Author's Notes: Thank you so much for the wonderful and encouraging comments – they are such a great part of writing fanfic! I couldn't imagine slogging away on this story on my own, posting only the final product… Fanfic writing is truly an interactive process, and very different from traditional creative writing where the end result only is released for the public consumption. Yay!

*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

For a moment he didn't know where he was - then the last image he had faced came back to him; the hilt of Jaime's ornate sword, the emerald green eyes of the lion rampant on its grip guard coming down, down, down…

And then nothing.

He jumped up on the bed, his heart pounding so hard in his ears it drowned out even the noises from the corridor; the shouts, the wailing, the clink, and clatter.

Where am I? Where's Sansa?

The second last thing he remembered was Jaime's face, full of anguish and fury, and he leaning forward in the saddle of his horse… Instinctively Sandor touched the back of his head but felt nothing unusual; no bruise, no swelling, just sleep-matted hair. To make sure he ran his fingers across his forehead, his face, then back to the top of the skull. Nothing.

Slowly his heartbeat returned to normal and he lay down again.

The gods have granted me yet another day.

The relief flooded his veins making him lightheaded. The elation, slow at first, shadowed by the frustration of being stuck in this cursed day once again, bubbled soon over when he realised that the damage he had inflicted on Sansa and her good opinion of him could be undone – had been undone. Sandor let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a curse and a sob, when he fully grasped the significance of it.

This is a new day. I can try again.

He let the thought sink in, stretching himself in bed and taking his time thinking of the events of the previous day – days. He was not in a hurry. The blasted knight from White Harbour would not miss him, and if Jaime did – well, that was his misfortune. He was not going to fuck up again because of haphazard planning. He was not going to bring grief to Sansa - again.

He spent a moment wondering if any of the events of the last few days had made any impact at all on her, however small or inconsequential. Was she perchance waking up this very moment, mayhap carrying a dreamlike recollection of some things that had transpired…?

Sandor blinked. No, it couldn't be. So far she had not seemed to sense anything amiss, only assessing him during their interactions as she had that very first day, after months of no contact whatsoever. Surprised, but willing to give him a benefit of a doubt.

Aye… all those months of ducking away when he had seen her approaching. Sandor knew now that her presence on those early days had not been a coincidence, not the lady of the keep happening to pass by.

Sandor groaned, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyeballs as if to push the sight of her lonely form at the back of the armoury, in the training yard and up the ramparts, back in. He gritted his teeth, even as he kept his hands resolutely pressed to his eyes. Gods, how fucking stupid he had been!

No wonder she had been wary of him when he had lashed out telling her things she clearly did not want to hear; tales about politics and Northern independence and how she should give up the last thing she was still dreaming of; babes of her own whom she could love and care – as she thought nobody would care for her.

Suddenly it was all too much and Sandor got up, seething. He needed some fresh air, some space.

To think it all over.

Very carefully.

He headed to the training yards but sought no opponent, longing for a solitude away from the hustle and bustle. The keep was so full of people that lest going deep into the Godswood or into the wild, he had to settle with what little privacy he could find wherever he could. A sufficiently hidden spot behind the last training enclosure seemed adequate and he sat down, back against a tree, long legs stretched in front of him.

Well then.

Apparently it was not enough only to prevent the planned wedding event, he had already concluded. Had things transpired further the previous night, Sansa would have returned to Winterfell, he would have been thrown into the dungeons and Jaime and Sansa would still have married. Nothing would have changed – except his own fate. He could have expected no mercy for his actions; being driven out in shame and exiled from the North being the best case scenario, loss of a hand or even his head a distinct possibility. Mayhap even Sansa wouldn't have intervened on his behalf after he had let her down and betrayed her trust in such appalling manner?

He could still see Sansa's eyes and their pain when her regard for him had crumbled into dust. The despair of seeing one person she had trusted more than others - even if Sandor himself had not known that before - betraying her.

