in a way that left no doubt where he wanted to go.
"Fuck them..."
"Sandor!"
"What?"
"You know I do not like you talking like that."
"Why not?"
"Samwell." She stared at him as if he should know that from the beginning.
"He is not here."
"Not now, but he follows you anywhere, and I do not want a four-year-old boy dropping obscenities out there."
And as if he had been summoned, the boy appeared, running toward them and throwing himself into Sansa's skirts.
"Should not you be studying?" She asked while stroked the boy's hair.
"The maester said he was not feeling well and told me to leave." He smiled as if he had just eaten a candy.
"I can see how upset you are. Why do not you follow the training of the guards with your father?"
"Can I?" The boy's eyes sparkled with expectation. He and his mother turned to Sandor for an answer.
"All right..." He exhaled resignedly, time was precious, he would not lose his arguing.
"Sandor." Sansa called him as he headed for the door with the boy holding his finger. He waited while she approached with deliberate slowness, and stand on tiptoe to whisper in his ear: "At night we end our... conversation."
Just the little bird's voice was enough to make the hairs on his neck rise in anticipation. Unable to stop himself, he smiled.
"I want to be closer, Daddy!" The boy protested as Sandor set him at a safe distance from where the guards were.
"If I do this, your mother kills me. Keep an eye on him, Nate." He added to the stables' boy before joining the guards.
"You may, my lord."
It was strange to be called "lord", it mades him feel like an imposter, even stranger in that invented world. But fighting don't, fighting mades him feel more like himself, for better or for worse. Sandor finished adjusting the armor and took out his sword - in a training of guards there was no place for blunt wooden swords.
The boys were good enough, but Sandor was better, more experienced, stronger, more brutal. However, today he was slower - a result of prolonged use of the sleep-avoiding herbs - which left him at the same level as the others. The first fight was easy, the boy was green, more concerned with his own feet than with the point of Sandor's sword; he knocked him down in the third stroke. The other bouts were more balanced, until the seventh, where the opponent besides strong, was intelligent. The boy, whenever he could, attacked Sandor on the side of his lame leg, making him weak, until the boy knocked him down. He clench his teeth as he fell to the ground, that fight was already going too far. Still on the ground, he kept wagging his sword, defending himself and attacking as best as he could, until he heard a scream. The "no!" yelled by Nate made Sandor turn aside in time to see Samwell scurrying toward him - toward dangerously sharp swords. "ENOUGH!" Sandor yelled trying to get up, but his opponent did not seem to hear, or care, as he continued to attack, hitting Sandor's neck making the blood flows.
"No..." Sandor exclaimed as he felt the blood dripping, his hand tight around his neck, not enough to stop its. He started to get dizzy, and felt hands pull off his armor in an attempt to help him.
"Dad..." Samwell's voice seemed distant, but he was just next to him.
"Sam..." He extended his hand to the boy, but someone was taking him away.
"You will survive..." He heard a grunt by his side.
No, I will not. He was feeling the unconscious around him, and as soon as he closed his eyes everything would be over, and would not matter if he opened them again.
Someone was pushing a strange taste thin broth in his mouth, Sandor tried to push the spoon away, but he was too weak to raise his hand.
"Thanks God." A woman exclaimed in relief by his side.
With a big effort, he managed to open his eyes, only to find the old witch's face staring at him with concern.
"No one's ever been in sight so long. I thought you were going to die." She pushed another spoonful of broth toward him. He turned his face and felt the broth run down his neck. "You need to eat." Without waiting for an answer, she caught his chin and thrust a few more warm liquid spoons in his mouth; he did not have the strength to resist.
For some time, Sandor alternated between consciousness and lack of it, feeling someone fed him sometimes, but not having the strength or coherence enough to prevent it. He did not want to eat. He did not want to be healed. All he wanted was to end that life of shit once and for all, because if lived it before was bad, having to go back to it knowing what he could have had was unbearable.
"Swallow it." The witch ordered as she filled his mouth with something doughy. He managed to spit. She filled his mouth again, and this time she covered his nose and his mouth to force him to swallow.
"Keep your damn food." His voice was hoarse from lack of use. "I will not last much longer now."
"You will."
"I'm not going. I don't want."
"Do you not want to live for what you saw?" She seemed confused.
"I'd rather die than live by the memory of an illusion."
The woman laughed, and he looked at her angrily.
"You like that, don't you, you bastard? Playing with people's heads?"
"I give a shit what's going on in your head, it's your strength that I need."
"And why on earth would I do anything to you?"
"Because I brought you back to life."
"I'd rather have died before you found me."
"And lose everything you saw? I doubt that much."
"What I saw is a lie, a fucking illusion ..."
"A vision." The witch interrupted him. "And the last was about your future."
Epilogue
Sandor stayed with the maegi for months, serving as her escort on her return trip to Myr. That was the deal. He had to take her safely to the free city, because only when she was there she would answer the question that had plagued him since he had known what the future held: how could he find the little bird?
When she was settled in a hut, not much better than the one she had in Westeros, grinning with her rotten teeth, she asked him to come up and bit his thumb to taste his blood.
"You already know the answer. You always knew. It was the pretty ginger who told you on the first day of your vision." She spoke after opening her eyes, the smile stained red.
His blood ran faster in his veins. The story.
The little bird had told the boy the story of how a dog saved a wolf from a cage in a castle stood in the clouds. It had made no sense to him at the time, but at that moment it could not be clearer; at the same moment he left for The Eyrie.
"It's going to be a boy." Sandor said as Sansa stroked her bulging belly. His hand was there too, feeling the baby kick as if he wanted to join in the conversation.
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
"If it's a boy, I'd like his name to be Samwell."
Sandor smiled, could not help it, for as much as he heard her voice uttering that name in his thoughts, it was the first time she actually spoke it.
"Samwell is a good name."
Sandor caught the wife's mouth and kissed her passionately. Years had passed since he had had his last vision, but sometimes he feared to open his eyes, fearing that doing this everything would disappear. It was moments like this that showed him that this life was real. That his life was happy.