Author's Notes: So this is the new day, which sees Sandor increasingly puzzled as the day progresses... This is not covering the whole day as I want to keep things moving without horrible long breaks in posting, but this will certainly start to reveal little things to Sandor he might not have been aware of before...
*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*
A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.
Bloody hells! To hell with these wenches, not able to hold on to a bloody thing!
Thoroughly awaken and irate, he yawned, expecting to feel a dull ache inside his skull and a taste of cat's piss in his mouth. He could still remember well those mornings when he had paid previous night's drunken oblivion with cold sweats and throbbing head - but to his surprise his head was clear and he detected no foul tastes. How in seven hells is this possible? The amount he had drowned after leaving Sansa to her fate was enough to stun a bull, and certainly a man of his size.
He stretched and raised his head gingerly, and noticing no ill effect rose cautiously to his feet, still feeling surprisingly fresh and rested. Had moderation made him more resistant to ill effects of drink, he wondered while getting dressed, convinced that he was sure to be in the minority. Most of the household was undoubtedly still snoring away the aftermath of the feast, at least those who were not expected in duty.
Sandor was one of those who had a free morning, but after finding himself in unexpectedly good condition he decided that he might as well go to the training yards as usual. He fully expected himself to be the only one there, but it didn't matter. Strawmen were always ready to spar, and maybe he could blot out the memory of previous night by hacking a few of them into thousand pieces. The prospect of venting out his frustrations with violence was alluring and he hastened his steps, keen to get there sooner to hit something, anything.
Once outside he had to blink his eyes at the surprising sight; the keep was buzzing as much if not more than before; hordes of people about and none of them looking worse for wear. Even in the training yard the activity was in full swing, men gathered around…seven hells, is that Jaime? The Kingslayer's blond head bobbed in the middle of a rowdy crowd, jesting and laughing.
For some reason the sight of him there, when by all rights he should still be by the side of his newly wedded lady wife, annoyed Sandor at no end. He didn't really care to think about Jaime and Sansa together, but there was nothing he could do about it and they were wedded and bedded. And the man should have had the decency not to abandon his bride the morning after their wedding for this! The little bird deserved better.
Inching closer with sullen determination to say something about it to Jaime, Sandor expected to hear puns about the wedding night, queries of if the groom had been up to it and ribald jokes about how tired he must be - but all the japes he heard were about the night that was still to come. Exhortations for him to save his strength, various ill-advised suggestions about how to make a woman happy, that sort of things. Sandor cocked his head and looked around to see why such sudden interest in the second night when the real deed had already taken place, but smiling faces and winking eyes of the jesters seemed genuine. He frowned - it didn't make any sense.
Catching Jaime's attention for a second he cursed to him, "Bloody Kingslayer, is this the way to treat your bride? Your lady wife is not some poxy whore you can toss aside like a chewed bone when you are done with her, you know. I thought you'd know better."
Jaime looked at him oddly, not the least offended by his words. "My lady? Well, assuming you are talking about my bride, today she indeed shall become my wife. But what are you harping about? The last time I saw her was at the evening meal, and if I remember correctly it was she who left the hall early. I presume that she is getting ready for the big day with her ladies at this moment – and I am sure she would not welcome my presence there even if I wanted to honour her with it."
Sandor stared at him, dumbfounded. What was he harping about? The big day?
Jaime brightened. "As long as you are here, I have a few thoughts about the procession I want to run through with you. I thought that once we leave the sept…" he went on about how he wanted the wedding convoy to be organised, ignoring Sandor's silent incredulity.
After leaving Jaime Sandor walked around the training grounds deep in thought, hardly noticing the buzzing heave of activity all around him. Has Jaime lost his mind? he pondered, trying to fathom why the man had seemingly forgotten all of previous day – the day that was supposed to be one of the biggest in any man's life. Mayhap that was it? Had the shock of it all been too much for him, the man who had never meant to marry at all?
No, that didn't make sense either – nor did it explain the other people, all in high spirit in anticipation of the evening's upcoming festivities.
More for the form's sake than because of any real interest Sandor sparred couple of rounds with the same knight from White Harbour as the day before. Thump of weapon against weapon revitalised him, ingrained memory of years and years of practicing these very same movements taking over and forcing him to clear his mind of all but the task of preventing the man's eager but clumsy attacks. Physicality of it made him feel better although it didn't help him to solve the riddle of morning's experiences, and once again he made a quick work of the knight despite hardly trying.
After leaving the defeated man Sandor wandered around some more, still puzzled about the similarities of the scene in front of him as compared to the previous day, and eventually ended up near the enclosure where Jaime and Brienne were circling each other.
