Hello everyone! I know I was very long updating, please forgive me.
To be fair, I'm very nervous about posting this chapter... I loved to write it and I really hope you'll enjoy it. Thank you for all of your lovely Reviews (special greetings at the end!).
Tyrion jumped in surprise as he heard some noise coming from behind his door. What time was it? He had no idea. Days were exactly the same. He was trying his best not to lose his sanity. The last time he had been imprisoned in the Keep, it was because of his mad sister. Cersei was dead now. At least, it was a positive thought. This and Jaime's survival.
Tyrion wanted to see his brother more than anything else. He was imagining him, in pain, his hands attached to his bed, surrounded by angry Stark soldiers. The picture made him shiver.
Suddenly, the door opened. He turned his head to see a tall silhouette standing in the entrance.
"Lady Sansa," he said before standing up. He gave her a quick bow.
"Lord Tyrion," the girl reciprocated.
She waited for the jailer to close the door behind her and then approached. Tyrion silently observed her. Her red hair was gathered in a long braid, and although her eyes were betraying her tiredness, she still looked beautiful. He knew she was quite busy handling the chaos out there. He also knew she would not complain about her task. She loved to manage.
"Forgive my appearance," he declared, "I'd kill for a shave."
She smiled at him. His beard had massively grown, his hands and clothes were filthy, but she did not care.
"It's alright. I hope it is not too difficult to be in here."
"Er! you know, as a Lannister, I'm starting to get used to those cells."
"Does they treat you well?"
"They do. I have three meals a day and I'm still able to receive visitors. The Unsullied are still respectful, although I can see in their eyes what they think of me. But I won't complain about it. In fact, I understand. Once I was the Hand of their Queen, now I'm the man who betrayed her."
Sansa did not answer. She could see Tyrion was weary, and she knew him well enough to notice the angst in his voice even if he was trying to hide it behind a self-confident tone.
"Anyway," he continued, "what are the news?"
"Yara Greyjoy's fleet reached the shore two days ago. My uncle Edmure arrived this morning as well as Samwell Tarly."
"Therefore, the Members are all here."
"Indeed."
"Did you decide the date of the Council?"
"This is the reason for my visit. The Council will begin tomorrow."
"How sad it is to think that's the only thing that brought you here."
She chuckled a little and it made him smile. He admired this woman so much. Her dignity was extraordinary.
"How many people will you judge?" he asked.
"Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to answer you. I can only tell you your trial will start before noon, tomorrow."
"I see. How's my brother? Still stuck in the Stark camp?"
"Ser Jaime is doing better. Maester Ilmon said he stopped using medications on him, which is a good sign. I fear he is still not able to walk. He's resting now."
"Did he tell why he killed Cersei?"
"Not yet. The Council will ask him again."
Tyrion nodded.
"Please tell him he's not alone," he begged.
"I will," she smiled.
"How is your brother?"
She stiffened and Tyrion noticed the emotion in her blue eyes. She took a deep breath before answering:
"Jon is ready for his trial. Sam is visiting him right now. I hope it'll do him some good to see a friendly face."
Sansa truly hoped so. Jon's state was alarming. Although he was always smiling and trying to be reassuring every time he was with her, Sansa knew something was wrong. His guilt was killing him. She could not let that happen.
"I'm sure the Council will be fair with his case," he said to reassure her.
"I'll make sure of it."
"Ser Davos told me about Sandor Clegane. Is it true he killed a Dothraki?"
This time, Sansa stiffened even more, and Tyrion could tell how much she cared for the Hound. Was it possible? He remembered the time when they were all in King's Landing, attending his nephew's court. At the time, he had acknowledged Clegane's behavior towards the young Sansa Stark. The girl's ordeal had even managed to move one of the most heartless souls of the Seven Kingdoms.
"The Hound confirmed it," she answered, dragging him out of his thoughts. "Arya told me he did it to save her."
"If it's the true reason then, I fear not for his fate. Davos told me he asked for a trial by combat against his brother."
She nodded.
"Is he mad?"
She chuckled again.
"Poor Hound," Tyrion declared after sharing her chuckle. "Blinded by his will of revenge. It'll be the end of him."
Sansa felt her heart miss a bit. Once again, Tyrion Lannister was right. She cursed herself for caring so much, trying her best to hold back the sadness that was now growing inside her heart.
"If this is what he wants, he should give it to him," she muttered mysteriously. She suddenly turned around: "I must leave you now. I'm sorry I cannot stay any longer."
He frowned, surprised by her sudden urge to leave him, but before he could say anything she had already knocked on the door and one of the guards was opening it to her. She looked at him and gave him a confident smile as she said:
"Your trial is tomorrow. Prepare your speech. I wish you the best luck, Lord Tyrion."
The moment after, she was gone.
If Lady Sansa Stark's attitude was showing her boldness, it surely perfectly hid her strong worries. She had learned to hide her emotions long ago, and now she seemed feelingless. But, internally, she was screaming. She wanted to leave this bloody city, to go back to Winterfell. She wished none of this had happened. Once again, she internally swore against the Dragon Queen. Everything was a mess now. Her brother was a killer. His men were tenser and tenser. In fact, tensions were everywhere. Daenerys Targaryen was dead. But her last dragon was not.
