Never thought I'd be more afraid of anything than fire.

But before that, I never thought I'd be more afraid of anything than my brother. Always bigger than me, always stronger, louder, he threw himself around the keep, frightening the maidservants even when he was six or seven, frightening the guards. Everyone was frightened of him, even my father. How a boy like that came from my mother I don't know. But then mayhaps if she was alive now she'd look at both of us and wonder.

That fucking toy. I just wanted to have a look at it, even though I knew if he caught me he'd hurt me. He always got the best cuts of meat, the warmest cloak, the sturdiest boots. The nicer toy. I'd only just picked it up before he came piling in, yelling at me, picking me up by the neck and –

In my dreams, I still feel it, hear it, taste it. Smell it.

And now I'm afraid of fucking sorcery, too. Though maybe I wouldn't be if I could bloody see who the hells was standing over me, their grimy fucking hand on my face. I clutch Sansa's hand and think, well, at least she's the last thing I'll feel.

He starts singing, worst song I've ever bloody heard, worse than a balladeer with his balls cut off, and there's drops of something in my eyes, stinging. Stinging to fuck.

I wait for it to sear my eyeballs, dissolve my flesh.

There's nothing. A wee burn of pain, but something creamy and cool, too. And nothing else.

Sansa's stopped breathing. I can feel a pulse going at her wrist.

I can't see anything still. My world's as before, darker than shadows. It hasn't worked, little bird, I say. She grips my hand tighter. It will, just wait, she says.

We do. We wait for a long time, with that cunt standing over me, stinking rotten. I think of my sister, and how she would jump on my bed, how we both did once, breaking the frame and getting me a hiding. How she and I would look for frogs in the river, and fish, and how she seemed to be more interested in the glint of their scales than fine jewels, the gait of a fox in the woods, not its fur for a collar. I think of the first man I killed, some green squire smaller than I, whilst Twyin bloody Lannister looked on. I think of the little shit who became king, and all the things I did at his bidding, like the loyal fucking dog I was. I think of my mother.

He says something, and the other one says something back, quieter. Sansa says I don't know what they're – I'll have to get Shireen, and lets go of my hand.

But I don't need to know their turgid little piss-language to know what he meant. Might be different words, but the way they're said is the same. He spoke the way a knight would when he knows he's done at a tourney and wants to get out without a lance spiking through him.

I heave myself up, let the chair crack to the floor, find the door to the hallway. Where are you going? she says, at the other end of the room. Out, I think, out of this fucking house, away from all of you, all of you who can see, who can see what a buggering idiot I am, what an idiot I'll only continue to be, now there's no fucking hope –

*S*S*S*S*S*S

He had been gone too long. She should have gone after him straight away, but she was too frightened, and too despairing. It hadn't worked. The sorcerer had given a very calm shrug, a broad smile mixed with sadness, and Shireen had translated as best she could.

'More powerful magic than him. The one that did the magic – the one who did it is the only one who can turn it back.'

Sansa wanted to scream and cry, to fly back to Dragonstone and kill Melisandre, or die trying. Instead, she sat down very carefully, and put her head in her hands for a good while. Though the sorcerer had shaken his head, Davos had pressed some coin into his hands, getting Shireen to ask for their vow of silence. They had left, light as shadows.

'Shall I go and find him?' Gendry said gently.

Now she understood truly why he had been fearful. It wasn't the sorcery exactly – he'd been afraid of hope. She'd perhaps given him the tiniest shred of hope, and all for nothing.

Sansa nodded.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Fuck it to all the seven hells. I crash out of there, into the street, trying to go the way I've been before. And then I think, what does it matter if I'm careful anymore, and veer off, into my own new black path, a path with unfamilar sounds and smells, dogshit and oil and dried fish. Stumbling, bumping into people, cursing at them. Someone shoves me in the shoulder and I throw my arm out, wanting nothing better than to strangle them, and get punched in the jaw for my trouble. There are footsteps all around me, and talking - a sound like braying donkeys - and I growl and fling my hands out and they scatter.

I go on, my hands finding a wall, keeping my fingers to it until it ends, and then my legs go a bit, and I sit, right there, on a step, my world shrunk to the size of a seed. There's a dusting of rain, light as gnats.

I understand. She wanted me better. So did I. I just knew, more than her, how these things go. That real life isn't like the songs, the knights getting their sight back and getting the pretty fucking milkmaid who turns out to be a princess, that real life ends in shit and piss and darkness, and that's it. I've just had half my death come a little early, is all.

There's a sound near me, and I realise my ears recognise bloody coughs now. I'd know the little one's sigh, or Davos' sniff, or Sansa's – Sansa's everything. You can fuck right off, I say. Fucking bringing them to the house.

I saw their magic just as much as Sansa did, he says. I'm sorry it didn't work out.

The rain gets a little heavier. My jaw throbs. Think you might come back, then? he says.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Sansa stood outside Sandor's door. She'd never knocked before. But tonight was different. Gendry had returned with him and he'd gone straight up to his chamber. Shireen had taken some food up for him and come back down almost in tears, saying he'd been very mean to her. They had sat together, playing a game until Shireen got tired and went to bed, and then Gendry had poured her a goblet of wine, which she had drunk extremely quickly, before making him pour her another. And another.

Now she felt full of it, the sour fruit turning the inside of her skull purple. This is what men – and women – drank for fun, and for courage. It didn't feel much like either to her.

There was no reply. She opened the door.

It was dark, of course. He didn't need a candle. There was an ink-blue light from the open window. Sandor was sitting by it, the thin curtain fluttering in the wind. A gentle hiss of rain outside. He turned his head slightly.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

He didn't answer, biting on his thumbnail.

He hated her. She tried again. 'I just thought -

'I know what you thought.' His voice was as black as oil. 'You thought that the first person who brought a coin out of his sleeve could cure the whole fucking world, and you thought it was alright to show strangers exactly where we are all holed up.'

A little rebelliousness welled up in her. 'I'm not sorry I brought them here. I wanted to try.' How could he not have wanted her to?

Sandor slammed his fist down on the table. 'Try. Stop trying. Stop wandering into markets unguarded and going up alleyways and talking to little cunts to try and make me see again because I'm not fucking going to. I'm – this is how I am. How I'm going to be. You're not going to get me standing next to you in armour being able to protect you or whatever in the hells it is you want from me.'

That's not what I want, she thought.

'You can't –' he shook his head furiously. 'You're not getting me back the way you want. The way I want.'

I want to be with you anyway, she thought, and took a step towards him.

He turned away, just out of her reach, and his head titled up slightly. He turned back, a sudden movement. 'What do you – have you been drinking?'

'Yes.' It's what you do when you're angry at yourself, at the world, she thought.

He chewed on his cheek, a long sigh coming.

'Please Sandor, I'm sorry. I'll – I won't – I'll be careful.' I'll keep looking, she thought. 'Please forgive me. I'll do - whatever you want.'

There was a tension in his shoulders then, hearing the change in her voice. 'The hells does that mean?' He sounded guarded.

Sansa's head felt fuzzy and furred, like her skull was stuffed with late summer bees. 'I'll – I don't know. Last night, you did – to me, so –'

I'll give you whatever you want, she thought.