As before, the pure beauty of their well-honed routine impressed him and for a while he forgot his bewilderment while immersed in following the adversaries. Then one of Brienne's attacks hit home and she struck Jaime in the thigh. And as before, a voice from the crowd jeered, "Careful there, commander, not too close to the wedding tackle! You don't want to be satisfying your lady wife tonight only with your golden hand, do you!"
What the fuck?
Sandor shook his head. This was no coincidence; this was something much bigger. He was no bloody greenseer so how could he have foreseen the shout in the middle of Jaime and Brienne's fight – word for word?
Suddenly he couldn't breathe and feeling nauseous withdrew from the crowd and sank against a tree trunk to gather his wits about him. Bloody hells, it must have been all in my own head after all! The day before, all he had thought to have happened - all of it must have been just some strange dream. That was the only thing that could explain the situation. But since when had he been blessed – nay, cursed - with such detailed and vivid foreshadowing dreams?
From the edge of his vision he saw the events unfolding as before; Brienne hastening towards the armoury, then returning in long strides but only to slouch down on the bench next to the woodsmith's shack. Then Jaime leaving, after being detained by one of his men for a few words, and stopping to scoop something from the ground. From his new viewpoint Sandor detected what it was: a hair ribbon belonging to Brienne. Despite her manly ways she kept her hair at shoulder length and tied it back with a simple strip of cloth when donning armour.
Sandor took in a deep lungful of air, holding it in for a moment before releasing it. Yes, calm the fuck down. There has to be an explanation. Taking a closer look at the warrior maid sitting desolate on the rickety bench he noticed that her eyes were buffed and nose red. More than that, the look on her face was full of poorly concealed longing, her big blue eyes blinking while a lonely tear fell silently down her marred cheek. She must have assumed that nobody saw her, not noticing Sandor from behind the tree. For a woman who was usually guarded with her expressions the sight was most extraordinary – Sandor had never seen her in such a state.
Following her gaze he knew where it would lead and was not wrong: in the direction of Jaime's broad, retreating back. So that's how it is!
Sandor recalled hearing some castle gossip when he had first arrived about the Kingslayer and the Warrior Maid being more than just companions-in-arms. He had found it hard to believe, so big, ungainly and plain-faced as she was, nothing like Cersei whose hair had been like spun gold and body sensuous enough to entice a septon – not to mention her brash and then rather idiotic brother. Yet the talk had not been only about a casual tryst or an opportunistic tumble, but about something more serious. As unlikely as it sounded, some had whispered how Brienne had even spurned Jaime's advances – as if the golden knight really would have wanted a woman like that! Some had said that she had could not rest before finding Arya Stark as she had promised to Lady Catelyn, and was planning to leave the North as soon as possible - and yet here she was still, almost full year later.
Sandor had believed none of it. Any man who had fucked a beauty like Cersei for years or spent time with a fair maiden like Lady Sansa could surely have no eyes for other women, big and manly or plump and matronly. It simply didn't make any sense. So he had ignored the rumours and thought no more of them ever since. But here, the testimony of his eyes in front of him…
Suddenly he felt like an intruder witnessing the wench's distress, clearly not meant for prying eyes. He shifted on his seating, trying to estimate if he could leave without her noticing. Glancing at her again Sandor felt a new and rare emotion stirring inside him; sympathy. There was nothing as bad as longing after something one could never get – as he knew too well.
Hopeless, hopeless. Monsters' futile longing – that much they had in common.
Rising slowly to his feet he sneaked away, seemingly unnoticed. On his way to the keep – where else would he go? - he saw the crowd and even before he approached it, he knew what it was. And indeed; it was Loras Tyrell fighting against Yrin.
Stopping to better appreciate the surprise move that had defeated the champion before and now, it was only when Sandor left the crowd that it occurred to him that he should have waged for the outcome. A handy purse it would have been, the winnings. He cursed loudly, startling one of the servants passing him by – as long as there where so many things wrong in this godforsaken day, it would have been nice to cash in on one of the few positive things.
Jaime was sitting in the hall and this time, without drawing attention to himself, Sandor stopped to observe him. Now that he knew that the object Jaime was twirling in his hands belonged to Brienne, he was curious. Maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise when he detected a forlorn look on Jaime's face, but still he was taken aback. Seven hells! There must have been some truth in the gossip after all, the Kingslayer feeling something towards the big brute of a woman? But now, when he was about to marry the most beautiful, the most gracious, the most fascinating woman in the realm?
Fuck, some people don't deserve what they have, Sandor fumed as he walked away.
After a change of clothes and not knowing what else to do, he went out again. While crossing the yard he saw a large figure approaching – a figure of someone who mayhap would be able to help him and tell him what the hell was going on. The man who had seen a lot - and read even more from the books. Sandor made up his mind.
"Maester Samwell. A word, if it please you?"