What kind of a monster does that?

He cursed and swore to himself to never do it again. Yet in the absence of being able to force her, how in hells was he expected to persuade her to cancel the wedding?

The day was warm and the grass soft. Noises of mock battles were muffled and blended into the background of whistling wind, birdsong and an occasional dog barking. Looking high up towards the blue sky Sandor could imagine sitting by the graveyard in the Quiet Isle after a morning of hard labour of digging. He had thought a lot during those serene moments, emptying his water skin and consuming his modest meal, and after finishing both, just sitting there and enjoying tranquillity.

He tried to adopt that same peace of mind now, allowing his mind roam freely and without pressure, absorbing his recent experiences simply and unquestionably and letting his mind digest what they told him.

Relax.

Deep breaths, his chest heaving as he filled it with crisp clean air allowing it to sink in, seep through his body, purify him.

He sat so still that a lazy bee took his nose as a resting place and settled on it like on a perch, tickling him as it crawled across its high bridge. He flinched and the bee flew away, its buzz soothing in his ears.

...what has she told you?

Sun warmed his limbs and face, its bright orb ingrained behind his closed eyelids. The scent of earth and wood in his nostrils.

...what does she want?

Her hand on his arm, neither heavy nor forceful but feather light - preventing him leaving.

...she looked at me without fear or disgust.

She had asked him; why he of all people.

...why 'of all people'? Why me?

She had come to him, when she had thought him feel poorly.

...she held on to my cloak as if it meant something to her.

She had not been angry but…sad, when he had betrayed her trust.

...she told me she held me in her heart.

Already once Sandor had looked into the precipice of impossible but had not dared to venture deeper, choosing logic instead. Mayhap…mayhap, this time, he should choose differently?

He rested his head against the tree, its bark uneven but soft pillow.

I could tell her about The Gods Will. She might believe me.

He had questioned himself why it had been he who had been chosen as the tool of the old gods. Was it because he was the only one who was bold enough to tell her what needed to be told?

Or was the reason something else altogether?

Sandor had tried reasoning, he had tried force. He could try telling about the gods – or he could try to tell the other truth – the one he had denied from himself.

If he failed again he would have another day after that to try, and one after that, and one after that. He should try the first approach first. Or he could risk it with the second.

As a warrior and as a man he had gambled many times, chosen the bold path, the risky strategy. He had done that with cold calculation and with certain indifference in regards to the outcome and so far, he had mostly won. Yet before there had been only his life and limb at a stake, whereas now the stakes were higher – much, much higher.

His soul, his self-worth, the pitch-black remnants of his human heart.

The sun went behind the cloud and the shadow reached Sandor on his spot, its cold chill rousing him. Slowly he got to his feet, a giant rising from the undergrowth.

He had made up his mind.

Once again the feeling of purpose now that he had made his decision filled Sandor with determination and put any possible doubts at bay. At least for the time being.

He needed to torment Brienne further, unfortunately, no two ways about it. If Sansa left with him, it was better if Jaime had someone talking sense to him, someone he would listen. Besides, the two of them deserved each other. Playing a matchmaker was not something Sandor had ever contemplated finding himself doing and despite the gravity of the situation, he grinned.

Life worked in mysterious ways indeed.

Brienne was where he knew her to be. Not bothering with a subtle approach Sandor walked straight to her.

"You think this a useful thing, helping at all?" he said, gesturing towards her as she tried to wipe the tears from her cheek with her sleeve.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Clegane." Her red-rimmed eyes and red nose gave her away and she knew it.

"Bawling. Never has caught a man and never will. Why don't you just tell him how you feel?" Sandor edged closer, settling on a bench near her. As much as he knew that he was actually helping her, he was still wary about inadvertently unleashing her fury and stayed at a safe distance.

"Who?"

"You know who, don't pretend you do not. And if you think he doesn't care about you, you've got it wrong. Why else would a grown man fondle and stare at the clothing of a woman - unless he had feelings for her?"