She wanted to see Jon but knew it was impossible. She could not manage to see him anymore, to look into his broken eyes, to notice his pale skin. She found a positive point as she remembered Arya had volunteered to see him and tell him about his trial to come.
As she reached the stairs leading to one of the few remaining courtyards, she stopped. She could not erase Tyrion's words from her mind.
"Poor Hound. Blinded by his will of revenge."
He was right. Sandor was craving after an opportunity to kill Gregor. To kill the man who had disfigured him. Could she blame him for that? She had craved after killing her persecutor too, and she had managed to do so. She would never forget the sensation of release she had felt after hearing Ramsay Bolton's last scream. The soft awareness that all of her nightmares were gone. That she had made him pay for what he had done to her. She shivered as she remembered his last words to her:
"You can't kill me," he had said, "I'm part of you now."
And, sadly enough, it was true. She could still see him in her worst nightmares, she could still feel the weight of his dirty hands each time she was naked. No matter how hard she had tried to forget him, no matter how hard she had bathed and rubbed her skin, she could still feel him. He had broken her. She was back on her feet now, but she was still internally limping.
She understood why Sandor wanted revenge. But she also knew he was not after a Ramsay Bolton. The Mountain was a monster, both physically and psychologically. She knew the Hound was a fighter, one of the best in the whole realm, but she feared he would die trying to achieve his goal.
When she lifted her head, she was back in the corridor leading to the cell. She had not even realised her she had turned back. All she could think about now was Tyrion's sentence going repetitively in her head.
"It'll be the end of him."
The end of him. Sansa knew she could not convince Sandor to give up on his vengeance – not because he was resolute, but because she understood his desire and highly respected it – but she knew she had to see him.
Sandor was losing his mind. Waiting in a cell had appeared to be a more complicated task than what he had expected. Particularly without any drop of wine. Now he was sober and he hated it. He hated when his thoughts were organised again, for it only intensified his demons. At least the alcohol helped him face the miserable and endless crumbs that were forming his life. He loved to be alone, but here, without any drug in his system, he truly felt like a mad dog in a cage.
The thought made him chuckle. He was a mad dog. Moreover, a crippled one.
Sansa approached the Hound's cell, now resolute to see it through. Two Unsullied soldiers were guarding the door. They crossed their spears in front of the door as they saw her coming. She stopped and lifted an eyebrow, before looking at them with a cold glance.
"Lady Stark," she heard a loud voice behind her. She turned and saw Grey Worm making his way towards her, his spear in his left hand, his helmet in the other.
"I'm here to see Sandor Clegane," she declared solemnly.
"No visitors."
What? She squinted a little before saying:
"I just saw Lord Tyrion. My sister is visiting Jon aside with Samwell Tarly. Ser Davos and I, as two Council members, have decided to see all the main prisoners to tell them about the trial."
The Unsullied leader stopped and looked at her with empty eyes. She sustained his glance in silence. She was very good at lying. Littlefinger had taught her everything he knew about it. Grey Worm said something in Valeryan, and the moment after, one of the soldiers was opening the door. She thank him and entered.
The cell was darker and smaller than the others she had been in. It was already the end of the day, the sky was full of red, ready to welcome the moon and the stars. The room was badly lighted some candles.
"Let me guess," she heard a raspy voice growl. "You're here to tell me about the trial."
He had heard her. Of course he had. She had been loud enough. She turned and saw a huge shadow rise from one of the corners of the cell. The moment after, Sandor was standing right in front of her, his hands strongly held by heavy chains, as well as his feet. His dark eyes were full of hate. He looked like a savage animal. But she was not afraid.
"Indeed," she managed to answer.
He looked at her angrily, before walking past her to reach the filthy mattress that was serving him as a bed. He laid back on it nonchalantly.
"I killed a thousand people in this life," he said as if he was thinking out loud. "Soldiers, peasants, nobles, girls who were younger than your little sister… I even killed children. Once I was the King's best warrior, I could kill anybody. You remember that butcher's boy? He was one of your friends, wasn't he? The fucking Queen wanted him dead. I remember your father asked me what I did. The poor lad had tried to run. He had run. But not very fast."
What was he talking about? It was the first time he was talking this much in her presence. If she had been younger, she would have asked him why he was saying all these things. But she was not the innocent girl she had been. She let him continue:
"I killed him quite fast, for sure. He didn't even squeal."
He looked up at her and realised she was carefully listening to him.
"You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?"
"I do. It was the night my father killed Lady."
"Lady?"
"My direwolf."
Of course he knew it was the same night the girl had lost her beast. He simply could not recall the bloody wolf's name. Lady. It suited her well.
He let out a loud grunt – as if he was laughing – before clearing his throat. He closed his eyes:
"I killed so many people I can't even remember their faces, and I don't give a shit about it. But now, I kill a killer, not the first in my life, and here I am. The Gods really are a bunch of hilarious bastards."
