I nearly raped my own wife.
Sandor had no knowledge of how long he had been asleep after the maester came to him shortly after Sansa left. I nearly raped her. The old man grimaced at the wounds Sandor suffered but assured him that his fractures would heal given enough time and rest. With Sansa gone from the bedchamber, he became profoundly aware of the pain in his body, leading him to accept the milk of the poppy from the maester before the old man thoroughly examined him. Without it, he would have gone mad from the burning sensation each finger would have issued on his chest.
The dreams that came with it were arguably no better than the pain he would have felt without it. He dreamed of coming to Sansa the night the Blackwater burned, but instead of holding a knife to her throat and forcing her to sing a song for him, he used the knife to cut her dress off, forcing himself inside of her. She screamed, sobbed, and struggled to push him off but all he could do was take her, crying as he did it.
He also dreamt of his son, a small, lifeless thing in his hands while his brother, a dead beast with no head, erupted into wildfire beside him. Once he became aware he was only dreaming, Sandor told himself that when he woke he would not accept any more milk of the poppy, that he would rather suffer the agonizing pain instead. However, he could not wake himself up despite how hard he tried. It was not until a time much, much later did he find himself returning to consciousness. I nearly raped my own wife, he thought.
When his eyes opened, the first thing he noticed was the Imp sitting in a chair beside him. How and why do the gods keep this one alive during every bloody battle? he thought. As his vision became clearer, observing the environment around him, he realized he had been moved into a different bedchamber. When Sandor opened his mouth to curse the dwarf out, his voice would not come but instead led him to have a coughing fit.
Tyrion reached for the cup beside him on the table and handed it to him with a nod.
"You are almost as small as me now. It is quite remarkable what a lack of real food and the absence of shoving steel in men can do to a man's build," he quaffed a cup of his own.
Sandor felt the frailty in his arm as he grabbed the cup Tyrion offered. However, when he lifted his head to take a sip, he was surprised that the radiating pain he had felt in his chest had become significantly more tolerable.
"How long have I been out?" he asked after chugging the water.
"Let me think, today would make it a fortnight? No, that's not right. I believe a little longer than a fortnight now. The days have blurred together. I was recovering myself for a few days but it is past time I depart for Dragonstone to return to our very anxious queen," he sighed.
"A fortnight?" Sandor boomed, pushing himself to sitting until both arms buckled underneath him. "Gods, I am as weak as a bloody green boy," he muttered under his breath. "Where is Sansa? Is she all right?"
Is she all right after I nearly raped her? he wanted to ask.
"Your wife," a faint smile appeared on Tyrion's lips. "She is well, Clegane. I hope you don't mind me calling you Clegane. Old habits and I cannot call you Stark without pissing myself from laughter," he giggled. Shortly after, Tyrion grew thoughtful and his face became solemn. "Forgive me. I have not had the chance to offer you my condolences regarding your son. I really am truly sorry."
Sandor grunted at the Imp's sympathy, the reminder of his dead child just as painful as it had been a fortnight ago. That wound will not heal given any amount of time, he thought. "Sansa-".
"Lady Stark is an impressive woman," Tyrion interrupted. "Though she was young and naive when she arrived in King's Landing, one thing she has done better than the rest of us over the years is adapt. First, she lost her father and had no family left around her, but she adapted to being a hostage to my sweet sister. Then that fool Lord Baelish snatched her up, but she adapted as his bastard daughter for his ploys. Finally, given enough time, she adapted into who she was meant to be, the Lady of Winterfell, a leader. Sansa learned well. She kept her motives a secret, said what she needed to say, did what she needed to do and overcame a great deal of obstacles and pain in the process. Name one other girl who could have experienced what she had and not have thrown herself off a cliff. Even that wild little sister of hers lost some of her humanity when dealing with her sorrows. Sansa has become smarter, craftier, and much more respected as a result of her traumas."
"You think I do not know my own wife? I know better than anyone how capable she is," Sandor grunted at the dwarf.
"Perhaps not. The reason I say all of this is to explain why the surviving Northern families have declared that Sansa be their queen, the Queen in the North," he smiled.
Sandor looked at the dwarf in silence. "She, I-"
"You bent the knee to Daenerys, yes I am aware. What you are not aware of is a great deal of many other things." Tyrion leaned forward in his chair with an eagerness in his eyes. "Jon Snow is the prince who was promised. The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and your wife's aunt, Lyanna Stark. He is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms," he whispered. Sandor scoffed at the gossip and shook his head against the pillow.