If it was possible for her to get any more rigid, she did, raising her head up.

"A woman's clothing?"

"Aye, the head ribbon or whatever it is that you use to tie your hair back." Instinctively Brienne lifted her hand and wiped it around her head, noticing that her hair was loose. She looked at her empty hand in amazement.

"What are you saying?"

"Don't you have ears, woman? I have seen him holding a piece of your clothing and sniffing it like a dog in heat – or a bloody lion. Staring at it with sheepish eyes. He cares about you, more than you think."

He saw Brienne had a hard time believing it, but there was a glimmer of something new in her eyes as she fixed them on him. It made Sandor tense; he knew he was playing with somebody's feelings and it didn't sit well with him. Aye, throw a horde of enemies against him and he could slaughter them without blinking an eye, but all this toying with emotions – it was not his thing. Yet if it helped him to complete his mission, he had no choice but to forge on.

"I have seen him going out of his mind when he thought harm had come to you." It was a slight exaggeration of course – Sandor hadn't seen it himself, but hearing about it was good enough.

"You are talking out of turn and saying nonsensical things," Brienne said trying to gather her dignity. Sandor could almost see how she raised her walls to hide that faint flicker of hope she had shown earlier. He persisted.

"What if the Kingslayer was not to marry Lady Sansa? What would you say to that?"

What followed was the same argument as the day before, Sandor telling how only people of action got what they wanted, Brienne defending the honourable way; Sandor reasoning how unnecessary Jaime's chosen path was, Brienne stubbornly justifying it. When Sandor saw the painful grimace on Brienne's face telling him what was coming next he cut her short.

"And he doesn't care for her – doesn't love her." The word was thick and incongruous in his mouth and he hardly got it out. Love. Had he ever said the word out loud? He suspected not. And yet he had to, as Brienne was a maid and believed in such things even if she looked more like a warrior. Inside that hard steel beat a soft heart, that much Sandor had learned, and it thrived on soft words.

Brienne seemed to share his apprehension about his language as she stared at him dumbfounded. Or maybe it was the message he had just delivered.

"He doesn't?"

"No. He cares – loves – another." Sandor felt like a fool standing there, talking about love of all things. Yet over the last few days he had learned more about it than he had ever thought possible.

For example, that it existed.

Brienne clenched her jaw but said nothing – for a while. Then her self-control broke.

"Another?"

"What did I just tell you? He loves you, you stupid woman! What does it take to get that into your skull?"

Sandor was fast losing his temper but seeing an expression of ultimate desolation on Brienne's face restrained him.

"He can't. He won't. You are badly mistaken I'm afraid. And you japing with me about such serious matter is not…is not right."

Brienne's anger, this time, was more subdued than previously – mayhap he had succeeded in unsettling her way too much for her to put up more than feeble resistance. Her emotions, however, were clear as a day on her open face; suspicion, hopefulness, uncertainty, frustration.

Had he failed her? Instead of encouraging her to take action had he stepped too far and broken this rare woman?

Not knowing what else to do Sandor got up and turned to leave.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Brienne tone was flat and she was crouching on her seat as if expecting him to give her a final blow of mercy after teasing her into a corner with his words. He looked at her over his shoulder.

"Figured you should know. So if Jaime happens to need you, you don't shy away from him because of some misplaced notions of unworthiness or other such nonsense."

Sandor felt her eyes bore at his back for a long time during his slow walk towards the keep.

On his way to the Great Hall Sandor stopped by the betting crowd.

"Twenty golden dragons on Yrin to win," he shouted. As before, all eyes turned on him, disbelieving.

With a heavy purse of coins dangling at his side, he continued his journey. Enough coin to support them for a long while should they have to stay away. But only if she agrees. And there were no guarantees for that. Still, it was pleasing to hear the jingle of coins rubbing against each other.

Next, he went to look for Jaime.