He made another noise and Sansa could swear he was still laughing.
"Don't bother with telling me the official things, girl," he snorted. "You already know I don't care if I live or die tomorrow, as long as I can see my dear big brother one last time."
"Although you asked for a trial by combat, it doesn't mean you'll have it."
Sandor opened his eyes and sat up, anger filling the blood in his veins. Sansa noticed the fury in his eyes as he was now looking at her, still sitting. Once again, and strangely enough, she was not scared.
"What did you say?" he asked, his jaw and fists clenched.
"You heard me."
He stood up and approached her as if he was a lion ready to jump on his prey, but she did not move an inch, never looking away from him.
"Listen to me, girl. I did not stay for three days in this hellhole for nothing."
"You should have thought about it earlier. Now here you are. You've sealed your fate already, giving it under the Council's legislation. I don't say you won't have your fight against the Mountain, I just say it's not certain."
Her face was only a few inches away from his, and her blue and piercing eyes were locked with his own. He took a deep breath as the urge to punch her came out in his head. But it was automatically reproved by something else. He would never hit her. Never. He simply could not. Instead, he let out a loud and angry growl, and he noticed it made her shiver.
He looked like a beast.
He turned his back on her, internally swearing to himself that he would find a way to reach Gregor.
"I know that's what you want," she affirmed with a blank tone. "I understand."
He laughed.
"I don't think you do. You know nothing about it. It's not because you've been raped and beaten to the bone that it makes you like me."
He automatically regretted his use of words.
"I never said I was like you. I said I understand."
She made her way towards him so she could be able to see his face. She noticed the regret in his eyes. She silently lifted her left sleeve, exposing her forearm where a large red scar was spreading, starting from her wrist. Sandor had seen many scars. It looked like her skin had been peeled.
"Flayed alive," she simply said. "After all it was the Boltons' mark. He loved to skin me. Not entirely, just a little, here and there, to make me remember I was his. That was his favorite game. To mark me. Not my face, he liked my face. But the rest of me…"
Sandor said nothing as he still observed her wound. It was not something beautiful to see. It was huge, and it had badly healed. He knew why she was always wearing long sleeves now.
The bloody bastard.
"It felt so good to watch him die," she grunted, her voice full of pride.
It surprised him to hear her speak this way, but it did not bother him. In fact, he liked it.
"I would do it over and over again," she admitted, putting her sleeve back. "Trust me when I tell you I understand what it is to seek revenge. And I won't try to stop you from having yours; I simply want to let you know that you don't deserve to die for him."
"You never listen, do you? I just said I kill-"
"I know you're a killer," she stopped him, "whether you enjoyed doing it, I don't care. All I'm saying is that you're not only a killer. Not to me."
He knew what she was about to do. He did not want to receive any compliment from her. Not because she wanted to convince him.
"Come on, leave me alone," he barked as he turned away from her.
"I won't, not until I'm done."
He felt something on his shoulder and realised it was her hand. Generally speaking, he hated when someone was touching him. But with her it was different. Everything had been different with her. Since the very beginning.
"Ramsay Bolton is dead, but he'll never leave me. His ghost still haunts me."
He knew she had a point, but it was too late.
"I don't care about ghosts. I am haunted already."
"You're not Gregor," she hissed.
He shivered under her hand and it truly moved her. She knew what this sentence meant to him.
"If you want to kill him that's fine. But you don't deserve to die for such a monster. What you've done will never level what he did. Now he's an undead, going after him would be suicide."
"Mind your own business!" he growled before moving his shoulder away from her hand.
She stepped back, feeling tears forming in her eye. How could he be so heartless? She had shown him her weakness, she was appearing to him without any tricky defence, and yet he did not seem to care.
"Tonight is probably the last night I see you," he heard her say behind his back.
"The night after the Battle of Winterfell could also have been the last night you'd have seen me," he coldly answered. "It didn't seem to disturb you back then."
"I had no idea you were about to leave."
Once again, she had a point. He heard her move and then she was in front of him again.
"I know it now," she declared.
She looked at her hand and grasped his wrist, caressing the marks the chains were forming. She lifted her blue eyes and smiled at him. How beautiful she was in the half-light. She had always been beautiful. But she was not a child anymore. His Little Bird was gone.
He remained silent as he saw her eyes close. When he felt something on his lips, he realised he had closed them too. But he could not open them. Her lips were so soft against his own as if she was made of feathers. He could not realise she was kissing him. He felt her hand on his cheek, not the scarred one, to his greatest relief. The moment after, her lips left his, and he opened his eyes to meet her piercing ones. They were as lightning as the Northern snow. She smiled at him and whispered:
"Goodbye, Sandor."
She kissed him again, slightly, and murmured in his ear:
"And thank you."
She disappeared from his sight and he realised he could not move. He heard two knocks against the door, and when he finally turned his head, the door was closed, and she had left.
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I'd like to thank those who already Reviewed my chapters: Hija de Sandor, bmthespian, KarlKrow, NanCy123, charmingskyblue304 and Ellie. If the story continues, it's mostly thanks to you guys.