"You have come to jape, is that it?"
"I know, it is hard to believe a man who jokes as frequently as I, but rest assured it is the truth. I'll save you the tedious details and leave that for your wife to explain but Jon, or Aegon rather, will marry Daenerys. Aunt and nephew in the marriage bed is a revolting idea to many but the two will reign together. Sansa hopes her brother, or cousin rather, will persuade Daenerys to stand by his decision to 'allow the North to become independent once again', as the Northmen have all been drunkenly bellowing out out there," Tyrion gestured towards the window. "After the next war, that is."
"The war against your bloody sister...why would these men die to see your dragon queen onto the throne if they plan on bending the knee to Sansa?" he pushed himself up again, this time successfully placing his back against the headboard.
"An alliance, Clegane. It need not be necessary to bend the knee. Sansa would not dishonor House Stark by not repaying the debt of Daenerys assisting you in the war against the Others. But once Jon and Daenerys sit on the throne, the North will demand independence."
"And if your queen demands we bend the knee despite what her bastard-turned-king husband wants?" Sandor rasped.
"Leave that to Jon and myself. Daenerys' knowledge of Jon's true identity shocked her to say the least. It was learned only a moment after Jon struck the Others' King in the heart and Bran awakened to reveal the truth of it to us all. Daenerys could not bear to look at the young man and flew off. However, the queen and I have communicated in the meantime. Her love for him, and her desire for that cursed throne beside him, will mean more to her than the North...I hope," Tyrion muttered into his cup.
Sandor sighed and wiped his face with both hands, noticing a gauntness to it. "Bugger them. You said Sansa is well. Has she-"
"Visited you?" Tyrion chuckled. "Look at that desk over there, what do you see?"
Sandor shifted his eyes towards the window, observing a large oak desk covered in parchments, scrolls, and candles that had melted into nothing from heavy usage. The proof of Sansa's frequent company made him smile.
"She is rarely anywhere but here, Clegane. I chanced to meet you alone because she happens to be with her brother in the godswood. Aside from that, she has held most of her meetings here or in the makeshift solar below. Sansa has gone so far as to take responsibility for what the maester and other castle staff should be doing for you. Feeding you, cleaning after you, washing you, speaking to you as you sleep. The castle and her men may never love you as their lord, but gods do they love her. A woman dead and born again, only to become more dutiful and committed to her family than even the late Ned Stark. You should consider yourself lucky. Many of these men might have 'accidentally forgotten' to feed you long enough till you withered away."
The little bird, my wife. Caring for me even after I nearly raped her. Gods, how has a savage like me ever deserved her?
Sandor contemplated that question for a moment before breaking the silence that lingered in the room. "Did she bury the boy?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Tyrion grew solemn again. "He was buried in the crypt. Sansa only allowed her siblings to attend the burial. A strong woman she has been; she knows not to grieve publicly, no matter how difficult it might be."
She cried with me, he thought. The little bird will never have to hide her feelings around me.
"Is that all? I want to see her," Sandor reached down towards his right leg, surprised at discovering that the swelling was mostly gone. As he looked down, he also caught a glimpse of the bruising on his torso which had faded into a greenish-yellow shade.
"One last thing: myself and a handful of others, including Jon, depart today for Dragonstone, gods save us all. Daenerys and her dragons departed shortly after the battle here, as you know. Her armies followed, refusing to stay in what the Dothraki have coined as the 'White Hell' without their queen. She plans to attack Cersei's forces in three months time, which would provide you a month, give or take, to prepare your men and ready yourselves to take passage south. Should you not be there, I doubt the new queen would stand by her husband in granting you the independence that your wife and her Northmen are so adamant on obtaining. And should that happen..." he trailed off uneasily, running his finger along the rim of his cup.
"A month? I'd be lucky to have healed in a bloody month. Those Dothraki and Unsullied cunts are fools to travel weary and injured after a war," he scoffed. "One month and your queen expects me to leave my wife and try harder at killing myself, is that the way of it?"
Tyrion chuckled again, this time apprehensively, gulping the remaining contents of his cup and standing from the chair. "Oh, do not worry about that, Clegane. Lady Stark has made it clear that she will be coming, too."